On Telling Her “I Love You”

When I was thirteen years old I told a girl I loved her. She laughed and walked away. Many will tell you that telling her you love her first is equated to digging your grave. Some recommend rarely using those words. They would also tell you that no, they have no idea what a young alpaca jacket feels like, how a 1990 Bordeaux tastes or what a suicidal love letter from a beautiful woman looks like.

About three years ago my love for the French Polynesian islands took me to Bora Bora for the second time and it was there that I met a quite famous American opera singer. She was enjoying a two week vacation with a few friends and caught my eyes as I was having lobster for breakfast one morning. I don’t know whether it was the caviar mousse, the sliced black truffles or her breasts but I was in love. The fact that she opened a Perrier Jouet with her oysters most likely helped with my sudden infatuation. I sent a side of shaved black truffles (I hope I don’t have to tell you they are not chocolates) to her table and asked the waiter to recommend sprinkling a bit on each of her oysters. She smiled and accepted my suggestion. I can still hear the table shaking moans that the combination brought her. When she got up to walk over to my table it was as if the world had disappeared and there she was, bathed in light, singing a lovely aria meant only for my ears.

We talked and laughed for over two hours at which point I grabbed her hand and said: “I don’t want to fall in love with you”. She turned red and nervously played with her napkin as her gaze still held mine. What you have to understand is that by this point I was already bored with her and nowhere near being infatuated. She confessed her secret love of beer halfway through and the alcohol was the only reason I was not able to stand and leave. Why did I continue to seduce her? Because I had already made mental plans to suck oysters from her voluptuous breasts that night and I hate canceling. My confession worked for two reasons. ‘Falling’ is filled with semantic power. It is sensual, visual and has an element of danger. All women are slaves to romance and danger and she was no exception. Second, I portrayed myself as if fighting with this emotion which immediately made her ego want me to fail so as to show her own power of seduction. That night the Olympia oysters did not disappoint. Oh and the girl that snubbed me when I was thirteen? She turned out to be a lesbian who almost killed me ten years later when I slept with her lover.


Do: express your emotions, but pretend that you are afraid of what is happening to you.

Don’t: look her in the eyes. You are torn and despondent.

Secret Weapon: passion! Women love passion and men are rarely passionate these days.

Seduction Factor: your twisted, ravaged soul.

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