The true seducer

[DaYwAlKeR]

The true seducer

Some time ago I had the belief, that only through sincerity in its purest form one can seduce, without betraying himself and his ideals.
Then a post by Zan really confused me. He said, that he likes to disqualify himself, telling girls “that he likes her, but has no interest in sleeping with her”. I understood the concept and it was clear to me, but it messed up my understanding of my own seduction.

What is it, what makes the seducer a true seducer?

The true seducer finds happiness in himself. He doesn’t find so much enjoyment in the happiness of others, because after all he can find consolation in himself alone.

The only motif of a true seducer can be passion, because he sees seductions as an art, where in he can express himself. That’s why the final act of sex, the attention of society and the jealousy of his friends has no mean to him at all. He does it for himself, he does it for the sake of his masterpiece, the seduction.

Many successful artists do their arts because they love the act of being an artist, the act of creating something wonderful. Many artists didn’t become popular and well known until they died, the whole life they often never earned a cent by the profession of an artist.

Because a beautiful seduction is always linked with the pleasure of its obeject, the girl, a true seducer never hurts his girls. He merely tries to bring out the perfection and the beauty in its oeuvre. When he hurts, when he lies, when he ignores, etc. then only because he knows that in the following step this will increase the lust, the passion, the attraction, that it will give the picture the beauty, that otherwise would not be possible. Thats why he can never really hurt his girls, it would destroy his own masterpiece and it would break his heart.

The true seducer is always a giver. He gives to himself, namely the observation of the true beauty of his creation, and of course he gives to his girl, a feeling of pleasure, she has never felt before.

Because fools only want to take things, they will just achieve superficial satisfaction. They don’t give anything to themselves and they don’t have to offer anything to their girls. It’s all about their flat drives such as sex, attention of others, feeling of possession, etc.

True seducers always try to find a way to make their pieces unique. Girls, giving them away too fast and too easily would make his picture grey, ordinary and average. He seeks after the diamonds under the rough stones.
In the book “The fountainhead” by Ayn Rand I found a passage, that really left me awestruck by its beautiful description of the seduction.


The two protagonists are a stunning beautiful woman (Dominique), who has never found any satisfaction in men(she is still a virgin), because she was always the object of desire and men could give her nothing than astonishment for her beauty. The other one is an architect, who designs his buildings after his leitmotif “He creates them as he wants them to create, in the notion of beauty and in the notion of its use and form. He can only work, if he love his work”. Because people don’t understand him, he gets no contracts and is forced to work in a granite querry. The father of Dominique owns the granite querry and thats how they meet the first time. He is the first man in her life, that looks through her wall of beauty, he feels what she is feeling, he knows what she is thinking and he sees the frustration, that society has made her feel and makes her vurlnerable for his seduction.
“She looked down. Her eyes stopped on the orange hair of a man who raised his head and looked at her.

She stood very still, because her first perception was not of a sight, but of touch: the consciousness, not of a visual pressence, but of a slap in the face. She held one hand awkwardly away from her body, the fingers spread wide on the air, as against a wall. She knew that she could not move until he permitted her to.

...she felt a convulsion of anger, of protest, of resistence – and of pleasure. He stood looking up at her; it was not a glance, but an act of ownership. She thought she must let her face give him the answer he deserved. But she was looking, instead, at the stone dust on his burned arms, the wet shirt clinging on his ribs, the lines of his long legs. She was thinking of those statues of men she had always sought; she was wondering what he would look like naked. She saw him looking at her as if he knew that. She thought she had found an aim in life – a sudden, sweeping hatred for that man.

She was first to move. She turned and walked away from him. She saw the superintendent of the quarry on the path ahead, and she waved. The superintendent rushed forward to meet her. “Why, Miss Francon!” he cried. “Why, how do you do, Miss Francon!”

She hoped the words were heard by the man below. For the first time in her life, she was glad of being Miss Francon, glad of her fathers’s possessions, which she hald always despised. After a short talk, she went back. When she was on the rocks above him, he raised his head and looked at her. She had not caught him noticing her approach; he looked up as he expected her to be there, as if he knew she would be back. She saw the hint of a smile, more insulting than words. He sustained the insolence of looking straight at her, he would not move, he would not grant the concession of turning away – of acknowledging that he had no right to look at her in such manner. He had not merely taken the right, he was saying silently that she had given it to him. She turned sharply and walked on, down the rocky slope, away from the quarry.

She went to the quarry three days later. She stopped over the ledge where he worked and she stood watching him openly. When he raised his head, she did not turn away. Her glance told him she knew the meaning of her action, but did not respect enough to conceil it. His glance told her only that he had expected her to come. He bent over his drill and went on with his worl. She waited. She wanted him to look up. She knew that he knew it. He would not look again.

She stood, watching his hands, waiting for the moments when he touched stone. She forgot the drill and the dynamite. She liked to think of the granite being broken by his hands.

She heard the superintendent calling her name, hurrying to her up the path. She turned to him when he approached.
“I like to watch the men working”, she explained.
“Yes, quite a picture, isn’t it?” the superintendend agreed. “There’s the train starting over there with another load.”
She was not watching the train. She saw the man below looking at her, she saw the insolent hint of amusement tell her that he knew she did not want him to look at her now. She turned her head away. The superintendent’s eyes traveld over the pit and stopped on the man below.
“Hey you down there! Are you paid to work or to gape”, he shouted.
The man bent silently over his drill. Dominique laughed aloud.
She came back many days later. She saw him, unexpectedly, on a flat stretch of stone before her, by the side of the path. She stopped short. She did not want to come too close. It was strange to see him before her, without the defense and excuse of distance.

He stood looking straight at her. Their understanding was too offensively intimitate, beacuse they had never said a word to each other. She destroyed it by speaking to him.
“Why do you always stare at me?” she asked sharply.
She thought with relief that words were the best means of estrangement. She had denied everything they both knew by nameing it. For a moment, he stood silently, looking at her. She felt terror at the thought that he would not answer, that he would let his silence tell her to clear why no answer was necessary. But he answered. He said:
“For the same reason you’ve been staring at me.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“If you didn’t, you’d be much more astonished and much less angry, Miss Francon.”
“So you know my name?”
“You have been advertising it loudly enough.”
“You’d better not be insolent. I can have you fired at a moment’s notice, you know.”
He turned his head, looking for someone among the men below. He asked “Shall I call the superintendent?”
She smiled contemptously.
“No, of course not. It would be too simple. But since you know who I am, it would be better if you stopped looking at me when I come here, It might be misunderstood.”
“I don’t think so.”
She turned away. She had to control her voice. She lookd over the stone ledges. She asked “Do you find it very hard to work her?”
“Yes, terribly.”
“Do you get tired?”
“Inhumanly”
“How does that feel?”
“I can hardly walk when the day’s ended. I can’t move my arms at night. When I lie in bed, I can count every muscle in my body to the number of seperate, different pains.”
She knew suddenly that he was not telling her about himself; he was speaking of her, he was saying the things she wanted to hear and telling her that he knew why she wanted to hear these particular sentences.
She felt anger, a satisfying anger because it was cold and certain. She felt also a desire to let her skin touch his, to let the length of her bare arm press against the length of his; just that; the desire went no further.
She was asking calmly “You don’t belong here, do you? You don’t talk like a worker. What were you before?”
“An electrician. A plumber. A plasterer. Many things.”
“Why are you working here?”
“For the money you’re paying me, Miss Francon.”
She shrugged. She turned and walked away from him up the path. She knew that he was looking after her. She did not glance back. She continued on her way through the quarry, and she left it as soon a she could, but she did not go back down the path where she would have to see him again.”