In all my days, I’ve never seen so much dangling.

Directly ahead of me, a middle-aged man is in the downward dog position, a pair of balls hang miles below his upraised ass. To my right, a woman’s tits droop far from her chest, and swing wildly as she switches poses. Directly below me is my own tummy, scrunched up into a few jiggy fat rolls. I’m instantly disgusted with myself for all the Teddy Grahams I’ve been eating.

Of course, that defies the entire reason for why I’ve come here. They call it clothing optional yoga, but let’s be honest about the total absence of covered genitals: this is Naked Yoga.

I agreed to splay out my bare tits, pussy and ass because I’d hoped Naked Yoga could be my path to radical body acceptance. To liberation from my culturally-ingrained prudeness. But more than anything, I came here because I wanted an in with the kinky crowd.

In my mind, the kinky crowd is an elusive group of sexually liberated bohemians. The swingers, the polyamorous, and the BDSM enthusiasts don’t give a shit about narrow societal expectations to find an ol’ ball and chain and spend their remaining days watching Wheel of Fortune. They’re too busy having orgies and running around sex parties wearing dog collars and nipple clamps.

I want to be like them: Untethered. Free-spirited. Adults who never stop playing.

That’s why I’d been checking Colorado BDSM calendar for months. Here, the kinky community shares its planned activities, although most of them consistently seemed too intimidating. I needed something tamer than “how to train your slave.”

Naked yoga sounded appealing, but I was ultimately lured in by “Mountain Girl,” the woman who hosted the event. I called her as an outsider, and she kindly invited me to her secret-location studio. She let me through her doors even though I was running late — even though I busted in to her scene of tranquility and totally fucked up a bunch of butt-naked kinkster’s chakras.

[Mountain Girl's studio]

I entered their temporary nudist resort and instantly felt that despite being “clothing optional,” clothing was not an option at all. Even a scrap of coverage would label me an outsider. I ripped off my clothes like they were covered in bees and joined the group in the child’s pose. It didn’t take long of making eye contact with my own vagina to become uncomfortable.

However, Mountain Girl soon put me at ease. She was matronly, with a soothing voice and an eagerness to giggle. I began to feel unburdened by the lack of elastic constricting my stomach and the absence of thong panties burrowed in my buttcrack. I never forgot that I was naked, but I started to feel less exposed.

Near the end, I reached a pinnacle moment. With Mountain Girl guiding us, we were lengthening our limbs as far as they could go.

Extending our arms, I feel for the first time a sense of bonding with the bohemians all around me. We’d agreed to be vulnerable with one another, and trusted one another with the sight of our bare bodies.

Extending our legs, I feel for the first time a sexiness in myself and my new community. Sure, we don’t all have chiseled abs or perky tits or symmetrical testicles, but we have a beautiful bravery, evident in our very presence here.

Finally, I’m in my moment of near nirvana — a glorious state of mind, with arms and legs stretched worlds apart — and the man in front of me rips a thunderous fart.