It all started in the 90s for me. I thought yoga teachers were otherworldly. I wanted that mystical mind and the body of a glowing avatar. To be a multidimensional being right here right now. To look behind the curtain. To lose my ego and find peace. Tripping in samadhi, that love drug, forever reaching for the endless light!
One sunny day taking mushrooms I found myself as a wandering sadhu in Rajasthan baffled by Western drag (all clothes) and its absurdity. I was a nudist four thousand years ago. I chuckled in Regent’s Park, high as a kite.
As a twinky 19-year-old I became obsessed with Astanga yoga and it has never loosened its grip on me. I learnt Mysore self-practice from the very best – Madonna’s teacher – six days a week, up at the butt-crack of dawn at the grungy Diorama Arts Centre. I’d always nip to the gents there after a sweaty intense yoga session. On the john I would flick through a free gay ghetto magazine seeing who was on the game and spread-ass-eagled. Another lift to start the day.
I read self-help methods for vibrational alignment galore on London buses. Longings, dreams of stardom, travel to foreign lands, I unloaded rockets of desire. Lots of these hungers have been realised. I smirk as I write this.
Therapy one-to-one and mad cults I flirted with. Being working class, I wasn’t taken in too much. ‘What’s the bottom line?’ was my mantra all the way from Dagenham, Essex. I loved a sober dance at Five Rhythms with the new-age freaks on a Friday night. Falling about with joy and laughter is what it’s all about, son.
I went off to Hollywood to do my yoga teacher training. Got a bit of paper to get going and then a Primrose Hill yoga agent. What a start! Gigs at top spas, flash gyms and glitzy bankers’ pads with butlers. I trod barefoot on plush cream carpets in luxury hotels and Kensington aristo gaffs. In asana I chewed the fat with vulgar celebrities who wanted that sexy honed body. The elite became my day-to-day chums. They all wanted a bit of the creamy and in-vogue vedantic pie to gobble up.
I’ve done the rounds, matey, I’ve met every fucking quack and guru. I was hugged by a saint and lured into magical orgies by the devil. Sang for Krishna at Kirtan and purged ayahuasca at illegal shamanic ceremonies. Elevated myself up the Kabbalist sefirot with millionaires. Wrote and performed poetry on Jesus for socialist queer nightclubs. But always ended up back at synagogue. An honorary Jew. A proselyte. Singing the ancient songs of the tabernacle with fervour.
Amongst all this soul searching, I was as Monty Python shouts ‘a very naughty boy’. No, I’m not the fucking messiah. So strapped for cash after a divorce, I found myself a single father of two sons.
Living in Soho I became a yogi stripper liberating anyone who wanted a shameless hour, teaching naked yoga to mainly gentleman callers. This racket was a hit! Magazines rocked features and many a production company crept about trying to tempt me for humiliation TV. I politely declined that type of naff fame.
I changed my name for energetic play. From little king Ryan to first man Adam. I’m a polyonymous creature. To a techno beat drenched in sweat I crawled over gay London in an athletic erotic adjustment frenzy. Schlongs bloodied up. ‘Knees into the chest, boys,’ I called to a sea of winking bumholes in nude weekly classes.
This was my full-time racket. A dream job in uncharted seas. I took the blows. Jibs and character assignation. ‘Ain’t it an excuse for dirty old men to have a gang bang?’ was the usual remark, along with ‘She’s just rent.’ Exiled from respectability I somehow stayed afloat, drug free and weirdly grounded. I was looked after from above.
The perks were international travel, new best friends and never having to use an app for sex. The DVD I made, Naked Power Yoga, is now lifted to many porn sites. The digital age has put me out of pocket. Previously I’d send copies to China, Russia and anywhere you could think of. It’s an art flick with saucy blurred lines. Instructional no. Best to keep one’s mouth shut for enigma like a top model, I guessed. To inspire, yes.
In Naked Power Yoga, I’m stranded on a naked island (Île du Levant) after a swim to shore from a shipwreck. I’m possessed by the animalistic spirit that is yoga in a tropical garden paradise. All to find my true self. A dishy sailor rocks up half time at a deserted villa. Falcon porn style, we frolic in partner yoga. Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane was the horny springboard of inspiration. The fucking drama behind scenes could have been electrifying had we documented that. What a wilful bitch has to go through to raise the funds. Pure Hammer House shit. The books on the shelf. Lol.
My teachers learnt from the jungle, so free they were like rubber bands. In harmony and in tune with nature. A rejection of brutal systems. No anger; they just quietly removed themselves from prescribed conditioning. I can’t relate to Insta clones flogging spirituality doing gymnastics in casual couture. A popularity contest of self-obsession. The unconscious check-in for anonymous applause with Big Brother. That’s why naked yoga always been cool with me. It’s a tricky one to flog through the corporation. It’s extremely intimate. Status evaporates when in the raw. A good leveller. Vulnerable. Ready to learn, one is newborn. A bit of self-realisation and objectivity. I salute courage. Dare you. What’s to lose? Ding dong.
I’ve had quite a few years away from the city. Living by the sea in bleak pirate land. A big open orifice that reflects you back. My drive is stronger. One’s ambition is ridiculed by my inner joker. Never been more creative. I write books, plays and create art drama work that is avant-garde edgy. Tackling the injustice of the class system in ideas makes one unemployable. This is all yoga. Becoming conscious. Sharing. Genuine altruism. Values. Giving a fuck.
Back to London. I’m gonna dance another yoga chapter in the story of my peculiar life. I embrace middle age but not compliance. Who’s out there? Shall we cross paths? The gift of life is precious so be kind and don’t waste time. The high point of your week will be getting naked for yourself. This I know.
Email if interested and to book (£20): adamclifford79@icloud.com
Naked Yoga with Adam Clifford. Every Wednesday, 5 pm – 6 pm, at Tara Yoga Centre, Export House, 25 Ironmonger Row, London EC1V 3QW, United Kingdom.
