"Dance me to your beauty," wrote the frisky poet Leonard Cohen, "with a burning violin." "Take ballroom dancing lessons," said my determined little Mom, "or I'll never cook fried chicken for you again." No dancing, no fried chicken. Those were the harsh terms. I was helpless in the face of that threat. If we are what we eat, I am chicken, a Rhode Island red, dredged in flour, fried to a golden brown and then steamed on low in a covered skillet, becoming tender, finger-licking morsels. It wasn't that I didn't want to hold a woman in my arms, close to my body while twirling and dipping and dazzling her with my fast footwork. I did. Oh, how I did. But I was the victim of a common teenage phobia - making a fool of myself. I was one of those teenage boys who are afraid to ask a girl out, not because I didn't desperately want to, but because I was certain she would say no. I was chicken/Bill Hall, Lewiston Tribune. More here.

Question (to the men of HucksOnline): Were you afraid to ask girls out in high school?