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The girls squad gets naked for moral support.

What difference could it possibly make? Then, in my periphery, I could see Teresa looking back over her shoulder at me with a mischievous smirk. She saw me notice her and pointed at me, mouthing the word "busted." I chuckled and shook my head.

The vows rehearsal was a welcome break. I stood there quietly on stage, not really paying attention, defiantly sipping from what remained of Teresa's beer, and trying to process everything I had observed. Fact: Teresa was hot as a skillet. I wanted her very, very badly. Fact: Teresa was flirting like crazy; she had hugged my arm close; we had shared beer; she had essentially informed me that before the weekend was over she intended to pinch my ass.

On the other hand, fact: different people have different senses of humor and, without really knowing Teresa, I couldn't be certain that she wasn't just this way with "all the boys." Fact: I've made terrible, humiliating mistakes in the past, misreading women's cues. And, alas, fact: the stakes still favored containing myself. If she was flirting, the most I had to lose by staying mum was perhaps one brief fling; if I was wrong, however, and this was just her version of un-sexual banter, then hitting on her overtly would be a potentially embarrassing faux pas.

As the minister droned on and on about what he would be saying about the sacrament tomorrow, I took sips of beer, my semi-hard cock softening, and my faltering resolve now hardening: I was going to be good, I determined. I was going to get through this weekend and not try to do anything about Teresa, except enjoy her company.

Teresa, it turns out, had other plans.

* * *

She never goosed me. The occasion just never arose. There were dozens, possibly hundreds of photos taken that weekend but none where she was in position.

There ceremony proceeded without incident the next day, and then there was the awkward longueur of the receiving line followed by the professional magazine-chic photography session down by the beach before the whole procession made its way fitfully across town to the reception hall, most everybody by that point very much in need of a drink.

At dinner, a sad accident of seating had landed me far away from my newfound favorite and, if there was any doubt about who had been doing the heavy lifting in that easy banter of ours, it was removed by the miserable, awkwardly punctuated silence in which I passed the evening trying to converse with Marty and two of Liz's other maids. "Um, and, how long have you worked there? I see. And what's the weather like down there this time of year?" It was a yawn a minute.

Teresa, by contrast, seemed to be holding forth, at least according to the evidence of my stolen glances at where she sat a few tables away. Every time I looked up she seemed to be laughing heartily, or else talking in an animated way to the delight of her interlocutors. I was feeling quite sullen.

Speeches were made over the long desert course and, at long last, as the red wine I had been gulping all night finally began to blunt the edges of the evening, the band took to the stage and people began dancing. Almost immediately I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Hey, cowboy, aren't you supposed to offer me the first dance?"

"I, uh. I'm not really much of a dancer," I stammered.

"Shocking!" she gasped in sarcastic surprise.

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