If a legendary seducer is what

  • you want to be, then you’re better off being infused in gross masculine heat and lasting ticklish passion down to your bones, than to be robotically parroting lines and gestures of aloofness and surface amusement from the Net that at best stick like tar for the feathery temporary affections of girls. Take me, Xwarper, as an example of masculine sexuality. Despite the fact that I have a Radio DJ’s voice, the looks of an angel (or a very clever demon), and the dark charms of a cocktail-party Machiavelli, I enjoy delving into the seducer’s literature on the Internet in the same way Beethoven, if alive today, would tune into One Direction on the radio to see how the latest iteration of the boy band phenomenon would do it. So I can compare the Real Thing to the Wannabe Model.
  •       The core concept of the PUA digiworld is “game.” Boiled down to its essences in an attempt to take love and treat it as a car mechanic’s problems, it assumes women are like robots — punch the right buttons and sex will pop out, free and easy and unconditional, to the seducer’s benefit and delight.
  •       Because women really are flesh robots in the real world, game works. However, its concepts of alpha-beta, hypergamy and all the rest are exaggerated. The robot is real, the buttons are there, but there is wiring extending to other parts of the machine that trip up the smooth operation of the logical man-plan.
  •       It is actually infinitely more powerful to vest yourself, as a man, in masculine sexuality.
  •       Allow me to contrast how the average man thinks of himself: he is normal, bland essentially, not interesting to look at, he shaves without purpose, he jerks off thinking women wouldn’t care (they like it, actually) or be even disgusted by it (they’re not; come dribbling out of a penis is fascinating).
  •       His broad V-delta shoulders, his narrow hips, his body hair, his strong body (“guns” if he goes to the gym) are all that go into his masculine sexuality. Throw in a (hopefully) deeper voice and a logical, creative mind, with thicker eyebrows and masculine interests such as business and politics, and he is, IN REALITY, the irresistible “other” that drives women wild.
  •       And yet men feel bland and screwdriver-utilitarian. Put cable X and slot Y, push it, dry, no-flavor, no trumpets or anything. But in reality, the trumpet in the Christopher Walken Prophecy movie stands behind “average” men and their every move, and blows when women watch them.
  •       The bitch of it is this: masculine sexuality only works when you believe in it. Men pay to watch bitches in strip clubs who seem to have belief in themselves and their tits and ass. Women, too, want a super athlete of love in action, an entity that knows behind a shadow of a doubt it’s the real thing. This is Man, baby. Hear IT roar.
  •       The doubts that assail the average men, instead, untie his shoelaces just when he is preparing to run. His over-awe by women (who are really pathetic and far less confident than even him) is a symptom of a weak personality-type, a phoneme that cannot stand its own ground, a flag that cannot hold its color after a single wash of social interaction with a girl.
  •       Girls love masculinity and sexuality on display in a man. Ideally, it should be in the way you move and talk. I like to look at myself, Xwarper, in the mirror, but you don’t need to be as cute as I to reap the benefits of a similar mind-sit-rep. Just clench your buttocks, swat your limp penis in front of your pelvis, hunch down your body and flex up your calves, feel, feel — feelings, you know, those things blue-collar scum do their best to avoid? Cheering for a sports team cuts zero ice with the ladies — but purring like a panther and kneeling your head to their neck and stroking back their hair with one firm, elegantly shaped male hand is a neutron bomb to their back hindbrains. Give it a try.
  •       Porn star Rocco Siffredi — perhaps because his enormous cock is matched by a pretty boy’s face — on film shows an understanding of this. He likes to hear himself chat, and to heat both himself and the girl up he talks about how sexy the girl is, murmuring in his Italian accent, showing his passion. Compare this with North American meat-machine Peter North, who spews more charmlessness than even his prodigious beer-can eruptions in her face after he’s done his dry, lame business. Europe always was known for a better culture, but the truth is, the Roccos are nearly as rare in the Old World as they are in the New. And even Rocco could do it better.
  •       Women want to forget their existence in the arms of the male beast. The male body as artist. The male mind as arrow. Divine arrow, shot by the god of love — who is himself, of course, a Male. (“Goddesses” are like sex goddesses only, and menstrual at that, spoiling the image. A god is always properly a male, and that is how you, the male, should think of yourself as you are approaching a chick for a date or a woman for sex.)
  •       Stand firm in yourself but don’t be afraid to walk casual. Don’t stutter along on trembly legs. Confidence is just a simple way to say masculine sexuality. A dove-eyed, puppy-dog-sweet boy can have masculine sexuality if he crosses his legs and hangs his hair in his eyes. That moment of pristine innocence, narrow legs and lightly thatched pubic hair, can have a radiant penileness of its own, the light of the sun, the dark of the night. And a streak of ripply-artful badassery can make such a sweetheart even more double-meaning-sense interesting.
  •       (Contradictions often fascinate women. How can the motorcycle biker also be a billionaire? How can the man who beats another man to a pulp touch her so softly on the jaw she feels like shivering without control? How can the man who generally hates children proclaim, steadily and confidently, that he wants them with her? Her. That’s the key, really. His maleness and masculinity make her feel exquisitely above-normal female, as if both her and he were giants on a non-platonic, postmodern dream-shimmery landscape where clubs were put down and honest love could bloom.)
  •       What is the goal of love? I would argue it is to bring out the best of us. (And hate, such as hate in good battle, brings out the worst of us so we can win.) The victory of the heart is the shunting-aside of suspicion, worries, elaborations of nightmare-scenarios so we can achieve a nirvana of superannuated bliss, more meaningful than all the votes in American history to every Whig, Democrat and Republican who have sold his snake-oil soul for a bit of love from a mediaized stranger who, alas, never really knew him.
  •       And remember this … if you can whip out your erect tool to a chick who pants for you, and hold yourself still as a cruise missile on its launching pad, you can get her to push the launch codes to your sexual eruption, in a cloud of fiery passion, that you’ll never forget.
  •       All you have to be is masculine-sexualized enough to make her feel feminine and hot enough to do it, one nailpolished-finger curled.

~/ Xwarper