It was so clear: A man-eater can learn to enjoy the slow pace of fishing.

This past Friday, while "Mr. Guatemala" tried showing me the ropes, I was smacking my lips, and licking my out-of-touch fingers, letting him slip away without a bite. But, despite a few near misses, he left a small nibble into my voice mail the next day: "I really enjoyed last night."

So did I. But I almost blew it. Here's what happened.

Around 5 p.m. I asked Mr. Guatemala to meet me at Ninja, a Manhattan restaurant-turned Japanese warrior village, where waiters dressed in character serve deliciously pricey Japanese-inspired food, dishing out more "Ha-yah!'s" than Chuck Norris. Ninja gave us our own closed-off portal: a room to take off our shoes, and pillowed seats embedded in the ground to lounge on. Waiters had to sit to take our order.

As we skimmed the Saki drink and dinner menus, I felt awful that the numbers at the top weren't calorie-loads but prices. A crab ball: $20! Nervously, I said over and over, "let's just get an appetizer, water... thank goodness I don't drink anyway," until I made the pitiful suggestion, "ok, I'll pay for half of it," knowing darn well I couldn't even afford the salt and pepper. My date looked relieved and confused, like shopping for a woman who walks into a Prada store but thankfully picks the $10 earrings on clearance. So we ate a full meal, with green tea instead of Saki.

Now at one point, I leaned on his shoulder and noticed his muscle-molten arms, soft skin and hands designed by the gods. And already, I was envisioning those fingers tip-toeing past the vine of my neck and pressing me against a wall, waiting to see his ninja sword. But when he went to touch my hand, I pulled away in an out-of-character, shy frenzy.

But the dizzying round trip through my fantasies really sobered up when the check came. He paid 60 percent. I left with my pride strong and my finances crippled. Still the night was light and tasty.

After Ninja, and on the way to his slick black car, my date stopped me in the middle of the street to teach me how to Salsa dance. "I love dance!" a kid walking by yelled. "I hate dance!" his friend rebutted. My date and I cracked up and seized the moment, twirling and stepping to an imaginary Latin band. I giggled, having nearly forgotten how good the grip of a man's hand at the basin of my back feels. But every time the Latin lover held me there, again, I jumped like a bug expert afraid of spiders.

Soon, I suggested we go to a black comedy night up the road. There we met a strapping comedian and his music-producing buddy at the bar. Within seconds, we were debating the "problem with women," according to Ben, the comedian.

"Dating is all about money," he said. "Women want a man who will take care of them." My date nodded in complete agreement. "So why did I pay for part of dinner?" I fumed inside, not noticing how lucky I was-- bantering with the cutest guys in the bar, one of whom was my date.

So oh-so-sexily, I went on the feminist defense: "Women still earn 80 cents for every dollar a man makes. Until that changes, men should pay!"

"Nooo, that's why we make more," Ben said. "We gotta pay for all your drinks and things."

"Take it from a woman who understands real love. I've been celibate for weeks," I told Ben. "Have you ever been celibate?!"

Ben rolled his neck and fluttered his eyes. "I've been celibate for the past two hours," he said. "Shoot, I'm celibate right now!"

And just like that, I was back to the real (dating) world of men. I must say, I hadn't missed its blunt reliance on penis logic. So for the rest of the night I kept pushing my date to speak on behalf of men, and explain their inclination to treat sex as separate from their emotional health. And for some reason, I admitted to conservative bedroom values. Total lie. But instead of going the Samantha route--inviting all three guys home with me--I pulled out the prudent damsel character every girl remits to when she's afraid she may just eat a man alive.

In the car ride home, I mentally juggled a list of dating dos and don'ts. Let my date come in to use the bathroom? Definite don't. But when he asked, I couldn't refuse, so I told him I'm too old to fall for that one, (but, God, did I want to fall.) And to prove it, when my date came out, I quickly shuttled him out of my apartment. Doh!

But an hour passed and he hadn't left. We were outside holding each other and laughing about the night. Even better, his moon-lit eyes quivered, begging for my lips. Obnoxiously shy, I pushed my nose into his neck and squeezed his shoulders. My desire was so rusty and static, I felt a shock every time I tried submitting.

So I begged him to go home.

A gentleman, he got in his car and watched me walk to my door, leaving my heart racing with the painful thrill of the "To be continued..."