Love coach, and former Pima Community College rake, Roy Flores, can show you how to improve your success rate with the ladies in the workplace.


Lonely? Looking for love? I’m Roy Flores, former Pima Community College Chancellor here to put you on the path to romance. Sit back while I dim the lights, put on some romantic music and pour you a martini in the marvelous “I ‘heart’ P.C.C.” mug given to me at my impromptu retirement bash.

Are you ready to learn the ways of women? The road to romance begins with selecting the ideal temptress and that means avoiding whistle blower types. You don’t want her carping about you like Adele at the Grammys.

Look no further than the workplace. When I was there Pima had as many saucy female employees as we had remedial English classes. When you find the right bird it’ll will feel as right as finding an empty parking space at the downtown campus on a Monday morning.

Deliver a mysterious unsigned note to the vixen you’ve been eyeing. Sprinkle your cologne on it. My favorite aphrodisiac is Hai Karate, the lime scented aftershave for budget-minded administrators. In one note I wrote, “Your eyes are the color of the beets served at the campus cafeteria.” On your way to a sexual harassment workshop drop it on her desk where she can find it. Pass a follow up note to her at the next board meeting. Watch her expression when the lucky colleen realizes you are her admirer! A colleague in heels threatening to end your career can be so titillating. Pretend you are listening, but be relentless, like the great inamorato Pepe Le Pew, whose gifts were immortalized by the brothers Warner. We men can learn a lot from a resolute skunk.

The next day send an e-mail using code language such as: "Let’s meet to discuss your future. Hubba-hubba." End your cyber foreplay with my favorite clincher: "Woof."

That night, while bathing, call your sylph at home to "talk shop". Tell her your rubber duck values her contributions while you tantalize her imagination with your playful splashing. Leave her wanting more. Close with the intriguing, "I dropped my soap."

By now she needs you like a river needs the rain. The next day my object of desire spoke to me. "Oh my God. You’re sick." Just hearing her speak made me want to grab my maracas and tango until Spring recess.

I called her into my office. I turned off the lights and turned on my red lava lamp. The glowing zaftig globs separated, bobbed and oozed. Flossing, I said,” It’s sensuous. Like you.”

Fade in the the music of love on your compact disc player. I suggest the hypnotic Luis Miguel, the Michael Buble of Mexico. If you’re out of Luis Miguel, go with Barry White, the black Luis Miguel.

Make sure the right track is cued. I had a dove cornered years ago. I turned on the music of love, forgetting I had “The Music Man” cued with the volume set at sonic boom. Seventy-six trombones blew me cartwheeling off my balcony across a courtyard of lunching students onto a stand of yuccas.

On this night, as Miguel crooned, I poured her martini into a sluice bucket, arched my sexy eyebrow and recited poetry sufficiently piercing to harpoon Moby Dick’s heart. I started with the magnificent Rod McKuen and then bowled some Pablo Neruda across her pins. Like Tony Curtis when he seduced Marilyn Monroe on that yacht in the moonlight I had mesmerized the vamp.

I don’t know where the words came from but I said,”you complete me.” Where do I come up with this stuff? Pure poetry from the heart.

I offered her an honorary degree. The mink cursed me in Spanish, which, as you know, is a romance language. Just then I sat on the disc player remote and John Phillip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes forever” blasted my baguette out the window.

“Education is not all that I’m passionate about. I’m crazy about you-- whatever your name is. Crazy, I tell you.”

I took her by the hand.

“Coquette, your palms are sweating like a Costco rotisserie chicken. Speaking of palms did you know I have the entire college board in the palm of my hand?”

I understood why she had to leave. She was overwhelmed by her own passions. I was too amazing. It happens. I threw her a kiss and whispered the eternal truth,”Guilty feet have got no rhythm.”

I hope you’ve learned something about the art of romance from this story. Some say seduction is an art. Others have called me the Thomas Kinkade of seduction. I don’t know if that’s true but I do know that love conquers all if you have a reliable disc player.

We must end our lesson here. It’s time for me to alphabetize my Luis Miguel CD collection. Finish your martini. Please, keep the mug. Until we meet again, mi amor.