The true story of one woman's quest for love, lust, and adventure.(Maggie Kim, narrative)

* The story so far: Maggie ditched second-time-around beau Chris and had a surprisingly lame smooch session with a hottie rock star. She was left wondering when she'll finally find a guy who's worth dating for real.

tuesday

Am about to begin a dating marathon. Apparently, relationship woes have not gone unnoticed among friends. Adrienne insists she has the most eligible bachelor in NYC primed and ready to meet me. Jim is a venture capitalist (i.e., $$$) who's young (32), good-looking (tall, blond, blue eyes), not a player. Am a little suspicious that Adrienne, who's always on the lookout for a rich, handsome sugar daddy, has not claimed him for herself. Decide I'm being petty and mean and agree to a low-pressure group night out so Jim and I can be introduced.

Meanwhile, my band's guitarist Mark wants to set me up with a lawyer friend of his. Says Phillip is a really nice, fun guy (translation: short and polite). But I tell Mark that Phillip can call me. Hey, beggars can't he choosers.

thursday

Met Jim tonight. (As well as Sebastien--more on that later!) Went out to dinner with Adrienne, three of her girlfriends, Jim, three of his guy friends, and my best gay friend, Hoyt. Kind of uncomfortable since the reason for the dinner was obviously so Jim and I could hook up. Jim is actually all the things that Adrienne said. Successful, attractive, intelligent, nice. Talked about music since he was a concert violinist throughout college (Ivy League, natch) and I had studied classical cello (waaay before rock). She lied about him being tall, though; he only clears me by two inches. But after two kir royales, did not really mind.

Apres-dinner, we headed out to a club where Jim had reserved a table. Got there in his private car with chauffeur a la Big on SATC. Now that's something a girl could get used to! Our table was in the VIP section of the club, already laid out w/champagne, fresh fruit, chocolates, vodka. A girl could get used to that too. After champagne and strawberries, we got up to dance. . . and the evening turned ugly. Jim was an abominably bad dancer. Elaine-from-Seinfeld bad. We're talking three left feet here. Hoyt made things worse by pointing out that how someone dances = how they are in bed. The thought of Jim's Saturday-night-seizure moves made me nauseous. Grabbed Hoyt and headed for the downstairs dance floor, where we'd spotted some cuties earlier.