Eager beavers from twenty to seventy responded to the ad I posted for an “attractive, mature, sophisticated man unafraid to show his feelings in a long term relationship with potential for growth on both sides.” Since the majority of my in-the-flesh meetings with wannabe lovers had headed south, imagine my delight when age-appropriate Desmond materialized. Straightaway, unlike most men on Craigslist who grudgingly pay for coffee, Desmond invited me to dinner in a Zagat-rated Japanese restaurant. That he lived in Chelsea, a nearby neighborhood, ratcheted up his allure.

I posted my ad two months before New Years. Once again, my anxiety level escalated as the days ticked toward the big night. I was like a Pavlovian rat adhering to previous behavior. Whether or not I had “plans,” as well-meaning friends inquired solicitously, became a hot button. Desmond’s appearance made it unnecessary to scavenge the woods for a suitable companion. It was taken for granted that we would be together when the ball dropped. Meanwhile, we attended art openings, concerts, plays and dance events.

Had we dined exclusively on burgers at McDonald’s, I would have been content. In the engineering field, Desmond had traveled the seven seas for business and pleasure. His conversation segued from Proust to Stephen Hawking’s theories without a trace of pretentiousness. Of Greek descent, tall and slim like an athlete in Classical times who competed for prizes in Olympic games, his body moved across the floor with amazing lightness. Daily workouts at a local gym kept off extra pounds apt to puff out other men in their mid-fifties. A lascivious twinkle, that hinted of expertise in the bedroom, danced in his eyes.

Desmond’s savoir-faire–uncommon in American men–made me wonder if he’d ever made an awkward move. Most striking, he listened to whatever I said with utter concentration as though I were the Greek Cybele predicting the outcome of the Persian War. Meanwhile, he kept me off balance by tender gestures: a peck on my nose as we said goodnight; his gift of a love lyric–he copied it onto tinted paper bordered with golden hearts—written by the Greek poet Giorgos Seferis. Desmond’s slow, deliberate courting made me impatient for total intimacy.

During November, we went out every other night. For Thanksgiving, he invited me to a lavish dinner with his sister’s family in Westchester. The next evening, at his apartment on Central Park West, we became lovers. His first passionate kiss sucked up my lips making them his forever. Prolonged embraces ecstatically joined Desmond’s yang with my yin, fitted our bodies naturally together like twins entwined in their mother’s womb. “I give you my sperm, I give you my soul,” whispered Desmond. Afterward, as we lay together, Desmond discussed our projected trips to Europe and farther flung locales. Confident, I let my emotional drawbridge down–in truth, sawed it in pieces.

Never had I looked forward to a New Years Eve so expectantly. Outfits were selected, discarded, then selected again. I spent my month’s clothing budget on a black dress with a neckline that plunged nearly to my belly button. Black silk pumps with heels that made me teeter and totter put me in the holiday spirit sober. Tricked out, I felt like a mature version of Carrie Bradshaw in “Sex and the City” armored to rampage around New York.

To avoid the Times Square congestion, we dined at a quaint restaurant in the East Village. Over dessert, Desmond’s conversation took an unexpected turn. Tacitly, up to now, we avoided any discussion of former romances. Such musings could rip the romantic fabric we had stitched together so carefully with gossamer threads. Therefore, it surprised me when Desmond lapsed into a long dissertation about his ex-wife. As his words burst in the air like bubbles from the celebratory champagne on hand to toast the New Year, my face lost its glow.

Animated like a young boy recalling his first date, Desmond relived the spring day–alive with chattering crowds in cafes and charcuteries–he escorted his ex-wife to an exclusive lingerie shop on the Parisian Left Bank. His mission: to find Claire the perfect bra to bewitch her wealthy lover–CEO of an international corporation.

Desmond, as he enumerated the assortment of featherweight bras made of laces, satins, tulles, taffetas and silks which contoured the breasts without “inhibiting them or cutting off their circulation,” or “pinching in the back” (a fault of cheaper brands), became rhapsodic as though the fabrics were caressing his skin. Sighs escaped his lips, his hands stroked the air, a slight spasm contracted his neck.

Inside the fitting room, as Desmond explained in excruciating detail, Claire tried on practically all the examples on hand. Eventually, she selected a sea foam green, underwire design in eyelet cotton by Chanterelle. Definitively, Desmond rejected her choice, along with an array of other styles–demi and full–in primary to the subtlest of colors. Fortunately, the Holy Grail of bras could be made to measure–a feature of the boutique which employed two top-of-the line seamstresses accomplished at whipping up divine creations in forty-eight hours.

Making sinuous motions with his hands while outlining Claire’s contours and nipples, Desmond did his best to approximate her colossal cup size. In the U.S., he fretted, only specialty stores carried a decent selection of bras for truly abundant mammaries. Instinctively, I clutched my thirty-four A’s which, compared to Claire’s melons, were seeds. Now my black nylon lingerie, purchased on sale at Filene’s especially to arouse Desmond ardor, struck me as the ultimate in tacky.

Desmond explained further how, on the spot, he made a sketch of his fantasy bra of bras: A flesh tinted affair in moody grey voile so fine as to be almost invisible–part of her skin. He added a ruffle of maroon lace to spice up his creation. Desmond bragged that his design encompassed the naughtiness of a can-can dancer, the poetry of a muse, the deadly charm of a Femme Fatale added to the icy allure of an aristocratic woman on a pedestal. Tipsy from champagne, I blinked to erase the mass of bras dancing in a chorus line before my eyes.

I almost gagged over the crème brulé, my favorite dessert. Then, as rapidly as superman changed outfits, Desmond reassumed his normal, discreet persona. What did I think of the new building design at MOMA? Did Kant’s categorical imperative make any sense in a world beset by terrorism and greenhouse gasses? Despite my reservations, his dialogue engaged–no captivated–me all over again. Like a trained seal in a circus, I jumped for the fish.

At Desmond’s ground floor apartment, two matching couches and low tables in Art Deco designs were judiciously placed to establish an intimate mood. A vaulted ceiling gave the living room a Parisian flavor. Fresh air drifted in through curtained, slightly ajar bay windows, behind which a large garden outside–fenced in by a high wall–dozed throughout the winter season. Scented candles were cleverly positioned in niches to create a magical effect. A sound system wafted a Chopin nocturne throughout the several rooms, into alcoves filled with bookcases as well as nineteenth century sculptures and paintings.

Spontaneously, I raised my lips for Desmond’s kiss, my arms to embrace the Janus-faced devil whose smile wiped away any negative impact his words might have. At the stroke of midnight, we made love on the couch–unable to restrain ourselves till we got to the bedroom. Could Desmond, perhaps the entire neighborhood, hear the bomb detonating inside me? The auspicious hour added a sacred dimension to our coupling. That we consecrated this New Years together, our first in each other’s arms, buttressed my hope that many more would follow.

Stretching contentedly in bed, sleep about to overtake me, I reached out to kiss Desmond’s fingertips. Abruptly, he pulled them away. Then he sat up and began to speak in a low tone. By now I hoped for the best but instinctively clenched my toes to prepare for the worst. Again Desmond’s monologue was Claire centered.

This time Desmond filled in more of the backstory on his marriage, parts of which harked back to the Story of O. Panting, Desmond explained how both he and Claire would wait for her favorite lover’s phone call. Ting-a-ling, husband and wife sprung into action. The protocol never varied. While Desmond masturbated, Claire selected an outfit for that night’s rendezvous. Winter or summer, she wore nothing underneath. Gentlemanly Desmond found her a taxi to the Lower East Side, then “twiddled his thumbs” in her absence.

At home again, en famille, so Desmond could share her rapture, Claire provided full and juicy details about the ingenious ways her lover improvised to degrade her. Then Desmond took his cue and carried on with the second shift. For the rest of the night–or morning–husband and wife copied the positions Claire assumed with her lover.

Why and how, I wondered, had this marriage worthy of a kinky porn film dissolved? That Claire had several affairs going on simultaneously struck Desmond as fine and dandy. There was no opportunity to inquire, for Desmond’s motor mouth could not be silenced–other than with a bullet. He sweated, groaned and farted while paying tribute to these bygone, halcyon romps.

Limp, I wanted to crawl away like a animal whipped within an inch of its life. However, Desmond had a few more surprises in store. On Craigslist I had posted my ad in the relationship section–not “intimate encounters”–clearly stating that I desired a long term monogamous connection. Therefore Desmond’s next suggestion made me wonder what kind of game he was playing, or if he were terribly nearsighted and posted in the wrong category by mistake?

Would I, he begged, getting up from bed to drop down on bended knee, be his escort to swing clubs like Trapeze where men alone were not allowed? If we went in together mucho “hot” action would come our way. Frequent visits with Claire had taught him the protocol which, he assured me, cut the risk of catching STDs way down. Additionally, security guards mitigated against trouble from rowdy patrons. Did I, he inquired solemnly, have any cute girlfriends who’d like to meet an almost-divorced, very available man like himself? Would any of my chums be up for a threesome? Then, throwing his arm across my belly, he fell asleep abruptly.

New Year’s Eve developed into a night of the long knives that threatened to go on forever. While Desmond slept like a happy infant after being given its bottle, I stayed awake staring into the darkness with aching eyes. Not once did I doze off. The champagne in my stomach threatened to spout forth like a geyser. Finally, at six A.M., I crept out of bed and threw my clothes on willy-nilly. Not using the bathroom, I tiptoed out of the apartment. No taxis in sight, I ran like a maniac down the street toward the closest subway.

New Year’s day service was so slow that I had to wait what seemed an interminable amount of time. My rumpled condition matched that of a shopping bag lady with whom I shared a bench. Too exhausted to cry, mucus poured out of my nose. The freezing cold outside matched the temperature in my heart, which painfully thumped in my chest.

At home I leaped into bed, hid under the covers and tried to block out the grotesque image of Desmond masturbating over Claire’s lover as he bit her black and blue. Finally, I slept all of New Year’s day. If the rest of the year went like this, a trip to the North Pole or Madagascar became an appealing prospect.

After my contretemps with Desmond, what makes me an expert on acing Cragslist? Fortunately, there is a postscript to the above story. In time, gathering my forces, I placed another ad. Victory! I met a wonderful yet reliable man–an utterly sexy beast, not the type to spring surprises or concoct bizarre scenarios. At last the wheel turned in my favor! Observing the pointers below, hopefully it will do the same for you dear reader.

1. Treat your Craigslist search as a Zen journey. Be present but not anxious and not overly-focused on meeting a particular person at a particular time. If things don’t work out with one person, post again without wasting energy on regrets. Consider your posting a job application sent to multiple companies–submit one, then send out the next.

2. Do not demand a dinner date or something luxurious on a first meeting. An expensive meal obligates you and can be torture with a bore yakking in your ear. A quickie coffee frees you to escape without elaborate excuses or guilt feelings.

3. Unless you’re feeling Demi Moore-esque, search Craigslist for age-appropriate candidates. Ages can be entered in boxes which narrow the search to your chosen range.

4. Do not change fixed plans to meet the “love of your life.” A ticket to resentment if things go awry, which well they might.

5. Post your own ad in addition to answering posts from those you may be interested in meeting. An ad properly crafted can receive a tremendous response. Many men avoid posting for various reasons but readily answer an ad they see while trolling the list. Attach your photo or not but never trust theirs.

6. Don’t be afraid to give your phone number to a man who appears reliable. Monitor your calls to screen pervs, or those manqué from “intimate encounters.” In all my time on the list, this problem did not arise. Men generally are very hesitant to call. Brave online, many lack the courage to reveal themselves to a human voice. A substantive phone conversation can save time better spent in more fulfilling pursuits. On the phone you get more than specs: desires, world view and how a man might fit into your life can be ascertained. Talk first, meet later. Or not as the case may be.

7. Insist that a candidate call you. Why build up your phone bill calling to distant area codes on spec? If GU’s (geographic undesirables) make contact, let it be their nickel.

8. Be prepared that every Craigslist aficionado will swear on his mother’s grave (or breathing body) that you are the first person he met online via a personal ad. Ha ha! Just shake your head, record the information and drink a glass of wine.

9. It is not uncommon for a candidate you have corresponded with on the list, or spoken to on the phone, to ask you out for a specific night in all seriousness–even indicate a definite time and place to meet. Before leaving home be sure to call and confirm the appointment. It’s no fun to wait for a stranger who fails to show up. Perhaps his “disabled” wifey got out of her wheelchair, he found something better, or he got cold feet. Move on! The list of prospects renews itself daily.

10. Know what you want in a man so you can pounce–discreetly–when he shows up. There is such a thing as a Craigslist addiction. Do not keep going through this revolving door eternally. Contacting and posting carries a sexual charge that can be habit forming– the hope, the buzz, the dream of eternal love. . . . There should be a self-help program like AA to handle this unfortunate compulsion. Get on the boat when the right one arrives. Who knows if the next will stop for you?

Barbara Foster, Assoc. Prof. at CUNY, specializing in Women’s Studies, has co-authored three trade books. She has published many articles on love and travel and poems in journals in various countries. While living in Manhattan, she lectures often in the U.S. and abroad and has packed auditoriums from Washington’s Smithsonian to Cal Tech, Sydney, Buenos Aires, and Prague. Barbara appears on TV, radio, and on popular Internet sites such as Phaze and Ruthie’s Club. Barbara has recently competed her erotic memoir: The Confession Club: the Secret Life of a Sexy Librarian. Her website is threeinlove.com.

It may not have been the 90th floor, perhaps the 30th or 40th. The exact number is foggy in my memory, but the rest of this “strange interlude” dances before me in primary colors. I met Petrillio, an architect, at a private erotic art opening in a Chelsea gallery that was generous with champagne. High on the bubbly, I found myself beside Petrillio while we both stared bemused at a painting of a watermelon-like vulva by Judy Chicago. Naughty, I imagined him following up the dry champagne with wet kisses.

It was difficult to concentrate on Petrillio’s words, rather musical notes, for he spoke in dulcet harp-like tones. Compact, only slightly taller than I, he wore his straight grey hair, a slight curl at the end, shoulder length. As he pointed at the painting I noted his long tapered hands which, I sensed, moved gracefully across a drawing board or along a woman’s body.

Hmmm, I thought to myself, it boded well that Petrillio chose to attend an erotic show rather then one displaying landscapes. When he asked for my card, then called a week later, I ransacked my entire wardrobe to find the perfect garment to bewitch a sophisticated older man who wore his age with the same distinction as his Pierre Cardin suit. I yearned to stroke his perky moustache that he unconsciously twirled now and then.

For five dates we thrust and parried in trendy Chelsea restaurants over dinners that tasted bland, for my attention belonged entirely to Petrillio. In the distance, he pointed to his abode in a tall modern building. Wistfully, I visualized us cavorting on his bed, or enjoying an intimate laugh after a savory breakfast, then back to bed for another roll under the covers.

Why didn’t Petrillio, as huggable as a baby penguin, invite me upstairs to see his etchings? “I’m yours, take me!” I screamed silently. Was Petrillio married, gay or hiding bodies of ex-wives or girlfriends? Finally, in January, on a snowy night–a breakthrough: my cavalier suggested a glass of Pinot Grigio chez lui.

“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s so late,” I answered trying not to appear over anxious. Meanwhile I was petrified he would change his mind. Mentally, I was throwing my coat, gloves, jewelry, high heels, underwear in a heap.

Petrillio passed the doorman with an insouciant wave. Offhandedly, he asked the score of the Sugar Bowl game. “Dip into my bowl of sugar so deep that I’ll have none left, go ahead scoop up handfuls,” I thought to myself. How many other women had zoomed up in this elevator to his perch in the clouds? Were they younger, prettier, sexier than I? How could I induce an amnesia that could beguile Petrillio into thinking that his love life began and ended with me?

Exiting the elevator, windows everywhere, a panorama of midtown floated up to meet my eyes. Was I flying in a stationary airplane about to land in paradise? I wanted to lie down and dream in this hallway of rugs plush enough to be comfy pillows. Petrillio’s hand on my elbow, our first caress, relieved any lurking uncertainty.

Voila, the minute I walked into Petrillio’s aerie it seemed I had been there before; if not in this life perhaps in the Twenties for cocktails and kisses. Tonight, I felt high both physically and intellectually. Petrillio’s apartment exhibited an artistic imagination scaled down to fit into New York’s astronomical rents. Each piece of furniture seemed about to burst into a chorus of welcome as though it had been expecting me. The simply designed chairs were made of wood finished to a silky texture. Flower-shaped lamps gave the room a feminine touch.

Japanese screens, judiciously placed art work–a Warholesque painting of Marilyn Monroe, a smiling Buddha, silk wall-hangings, a Tibetan rug–everything conspired to create an aura of enchantment. Paradoxically, Petrillio’s miniature castle in the sky seemed neither cluttered nor claustrophobic.

“Pardon this camping out,” explained Petrillio, as he gently placed me on a divan barely big enough for two that was set into a cozy nook that contained several small vases filled with palm fronds.

“Till I find something bigger, my art collection’s in storage. Supporting a home in Danbury, an ex-wife’s obsession with her shrink, plus two kids at expensive colleges keeps me hopping. Women haven’t been kind to me, especially Sally.” The pain in his deep blue eyes made me long to kiss away the suffering his thoughtless wife had inflicted. I vowed to soothe this old school gentleman, who exuded elegance and seemed absent from our technological age of cell phones and sound bites.

Petrillio sprinkled his conversation with references to Italian art films and Roman history. He was a genuinely sensitive man of letters rather than a dilettante, I concluded. Therefore, I expected that the books on his shelves would be scholarly. Getting up to examine his collection, I opened a folio written in Italian to a picture of a woman, legs spread, masturbating.

My vision blurred as volume after volume contained pictures of women in classic pornographic situations: multiple partners, orgies, animals, including a monkey. Keeping my voice under control, I whispered: “Are all your books porno? No Dickens or Proust?” I whined. “And Screw magazine. You read that . . . . Why?”

“I’m a collector,” answered Petrillio proudly. “I somehow managed to get a complete run. No small feat since Screw has been published for decades. Don’t those models wear some delightful outfits? Mostly black leather but a few show real imagination. Here look at this foxy lady, her nightie of leather and lace. See, this blondie’s hot pants are cut out at the crotch and rump. Fun, huh?” Cheerfully, Petrillio thrust the well-thumbed magazine in my face.

My smile belied tears oozing from my eyes, about to course down my cheeks. The room started to spin and so did my mind. Was this porno maven the man I had fantasized would be my lifelong partner? I squirmed and intended to leave, however, my feet felt plastered to the floor.

“Pinot Grigio, darling? Other than bubbly, it’s all I drink. It’s good for the heart too. Ah, what beautiful visions my elixir conjures. It compensates me for this meaningless, brutal existence. Water is for fish. Drink up, you angelic creature. Together we shall pay homage to the versatile grape.”

Petrillio sighed and moved my hair away to lick my earlobe. Then he raised the window blinds higher to expose a view of the Empire State building ablaze with colored lights as bright as crown jewels. Pouring glass after glass of wine, soon he finished the entire bottle as though it were apple juice.

The more wine I consumed, the more I yearned to become part of Petrillio’s scenario. As he smoked a cigarette in a long golden holder, I marveled at the movement of his graceful wrist, the erotic way his lips puckered to inhale smoke.

“Darling, mind if I change into a cozy dressing gown?” Disappearing into a small alcove, Petrillio blew me a kiss.

I had anticipated him caressing me slowly, awakening each erogenous zone in turn. Mad from an overabundance of wine and desire, I shivered with longing ready to open every orifice to him.

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, Petrillio appeared wearing a gold-colored silk robe that Noel Coward would have fancied. Underneath what a shock: black lace panties and bra, a red garter belt that held up black fishnet stockings and an antique locket with rhinestones dangled from his neck. Prancing like a rotund fawn drunk on wine, Petrillio’s reserve evaporated.

“You think I should get a bustier? Petrillio murmured, twisting and turning before a decorative mirror on a stand. He thrust his chest forward provocatively. Meanwhile, he applied layers of makeup to his face and rouged his cheeks. “Could I look worse than Madonna? That slut! Staring at me, darling, why?” asked Petrillio, his speech slurred. “C’mon, never seen a man wear a locket before?”

“Any picture inside it?” I asked, motivated by a mounting hysteria.

“A picture of Mae West taken when the cops arrested her and closed her show. Bought it at a flea market in Danbury along with a hairpin the dealer swore belonged to Mae herself. Some pisser!” he slurred. Fondling the locket self-consciously, Petrillio wriggled in a vain attempt to assume a dignified posture. One of his frilly-topped fishnets dropped.

Bug-eyed, I watched my courtier metamorphose into Tony Curtis’s drag character in Some Like It Hot. Perhaps in a former incarnation I had stolen Petrillio’s garter belt, kicked a cat or spit into a beggar’s bowl? Buddhists say that debts from a previous life must be repaid. By then I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream for help–fat chance on such a high floor. Dazed, I watched this fan of Victoria’s Secret consume another bottle of his “elixir.” Just as I was figuring how to sneak out without Petrillio noticing, he sidled over, crossed his hairy legs and plumped down beside me. Suddenly sober as a deacon, although his breath smelled of alcohol, he crept up close to my face, examining it minutely.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to do since the first moment I saw you, Darling. May I?”

“Why not?” The wine had plunged me into a lethargic reverie. The scene assumed a fin-de-siecle aura reminiscent of a novel by Gabriel d’Annunzio. Only lacking was the subtle odor of heliotrope or the green fairy, absinthe.

Mesmerized, I watched Petrillio fling open two drawers brimming over with makeup. Other drawers in a delicate lacquered chest were bursting with hairnets, rollers, and hair conditioners.

“Sorry Darling, but your eyebrows are so. . .” he searched for a word. “Yuck! Like they’ve been sprayed with DDT. The hairs scraggly every which way. No arch to speak of, tch tch. Let me fix them, pretty please?”

Before I could say Estee Lauder, Petrillio started plucking away. Expertly, he wielded the tweezers across my brows. Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa could not have been more intent on his task. Foundation, powder, rouge and lipstick were applied with the same agility.

Next Petrillio covered me with a plastic cape and took out a professional scissors. While he snipped away, he supplied highlights of his biography.

“Wanted to be a stylist since I played with grandma’s curling irons back in Bumfuck, Ohio. My parents, especially tight-assed Dad, insisted I study architecture. The bastard died last year. Left me some money, and soon I’ll have enough to quit drudging away. Hell, let those snooty, philistine clients of mine live in a sewer.” Venting his irritation, Petrillio threw a brush across the room.

“I’ll find women to beautify, even if I have to chase them down Broadway. No more men’s suits either. Before the great drag queen in the sky pulls down her shade, it’s gonna be gowns and champagne at The Four Seasons for this tootsy.” While applying pomade to my hair, Petrillio chortled merrily.

“Let me look, please,” I murmured half-expectant, half-fearful. Like moths, Petrillio’s hands flitted around my face and throat.

“Trust me! In you I shall reanimate Rita, Ava, and Marlene. Stars then were glamour pusses. Not like those anorexic twits on screen today. Turn right, chin up, my lovely.”

Petrillio moved my face around to different angles to check if the colors were coordinated and flattering. Was he going to make me look like Mae West?

Finally, after I couldn’t sit still one more second, Petrillio brought over a hand mirror. As he sprayed my hair with jasmine-scented mousse, I examined his handiwork, which had turned a boring shingle cut into a layered fantasy of curls that made me look years younger.

“What d’ya think?” he inquired, fists clenched. The artist wanted to be certain the canvas on which he’d painted his masterpiece had the right proportions. Meanwhile he rubbed heavy dabs of setting gel on his grey hair that now looked shellacked.

“A red streak, gold eye shadow!” For a moment, I hardly recognized myself. Alchemically, Petrillio divined from my soul the audacious way I had always wanted to look but never dared.

This chic, yet funky style eventually caused a renaissance in my social life. I bought form-fitting clothes, ventured into offbeat clubs, bought spiky, black-heeled shoes with ankle straps. As though I were a car, Petrillio gave me a complete overhaul.

At this time, I desperately wanted a lover–not a cross-dresser. If he wasn’t the elusive Mr. Right, at least Petrillio had given me a valuable crash course in cosmetology. I remembered John Lennon’s words: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”