


To be seductive is to recognize in yourself a capacity to seduce. You do not find it by running away from who you are. You find it by realizing that you, and all of what makes you yourself, can be colorful and different and strange. That nobody will ever want you for any reason other than that you're you. That people who attempt to make you somebody else ought to just find that other person already. To be seductive is to know your own colors. It's to know your rhythms and tempos, your palette, your brush strokes, your details. It's to have studied yourself well—and not just in the hypothetical. It's to know yourself through others' eyes. It's to understand the parts of you that everybody else sees. To be seductive, you must simultaneously change yourself and remain yourself. You change yourself by opening up. You turn yourself into an experience that other people get to share. You become more, in many ways, than you were to begin with: something that others get to take part in, the way men still drink in Marilyn Monroe or women drink in Dracula or everybody drinks in David Bowie. The opposite of seductive is to know yourself only through your own eyes. Seductive is knowing yourself through others'. To be seductive is to have somebody else dedicate themselves to all your colors and rhythms. It's to make them give themselves to the texture of your skin and the way the light touches it. To have them utterly dependent on where you choose to touch and tease. To make them silent recipients of your sounds—and to make them growl to fill your silences. They become a response to you. They dedicate themselves to your being. A seduction is a sacred act. It brings your victim to your shrine—a special place consisting of you and you alone. It is a kind of contemplative stillness. By your motions, by your essence, by your being, you consecrate it, and make it a space that others may know.