There are a lot of things about me that I’m thankful for, but there are few traits I appreciate more than my ability to dance. You would never think, by observing the men at a family wedding, that moving to a beat would be one of my strong suits. Most of my uncles and male cousins need ten drinks before they can confidently take the floor, and at that point it’s just because they’re too drunk to care. Nevertheless, by some miraculous twist of genetic fate, this seemingly conventional white kid was blessed with unstoppable rhythm, and I could not be more grateful. Although it’s just for fun, I don’t even consider it a hobby:  I dance because I have to. I don’t just feel the beat because that would suggest some level of control on my part. When that rhythm hits me with both barrels, the feeling is more comparable to a demonic possession that rips through my body, screaming to be exercised.

I tell you this not only to provide a brief window into my soul, but also to establish that my motives for attending a dance class are pure. Granted, for some people that disclaimer isn’t necessary, as they ask why any self-respecting man would be caught dead in a class full of female dancers; however, I feel the need to defend myself to those among you who understand that that question answers itself. Dancers, as a whole, are absurdly hot. They have toned legs, tight cores, and asses that defy the laws of physics. There have been many a class in which I have stared in awe, not from lust, but out of sheer disbelief that a butt that big could be that perfectly spherical in shape.

In my current dance class, there is one such angel that comes from the ranks of posterior perfection. My weekly object of ocular affection is Alicia: the persistently upbeat former Cavs girl that instructs the class. I try not to stare, but not only does Alicia face away from the class when she’s teaching but she frequently directs our focus toward her hips and legs; therefore, it would seem odd if I was looking anywhere other than that incidental work of art that she calls an ass. Even if she catches me in the act, I can plead innocence. Unless, of course, she reads this blog. Then I’m screwed.

I always try to maintain a safe distance, at least at first, for two reasons. Primarily, like a bug zapper shimmering through the darkness of a summer night, beauty has a tendency to blind even the best of men to their better judgment. Secondly, leading with my animal instincts has almost never gone well for me. Sure it’s great at first, but when you’re lost in the moment, you tend to forget that there exists a tomorrow in which these very same people will be waiting to hold you accountable for your actions.

In my previous post of the same title, I briefly mentioned a redhead who seemed to eye me as if I were a steak dinner, and upon further review she has come to stand as a perfect embodiment of my need for restraint. She’s small and flexible, with a pretty face, and a series of body tattoos that stand out in contrast to her pale, freckled complexion: aesthetically, she was batting a thousand. Nevertheless, once she started talking, she became about as pleasant as a sandpaper condom, revealing a personality designed for driving men to suicide. I’m really not trying to be mean here, but believe me when I say that this girl would make anyone want to reach for something sharp.

I know it’s difficult for me to objectively discuss the physical proportions of a gender I’m naturally attracted to, because the act is inherently perverted. However, I beg you not to see it as one person ogling another, because that would ignore the massive respect I have for dancers and the amount of work they put into their craft. Dancers don’t set out with the ultimate goal of attaining  incredible bodies. They work to improve their art, pushing themselves to their physical limits and exploring the endless kinesthetic capabilities of the human body; the sculpting of gravity-defying rear ends is merely a positive by-product. So, in reality, my wandering eyes aren’t driven by voyeuristic deviance, but by heartfelt artistic appreciation.