Content note: brief violence, mentions of explicit sex including kinky sex.
A couple of weeks ago, dating coach Jonathon Aslay posted this gem to his Facebook page:
“How a Woman Becomes Irresistible To a Man… She chooses to set high standards for herself. She’s clear on what she wants. She knows the value of friendship before sex. She comes from a place of gratitude (not expectations). She is confident and willing to ask a man out on a date because she knows a relationship is a two way street. She demonstrates trust and respect by accepting him for who he is. She’s in no hurry to get to the destination. She can take of herself, she doesn’t need a man. She shows up interesting and interested. She comes from a place of compassion (not entitlement). Lastly, she knows how to inspire a man, because she leads by example. Did I miss anything?”
The response from feminists was… let’s say, “unusual.” The comment thread was quickly transformed into an impromptu collaborative outpouring of fantasy horror micro-fiction, meditating on the true nature of the irresistible woman, and on the terrifying nature of what it would even mean to be irresistible. I’m in process of compiling all of it now — but in the meantime, I thought I’d share this story, one of my own contributions.
The Irresistible Woman
The irresistible woman wakes at noon with the familiar ache in her loins — well, whatever passes for “loins” in her true body. She puts out the call, a series of clicks and chants, signalling “Open for Business.” At once her supplicants quietly put down what they’re doing, and appear at her door.
She sorts them quickly: looks each in the eyes for a nanosecond, sees them, SEES THEM. The ones who do not find favor in her eyes… well, that’s an uncomfortable topic. Waiting at her door, her supplicants don’t much like to think about that. Although it does add a frisson, a note of apprehension that gives the anticipation some edge. They wonder a bit why they came here, why they’re taking such a risk, they know what could happen if… Did they even choose this? Did she enchant them, hypnotize them, use feminine wiles, subliminally write “I AM IRRESISTIBLE” in their pictures of ice cubes? In a cause and effect world, is free will even a coherent concept? The irresistible woman has an instinctive understanding of the true nature of cause and effect and freedom, has had it since she was a child. But it would take too long to explain, and right now, she has more important things to do.
The ones who do not find favor in her eyes, she handles quickly. We’ll get to that in a bit. It’s an unpleasant business.
The ones who do find favor in her eyes, she counts. She effortlessly divides herself into perfect copies, one for each — or, okay, two for some, or three, or occasionally more. She takes each favored one to a private room. They can see only her, they only have eyes for her — but she sees all of them at once. She is separate yet whole, the perfect Trinity, three in one, or twenty-seven in one, or a hundred, or six thousand that one time. She’s got this. She closes all the doors.
She looks at her favored ones, and sees. She sees everything. She ministers to everything. The desires they’re ashamed of, she caresses. The body parts they despise, she makes perfect: not by transforming them, but by loving them. She sees their desires, all of them, and she gives time a gentle twist, and she fulfills all of them. Yes, ALL OF THEM. What — you think this is beyond her? Or beneath her? She transforms her body into every body they desire. She transforms her skin into costumes: showgirl, space pirate, corporate executive, shoe model, lizard queen, nun, schoolgirl but in a totally consensual non-creepy adults-playing-at-it way. She transforms her hands into implements: feathers; whips; dildos of the perfect shape and size, like human penises if her favored ones desire it, like sparkle rainbow unicorn cocks if that’s what they’re into; fur gloves with tiny spikes embedded; Catherine wheels; sweatsocks; vibrators you don’t have to turn off after twenty minutes because they fucking overheat. At a moment’s notice, her fingers sweat lube, she hates having to scramble for the bottle. She exudes a magnetic field that stimulates the pleasure centers of their brains, bringing them just to the edge of ecstasy, and keeping them on that edge, and keeping them there, and keeping them there, for what feels like forever. Perhaps it is forever. Time is an illusion. Lunchtime, doubly so.
She gives herself equally to all her favored ones: man, woman, neither, both. And of course, if you don’t want her, if you want him instead, she can do that. She has a man inside her. Thousands, if you want to get literal about it. She can go there.
And when forever is over and everyone is finished, the irresistible woman gives each favored one a parting gift. She looks at them with her eyes, the thousand eyes inside the two. She sees their best self: sees them at their most thoughtful, most generous, most imaginative, most fair, most loving, most funny without punching down, most compassionate. She removes one of her thousand eyes — don’t worry, it’ll grow back, who do you think she is? — and places it on their tongue. They swallow. They will carry their best selves with them for the rest of their lives. Her favored ones will recognize each other, of course, the soft pink glow in the throat is a dead giveaway. They will find each other, and see each other’s best selves, seeing through her eyes. They will find each other, and smile, and get a room. Maybe for the evening, maybe for the rest of their lives.
They will, of course, never have an encounter as perfect as the one with her. They know it can never be repeated. And yet, there will be no resentment, no regrets. Every encounter they have, every flawed coupling of frail human bodies straining to become infinite, will contain echoes of this perfect one. When her favored ones find each other and couple, a small deposit is made in her account, ten percent of their joy, as a finder’s fee. She is, after all, a whore.
Oh, the ones who didn’t find favor? The ones who treat their lovers with contempt? The ones who want pleasure, but despise the people who share it with them? The ones who mistake cruelty for power — and not in a consensual, non-creepy, adults-playing-at-it way? Well, yes. We do have to address that, I suppose.
She sees them, too. She takes care of them before her favored ones, it’s an unpleasant business, she likes to get it over with. She sees them, too, and she plucks out one of her thousand eyes for them, too, she’s nothing if not fair. She sees their worst selves — sees them at their most selfish, most callous, most petty, most greedy, most brutal, most vindictive, most indifferent. She plucks out one of her thousand eyes, and jabs it into their throat like a needle, swift, just the pain of a pinprick at first. Her curse will lodge in their throat. It will stay there forever. It will be a dead giveaway, the harsh light in their throats like the blue light of television, their worst selves glaring through their skin like embarassingly bad porn. Anyone who fucks them will know. If they can ever get anyone to fuck them again, that is. And of course, they will live out their lives seeing the favored ones around them, seeing that gentle pink glow, knowing the kingdom they’ve been shut out of. Some will try to find the way to her door again, hoping to beg for a second chance. She will laugh, and fuck up the GPS on their phones, again. Some will slit their own throats trying to remove the curse — but she always knows, senses it immediately, heals it with an instant touch. She is not merciful.
Well, what did you think would happen?
When she is finished with everything, she pulls her selves together. She sends her favored ones home, finds taxis for them, she knows they’re in no state to navigate anywhere. She’d like to chat, but she needs some down time, she’s pretty beat, this takes it out of her. She wraps herself in her bathrobe, the nice terrycloth one she stole from the hotel, and calls for takeout. She tells them to charge it to her account. They know the account she means. She always gets the best takeout. Her friends want to know her secret.
Some say that the irresistible woman is sorting us, proceeding systematically until all adult humans have been marked, at which point she will bring about Judgement Day. They clearly don’t get it. They don’t understand the unique place they’re in. They don’t understand that Heaven and Hell are on this planet, intertwined, finite. They don’t understand that on this planet, every day is Judgement Day. She’d thought that was pretty obvious, wonders if she should spell it out at some point. But it would take too long to explain, and right now, she has more important things to do.