Page 37 of Unclench Me Softly

Because Rage Yoga™ was never meant to be done with five emotionally constipated, spiritually unhinged, and aggressively attractive men. This was supposed to be a novelty class, a chaotic little “scream therapy meets core work” hybrid that I invented during a late-night Pinterest spiral and now, somehow, I am leading it like it’s the final boss level of tantric frustration.

“Welcome,” I say, barefoot on the mat, trying to sound wise and not wildly turned on. “Today’s session is about embodied release. You’re going to move, breathe, clench, and rage-purge your internal fire.”

Jax smirks like he’s already won.

Miles raises an eyebrow like this is beneath him, which, of course, makes me want to personally push his third eye open with two fingers and a lot of inappropriate thoughts.

Asher is practically vibrating with anticipation, clutching a towel and whispering, “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

Seb is silent. Still. Arms folded. Watching me like I’m a very complex tree he’s trying to decide whether to climb or burn down.

And Jonah? Jonah is sitting in hero’s pose like he was born to emotionally sweat through his secrets in front of me. Calm. Steady. Bare chest barely rising. Eyes half-lidded like he already knows he’s going to ruin me with breathwork alone.

I swallow, smile tightly, and raise my arms overhead.

“Let’s begin with a low warrior,” I say, voice trembling only slightly. “Left foot forward, right leg extended back. Sink into your hips. Arms up. And now... growl.”

There’s a pause.

Miles blinks. “Pardon?”

“This is Rage Yoga,” I say sweetly. “We don’t just hold tension, we purge it. With sound. With breath. With primal expression.”

Asher lets out a hesitant little “grrr” like an apologetic golden retriever.

Jax full-on growls like he’s about to bite someone.

Miles makes a noise that might be a sigh of pure disdain, but he still sinks into the pose, and I hate how well he moves. Controlled. Precise. Like every inch of him is clenching something deep and expensive.

“Feel the burn,” I say, walking among them, adjusting postures. “Feel the resistance. Then make it scream.”

Jax’s growl deepens.

Asher’s turns into a wheezy bark.

Seb exhales. One long, slow, gravel-deep breath that sounds more like thunder rumbling through moss than anything else, and I feel it in my spine.

And Jonah? Jonah makes no sound. Until I get close.

“Jonah,” I say, stopping beside him. “You’re too tight through the shoulders. Let me...”

I place my hands on him.

His body is warm. Solid. Muscles tense beneath my fingertips like they want to soften but haven’t been given permission in years.

“You have to let it out,” I murmur, moving his arms gently, guiding his reach. “Growl. Scream. Whatever comes up.”

He turns his head slowly, just enough to glance at me, and says in a voice so quiet it hums, “What if what comes up is dangerous?”

My knees almost buckle.

I move on before I confess something deeply inappropriate about fantasies involving eucalyptus oil and power dynamics.

“Downward dog,” I bark. “Everyone. Breathe into your hips. Sigh. Moan. Growl. Get it out.”

Five men, bent over, groaning, panting, sweating.

It is a spiritual gangbang of unprocessed trauma and glute engagement.

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