I was three years into my career on Wall Street before the acronym F.B.T. had any relevance for me. It stands for Fake Business Trip, and there were two reasons why it didn’t really register: One, I didn’t have a wife or family; two, I wasn’t at a level that required traveling to see clients. I think if I’d suggested to my boss that I needed to go on a business trip, she would have asked me who would be picking up lunch every day before she said “no.”

I was working at Morgan Stanley when I learned this part of the Wall Street rope. It went down like this: I was sitting in Citi (as in Par-tay), our favorite Happy Hour spot, when a senior broker handed me a beer. “I’m taking an F.B.T.,” he said after a sip of his vodka rocks. “Between my clients and my family, I think I’m going nuts.” I’d met his wife and two young kids and thought they were very nice, but I also knew he had a very hectic schedule. He looked at me quizzically. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” he said. I shook my head no. He took another sip of his vodka, then said: “Let me break it down for you.”

Here are the keys to a successful F.B.T:

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You met him in the Hamptons this summer on a Saturday night. Well, it was really a Sunday morning because it was 3 a.m., but whatever. He’s great. Super fun, smart and seems to be very driven. You were giddy when he emailed you on that Tuesday. He said it was great to meet you and asked you how your ride home from the Hamptons was. How cute! And you just knew he was your type when you saw the lacrosse photos of him and his buddies at the alumni game. It was sitting on his desk the first night you slept over. He looks exactly like someone you would, or did, date in college.

You know he has an important job, you can just tell. It’s a tricky balance: getting the attention you deserve and not being too needy. He trades stocks or something like that, you’re not quite sure. All you know is…he works on Wall Street and lives on Franklin Street…I mean, really! Can you beat that? All you can do is think about him. “I wonder what he’s doing right now?” you say to yourself dreamily. “If only I had a drone with a camera. Then I could follow his every move.”

Abracadabra baby, here’s what you’d see:

7:32 a.m. Interior. Morgan Stanley. He’s suited up and ready for the day. He’s in a wide open trading floor with rows and rows of desks. “God, he looks sexy,” you think. “His shirt brings out the electric blue in his eyes, look how cute his ass looks in those almost-tight Armani suit pants. I’d like to be sitting on his lap right now.”Computer screens stacked one on top of another rise to midair. The seats around him are occupied by young and old, mostly young. Guys and Girls. He holds a plastic coffee cup in his right hand and logs into his computer with his left. Some analyst named Phil is talking to him through his squawk box, a.k.a. “the hoot,” as he listens to his morning meeting. He swigs the last bit of coffee out of a paper cup with the Parthenon on it.

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