Pantyhose Man

When we lived in Toulouse, I had my own yoga studio. I had never had any strange encounters with my students. They seemed to understand the protocol of a yoga class. They would arrive on time and in appropriate clothing. I never had to tell anyone to stop coming or to change their ways, until Pantyhose Man arrived.

He called one evening to ask about my classes. I explained a little to him. He had an effeminate voice and asked if he could come to class in stockings. He said he wore them in dance class and preferred to wear them. It seemed like a strange thing to where to yoga, but I couldn’t see the harm so I answered, “Sure.”

By coincidence, I had lots of new students trying my class the next evening. The room was packed to the gills. I even had to turn one student down as we had no more room. All of this just to give you an idea of how closely we were doing yoga to each other this evening.

Everyone arrived and was ready. The man who called me previously arrived looking normal. He wore jeans and a jacket and went into the changing room. Several minutes later, he came out wearing a dark brown sweater and brown opaque tights without pants or shorts on top, just tights. He wore glasses and was tall, pale, bald and muscular.

All of my students, new and old, tried to digest this exotic character. No one said anything but everyone noticed, as you will soon find out. Didier Sage (sage which means “well-behaved” in French) slightly grunted as his feet, trapped in stockings, slipped in most of the positions we did.

As we moved onto the floor and onto our backs, one of my student’s faces was dangerously close to his bulging crotch area. I saw her turn her head and try to act composed. That evening, the only new student who signed up for more classes was Didier Sage. All the other newbie’s had an excuse. One girl said, “Oh, my allergies acted up in your studio tonight.” An English couple shyly said, “We’ll come back soon,” and months later, after never having come again, the woman confessed via email, “We enjoyed your class but my husband was freaked out by the man in tights.”

The next class, one of my students, Bridgette, arrived early. She was a clever English girl with a wonderful sense of humor. She said to me, “Oooh! I can’t wait to see what Pantyhose Man will wear tonight!” Bridgette began to look forward to Didier’s appearances. That evening, he entered the studio in his usual jeans just a tad late. He went into the dressing room while everyone else patiently waited on their mats.

He exited in a rather graceful manner adorning a sheer black negligee that fell around mid-knee. Tiny spaghetti straps exposed his pale muscular shoulders and shaved body. Tonight, he did not wear brown opaque tights, he wore sheer black pantyhose. He took his place rather confidently on his mat.

When we began our sun salutations, I caught a glimpse of Bridgette biting her lip and furtively staring at the ceiling as if praying to keep her composure. I felt my lips quiver and almost burst into laughter but managed to quickly reorient my gaze. Even my voice shook a little as I spoke to the class. I had to shut that smile off fast and act normal. The vision of myself completely losing control right there was enough to regain my senses.

As we moved smoothly in and out of different positions, I realized Didier was clearly not wearing any underwear. His genitals were as bald as his head. When I first saw his naked bits, I thought I hadn’t seen properly, but he was exposing everything. I hoped more than anything everyone was concentrating on their own moves and didn’t see what I saw. Did he think no one saw it? Would he have been embarrassed had he known? I figured he hadn’t thought it through, maybe he had forgotten we’d be lifting our legs high in the air.

After class, Bridgette ran up to me cackling, “Oh, my God! That was a killer. I almost lost it in class!”

I wondered if I should say something to Didier Sage who wasn’t acting so sage, definitely not living up to his name! Was his dress inappropriate? Yes, but he seemed so innocent and no one had mustered a word yet about his bald genitals smiling at the world. Wasn’t yoga about being open-minded?

The next class, Bridgette rubbed her hands together and said, “Ooooh! I can’t wait to see what Hoseman has in-store for us tonight!”

Didier arrived and did his perfunctory scene opener while everyone sat quietly waiting on their mats. The door opened and he strode across the floor wearing a yellow sleeveless turtleneck and black pantyhose, this time nothing was covering his thighs.

As we sat on the floor that evening doing lotus, no one missed the sight of Didier’s shaven parts. I shortened the exercise and quickly moved to something more prudent and discreet, like a nice seated forward bend.

After he left that evening, two students approached me. One was a very serious and disciplined woman who said, “I will not come to class next time if Didier is there. He either covers himself and respects the other students or he stops coming!”

Another woman added, “I agree. He is an exhibitionist. He gets a high out of this! You have to say something to him.”

“I agree,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry.”

“We all know how to dress properly. You don’t see any of us coming without underwear. He has a total lack of respect!” my serious student continued. A flash of my student wearing no underwear and lifting her leg up high entered my head and I momentarily felt a wave of nausea.

“I’ll talk to him,” I repeated, “Don’t worry.”

That evening, I asked my husband what to do.

“Tell him he needs to dress correctly or he can’t come back.”

“But can I dictate what people wear? Should I tell him instead that people are complaining?”

“No, no,” answered my husband. “Your other students know what dress-appropriate clothing for yoga is. He knows! He knows what he’s doing! He’s trying to see how far he can go.”

So, I called Didier. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail that we needed to talk in person before his next class. First he sent an email asking, “What do you need to talk to me about?” I told him again we needed to talk in person. He avoided me for almost a month sending me various excuses and then one night he finally showed up before class.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked shyly with an almost sly grin.

“Do you want to continue doing yoga with me?” I asked.

He paused, “Well, actually I’ve been having back problems so I think I’m going to stop.”

“Okay, then,” I said. There was nothing further to say considering he wouldn’t be coming anymore.

He stared at me anticipating something more.

“Well, good evening and good luck,” I said (In French it doesn’t come out like the movie line.)

He hesitated and then said, “Bye,” he left the studio. That evening, he sent an email: “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me the reason why you wanted to talk to me.” I didn’t respond, but that was enough to tell me he had wanted some kind of reaction or reprimand for his behavior. Maybe that’s how he got his high, people’s shock and reaction and he hadn’t elicited any from us, at least not in front of him. What a downer that must have been for him.

His outfits did progressively get skimpier each class. If he had continued yoga, would his outfits eventually have dwindled down to nothing? I still don’t get why he did this. Was he a sexual pervert? Was he an exhibitionist?

“Don’t look for reasons,” said my husband. “No one knows. We’ll never know. It’s better he doesn’t go to your studio. He’s bad for your business.”

After that, we never saw Didier Sage, AKA Pantyhose Man, ever again. Whether he knew it or not, it’s fair to say he didn’t leave unnoticed.