Page 20 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“Looks like you’re about to seduce Dracula.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Or stab him. With style.”
Of course, while she tried on outfit after outfit, she never missed a chance to quote theSacred Manual of la Contessawith the gusto of an actress on tour:
“Don’t dress to please. Dress to leave an echo insomeone’s thoughts.”
“Don’t reveal everything. Always leave one fold unresolved, one button undone, one visual enigma. Mystery is more seductive than nudity.”
“A wide-brimmed hat says: ‘Look at me.’ A black glove says: ‘You can’t touch me.’ Learn the language of accessories.”
When I asked if she’d called in sick again today—and whether she wasn’t worried about bumping into a coworker while parading around Williamsburg like Morticia Addams’s glam cousin—she replied with imperial frost: “I have plenty of unused vacation days. And starting today, I plan to use them all.” Then, eyes locked on a pair of black lace gloves, she added, “And who says I’m even going back to work?”
I stared at her. “Excuse me, what does that mean?”
“Can you imagine?” she said, turning to me with the gravity of someone discussing an irreversible fate. “Me, projecting this elusive, mysterious aura… only to be found shelving dusty books at the public library from ten to six? I’d lose all my mystique.”
“Okay… but what about rent?”
Tess turned slowly, placed a wide-brimmed hat on her head, and looked at me the way you’d look ata child who just asked if Santa Claus was real.
“My dear… true seductresses don’t work. Did Cleopatra work? Did Casanova punch a time card?”
She also bought a vintage perfume with a name that was anything but humble:Regina Obscura – 1912 Edition.It smelled like incense, vodka, and scorched wallpaper. The kind of scent that could easily evoke either a secret mistress of the last tsar or a Russian noblewoman’s parlor going up in flames.
I was exhausted. We went home on the subway, overloaded with bags like two fashion victims who’d just survived a Victorian orgy of velvet and lace.
At one point, Tess pulled out her phone, opened the voice recorder app, and began speaking in a low, velvety tone, as if reciting erotic poetry by candlelight:
“You are desire. You are the void that devours them. You are desire and damnation. The vice they never confess. You are the repressed fantasy. The forbidden dream.”
I let her finish, then gave her a long, slow look. “Sorry… what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m creating an audio track,” she explained matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll listen to it every night with headphones. Self-hypnosis. Because, you see,la Contessaalways said: the mind is a seductress’sonly true ally.”
“So you’re brainwashing yourself in your sleep?”
“Exactly! It’s an upgraded version of the method. She, poor thing, used to whisper her mantras in the dark until she fell asleep. I, on the other hand, have evolved. My subconscious will receive subliminal messages through every REM cycle.”
I watched her in silence as she went back to recording, with the solemnity of a medium in a trance.
I figured her brain was about to go through a pretty radical phase. Like, from a cosmic void in matters of seduction to a direct injection of concentrated flirting steroids. Forget brainwashing—this was a centrifuge on full blast.
When we finally got home, I stretched my arms and yawned so hard my eyes watered. All I could think about was a long, scalding shower, oversized pajamas, couch, and a dumb movie with no plot and plenty of chocolate.
But of course, Tess had other plans.
“You’re not planning to put on pajamas already, are you, darling?” she asked, slipping off her coat like it was a stage cape. “The day is far from over.”
I shot her a sideways glance, already half-buried in a pillow. “You’ve got to be kidding. Go out? Again? Where exactly?”
She marched toward me with the proud, theatrical stride of someone about to announce atop-secret mission.
“Tonight,” she said, enunciating each word, “we practice.”
“Practice…?”
“Practice with a fewwarm-up men.”
