Yes, I went there. Go ahead and crucify me. But let me explain first.

The idea for this article did not come to me while sipping a 35-euro, perversely-named cocktail at the Plaza Athénée, inspiring me to share the pearls of my gold digging wisdom with the rest of the female population. No, this particular stroke of genius took place at the far more democratic Le Progrès, as a 37-year old TV director in chambray introduced me to “The VICE Guide to Dating Rich Girls”, a piece of high journalistic significance to him. Always on the lookout for a highbrow literary mission, I immediately did an internal Barney Stinson-esque fist pump, accompanied by the ubiquitous “Challenge accepted!”

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I recently did an interview for Lyst in which I was asked to name some items that a man should absolutely never wear on a date. While I would love to perpetuate an image of myself being highly open-minded and refraining from judging men based on appearance, let’s cut the bullshit. Most of us care. A wrinkled shirt suggests sloppiness, a bad watch distracts from a conversation, a pair of lightly flared jeans linger in your memory forever, subconsciously making you refrain from all future dates.

Alas, not all sartorial sins are the same for each woman – one woman’s whiskered denim trash is another woman’s Jersey Shore treasure. I will now share my list of items that makes me squirm, but only under the condition that you will then you share yours. Deal?!

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My French hubby-in-law was recently asked to recommend a romantic scenario for celebrating Valentine’s Day in Paris. Manicorn that he is, he immediately whipped up the following recipe.

1. Book a table at the private Rose Salon at Cristal Room Baccarat.

2. Take her on a champagne-fueled tour of the art gallery before dinner.

3. Dance “Por una Cabeza” in the reception room, which apparently looks like Versailles.

4. Prepare to be f*cked like a cheesecake.

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I love me a Latin anything – Mexican food, Peruvian corn, Pisco Sours, Flamenco, you name it. Never having stepped foot in South America (yet – I’m saving myself), I have successfully outsourced the culture via a number of crazy Latino friends, as well as the other national treasure that this part of the world to offer – los hombres.

Latin men have led to some of the more exciting adventures of my young life. There was the Argentinian singer I met next to the Beatrice Inn one night, who played me ballads on his guitar while whispering sweet nothings in my ear. There was the Brazilian boy who flew all the way to Paris to visit me after knowing me for merely a few days. Lastly, there was the suave Peruvian we appropriately nicknamed Juan Pablo, who, in his brief moment of courtship, treated me better than any other guy ever did.

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