On Friday night couples were slow-dancing at the bar. What is that? We were laughing about it until he held his hand out to me. I couldn't even feign ignorance; he was clearly indicating that he wanted me to get off of the bench and stand up to dance with him.

Who is he? He is the first boy I ever picked out at a hockey game. He wore glasses that night, and carried a satchel. We noticed him, again, walking up the hill. I met him a few months later. Since then, I have learned of too many girls to whom he has shown an excessive amount of affection. Yet I also know that he has lied about said affections, and perhaps infections, too. Collectively, we have all experienced a sort of crush on him; however, individual degrees of feelings varied greatly.

But who was I to say no to this man? You don't say no to him. We may have nicknamed him "Can't F-ck," but it doesn't matter - he is a charmer. I did what I had to do. I reached out for his hand, stepped away from my friends and into his arms.

He held my right hand up too high, he is tall, he had his right hand between my hip and my ribcage, I had my left hand on his bicep. He leaned too close to me. I told him I regretted my choice of high heels, I might step on his feet. He said that I should never regret decisions, only regret things I had not done. His father told him something along those lines. Our first dance and he was already talking about his family.

I laughed, and attempted to dazzle him with my eyes. He twirled me a few times, I stepped on his toes a few times. It didn't hurt, he was wearing leather shoes. Each time he led me back into his embrace he held me tighter against him. His right hand slid lower along my back, his left hand brought my right closer to his shoulder.

I've danced with better leaders. I've been in the arms of males with more impressive biceps. I've been charmed by more charismatic fellows. I've seen hillbillies with straighter teeth. Yet I haven't been looked at like that in a long, long time.

Why did he chose me? Was it the fact that the shirt I wore showed more of my chest than most of my bathing suits? Was it that he actually knows me, that he would call me by my standard nickname that the entire town calls me? Was it that he has secretly been in love with me for years? Was it something else? A combination of factors?

I'll settle for the combination of the following factors: he was fucking drunk; my tits were playing peek-a-boo from behind my blazer; I actually dazzled him with a single look.

Girls everywhere, be jealous. I lived the dream.