Simply Irresistible

I come from a long line of women who treated seduction dead seriously—and who remained successful in their pursuits as long as they had a breath in their bodies. In my immediate family alone, my grandmother, at fifty-six, wooed a younger man out of bachelorhood after she had been twice widowed. My mother, whose yearbook picture bore the legend "wolverine," still entertained gentleman callers when she was seventy-five. But within the context of my family, I was a particularly slow starter. When I was a mere ten or eleven years old, my grandmother became so concerned that boys were not showing the expected level of interest in me that she and my mother sat me down for a talk. Up until that time, I was an obedient little girl with a straight A average—a credit to any other family. But dates with boys? They actually expected me to have dates? I didn't even have breasts.

So it was under two generations of maternal guidance that I tossed aside my schoolwork and boned up on my flirtation techniques. It was rough going. As I sat cross-legged and alert in my stiff school uniform, my grandmother advised me in the delivery of "come hither" remarks that make me writhe with embarrassment even today. Her personal favorite was, "I dreamt about you last night," which she said should be communicated with an air of mystery. "What if he asks what I dreamt?" I asked earnestly—a question that invited her obvious disdain at my lack of imagination. When, at eighteen, I finally worked up the nerve to use that line at a garden party, a bird flying overhead took strategic relief on my forearm.

Still, while my progress was slow, I had a respectable collection of semi-besotted teenaged suitors by the time I was sixteen. My first boyfriend, Pete, wrote me poetry every day while I was away at school and signed all his letters "Te quiero" ("I love you" in Spanish). I had a smattering of summer romances with boys from Long Island, Boston, and Iowa, with whom I subsequently corresponded. But the year I inspired a barroom-style brawl between two guys who ended up spending the night in jail, I began to feel I had stumbled into the zone. News of my "triumph" was broadcast within my family, who acted as if I had just won a Rhodes scholarship—and in their view, I suppose I had.

Armed with my beginner's success and a keen eye for the great romantic story, I studied the masters. I had read a few of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novels and learned that his heroines were modeled on Zelda Sayre, the legendary Southern belle who became his wife. I bought several of her biographies. Later, I developed an interest in Jennie Jerome—the American society girl who later became the mother of Winston Churchill. Not only did Jennie keep Victorian England agog with her romantic exploits, but she closed out her active career with a marriage to a contemporary of her son's. Then came my interest in Cleopatra, the courtesan Veronica Franco, and Pamela Harriman, among many, many others.

All of this made for instructive and fascinating reading, but it was hard to grasp the essence of what made these women irresistible to men without seeing them in action. I understood that Jennie's wit was part of her great appeal, but if wit was all a girl needed, then wouldn't Whoopi Goldberg be constantly fending off marriage proposals? And though I'd read that Pamela Harriman seduced some of the world's most powerful men by hanging on their every word, didn't that make her somewhat of a doormat?

Years later, when I was living in Washington, D.C., I met a contemporary femme fatale named Ruth Vogel. By almost any standard of measurement, Ruth was plain—f lat-chested and skinny, with stringy blonde hair, a big nose, and beady little eyes. Yet her whole being projected the conviction that she was a raving beauty. Guys never seemed to be able to catch up with her, or at least she made them feel that way. She had a kind of goddess quality, I observed—alluring yet distant and untouchable, though she was always in the close company of men. In addition, she had individual traits that heightened her appeal. She was unusually smart—an intellectual, really, who wowed men with her mental agility. And she was always beautifully dressed in clothes that were contemporary, yet somehow suggested another, more romantic decade. She was elusive, either way ahead of them, or back somewhere in another time, and men were driven to rash and near-suicidal acts over her. I watched in awe.

Through Ruth's example, I began to understand some fundamental truths. While it helps to be beautiful, it's not essential to being irresistible to men, and beauty alone is not enough. Men are most attracted to women who are convinced of their own appeal—the sine qua non of the irresistible woman. And, while it may go without saying, these women love men. Furthermore, they live large, as if men and life were created for their pleasure. After further consideration, I saw that Sirens fall roughly into five distinguishable archetypes—namely, the Goddess, the Companion, the Sex Kitten, the Competitor, and the Mother—based on their dominant qualities. Building on this foundation, the irresistible woman will have her series of individual quirks, tricks, and talents that personalize and heighten her appeal, creating her own signature "brand."

Over the years I've inspired my modest share of marriage proposals, infatuations, bad poetry, and even a novel in which I figured—albeit unflatteringly—as a love interest, but I consider myself to be more of a passionate student of the genre. And Simply Irresistible is my thesis on the subject. This book will give you a blueprint for becoming a Siren, using notably seductive women as case histories, providing invaluable and timeless lessons in love. More than being simply irresistible, the Sirens who populate these pages are women of substance—interesting and admirable people outside the context of their romantic exploits. As women who have gotten much of what they want out of life, they are well worth studying.