Mon Dieu

A torrid fling, in concept, sounds eminently appealing.

The operative word here is torrid. You cannot have a torrid fling with anyone average. Your paramour must be in some way exotic. Dangerous. Perhaps your lover is foreign, or perhaps he has recently been arrested on and cleared of felony charges. Either way. You also cannot have a torrid affair with anyone with a common name. Only Antonios and Jean-Lucs need apply. "Jeff" does not sound in any way torrid when screamed in the heat of passion. Sad but true.

So: an brief but intense physical connection with someone charismatic and indescribably sexy but not guaranteed not to run off with your wallet once you're done? Yes please!

In theory.

Trouble is, I'm just not very good at torrid flings. Let me explain...

The corners of his eyes crinkled deeply, earnestly, as if in his whole entire life he had never stopped smiling for more than ten minutes. He might as well have shot an arrow through my heart. Funny how something that drives me to distraction in myself drives me to lust in the opposite sex. He chatted animatedly with my boss, gesticulating wildly. Was that a French accent I heard, so thick and warm I could wrap myself in it like a blanket? So it seemed. I watched from the sidelines, retrieving giveaways and making myself useful when cued, never taking my eyes off this man. Have you ever been stricken with the feeling that you just needed to know someone, no matter what it took? Bingo.

Once this man had gone, my boss turned to me and commented on how the only thing that drew him in was my high heels, my form-fitting jersey dress, and my copious eyelash batting. Good thing though - turns out he was an important IT analyst. For the remainder of the afternoon, I joked about trying to lure the dreamy French analyst back to the booth, in that way we so frequently use that is only about 25% joking and 75% serious.

Finally, my exasperated boss whipped out a business card and implored me to call him already.

I don't call. I hardly ever even pick up my phone. But assuming he would have a Blackberry, after several margaritas (it was Cinco de Mayo) and a lot of cajoling, I sent him a charming, self-deprecating email, not expecting a response.

But he responded. And the next thing I knew, I was sitting next to him in a stadium, listening to Eric Clapton play Layla to an intimate crown of 14,000, and then we were at the worst "Irish" bar ever in the history of the universe in an Orlando strip mall getting to know one another.

When I say that I'm not very good at torrid flings, I mean that I find no particular compulsion to get naked with people I barely know. And I don't quite understand people who do. In theory, I was in it to win it. In practice, not so much.

Even so, I came shockingly close to forgetting about work on Friday and instead running away to Miami for a long weekend with a devastatingly handsome, charming, successful Frenchman. The offer was on the table. It fell through for logistical reasons, but that doesn't mean I wasn't seriously considering it...

Still. New York is not far, and well respected IT analysts frequently travel to Boston.

So if, next Thursday, you ask my opinion as to the customer service at the Taj, I might have an answer for you.

I may be a tramp, but I could be trampier.

(Also, a public service announcement to all gold diggers: go to a trade show. Vice presidents on up are like proverbial fish in barrels. Just a tip.)