Chances are you never gaze deeply into the eyes of strangers unless you're trying to get laid. Not so Michael Ellsberg, who organized and promoted the "eye-gazing" singles party I attended recently, where you silently stare into the eyes of ten different strangers for three minutes each.

"Having that connection makes life so much richer," he told me over continental food at an East Village café. A twenty-eight-year old corporate sales manager and salsa dance instructor, Ellsberg has widely spaced, very large blue eyes. He grew up in Berkeley, California, and his use of the C-word— "connection" — betrays his left-coast leanings. Ellsworth went to an elite college and boarding school in the Northeast; most of his party guests work in finance. He says his inspiration for the parties is salsa dancing, where eye contact is an essential part of the heat.

I was invited to Ellsberg's second party through a friend who writes about spirituality. He had sent a fan letter and party invitation to her website. My friend was convinced that he only invited her to drum up press, and she was right about his media lust. His first party in December was covered by the New York Times and CBS News. Five minutes after I arrived at the second party, a CNN crew shoved a camera in my face and asked what I was hoping to find that night.

"I hope I don't go cross-eyed," I said. But, in fact, I was genuinely intrigued by the concept. The news reports half-dismissed eye-gazing parties as the newest thing those crazy single kids in New York were doing, but they also acknowledged that the eyes are the window to all those clichés about love. With a few men, I've felt instant attraction that became durable chemistry. Maybe it was intuition or pheromones, or maybe it was something in their eyes. Like many people, I believe there's an element of attraction that defies the logic of dating-service checklists, and the eye-gazing party seemed like it might serve as a shortcut to that something.

Aside from the two television crews, it seemed like any other party in a swanky bar. People stood around with drinks, and their eyes were doing what they usually do at parties: darting around the room, scoping for hotties. I chatted with a couple of strangers and two friends of a friend before the official eye-gazing started. Then we took our positions at candlelit tables, ladies on one side and men on the other. Michael spent a few minutes coaching us on eye-gazing technique (don't look at both eyes at once or you'll go cross-eyed) and philosophy (research shows that people who are comfortable with eye contact are more successful in business). Then we did ten- and twenty-second practice gazes before launching into three full minutes of wordless eye contact.

My first gazing partner was one of the friends I'd chatted with at the beginning of the party, which lessened some of the weirdness. I tried to make myself as open to the experience as possible, remembering things I'd learned in yoga classes about softening the breath and drawing attention inward. I felt comfortable, then worried I was getting too comfortable. What if I'm acting like someone who stares at women on the street, I fretted. My friend seemed unfazed. The corners of his eyes crinkled up in a smile.

After the three minutes were over, each man moved one seat to the left. My next gazing partner had olive skin, almond eyes and dark hair — the type that I drool over again and again. He seemed as present and open as I did, his gaze melting into mine. I experienced the magic of a pure and instant connection, and I was sure that he did too. I immediately started planning our first date.

My next partner blinked constantly. I was convinced he was nervous or shy, but he later told me that he had something stuck in his eye. He was followed by a young man with a goatee and piercings who seemed to survey rather than engage with me, his gaze distant and impassive.