Not the usual fare, I know - but I've been imersed in reflection of late. And seduction is a universal theme: in politics as well as real life. Please read with this in mind.
I have been thinking very much lately of the quality of seduction. It’s underrated as a prime motivator. Anyone can be seduced – the only question becomes how and with what. For me the equation is quite complex. Words, yes – but they have to be the right ones – and they can’t be about the surface me; well – not exactly. You see, I grew up being told by every adult who surrounded me that I was alive through sufferance. Like any stray cat or unwanted puppy I really should have been drowned in a bag – but as that wasn’t possible – my continued existence came via my families good graces. I should be damned grateful – so I was: Fanny, surrounded by all Mansfield Park had to offer; yet still the poor relation.
My 13th summer shattered around me in sparks. Almost overnight, time and nature gifted me with sloe eyes and Gibson curves. I was ripe for anyone with eyes to see. And there were a whole lotta eyes, lemme tell ya. So seduction became part and parcel of my everyday life. It was hard to accept, actually. Holding center stage belonged in the theatre. Integration into everyday reality was, and in some ways still is, a feat beyond my personal powers of connectivity. Needy – I’d clutch compliments tight, buried in their warmth, unable to tear myself away – unable to step back and see them for what they were. Men – older, some jaded – fluttered in my orbit - their reflection colored by the blue of my eyes. I was honey, sticky-sweet – temptation even for those not usually drawn to the innocent. As for me – life suddenly took flight. Instead of a steady diet of fat, ugly and stupid; I became Delilah, Circe – lashing men to me, not noticing I was slowly strangling.
But what did that matter? You’d think I’d chafe at the restrictions – find the Tiffany box claustrophobic. Unfortunately, oblivion became my middle name. Seduction filled a need; and like I said – I was so needy it hurt. There was a lifetime to fill, salty oceans to wipe clear; years of neglect and abuse to make up for. I dove into the deep end without lifeguard or net. It was freedom on a scale I’d never even imagined – made possible by the occasional stray curl, an artfully bared shoulder and my chameleon-like ability to enthrall and enrapture. I was breathing rarified air and drowning in it all at once; all at the same time. Angels sharing their first kiss with god might understand the rapture. Love, or its simulacrum, is the most powerful seduction of all.
So I moved through a Byzantine maze of pumpkin colored Porsche’s, abalone steaks and private theatres. Everything was in sharp relief – emotion, experience. I pinged from one jeweled tone to the next, grasping for dear life. They loved me because I was malleable. They saw the world through my fresh, cerulean eyes, rendering it palatable once more. Palatable - hell it was exciting. I was exciting. Imagine – the thrill of a first orgasm, the bottom-out rush of the roller-coaster – all tied up in one 17 year-old bundle of raw nerve endings. I was catnip and caviar, Absinthe served with sugar and opium, plum pudding with firm, rose-tipped breasts that firmed at the slightest touch. Heaven for everyone - including me.
The exchange rate was steep. Rubbings of my soul for diamond juice freshly squeezed. I was so high, so enraptured, I didn’t notice I’d become a sylph until it was almost too late. There are consequences to becoming a muse. The lifestyle seduces complexly – think Picasso done theatre in the round. I mean - who can resist rubies for breakfast served with a side order of crème fresh? Much too rich for my blood – but then that was the point. It becomes addictive. Flights to Beirut, Sinatra in an elevator, Mitchell Brother’s openings and bowls overflowing with cocaine, the tiny silver spoons Deco-like against mirrored highways going nowhere. And I moved in the middle of it all, Harlequin and Columbina, trapped in my red shoes, forever dancing past the point of exhaustion.
It took me quite some time to notice I was lost. My first inkling came from a woman I knew – (a model) offering to teach me the art of throwing up (wait 20 minutes after any meal for your body to extract all the nutrients then expel what’s left). She worked for Wilhelmina Ford personally and was damn proud of it. Light where I was dark; taller, thinner – much, much thinner – too thin, but then, as now, anorexia was the new black. Money and men – they were her specialties – never one without the other. A day in San Francisco produced dinner at the Top of the Mark, and a full length fox coat – smack dab in the middle of summer. I served as accent – my pale skin and mahogany hair exclamation points against her blond California loveliness. Lose 20 pounds, she said. I will teach you how to trade blow-jobs for security. I looked at her and all I saw was apricots left to rot in the sun. They seem perfect until you notice the black and yellow wasps sucking from softened patches on the fruit. Then the sick-sweet smell hits you and you begin gagging.
The next sign came much later – too late, almost. Those bills, so crisp and new – 10 of them - Franklin’s face etched in green and black ink. For sex, he said. I saw you on the plane. I’ve been dreaming about your mouth ever since – like hot butter. You were with him, I know - but I only want one night. Just one. I looked. ‘College money’ whispered through the back of my head. Take it. Who’ll know? Tick-tock. I wasn’t like that. That wasn’t me. What did he see? Who did he think I was? Sick, I got up and walked away. No more. I was done. The personal kind of seduction had ended for me. That doesn’t mean I was incapable of being seduced (unfortunately). I had simply developed armor against gender based physical flattery. Future seductions would come from the professional arena – and in many ways that was much more insidious.
I won’t go into all the betweens. Suffice it to say my life has revolved around the concept of déjà vu. It seems I am susceptible to seduction – especially seductions linked to the promise of a career. I am steeped in it. The word must be engraved on my forehead for all the world to see. Weave your way into my core vulnerability, swath it in silk nothings, and willingly I fall – despite my every effort to resist. It’s sad, it’s frustrating – down and down I go, ‘round and ‘round I go, in a spin, but definitely not loving the spin I’m in. That old black magic is more voudun than witchcraft. I go under, never to be seen intact again. It’s like addiction. The substance pulls at you, filling your head with intoxicating perfume, while the hardened nub grates away at your skin till there’s naught left but bloody pulp. Then, abruptly, it disappears – and all that’s left is pain.
My most recent seduction happened because gravity had me pinned like any bell-jar butterfly. I’d been forced to give up a profession I loved due to physical limitations. As I could no longer clamber around a theatre – I clothed my disappointment in intellectual and emotional exploration. I began to write again. It doesn’t make up for the restricted mobility – not by a long shot - but it offers its own dispensations, none the less. Demons can still be exorcised, and at least the brass ring remains constant (if more distant): salvation; hot toddies for a broken soul. This seduction appeared in a new guise. Surprise! I was well and truly fooled.
So I offered up my all – freely, willingly. What was asked of me, I gave – with unstinting abandon: Words, concepts, plans, directions – all the ‘how to’s’ necessary to ensure success. Like water it flowed, all towards what I thought was an agreed upon end. I created a blueprint for success; problem is – that success wasn’t mine alone, it was to be shared – and now I find myself excised from it. Not by choice, mind you. No – this decision was ripped from my hands and carelessly given to another. Someone else will reap the harvest I have sewn – and I am left standing, my mouth agape, being asked to write my own obituary. Intending to soothe, seductions thick vocabulary was carelessly tumbled over me. Meant to be feathers, they pummeled like rocks instead. Oh well. Better luck next time, old girl. And there will be a next time. There always is.
So I’m wondering.....do we ever become too old, too callous, or too inured for seductions repercussions to sear? They say prolonged subjection to anything builds up tolerance. Can I become Rappaccini’s Daughter in truth? Or will I always present the succulent target – enticing the predatory with innocence scented pheromones. What if I want to become the predator for once? Is it even possible? I don’t know. I don’t think like that. I don’t size up people and assign worth. Maybe it’s time I learned.
Think it’s too late to teach this old dog some new tricks?
Cross-posted in all the usual places