Good looks, charm, etc, all count for something when it comes to seduction, but attitude, above all I think, is what seals the deal.
I should make it clear that I’m not talking about romantic love, though I’m sure attitude is a decent factor in that. And I’m speaking as a male seeking to impress females. It’s my attitude I’m talking about, not hers. Sure, attitude counts for blokes too, but not nearly as much as it does for women. Without wanting to get crude about it men are pretty easy, and, when it comes to sex, a good set of tits will trump attitude most days of the week.
So I am talking about sex, and sexual attraction. There’s not much poetry in this, but plenty of raw compulsion.
I’m prompted into thinking this and writing about it after my date on Tuesday night. I ventured into a cold CBD after dark where I encountered the strange mix of breeds that come out at night: buskers only a mother could appreciate; odd men mumbling about their penis; Asian students moving en masse; and fat girls in short skirts with garish tattoos and sporting big goosebumps. Into this melting pot I strode to catch up with an alluring woman.
She was alluring, and perhaps that very fact belies my statement about attitude being less important for men. Sure, when push comes to shove the attitude is mainly irrelevant, but walking through the chilly streets of the city I felt a state of arousal almost entirely based on her sassy conversation. She was happy to give as good as she got; to use, and be used.
It was like that as we sat across from her at Von Haus, having discovered that the Berlin Bar was inexplicably closed (they claim not to open Tuesdays in Winter, but this is Autumn still). She was already on her second glass of Riesling while I was still on my first glass on Sangiovese. She peered at me with warm, playful eyes, and impish, expectant grin on her face. She was smart, and knew it. She could talk too, and the conversation flowed.
I was in attitude. I’ve been in attitude for weeks now. It’s not something I need work at, it just happens. I sat there feeling the master of my destiny, speaking when I needed to, looking at her directly, my words as direct as my gaze or otherwise curling languidly from my lips like smoke caught in the light.
I looked at her thinking that once upon a time she must have been something. She still retained something, and most of it was in her eyes and how she held her body. It invited provocative conversation, which is what I had to offer. We spoke of a lot of things, from Melbourne bars to Mad Men. There was the usual autobiographical stuff, but beneath it all there was an undercurrent.
I had gone there thinking there was some chance of ending up in her bed, and I had no qualms in showing it. She liked that. Most do, even when they don’t. It was simple to. She was happy to sit there contemplating the possibility and sliding it into our conversation. I was happy to look across at her wondering how it would be when I slipped her knickers off.
It didn’t end like that, not this time. She laughed at the prospect, pleased to be desired and intending to let it happen. It was fun, she said, trailing a hand after me. I looked at her once more with that thought in mind, and we parted.
Sometimes it just so simple; the rest of the time, just impossible.