Nudity
and what we write about when we write about ourselves
Years ago, I signed up for a Naked Yoga class so I could write about it. Because yoga classes in New York City are packed, I figured I’d escape notice, but when I arrived at the address I’d copied down, I found myself in the naked instructor’s one-bedroom apartment. I followed her grand, spectacular breasts through a beaded curtain. On the other side, the rest of the class—exactly two men—sat on their mats in Lotus.
