I kicked off the New York social season with a torrid sexual liaison. It ended in heartache - mine. Had I been born in a different time and place, I might have thrown myself off the White Cliffs of Dover. Instead, I got over the guy by learning to lap dance.

I met the man, a middle-aged divorc‚, at a book party. Sparks flew. Later, when he played Mozart for me on his piano, I was less impressed by his virtuosity than the broken wooden bench on which he sat. It was held together by duct tape - a poignant symbol of his inner sadness, I romanticized.

Our smoldering assignations lasted a mere three weeks before backfiring. Apparently, they were so hot, they made him realize how much of life he’d missed out on, igniting a new and sudden curiosity in him.

“I want to see who else is out there,” he announced.

My self-esteem and sanity instantly went up in smoke. I spiraled into state of mad obsession, unable to get the man out of my head.

“HELP ME!” I begged a girlfriend over dinner at Lotus. Newly single after a divorce that should have left her limping, she had bounced back without losing a step.

“Take strip lessons,” she advised.

Stripping seemed pretty sleazy to me, but desperate times call for daunting measures. My friend put me in touch with Kimberly Smith, 29, an ex-stripper from Austin, Texas, with a heart-shaped face and real breasts, who gives private lessons ($90 for 75 minutes, www.stripxpertise.com) at Empire Dance Studio on West 25th Street. Nudity is not required - exercise clothes, along with platform heels, are the preferred attire.

“Did you pick your music?” she asked. Earlier on the phone, she had explained that every stripper choreographs a routine to a song that says something about her. So I, of course, chose Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart.”

Smith and I stood side-by-side, facing a mirrored wall where she had placed two chairs that I was supposed to imagine a pair of men sitting, the ones for whom we were pretending to dance. Beginning with “the basics,” as she described them, Smith demonstrated how to walk into a room like Jessica Rabbit: one foot crossing in front of other, pelvis tipped forward, shoulders pressed back, head slightly dropped, hair over one eye, the other eyebrow raised cockily and mouth curled in a smirk.

Next, Smith taught me “The Robert,” a move named after Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video in which leggy models swiveled their hips to the beat. All the while, she instructed that I was to perform “The Lotion,” running my hands over my torso as if spreading cream on my skin.

I felt awkward and embarrassed in front of Smith. Being sexy should come naturally, not require a performance, especially for someone I wasn’t interested in enticing. But I envied her confidence, the way she slid her hands down the length of her legs, bending over and arching her back like a cat, not even bothering to check herself out in the mirror. She knew she looked good and was clearly accustomed to being admired.

“You want to make the guy squirm but remember the number-one rule,” Smith lectured. “He’s not allowed to touch you. You’re the one who’s always in control.”

The more I watched her, the more I realized her dancing had less to do with seduction than with expressing her self-pride. That’s when it clicked for me. I wasn’t learning how to strip for a man. I was learning to strip a man out of my head. The goal was to banish from my brain anyone who dampened my own sense of desirability. My allure was mine, with or without male applause.

“You know you got it, if it makes you feel good,” Joplin’s voice rang out.

By the time I’d advanced to the lap dancing part of the class, I was warmed up and starting to perspire. For the finale, Smith taught me how to peel off my clothes with feline grace. Not only did I master the technique, I found myself proudly slinking stark naked in front of the mirror.

So he wanted to see who else was out there? There was no one better than the babe baring herself in that room.

Elizabeth Hayt is the author of “I’m No Saint: A Nasty Little Memoir of Love and Leaving.” She can be reached at elizabeth.hayt@nypost.com