The Art of Self Seduction
There are days when writing feels like worship. A soft surrender, a faith of sorts.
Other days? It’s a waiting game, like a lover delayed or a letter unsent.
Today was the latter.
At first glance, you’ll notice a woman with long silky hair and brown eyes that know a little too much. Cheeky, yes. Ambitious, absolutely.
If the mind had a soundtrack, mine would sound like wind chimes, tingling, sometimes tangled, a bit unruly and unmistakably sensual.
Somewhere in there is a place where everything connects. Where ideas intertwine in embrace like a secret salon of thoughts, discussing desires and divine insight. But tonight, I couldn’t get in.
So I did what any woman would do before a seduction:
I set the mood.
Daft Punk played softly in the background. I lit a candle and slipped into a silk robe with nothing underneath, dabbed a bit of rose perfume on my neck, ran a comb through my wet hair and checked the fridge for juicy figs.
The candle light danced, bold and high, like it knew something I didn't. Perplexed, I took a bite of the sweet fig, skin still damp. Somewhere between seduction and sentence, I waited for the words to come. But I knew: seduction, real seduction, could not be summoned like a spell. It must stir. It must simmer.
True je ne sais quoi is never rushed.
Still, I tried opening my notes app in hopes that old fragments would flirt their way out into full sentences:
– Why I love being sexy
– Ask me about being sexy
What the hell. Really? Who wrote this?
I did, obviously. Very likely after post run endorphins, where the sun hits my thighs, the iced coffee is in hand, booty shorts are on.. daring the world to look back. Whatever, you get the vision.
The truth is, I’m most alive when I’m embodied. When I feel the wind brush against my skin and the words seeping out of my soul, begging me to write.
So I pondered.
To write is to romance the self, pressing thoughts on paper, slowly, like breathe against skin.
So here I am.
Waiting, with pleasure.
The foreplay is in the vibe.
The anticipation.
The ache.
And if you’re still here, reading, imagining.. then maybe, you’re not just reading,
Maybe you too, are seducing me…
