After the beer-pong competition, the man with the mic and acoustic guitar would play The Eagles and Red Hot Chili Peppers. Exclusively. Every week. I cannot listen to Hotel California, for this reason, without turning up the volume and thinking of beer pong.

While The Eagles and Red Hot Chili Peppers are great bands –don’t get me wrong –they were not exactly appropriate for drunken dancing. Not that we wouldn’t try. Every week we would try. We were dedicated like that.

On one such evening, throughout the beer pong championship the guys had, unbeknownst to us females, circulated rumors about our love for the sketchy wallflowers. The gossip spread so thoroughly that when the music began, the skeezey men immediately and purposefully attacked. After a few songs, our normal guys finally felt pity for our plight and paired up with us. For damage control purposes.

During a slow song –complete with cliché middle-school head-on-shoulder bit, something I hadn’t done since prom –I confided to my pairing that I loved a guy who knew how to dip. After confessing that he learned ballroom dancing for a friend’s debutante ball, he offered to waltz with me, on the beer-soaked dance floor at the seedy bar.  He was a frat boy and, therefore, supposed to care more about others’ judgment than making me giggle with low dips … but he surprised me.

I stepped on his toes more than he did mine, but I hoped his cognizance was as dull as mine; I had lost at beer pong –I always lost at beer pong –so the entire evening’s memory is a little fuzzy.

I remember his hands the most. His hands supporting the small of my back while dipping, his hands finding the knots in my back during the cab ride, his hands pulling me down to his chest when I woke up disoriented.

His hands and his ability to dip.  I still have a weakness for guys who know how to dip. Especially with The Eagles as accompaniment.

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