On the afternoon of my departure I sort through my luggage at least fourteen times before finally zipping my suitcase shut. I’ve got almost every item of summer clothing that I own crammed in there, not to mention every pair of ugly panties in existence. Well, besides the pair that I’m wearing right now, which was apparently designed for someone with an ass the size of Mount Kilimanjaro. Speaking of which, have I mentioned that I loathe the word “panties?” Like, with the searing hot passion of ten thousand jalapeños covered in scorpions. I can’t think of a word in the English language that’s more repugnant. I’d sooner call the damn things snatch covers or bearded clam containment systems. Even pussy wrappers would be an improvement.

Note to self: buy new pussy wrappers in Paris. And not the stupid giant cotton sort with dainty flowers printed on them. Buy something that cries out for a Brazilian wax and a daily regimen of cellulite-reducing squats.

The red-eye is supposed to depart from JFK at 10:40 p.m., so like the anal freakazoid that I am, I take a cab and arrive at the terminal by 7:00. After lugging my almost-fifty-pound lime green suitcase (which I lovingly call the green monster) to the check-in counter and waving good-bye as it slips away on the conveyor belt, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and make my way through the long security line. The good news is that aside from a leery glance from one of the guards who seems to wonder about my taste in socks when he makes me remove my knee-high boots, it’s largely uneventful.

Over the years I’ve become a pro at flying. Roger’s family lived out west, and we used to do the airport shuffle all the time. I’ve learned to extract my laptop from my bag in advance, to pack all my liquids in ziploc bags and to be prepared to have a very unattractive, very hairy agent ask if I’d rather he grope my crotch in a super rapey way, or just put me into “the machine.” That’s what I call the the giant see-through tube which I’m convinced is just a means for a bunch of men to get their rocks off checking out women’s nipples through their shirts.

Thankfully, today I don’t get offered a pat-down or a boob-ogle, and things go swimmingly. Maybe the machine can sense that I’m wearing big ugly underpants and has rejected me on the basis that it doesn’t want to puke.

Once I’m through security and have slipped my boots back on, a feeling of profound relief sets in. The annoying bit is over. I am officially on my way to Paris, which means I’m officially free as a bird.

I stride confidently towards the first shop I see, one that sells travel pillows and glossy magazines coated in airbrushed celebrity faces. After purchasing the requisite bag of peanut M&Ms and the latest edition of People, I start my hunt for an appealing bar. But before I’ve taken three steps, my phone lets out a series of quacks, which can mean only one thing.

Jen’s sent me a text.

Quack, quack, quack. Make that two texts. I grab the cell and stare at the screen.

One: Are you there yet?

Two: p.s. Look up verynaughtywildlife.com when you have a chance. It’s hilarious.

She’s piqued my interest, I’ll admit. But instead of standing in the middle of the airport and opening my web browser, I grab my bag and head to the pub across the way, whose name is Jimmy O’Beerstein’s or Pukey McIrish, or something equivalently drunken sounding. I don’t care about the name; all I know is that I want enough booze in me so that I stop feeling feelings, at least for the next several hours.

I grab a seat at the far end of the bar and paste the URL that Jen sent me into my phone’s browser. Almost immediately I gasp and cup my hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter. It would seem that she’s sent me to a site that sells sex toys and men’s underwear shaped like…wild animals. I’ve just paused on a dildo that resembles a very smug giraffe, complete with vibrating head. When the bartender saunters over, I quickly hit the button to darken the phone’s screen and smile up at him, trying my damnedest not to look like the sort of person who would cram a long-necked mammal into my special lady place.

“Can I get you something?” he asks. His eyes are everywhere but on me, like he’s making sure that evil airport thieves aren’t shoving his beer glasses down their pants. It’s just as well; I’ve pretty much resolved not to make eye contact with anyone male for the rest of my days.

“A gin and tonic,” I say. “Lots of gin.”

He flashes a dismissive smile that tells me the only way I’m getting extra gin is if I give him a blowjob, then disappears. I take advantage of the moment of silence to peruse the TV screens hanging above the bar area. There are four of them in front of me, all of which are showing the sorts of sports that men seem to enjoy, for God only knows what reason. I guess this place isn’t exactly a haven for the fairer sex. Every screen in front of me is showing males playing with balls. I’m just going to put it out there: sports that involve the words “balls” and “dribbling” should be a lot more exciting than they are.

My eye is mercifully drawn away from the screens and over to a man pulling up a stool at the far end of the bar. He’s currently muttering something under his breath, like some invisible irritant is bugging the hell out of him. But that’s not what’s captured my interest. Not even close. Yes, fine, I’d promised not to stare at men, but I can’t help it. Not this time.

He’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, and Independent Adriana wants to do unspeakable things to his body.

Chiseled jaw, dusted with just the right amount of stubble. Sexy, dark eyebrows. Thick, brown, close-cropped hair that’s a little longer on top than at the sides. He has the look of an athlete about him, and all of a sudden like clouds have parted inside my brain, I understand the appeal of sports. Then again, he could be a rich businessman, given that he’s dressed to the nines. No, make that the elevens. His dark suit has a bit of a metallic sheen, like raw silk. It's cut to enhance his shape, which as far as I can tell is pretty damned beautiful. Judging by the way his clothes hug his muscles they’re in love with his body. And who the hell can blame them? If I got to press myself against that taut flesh I’d never let go either.

His clothing is the sort that you’d expect to see on a billionaire in one of those romance books where a young, virginal thing gets seduced by a slightly older man with smouldering eyes, a spanking paddle and money to burn.

And his face? Let’s just say if David Beckham managed to splice with a young Harrison Ford and then scientists genetically enhanced him by turning the Perfection Button to eleven, well, they’d end up with this guy.

He’s got my loins in a serious tizzy, and I’m enjoying the sensation far too much. Independent Adriana is getting annoyed with my lack of restraint.

Stop looking at him. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this.

Thing is, I can’t stop. Because I may never get to behold such a sexy god-man again. So like an idiot I keep staring.

I’m only going to do it for a minute.

I can quit anytime, I swear.

Fuck it, I don’t care what anyone says. I’m going to keep looking.

Going to stop…right…now.

Or not. He’s just picked up his phone, which gives me a perfect opportunity for more open-mouthed gawking.

A broad chest is tugging at the buttons on his shirt, trying like hell to pop them off as he shifts his weight around on the barstool. My eyes are greeted by a hard, flat stomach, no doubt creased by defined six-pack muscles that would feel pretty damn good under my fingertips. Or my tongue. Let me lick your six pack, young Harrison Ford. His pants are fitted to the point where even from a distance, I can see an impressive bulge between his legs. Let me lick your pant-bulge, David Beckham’s younger brother. And that face. Damn. I sort of want to lick that, too. Maybe I’m morphing into some sort of freakish beagle-poodle cross.

My ugly panties are threatening to melt into nothingness. Or maybe they'll just run away screaming for fear that he’ll somehow catch a glimpse of their decrepitude over the waistband of my jeans. Either way, I want them to disappear. This man is definitely worthy of a woman who’s gone full-on commando.

MUST.

STOP.

LOOKING.

No man who makes my underwear want to erode to nothingness can actually be healthy. Every sensible woman knows that a man who makes a woman’s panties wet just by stepping into the room is one of two things:

A) a player who chews women up and spits them out, or

B) a sparkly vampire.

I haven’t seen his canines, but I seriously doubt if he sucks blood. He’s too tanned.

But he does have Player written all over him. With a capital P.

Not to mention that something in his expression exudes superiority and grumpiness. There’s an “I hate everyone, and you can bite me if you think you’re worthy of my time” attitude in his scowl that turns me off. Yep, Mr. Sexy may look good, but he probably tastes like bitter apple.

I finally avert my eyes, satisfied that I’ve just proven I can resist any man, no matter how hot. Independent Adriana has won her first meagre battle. I mean, don’t get me wrong; the newly minted virgin in me totally wants Mr. Sexy to strip me naked, bend me over the bar and shove his (probably) twelve-inch dick inside me before we’ve even introduced ourselves. I want him to take my renewed purity away in a flurry of scream-inducing thrusts. But I definitely don’t want to talk to him.

I give myself a mental pat on the back and smile. Good job, Adriana. Way to reject a man who’s way out of your league and doesn’t even know you exist. That shows real fortitude.

Turning my eyes back to the televised lime-green ass of some golfer bending down to get his ball out of a hole, I let out a sigh of satisfaction.