George Clooney or George Costanza... who's behind Door #307?

Recently someone asked me if I'd ever had a client so handsome that he made me shake like a little girl.

"Well," I started to retort automatically, "I'm not easily shaken. Stirred, maybe." Then I remembered Tony.

A businessman from Canada, he engaged me for dinner and dessert while he was visiting Miami. But when his hotel door opened in response to my knock, I thought, Shit. I must have gotten the wrong room!

While I was mentally backpedaling, he spoke.

"You must be Tabu," he greeted me, his hand extended. I'm afraid I shook it rather mechanically as I tried to re-gain my composure.

Now, here's the part you have to understand. Nine times out of ten, I meet someone much closer to George Costanza than George Clooney. I almost expect a little paunch, maybe a bald spot... it makes me feel at home.

But the gentleman inviting me so graciously into his room wasn't George or George. He was Brad Pitt at the Oscars. Tall. Tan. Aquamarine eyes. Strong shoulders, a sculpted waist, and a tight ass-- all packed into extremely well-fitting slacks and a dark gray cashmere sweater.

I won't lie. All night I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was just too good to be true. Eventually he had to show his true colors-- he'd be impotent, selfish, grabby, something.

But no. He bought me a delicious meal, entertained me with witty conversation, enquired my opinion, engaged my interest... and when we returned to the room, he wooed me as ardently as a long-lost lover.

The moral of this story? Actually, I see two. The first I hear in my mother's voice: Sweetie, handsome is as handsome does. And the second, I hear in my own: Sometimes there is no other shoe!