…was the title of a Christian self-help book for women written in the 1960s (and amazingly, still in print) about how to keep your man absolutely panting with love for you. A whole mini-movement emerged from it, and judging from the author’s Web site, classes are still held to this day. According to the FW philosophy, subservience, reverence, and flattery are essential to being the “right” sort of woman, as is (rather creepily, in my opinion) the ability to look and act like a little girl.
In 2008, the book’s retro ideas may be seen as ridiculously outdated by all but hardcore Christian conservatives, but the modus operandi of playing a predetermined role and pushing the right buttons doesn’t appear to have gone out of fashion. The major difference in today’s postfeminist universe is that too much appreciation of your intended will get you nowhere, and may even be detrimental to your goals. To borrow from the new millennium’s manifesto on manipulation, The Rules, one must present oneself as “a creature unlike any other.” Keep the focus on you, not him. And above all, be a special commodity in high demand.
In economic parlance, scarcity is the condition of human wants and needs exceeding production possibilities, or (in layman’s terms) availability. This drives up the value of a desired thing, which is why we pay so much for strawberries in January. They become a special, high-demand commodity when wants and needs exceed supply.
A psychological version of such scarcity is, I’ve concluded, the principle behind a wildly successful self-help book like The Rules, in which women are instructed to be strategically unavailable to their desired mate, and to cultivate an air of mystery. It’s also, incidentally, behind the winning routine of a male pickup artist who actually calls himself “Mystery,” and who advises otherwise schlubby men to deliver subtle insults to desirable women on first meeting, then to quickly move on.
If I could condense this sexual/romantic strategy into a single dictum, it would be make them chase the carrot. The proverbial carrot on the stick, that is, perennially just out of reach. Give them the tantalizing bait and withdraw; keep the scarce supply in demand.
Why does such a strategy work?
I imagine it’s thanks to our almost universally frustrating childhoods, in which certain needs were, unavoidably, not met by otherwise well-meaning parents and caretakers. Somehow those who withheld (or seemed to withhold) their attention, approval, or affection from us became, by default, the authority and measure of our worth. Yet we believed all along in our young hearts that if only we could get them to recognize us, then we would be whole, complete, happy at last. Scarcity created value, and the elusive dispensers of validation became the arbiters of our own value. If we could just catch the carrot! Everything could be finally be wonderful!
What works with diamonds works with people. Whatever you do, don’t flood the market. “In men who are hard,” wrote Nietzsche a hundred years ago, “intimacy involves shame — and is precious.” Same idea. If you’re a woman, say the Rules girls, “Don’t call him, and rarely return his calls.” My own mother cautioned me “Don’t be too available.”
During my predominantly sheltered adolescence, I had the opportunity to try out the strategy for myself. At the time I had a terrible crush on a boy in my youth group — he was a year older, and vaguely resembled Luke Skywalker. As has been the case all my life, the sheer tidal force of my emotions and hormones prevented me from being calculating around him; I was completely tongue-tied, if not visibly trembling, most of the time. Among the church boys my own age, however, for whom I felt only a mild filial affection, I became almost perverse as I experimented with totally constructed feminine roles, offering and then withdrawing my vivacious and counterfeit attentions. I was shameless. I even played them against each other, courting their jealousies, showing favor to first one and then the other. I learned how to make them chase the carrot — even though I had no romantic interest in them whatsoever. I was a junior bitch-in-training. I was learning how to be a Fascinating Woman Nouveau.
Of course, at that “long terrifying damnation” that is middle school, and around the boy I liked, I felt completely powerless; around these hapless peers I felt utterly powerful. It was a new and heady feeling, a rush. But when one of them, a strapping Korean boy built like a wrestler, threatened to become violent, I got scared and realized I may have gone too far.
I dropped the Fascinating act about a year before I dropped the religion. I could only endure so much soul-numbing dishonesty.
But I have seen amazing things done by FWNs. In college a quite average-looking, somewhat overweight woman I knew managed to bed a great many attractive, often younger, men. She was a power coquette. A carrot-dangler extraordinaire. And one of the most popular people in my senior class. As Mystery’s nebbishy acolytes will readily tell you, looks aren’t everything.
Nowadays I possess about the same level of finesse with the opposite sex as did economic whiz John Nash (Mr. “Beautiful Mind”), without the excuse of his genius. I’m about as mysterious as a brick in the face if I want you. “You are irresistible. Let us copulate.”
OK, maybe I don’t sound like one of the Coneheads, but that’s the gist of it. Thanks to the scarcity principle, it flies about as well as a lead kite. On the other hand, I have consistently found that when I’m sincerely uninterested, there are invariably would-be suitors I can’t shake no matter how fast I flee in the other direction. Unless I change my mind. That’s always a fun experiment, to turn the tables. It’s like charging at a charging dog. Then it turns into See Dick Run. Run, Dick, run!!!
Either way, AlienBaby gets no Dick.
Here’s me versus the kind of woman who can expect to get “results:”
FWN: You’re going to wear that shirt?
AlienBaby: You always look so good.
FWN: By the way, I ran into my ex at Starbucks.
AlienBaby: I don’t want anybody but you.
FWN: I may have some time a week from next Tuesday.
AlienBaby: Can I come over now?
This boneheaded, if ingenuous, directness has really only ever worked twice in my four decades on the planet. The first time, the man in question was a much older guy who was probably flattered that a young thing like me was interested in his surly old ass. It was a very brief affair. The other man I loved madly, and continue to love madly, although I do realize he can’t rectify my feeling ignored by my dad. He thinks my writing “blows the doors off,” even when I write crazy tell-all love missives. If he were a woman, I’d want him as one of my bestest girlfriends. So where is this gentleman now, you ask?
Rumor has it he’s off running after a carrot. Whether or not this is so, I must admit it’s taken everything I’ve got not to join in the chase.
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Fascinating Womanhood March 24, 2008
Tags: relationships, sex roles, social commentary, women
…was the title of a Christian self-help book for women written in the 1960s (and amazingly, still in print) about how to keep your man absolutely panting with love for you. A whole mini-movement emerged from it, and judging from the author’s Web site, classes are still held to this day. According to the FW philosophy, subservience, reverence, and flattery are essential to being the “right” sort of woman, as is (rather creepily, in my opinion) the ability to look and act like a little girl.
In 2008, the book’s retro ideas may be seen as ridiculously outdated by all but hardcore Christian conservatives, but the modus operandi of playing a predetermined role and pushing the right buttons doesn’t appear to have gone out of fashion. The major difference in today’s postfeminist universe is that too much appreciation of your intended will get you nowhere, and may even be detrimental to your goals. To borrow from the new millennium’s manifesto on manipulation, The Rules, one must present oneself as “a creature unlike any other.” Keep the focus on you, not him. And above all, be a special commodity in high demand.
In economic parlance, scarcity is the condition of human wants and needs exceeding production possibilities, or (in layman’s terms) availability. This drives up the value of a desired thing, which is why we pay so much for strawberries in January. They become a special, high-demand commodity when wants and needs exceed supply.
A psychological version of such scarcity is, I’ve concluded, the principle behind a wildly successful self-help book like The Rules, in which women are instructed to be strategically unavailable to their desired mate, and to cultivate an air of mystery. It’s also, incidentally, behind the winning routine of a male pickup artist who actually calls himself “Mystery,” and who advises otherwise schlubby men to deliver subtle insults to desirable women on first meeting, then to quickly move on.
If I could condense this sexual/romantic strategy into a single dictum, it would be make them chase the carrot. The proverbial carrot on the stick, that is, perennially just out of reach. Give them the tantalizing bait and withdraw; keep the scarce supply in demand.
Why does such a strategy work?
I imagine it’s thanks to our almost universally frustrating childhoods, in which certain needs were, unavoidably, not met by otherwise well-meaning parents and caretakers. Somehow those who withheld (or seemed to withhold) their attention, approval, or affection from us became, by default, the authority and measure of our worth. Yet we believed all along in our young hearts that if only we could get them to recognize us, then we would be whole, complete, happy at last. Scarcity created value, and the elusive dispensers of validation became the arbiters of our own value. If we could just catch the carrot! Everything could be finally be wonderful!
What works with diamonds works with people. Whatever you do, don’t flood the market. “In men who are hard,” wrote Nietzsche a hundred years ago, “intimacy involves shame — and is precious.” Same idea. If you’re a woman, say the Rules girls, “Don’t call him, and rarely return his calls.” My own mother cautioned me “Don’t be too available.”
During my predominantly sheltered adolescence, I had the opportunity to try out the strategy for myself. At the time I had a terrible crush on a boy in my youth group — he was a year older, and vaguely resembled Luke Skywalker. As has been the case all my life, the sheer tidal force of my emotions and hormones prevented me from being calculating around him; I was completely tongue-tied, if not visibly trembling, most of the time. Among the church boys my own age, however, for whom I felt only a mild filial affection, I became almost perverse as I experimented with totally constructed feminine roles, offering and then withdrawing my vivacious and counterfeit attentions. I was shameless. I even played them against each other, courting their jealousies, showing favor to first one and then the other. I learned how to make them chase the carrot — even though I had no romantic interest in them whatsoever. I was a junior bitch-in-training. I was learning how to be a Fascinating Woman Nouveau.
Of course, at that “long terrifying damnation” that is middle school, and around the boy I liked, I felt completely powerless; around these hapless peers I felt utterly powerful. It was a new and heady feeling, a rush. But when one of them, a strapping Korean boy built like a wrestler, threatened to become violent, I got scared and realized I may have gone too far.
I dropped the Fascinating act about a year before I dropped the religion. I could only endure so much soul-numbing dishonesty.
But I have seen amazing things done by FWNs. In college a quite average-looking, somewhat overweight woman I knew managed to bed a great many attractive, often younger, men. She was a power coquette. A carrot-dangler extraordinaire. And one of the most popular people in my senior class. As Mystery’s nebbishy acolytes will readily tell you, looks aren’t everything.
Nowadays I possess about the same level of finesse with the opposite sex as did economic whiz John Nash (Mr. “Beautiful Mind”), without the excuse of his genius. I’m about as mysterious as a brick in the face if I want you. “You are irresistible. Let us copulate.”
OK, maybe I don’t sound like one of the Coneheads, but that’s the gist of it. Thanks to the scarcity principle, it flies about as well as a lead kite. On the other hand, I have consistently found that when I’m sincerely uninterested, there are invariably would-be suitors I can’t shake no matter how fast I flee in the other direction. Unless I change my mind. That’s always a fun experiment, to turn the tables. It’s like charging at a charging dog. Then it turns into See Dick Run. Run, Dick, run!!!
Either way, AlienBaby gets no Dick.
Here’s me versus the kind of woman who can expect to get “results:”
FWN: You’re going to wear that shirt?
AlienBaby: You always look so good.
FWN: By the way, I ran into my ex at Starbucks.
AlienBaby: I don’t want anybody but you.
FWN: I may have some time a week from next Tuesday.
AlienBaby: Can I come over now?
This boneheaded, if ingenuous, directness has really only ever worked twice in my four decades on the planet. The first time, the man in question was a much older guy who was probably flattered that a young thing like me was interested in his surly old ass. It was a very brief affair. The other man I loved madly, and continue to love madly, although I do realize he can’t rectify my feeling ignored by my dad. He thinks my writing “blows the doors off,” even when I write crazy tell-all love missives. If he were a woman, I’d want him as one of my bestest girlfriends. So where is this gentleman now, you ask?
Rumor has it he’s off running after a carrot. Whether or not this is so, I must admit it’s taken everything I’ve got not to join in the chase.
Like this: