Zen and the Art of Kissing

Starsky sat cross-legged, mirroring Hutch sitting directly opposite.

“Inhale,” Hutch said in a quiet, calming voice, eyes closed. “In and out. Fill your chest.”

Starsky’s naturally active nature had a very difficult time sitting so quietly, so still. His toes twitched, even when he was trying to maintain a peaceful space. Maybe closing his eyes would help. He peeked at Hutch.

“Raise your hands up, taking your ribcage up, too.” Hutch demonstrated, his arms by his ears, hands facing each other. “Breathe in, and breathe out, circle the breath through your body, in the nose and out the mouth.”

“I thought yoga had all these pretzel poses,” Starsky commented, opening one eye to peer at his partner. Hutch looked like the Buddha at the Japanese Garden downtown, all serene and beautiful.

“Those come later,” Hutch answered softly, lowering his arms to a prayer position against his chest. “Hands together, shoulders straight. Namaste.”

“Namaste,” Starsky echoed, already too squirmy to sit a moment longer. He bounced up to a stand. “Now we can move?”

“Slower, deliberate movements.”

Standing square, Hutch stretched to the ceiling which brought the sing-song exercises of his childhood into Starsky’s head. “Hands in the sky, so high…”

“Let your mind drift, empty and receptive, push aside those impulsive thoughts,” Hutch intoned, his face smooth and imminently kissable.

That was the most difficult part. Starsky was as limber as they come, could bend over and touch the ground, could mimic every position Hutch showed him, but thinking up trivia or song lyrics, or plots of TV shows, or the solution to some case on the job, that he could not stop. His brain was never empty.

“Triangle pose,” Hutch continued, spreading his legs and bending sideways. He always used a book to brace his downward hand because he needed the little height to get to the floor.

Starsky widened his stance, bent sideways and placed his hand on the Indian woven carpet, without a single strain to his muscles. This one was easy, unlike Hutch’s favorite, the handstand, which Starsky had yet to achieve.

“And down into child’s pose,” Hutch murmured, lowering himself to the floor, knees spread so he could place his arms out in front of him and nose to the carpet.

Starsky had had enough discipline. He needed the reward. He crawled around behind his lover, spread his thighs to surround Hutch, and leaned over him, breathing exactly in time with Hutch’s pranayama.

“Namaste, Hutch,” Starsky said, kissing him on the back of the neck. This was his kind of yoga.

“You’re cheating.” Hutch chuckled, turning his head to catch one of those kisses on his lips.

FIN