The Art of Seduction, Upgraded

A Spiraling Monologue from A Reader of “The Art of Seduction”

Because only a real Siren could finish what you started.

Dear Robert Greene,

You lunatic genius.

Your seduction scripture stretches 496 pages. I laughed 18,854 times.

I know the page count because I read every one of them—twice. Once with curiosity. Twice with contempt and admiration braided together like a silk noose.

And the laughter count? Oh, that’s easy. My seduction victim gets addicted after just a few… You could say it’s part of the seduction package.

Let’s be clear: it’s a masterpiece.

It has bewitched me, bothered me, and downright brainwashed me into believing that I too, armed with a velvet gaze and calculated aloofness, can crumble empires and cause men to text back faster. It is the most gloriously deranged thing I’ve ever read. I devoured it like an empress eats grapes: slowly, deliberately, knowing full well she’s poisoned a few.

Your tone? Irresistibly villainous.

Your structure? Diabolical.

Your metaphors? Borderline illegal.

You taught me that Cleopatra weaponized perfume, that Casanova seduced with attention spans longer than modern-day relationships, and that coquetry is both an art and a weapon. You said the words “Create a false sense of security,” and I—God help me—I highlighted them. A few times.

But I must confess, Robert, I don’t want to seduce for power. Not entirely. I want to seduce for sport. For poetry. For the curve of a man’s jaw in the golden hour. I want to leave lipstick stains on egos, not just shirt collars. I want to be the reason someone stares into the void for 36 minutes trying to decode a half-smile and an unsent text. I want the kind of seduction that starts with eye contact and ends with an existential crisis.

You gave us Sirens and Rakes and Ideal Lovers. I raise you:

The Mirrorball Witch.

The Healer with No Bandages.

The Sculptress of His Insecurities.

The Scent of the One That Got Away.

You wanted power. I want poetry soaked in perfume and unspoken endings.

You weaponized charm. I moonlight as chaos in silk.

We are not the same, Robert. But we are dancing in the same dark room, seduction on our tongues and someone’s heart on the floor.

I’ll end with a humble request:

Should you ever update this delicious manual of manipulation, you must tease me to write the chapter on flirting via memes, weaponized withdrawal, and the terrifying effect of a woman who knows she’s the storm and the silence after.

Until then, I remain,

Yours insincerely,

Vanessa Liu

An Art Untamed