[Icarus]

Here's another exceptional comment by Black Flag:

Quote:

I wonder that a man as experienced as Mayer could miss the mark so widely. Does he really think a good fucking and an *omelet* is the key to ruining a woman for all other men? Alas, take away the omelet and it seems this fallacy persists in the “seduction community” as well, which is a crime against pleasure and a terrible tragedy. Pick-up game plays on a woman’s most primitive animal instincts. And if your all about “closing,” and putting points on the board, it’s an excellent strategy. But if you aspire to wizardry, to spell-casting and enchantment, you should understand that spells are not cast in a day or a week, and appealing to her hindbrain is only the beginning. A spell is cast on the mind; it grows in the imagination. An enchantment is a complex manipulation that requires wit, subtlety, perception, and most of all, patience. The biggest mistake a man can make is rushing his fences.

And unlike in pick-up, a woman can be perfectly aware you’re weaving a spell, fully cognizant she’s being manipulated, and relish the entire experience with intense pleasure. In this day and age, who gets the chance to taste magic? Who holds the power to weave a spell on a woman that will never really leave her, to make an affair the experience of a lifetime, rather than one more drearily predictable round of desire, followed by paltry satisfaction (as quickly as the man can possibly manage it, rush, rush), followed by a jaded sort of boredom, etc. Surely everyone has noticed that anticipation can be as much a part of pleasure as satisfaction–when you’re confident you will get what you want. (I imagine if you are crippled by insecurity this is not the case, but practiced seducers should be past this). The longer you draw it out, the slower you remove her veils, the more powerful the ultimate spell, the more shattering the ultimate pleasure.

In my case the affair wasn’t consummated for many, many months: I was very young indeed and still innocent. It was surreal, like something out of the movies, or a kind of waking dream. Most of the seduction was accomplished by letter (we were shut up in different schools), and because of the distance (familiarity does breed contempt), I was free to project onto him every romantic fantasy I ever had. He never let me be entirely confident of his feelings, so in the end I was eating out of his hand.

It’s not really a game, you know, it’s not about beating the clock and scoring goals; it’s a dance–filled with wonder, excitement, and a breathless sort of anticipation of the culmination of desire. But one clumsy maneuver, one crude attempt to rush rather than savor the mounting tension, step on her toes even one time, and the spell is broken forever. Because though she may succumb, you make yourself just like ever man she’s ever known, not a creature of mystery spun out of her darkest fantasies and the purest black magic.

I still have his letters, the only ones I’ve ever kept from anyone. For the longest time I dreamed about him every couple of months, then once a year or so. Even after all this time I dream of him occasionally, and whenever I do, I try as hard as I can not to wake. But there is no sadness, there never has been, not really, only a distant fondness and a sense of gratitude for teaching me sin, enchanting me, and giving me the most, unforgettable, most exquisite pleasure I’ve ever known.