It started so romantically. He was a handsome, nattily attired stranger who said he had seen me from across a crowded room, lost sight of me and searched until he found me again. Even more poetically, we met in Eden.

Lest you think I'm in a fantasy world created by illegal substances, let me assure you this is a true story. The Eden of this tale, however, is not even close to the peaceful jungle that, as I recall, is depicted in a book called the Bible. For one thing, we were both clothed. Snakes and apples were nowhere in sight, and nary a fig leaf could be found. Temptation, however, hung thick in the air between us. And the nightclub Eden is all about that.

It's a place my friends and I visit infrequently because it requires a specific style of dress, and the right frame of mind. Eden is housed in a converted church. Aside from the stained glass windows and beautifully angled ceilings, little remains to suggest its original use. It is still a place of worship, but of the human form, sexuality and pleasure. The walls in the main bar are painted in shades of deep red, some covered with purple velvet. Lighting is low. Downstairs, the seating choices are limited to barstools and beds. On video monitors behind them, the silhouette of an obviously naked woman's body writhes in an endless dance. Entering the women's bathroom at Eden (named best in the Springs by some newspaper or another) is like stepping into a Victoria's Secret catalogue. It is a blur of pink and gold, over which sparkling chandeliers hang. White leather couches and floor-to-ceilng mirrors line the walls.

The employees are almost all women with strong resemblances to Playboy bunnies. The owner, we're told, buys their outfits and by the looks of them, he shot his wad on Eden's decor, leaving him with only enough to buy child-sized shreds of clothing for his waitresses.

Now you see why we don't come here often. For women in their 40s, this place can be wicked in more ways than one. But we had planned for it, and on this night, the three of us were well turned out.

I had reached into the blackest depths of my closet to find the only dress I own that has never been touched by the sun's rays. It's also the only dress I own that has a name. The Second Husband Dress is electric blue, with vertical stripes racing down each side, and a third zipping straight down the front. It is short. It is sleeveless. It is polyester/rayon with 3 percent Spandex.

The Second Husband Dress has never failed to attract men. Unfortunately, it has never yet attracted men of husband quality. Perhaps because it does not make me look much like Carol Brady.

Our goals for the evening were to dance and flirt. We checked out the club's various rooms, having a cocktail in the Syn Lounge and testing the mattresses on a downstairs bed. Well-rested and well-buzzed, we found our way to the dance floor. The three of us merged onto it together, and were quickly paired off with men.

I danced like I had not since college, when dancing was my favorite past-time and one I engaged in two or three times a week.

We took a break, sitting on the broad windowsill of the tall church windows. And then he approached, walking across the dance floor, hands tucked casually into loose-fitting black dress pants. He was wearing a pale pink, open-collared dress shirt. He looked to me like Don Johnson in his Miami Vice days. Casual, confident and cocky.

"I saw you downstairs," he said, moving in close so I could hear him. "When I turned around, you were gone. I've been looking for you ever since."

That was the first of a few dozen perfect lines he threw my way. He waxed poetic about my face and figure, touching a light hand to my waist to illustrate how small it was. He brushed a hand over my stomach, too quickly for me to stop him, and said, "I love this. Do you work out?" Warning sirens sounded somewhere in the back of my head, but the music was loud. I pretended I couldn't hear them. Somewhere along the line he introduced himself, but I don't recall his name. I do remember his profession: car salesman. The sirens wailed. Again, the music squelched them.

He asked if we could move somewhere quieter where we could talk and he could buy me a beer, and escorted me back to the bed level of the bar. We leaned against a footboard to talk. And that is where my rosy glow began to dim.

"Listen," he said. "I'm looking for someone to go on Sunday drives with, maybe go to dinner with sometimes, a movie or something. You know, nothing serious."

He paused, then plunged ahead. "What I really want is a fuck buddy."

The words were so crude and unanticipated, they landed like a mini slap in the face. I backed up a step, prepared to make my exit. But he kept talking, and refused to give me the verbal space to say goodbye.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "But that's not all I want to do. I want a companion. Just not a serious relationship. I want someone beautiful to hang out with."

He looked me dead in the eye. "I want you."

I said nothing. I was disconcerted by his physical closeness, but I was thinking. Maybe this was not such a bad idea. Most of my friends had had so-called fuck buddies at one point or another in their lives, friends or casual acquaintainces who'd agreed to a temporary, purely physical relationship. They talked about it in playful, affectionate, sometimes even wistful tones.

It worked for them. Maybe, I thought, it could work for me, too. And frankly, it had been a long time between relationships. What did I have to lose, besides maybe a smidgen of self respect?

He was watching my face, moving closer to it as he did.

"Kiss me," he said.

It had at this point been about six months since I'd kissed a man. This one was cute, close and wearing pink - a daring deviation from the male fashion norm that for me, ratcheted his attractiveness level into the extreme range.

So yes, I kissed him. And yes, it was good. And not short.

He pulled away slowy, and grinned.

"See?" he said. "This would be fabulous."

I was standing on the edge, ready to swan dive into something new and take the chance that it might later land on my long list of male-related regrettables. Life, at that moment, seemed short. My stars had seemingly aligned. And I was buzzed.

He looked just below my neck, and I prepared myself for another head-spinning compliment.

"Small titties? We'll buy those," he said, smiling lightly.

This is where my friends say I was too polite. Because I did not slap him. Much less inform him that I am a B cup - surely nothing to sneeze at.

Instead, I smiled easily and said, "Didn't you say earlier you had to go to the bathroom?"

"Oh yeah, thanks. Do you know where they are?"

I pointed down a nearby hall, and the instant he turned his back to me, I was gone. This time, he did not come looking for me.

I almost posted this blog entry Saturday, but somehow, the ending seemed, well, flat. Instead, I set it aside and met my friend Joani out for drinks. I got to Old Chicago before she did, sat down at the bar to wait for her, ordered a Laughing Lab and glanced down the bar. A man in a pink shirt sat there, next to a loudly laughing blonde woman. He was looking at me.

Two thoughts flashed through my mind: I was wearing a push-up bra, and he needed more shirts.

I returned his look with a long, cold stare of which I am quite proud. Firstly, long, cold stares aren't my specialty. Secondly, I desperately wanted to laugh.

When Joani arrived, she took a quick study of the blonde woman and happily told me her breasts were smaller than mine. "And that," she said, "is not an insult.

"Plus, she's at least 10 years older than you are."

But I didn't much care. His words had saved me from what would have been an emotionally untenable situation with a man whose maturity level will never match his age.

Meeting him was, however, more good than bad. I got a nice kiss, and a needed reminder that I am desirable. Better yet, I got a helluva story.