The brutal truth... you're a terrible dancer

The brutal truth is, you're a terrible dancer. The only good news, and it's very good news indeed, is that nobody is looking at you.

Anna is not a good dancer, she's an incredible dancer. She moves around the dance floor like a tiger, all muscle, grace and power. She has some hip action that sends wiggles up and down her body... and sends blood flowing to your dick.

Before long, half the dance floor has cleared as people stop dancing to watch her.

And you're her partner.

Pretty clearly, the guys in the Berkeley physics department have no idea what they're messing with. A part of you wants to pity the fools, but you have a hard time summoning up much sympathy. In your experience, bullies rarely get what's coming to them and you aren't going to be too sad if this one time the tables are turned.

After three dances, Anna grabs your arm, drags you back to the bar, and instructs you to order three more vodkas.

You go to pay but the bartender shakes his head. "These have already been paid for."

"Huh?"

I have a line of guys wanting to buy the lady a drink.

"Yeah. Well, she's my date and I'm paying."

Anna looks at you funny. "You not have much money."

"How the hell do you know that."

"I research on you. You update your linkedin."

Yeah, you did that while drunk in that cheap motel room. Still, you don't think you put in how broke you were.

"We dance three more dances," she says as she sucked down the third shot of vodka. Then we talk digital physics."

You aren't sure how much talking, let alone digital physics, Anna is going to manage after six vodka shots... she is not short but she is waif-thin. Those drinks have got to have her blood **** limit sky-high.

You don't get any time to think about it because she drags you back to the dance floor. Apparently it doesn't bother her that you have the dance moves of a spastic puppy... she's not dancing for you... or for any of the guys in the room. She's dancing for herself.