Reading: Sex on a Yoga Retreat? Namas-No-Way!

My yoga retreat companion was 6’2” with a penis.

I was eager to go on this dream trip — a birthday present for my 55th birthday — so I could “deepen my practice,” as they say in the yoga world. I figured I’d learn new postures, do the common ones better and, just as crucially, relax.

But my birthday trip got stalled for more than a year because my girlfriends either couldn’t afford to go or weren’t yoga-types, and I wanted to attend with a companion. Then my husband, the one with the penis and a yoga virgin, offered to be my retreat gal-pal. “Pick the place and book it,” he announced. “I’m going with you.”

The Hub’s intention was nice, yet I feared he’d ruin the whole experience for me. Yoga retreats are supposed to be serene, calming, healing. Often solitary. Wouldn’t his presence undo my imagined vacation of total self-absorption? Please don’t get me wrong — I love my husband. But I wanted to sleep in a bed by myself and escape daily life. It was part of the point of the retreat.

But here’s my real hesitation. I couldn’t stop thinking, “Oh my god, he’s going to want to have SEX there.”

Bottom line: instead of being a boundary-courteous lady friend, my companion would be my partner of 28 years, with a fired-up libido to boot. Normally that passion for passion is fine, rather fun on a regular vacation. But this trip was about experimenting with breathing techniques that had nothing to do with sex-panting. I’ve already tamed his expectations, so he knows I will not jump his middle-aged bones the second we arrive in a hotel room. When I made this declaration two years ago, his brain interpreted what I said as, “Wait 24 hours, then jump my bones.” So now he gets fidgety to fool around the second night of each trip. Even in Beijing, besotted with jet lag. Even in the Amazon jungle, drenched in the humidity. On Day One, I happily put on my sleep mask and turn my back to him, knowing what’s in store for Day Two. And so our adventures always begin.

But I had envisioned peace, surrounded by mountains, the dry Colorado air and cool breezes, a blissful change from my sultry and flat Orlando home base. He’d be interrupting my time between yoga sessions when I imagined setting up in a scenic spot with my Kindle. I know trolls (and maybe even besties) will insist this all means I’m selfish AF. But I just wanted a trip that was all about pampering and diffusing a hyper-stressed me. A Rona Retreat. Bliss.

Since my stand-in gal-pal would be on the mat beside me during this adventure, I made a plan. I had time on my side since we’d booked two nights away before the yoga dream-vacation, and a full week elsewhere, after. There’d be a pre-emptive strike where I’d muster up the energy and initiate sex before the retreat (even after a plane trip — those wipe me out at this age). Then I’d turn it on again for the final leg of our trip. He’d still get ideas and nudge me a bit during our four days with downward dogs, but I’d stand firm about not “lying down.”

I also vowed to be a decent sport about our downtime, knowing my well-intentioned spouse would never sit still all afternoon looking at scenery and reading books. Yeah, I’d tour the town. Yeah, I’d take a hike. Yeah, I’d agree to drive 75 minutes each way to look at unusual rock formations while he took photographs. He’d get the things he likes, too.

And so we went. I took my long-awaited birthday vacation. And my horny husband joined me. And we had a wonderful time.

But did we have sex during the yoga retreat? Let’s just say we came up with a handy little compromise.

Writer’s note: Concerned I may have gone “too far” with this piece, I reviewed it with my husband before it went live. His one editorial suggestion: “Tell them to put the word ‘big’ before ‘penis.'”

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