It seems easy: Anti-Seducers repel, so be repelled—avoid them. Unfortunately, however, many Anti-Seducers cannot be detected as such at first glance. They are more subtle, and unless you are careful they will ensnare you in a most unsatisfying relationship. You must look for clues to their self-involvement and insecurity: perhaps they are ungenerous, or they argue with unusual tenacity, or are excessively judgmental. Perhaps they lavish you with undeserved praise, declaring their love before knowing anything about you. Or, most important, they pay no attention to details. Since they cannot see what makes you different, they cannot surprise you with nuanced attention.

It is critical to recognize anti-seductive qualities not only in others but also in ourselves. Almost all of us have one or two of the Anti-Seducer’s qualities latent in our character, and to the extent that we can consciously root them out, we become more seductive. A lack of generosity, for instance, need not signal an Anti-Seducer if it is a person’s only fault, but an ungenerous person is seldom truly attractive. Seduction implies opening yourself up, even if only for the purposes of deception; being unable to give by spending money usually means being unable to give in general. Stamp ungenerosity out. It is an impediment to power and a gross sin in seduction.

It is best to disengage from Anti-Seducers early on, before they sink their needy tentacles into you, so learn to read the signs. These are the main types.

A subvariant of the Suffocator is the Doormat, a person who slavishly imitates you. Spot these types early on by seeing whether they are capable of having an idea of their own. An inability to disagree with you is a bad sign.

Claudius’s wife, Valeria Messalina, was one of the most beautiful women in Rome. Although he seemed fond of her, Claudius paid her no attention, and she started to have affairs. At first she was discreet, but over the years, provoked by her husband’s neglect, she became more and more debauched. She had a room built for her in the palace where she entertained scores of men, doing her best to imitate the most notorious prostitute in Rome, whose name was written on the door. Any man who refused her advances was put to death. Almost everyone in Rome knew about these frolics, but Claudius said nothing; he seemed oblivious.

So great was Messalina’s passion for her favorite lover, Gaius Silius, that she decided to marry him, although both of them were married already. While Claudius was away, they held a wedding ceremony, authorized by a marriage contract that Claudius himself had been tricked into signing. After the ceremony, Gaius moved into the palace. Now the shock and disgust of the whole city finally forced Claudius into action, and he ordered the execution of Gaius and of Messalina’s other lovers—but not of Messalina herself. Nevertheless, a gang of soldiers, inflamed by the scandal, hunted her down and stabbed her to death. When this was reported to the emperor, he merely ordered more wine and continued his meal. Several nights later, to the amazement of his slaves, he asked why the empress was not joining him for dinner.

Claudius marks the extreme, but the spectrum of inattention is wide. A lot of people pay too little attention to the details, the signals another person gives. Their senses are dulled by work, by hardship, by self-absorption. We often see this turning off the seductive charge between two people, notably between couples who have been together for years. Carried further, it will stir angry, bitter feelings. Often, the one who has been cheated on by a partner started the dynamic by patterns of inattention.

The chevalier and Matta were quick to find partners, the chevalier choosing the beautiful Mademoiselle de Saint-Germain, who was soon to be betrothed, and Matta offering his services to an older and more experienced woman, Madame de Senantes. The chevalier took to wearing green, Matta blue, these being their ladies’ favorite colors. On the second day of their courtships the couples visited a palace outside the city. The chevalier was all charm, making Mademoiselle de Saint-Germain laugh uproariously at his witticisms, but Matta did not fare so well; he had no patience for this gallantry business, and when he and Madame de Senantes took a stroll, he squeezed her hand and boldly declared his affections. The lady of course was aghast, and when they got back to Turin she left without looking at him. Unaware that he had offended her, Matta imagined that she was overcome with emotion, and felt rather pleased with himself. But the Chevalier de Grammont, wondering why the pair had parted, visited Madame de Senantes and asked her how it went. She told him the truth—Matta had dispensed with the formalities and was ready to bed her. The chevalier laughed and thought to himself how differently he would manage affairs if he were the one wooing the lovely Madame.

Over the next few days Matta continued to misread the signs. He did not pay a visit to Madame de Senantes’s husband, as custom required. He did not wear her colors. When the two went riding together, he went chasing after hares, as if they were the more interesting prey, and when he took snuff he failed to offer her some. Meanwhile he continued to make his overforward advances. Finally Madame had had enough, and complained to him directly. Matta apologized; he had not realized his errors. Moved by his apology, the lady was more than ready to resume the courtship—but a few days later, after a few trifling stabs at wooing, Matta once again assumed that she was ready for bed. To his dismay, she refused him as before. “I do not think that [women] can be mightily offended,” Matta told the chevalier, “if one sometimes leaves off trifling, to come to the point.” But Madame de Senantes would have nothing more to do with him, and the Chevalier de Grammont, seeing an opportunity he could not pass by, took advantage of her displeasure by secretly courting her properly, and eventually winning the favors that Matta had tried to force.

In a world of few formalities and ceremony, seduction is one of the few remnants from the past that retains the ancient patterns. It is a ritual, and its rites must be observed. Haste reveals not the depth of your feelings but the degree of your self-absorption. It may be possible sometimes to hurry someone into love, but you will only be repaid by the lack of pleasure this kind of love affords. If you are naturally impetuous, do what you can to disguise it. Strangely enough, the effort you spend on holding yourself back may be read by your target as deeply seductive.

For two months Meilcour trembled in de Lursay’s presence. He was afraid of her, and did not know what to do. One evening they were discussing a recent play. How well one character had declared his love to a woman, Madame remarked. Noting Meilcour’s obvious discomfort, she went on, “If I am not mistaken, a declaration can only seem such an embarrassing matter because you yourself have one to make.” Madame de Lursay knew full well that she was the source of the young man’s awkwardness, but she was a tease; you must tell me, she said, with whom you are in love. Finally Meilcour confessed: it was indeed Madame whom he desired. His mother’s friend advised him to not think of her that way, but she also sighed, and gave him a long and languid look. Her words said one thing, her eyes another—perhaps she was not as untouchable as he had thought. As the evening ended, though, Madame de Lursay said she doubted his feelings would last, and she left young Meilcour troubled that she had said nothing about reciprocating his love.

Over the next few days, Meilcour repeatedly asked de Lursay to declare her love for him, and she repeatedly refused. Eventually the young man decided his cause was hopeless, and gave up; but a few nights later, at a soiree at her house, her dress seemed more enticing than usual, and her looks at him stirred his blood. He returned them, and followed her around, while she took care to keep a bit of distance, lest others sense what was happening. Yet she also managed to arrange that he could stay without arousing suspicion when the other visitors left.

When they were finally alone, she made him sit beside her on the sofa. He could barely speak; the silence was uncomfortable. To get him talking she raised the same old subject: his youth would make his love for her a passing fancy. Instead of denying it he looked dejected, and continued to keep a polite distance, so that she finally exclaimed, with obvious irony, “If it were known that you were here with my consent, that I had voluntarily arranged it with you ... what might not people say? And yet how wrong they would be, for no one could be more respectful than you are.” Goaded into action, Meilcour grabbed her hand and looked her in the eye. She blushed and told him he should go, but the way she arranged herself on the sofa and looked back at him suggested he should do the opposite. Yet Meilcour still hesitated: she had told him to go, and if he disobeyed she might cause a scene, and might never forgive him; he would have made a fool of himself, and everyone, including his mother, would hear of it. He soon got up, apologizing for his momentary boldness. Her astonished and somewhat cold look meant he had indeed gone too far, he imagined, and he said goodbye and left.

In Crébillon fils’s novel, Madame de Lursay is an ingenious seductress who finds it exciting to initiate young men. But even she cannot overcome the youthful stupidity of Meilcour, who is incapable of reading her signs because he is absorbed in his own thoughts. Later in the story, she does manage to educate him, but in real life there are many who cannot be educated. They are too literal and insensitive to the details that contain seductive power. They do not so much repel as irritate and infuriate you by their constant misinterpretations, always viewing life from behind the screen of their ego and unable to see things as they really are. Meilcour is so caught up in himself he cannot see that Madame is expecting him to make the bold move to which she will have to succumb. His hesitation shows that he is thinking of himself, not of her; that he is worrying about how he will look, not feeling overwhelmed by her charms. Nothing could be more anti-seductive. Recognize such types, and if they are past the young age that would give them an excuse, do not entangle yourself in their awkwardness—they will infect you with doubt.

Now Kaoru realized his mistake: he had loved Oigimi all along, and she had died out of despair that he did not care for her. He would never meet her like again; she was all he could think about. When Nakanokimi, her father and sister dead, came to live at court, Kaoru had the house where Oigimi and her family had lived turned into a shrine.

One day, Nakanokimi, seeing the melancholy into which Kaoru had fallen, told him that there was a third sister, Ukifune, who resembled his beloved Oigimi and lived hidden away in the countryside. Kaoru came to life—perhaps he had a chance to redeem himself, to change the past. But how could he meet this woman? There came a time when he visited the shrine to pay his respects to the departed Oigimi, and heard that the mysterious Ukifune was there as well. Agitated and excited, he managed to catch a glimpse of her through the crack in a door. The sight of her took his breath away: although she was a plain-looking country girl, in Kaoru’s eyes she was the living incarnation of Oigimi. Her voice, meanwhile, was like the voice of Nakanokimi, whom he had loved as well. Tears welled up in his eyes.

A few months later Kaoru managed to find the house in the mountains where Ukifune lived. He visited her there, and she did not disappoint. “I once had a glimpse of you through a crack in a door,” he told her, and “you have been very much on my mind ever since.” Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to a waiting carriage. He was taking her back to the shrine, and the journey there brought back to him the image of Oigimi; again his eyes clouded with tears. Looking at Ukifune, he silently compared her to Oigimi—her clothes were less nice but she had beautiful hair.

When Oigimi was alive, she and Kaoru had played the koto together, so once at the shrine he had kotos brought out. Ukifune did not play as well as Oigimi had, and her manners were less refined. Not to worry—he would give her lessons, change her into a lady. But then, as he had done with Oigimi, Kaoru returned to court, leaving Ukifune languishing at the shrine. Some time passed before he visited her again; she had improved, was more beautiful than before, but he could not stop thinking of Oigimi. Once again he left her, promising to bring her to court, but more weeks passed, and finally he received the news that Ukifune had disappeared, last seen heading toward a river. She had most likely committed suicide.

At the funeral ceremony for Ukifune, Kaoru was wracked with guilt: why had he not come for her earlier? She deserved a better fate.

The truth about this type is not that they are searching for an ideal but that they are hopelessly unhappy with themselves. You may mistake their dissatisfaction for a perfectionist’s high standards, but in point of fact nothing will really satisfy them, for their unhappiness is deep-rooted. You can recognize them by their past, which will be littered with short-lived, stormy romances. Also, they will tend to compare you to others, and to try to remake you. You may not realize at first what you have gotten into, but people like this will eventually prove hopelessly anti-seductive because they cannot see your individual qualities. Cut the romance off before it happens. These types are closet sadists and will torture you with their unreachable goals.

Arriving at the house of Count A.B., Casanova found that the Spanish lady was certainly beautiful, but that she was also quiet and serious. Something about her bothered him. As he was unpacking his clothes, the countess saw a stunning red dress, trimmed with sable, among his belongings. It was a gift, Casanova explained, for any Milanese lady who won his heart.

The following evening at dinner, the countess was suddenly more friendly, teasing and bantering with Casanova. She described the dress as a bribe—he would use it to persuade a woman to give in to him. On the contrary, said Casanova, he only gave gifts afterward, as tokens of his appreciation. That evening, in a carriage on the way back from the opera, she asked him if a wealthy friend of hers could buy the dress, and when he said no, she was clearly vexed. Sensing her game, Casanova offered to give her the sable dress if she was kind to him. This only made her angry, and they quarreled.

Finally Casanova had had enough of the countess’s moods: he sold the dress for 15,000 francs to her wealthy friend, who in turn gave it to her, as she had planned all along. But to prove his lack of interest in money, Casanova told the countess he would give her the 15,000 francs, no strings attached. “You are a very bad man,” she said, “but you can stay, you amuse me.” She resumed her coquettish manner, but Casanova was not fooled. “It is not my fault, madame, if your charms have so little power over me,” he told her. “Here are 15,000 francs to console you.” He laid the money on a table and walked out, leaving the countess fuming and vowing revenge.

The second quality that disgusted Casanova was the countess’s greed: her coquettish little games were designed only to get the dress—she had no interest in romance. For Casanova, seduction was a lighthearted game that people played for their mutual amusement. In his scheme of things, it was fine if a woman wanted money and gifts as well; he could understand that desire, and he was a generous man. But he also felt that this was a desire a woman should disguise—she should create the impression that what she was after was pleasure. The person who is obviously angling for money or other material reward can only repel. If that is your intention, if you are looking for something other than pleasure—for money, for power—never show it. The suspicion of an ulterior motive is anti-seductive. Never let anything break the illusion.

This lecture set a bad tone for the future, and things only got worse: soon Victoria was receiving letters from Gladstone, addressing the subject in even greater depth. Half of them she never bothered to read, and soon she was doing everything she could to avoid contact with the leader of her government; if she had to see him, she made the meeting as brief as possible. To that end, she never allowed him to sit down in her presence, hoping that a man his age would soon tire and leave. For once he got going on a subject dear to his heart, he did not notice your look of disinterest or the tears in your eyes from yawning. His memoranda on even the simplest of issues would have to be translated into plain English for her by a member of her staff. Worst of all, Gladstone argued with her, and his arguments had a way of making her feel stupid. She soon learned to nod her head and appear to agree with whatever abstract point he was trying to make. In a letter to her secretary, referring to herself in the third person, she wrote, “She always felt in [Gladstone’s] manner an overbearing obstinacy and imperiousness ... which she never experienced from anyone else, and which she found most disagreeable.” Over the years, these feelings hardened into an unwaning hatred.

As the head of the Liberal Party, Gladstone had a nemesis, Benjamin Disraeli, the head of the Conservative Party. He considered Disraeli amoral, a devilish Jew. At one session of Parliament, Gladstone tore into his rival, scoring point after point as he described where his opponent’s policies would lead. Growing angry as he spoke (as usually happened when he talked of Disraeli), he pounded the speaker’s table with such force that pens and papers went flying. Through all of this Disraeli seemed half-asleep. When Gladstone had finished, he opened his eyes, rose to his feet, and calmly walked up to the table. “The right honorable gentleman,” he said, “has spoken with much passion, much eloquence, and much—ahem— violence.” Then, after a drawn-out pause, he continued, “But the damage can be repaired”—and he proceeded to gather up everything that had fallen from the table and put them back in place. The speech that followed was all the more masterful for its calm and ironic contrast to Gladstone’s. The members of Parliament were spellbound, and all of them agreed he had won the day.

It did not take long for Gladstone to wear on anyone’s nerves. That is the nature of people who are convinced of some truth, but have no patience for a different perspective or for dealing with someone else’s psychology. These types are bullies, and in the short term they often get their way, particularly among the less aggressive. But they stir up a lot of resentment and unspoken antipathy, which eventually trips them up. People see through their righteous moral stance, which is most often a cover for a power play—morality is a form of power. A seducer never seeks to persuade directly, never parades his or her morality, never lectures or imposes. Everything is subtle, psychological, and indirect.

Cleopatra had a devastating effect on every man who crossed her path. Octavius—the future Emperor Augustus, and the man who would defeat and destroy Cleopatra’s lover Mark Antony—was well aware of her power, and defended himself against it by being always extremely amiable with her, courteous to the extreme, but never showing the slightest emotion, whether of interest or dislike. In other words, he treated her as if she were any other woman. Facing this front, she could not sink her hooks into him. Octavius made anti-seduction his defense against the most irresistible woman in history. Remember: seduction is a game of attention, of slowly filling the other person’s mind with your presence. Distance and inattention will create the opposite effect, and can be used as a tactic when the need arises.

Finally, if you really want to “anti-seduce,” simply feign the qualities listed at the beginning of the chapter. Nag; talk a lot, particularly about yourself; dress against the other person’s tastes; pay no attention to detail; suffocate, and so on. A word of warning: with the arguing type, the Windbag, never talk back too much. Words will only fan the flames. Adopt the Queen Victoria strategy: nod, seem to agree, then find an excuse to cut the conversation short. This is the only defense.