This guy I met last night takes the cake. He was here from NYC with one of the dance groups on campus, which was having an afterparty of sorts at my eating club’s party. He was chilling at the bar for a while while I was on tap duty, and he was laughing/chatting with me and some other hanging-out-by-the-bar-ers. A bit later, when the other people who were at the bar had wandered off, he asked me
Him: Do you know that song about the bartender?
Me: Which one?
Him: The one by T-Pain.
Me: Oh yeah! That’s a good song.
Him: Well, I’m in love with the bartender.
(He is actually combining two songs here, but they’re both by T-Pain so I’ma cut him some slack.)
Me: *blushes* (y’all know I can’t actually blush, so read this as: smiles demurely and lowers eyes) *rushes off to pour a few beers for the people who have appeared*
(After I’ve finished) Him: So are you working all night?
Me: No, I get off at one and then other people will be behind the bar.
Him: So maybe later you can come out here and dance with me?
Me: *blushes again* Yeah, I could do that.
He wanders off elsewhere into the party. When I get off a little after one, I don’t see him and am kind of sad. But whatever, I go and dance with some other people, and then I want another drink so I make my way back into the tap room, and run into a friend of mine. She’s talking to two guys, one of whom happens to be my suitor from before! He’s being a wingman for a friend of his who is trying to get my friend to dance with him, and then he says, “Well I’m going to dance with her,” gesturing to me, “so you should dance with him,” and we walk off. I was trying to go out to the dance floor, but he says no, we’re going to dance right here, so I turn around and start to back up on him. He is impressed by my moves,
especially when I bend over for a minute after he suggests we move backwards to the wall so that I can push up on him better, and he puts his hands on my waist tenderly. I put my hands over his, to say that I like their placement, and he interlocks our fingers. Everything about this man cries sweet and gentle, yet strong and forceful enough to be pleasing, and I just want to keep dancing with him.
So when mere moments later, another man I don’t recognize walks over to us to tell him that they’re leaving, and he backs away from me without letting go of my hand, I am legitimately saddened. I’m not ready for this to be over. He explains that he doesn’t want to, but he has to go–that guy is his ride back to New York. He thanks me for the dance, saying he had been waiting for it all night, and with that he begins to turn away. I let go of his hand slowly as he turns, every fiber of my being screaming reluctance.
Nothing beats a man who can make me feel simultaneously sexy and respected. And I hate the fact that I don’t even remember his name. Ah, what might have been.
[I feel obligated to mention that he was White, but couldn’t think of an appropriate place within the story to insert this detail. And since he was here with that group, he most likely breakdances.]