I have always been a fan of red-headed women. Oh and blonde-haired ones too. Of course I love brunettes as well. From deep auburn to fiery titian, platinum blonde to ash blonde, chestnut to raven black I love them all. Show me red-gold, mahogany, black brown, highlights or lowlights they all work for me. Long hair, short hair, cropped, bobbed, straight or curly. I love them all. I recall on one occasion talking with a female friend who I had designs on. We were sat in the café of an art gallery and the topic moved onto hair. She asked me what was my favourite type of hair colour.

“Oh raven black,most definitely, I shot back without even pausing to think.”

She smiled and raised a hand to push it through her raven black locks. If the waitress had come over and asked the same question then I would have said blonde as I gazed at her short bobbed blonde hair. On other occasions I might get asked this by someone else and naturally I would tell them my favourite. Lo and behold it just happened to be the same as the one she had.

“You are just saying that because it is my colour,” she responded.

“No, it is my absolute favourite. All of my previous girlfriends had strawberry blonde hair.”

“Really? I thought the one before me was a brunette. I saw a picture of her.”

“Oh her? No, no, she was not my girlfriend. Goodness me no, she was just a friend. Admittedly we did lock lips a couple of times, but it was nothing, she was a tad obsessed if you really must know.”

“Was she? I am sure you referred to her as your girlfriend.”

“You must have her confused with an earlier one maybe. No, always been ladies with strawberry blonde hair, it is a particular weakness of mine.”

If she had green hair with blue dots in it I would have said the exact same thing. Sometimes these comments have been said so many times but with the appropriate alterations that I cannot help but say them. Occasionally, if my target has some awareness and has been listening, I might contradict myself but I have enough charm and evasiveness to get out of the situation.

Hair colours and hair styles are such a useful device for currying favour with a target or by contrast upsetting them. When all is well in the world and we are enjoying our golden period, then whatever you do to your hair I love it. You can colour it, put in extensions or even shave it all off. I will always tell you how beautiful you look because that is what you want to hear. With every visit to the hairdresser’s a lady wants that compliment. I have seen you sashaying back from a visit to the salon and parading before me. I will be effusive in my praise, espousing how natural it looks, how the colour sets off your eyes and the shape frames your face magnificently. I have a whole list of suitably complimentary comments to churn out when you return with your new ‘do’.

The stock that a lady places in the power of a new hair style or hair cut is such that it really makes it too easy to gather some negative fuel. I can tell you are really happy with this new style and you are just waiting for the compliments. Not today. Why should it be all about you and your new hairstyle? What about me? I look after my hair too and have it cut every twelve days so it always looks smart, but do you say anything? No. You regard a man and his hair as purely something of function. You on the other hand regard the colour and style as an opportunity to express yourself. Feel free because I am only too happy to rain on your parade and make that sleek do go frizzy. I will frown and peer at your new hairstyle.

“What’s wrong?” you ask as your triumphant smile vanishes.

“It does not suit you.”

“Why? How? Roger at the salon said it was very me.”

“Well he would when you spend that ridiculous sum of money there. It does not suit you. It makes your face look too….severe.”

“Are you serious?”

Damn right I am serious. This is about getting some lovely fuel from you and this is too good an opportunity to pass up. Whereas once I rolled out the barrage of compliments, I now issue my damning verdict on how wrong the colour is, it is too short, too long, too voluminous. I will pick fault and soon have you running from the room to the bedroom to cry and try and alter it. You bring it on yourselves you know, you really do.


I have always used the love letter as a method of building my connections with my target. I first started at school when one would write a short note and pass it across the class to the object of one’s affection. With a sideways glance I would watch as she would open the piece of paper up and smile before nudging her friend sat besides her and both would look my way with a smile and a giggle. Ah, from such acorns did my prowess with the billet-doux grow.

Those early ‘romances’ which in truth lasted little more than a month or so before we moved on to someone else gave way to the first proper girlfriend and then more meaningful correspondences sprang up. I remember during the Easter holidays in my penultimate year at school I engaged in an exchange of letters with a young lady who lived in a village a little way from where I lived. She would write a letter and I would receive it the next day. I immediately wrote a reply and she would receive it thenext day. Back and forth our letters went. Of course we had no such thing as Instant Messenger or text messages. E-mail was in its infancy and was certainly not something that was used from home. I remember she wrote on light green paper placed inside a green envelope. It certainly stood out when it arrived on the doormat in the morning. I of course responded by writing (no use of typewriter or word processor back then) on crisp white paper of a decent thickness which would be folded into a third and inserted into an envelope. I still have her letters along with all of the others that I have received. Once in a while I will remove the box from its place of secretion and sit and rifle through the contents. I have no real interest in the content or returning to those moments, I may do it in front of my current partner in order to provoke a reaction from her.

Those early letters exchanged that Easter began as exchanges about what we had been doing each day, talking about other’s friends and then began a mild flirtation. We ended up as girlfriend and boyfriend after the letter writing. This earned me considerable kudos with my peers since the girl in question was held up as one of the most desirable in the year (although looking back I suspect much of that was to do with the fact that she arrived in our first year well-developed for her age). I recall when we went to watch a particular film about Viet Nam at the cinema on of our dates she told me,

“You are not my usual type. I usually go for older boys but I loved what you wrote to me. Nobody has done that before.”

Whilst I cannot of course lay claim to be the only person who has written a love letter, it became apparent that it had become something of a dying art. I do not mean silly notes in class or something that resembles little more than an extract from a diary. Instead I am referring to the sweeping, grand, romantic proclamations of love and desire. Vulgarity is not allowed in these poetic pieces of literature, instead should one wish to express a physical need for coupling then the application of euphemism and analogy came to the fore.

I honed my craft corresponding with girlfriends from university. Invariably we came from different parts of the country and therefore during holidays we wrote to one another. I used this as an opportunity to sharpen my skills and polish my prose. The upshot was that thereafter although there was no real need to write to one another (we lived in the same place or even together) the production of a love letter left on a pillow or placed by a prepared breakfast on the dining table worked magically as a method of seduction.

I had a template of about five differing types of letter and have used them on several different ladies. I would copy them word for word with suitable alterations mutatis mutandis to cater for differences in appearance or demeanour. These crafted missives were powerful indeed. They created strong connections between my target and I. The content was such the lady in question would always be swept off her feet and of course when those loving words became barbed and thorny, she would retreat to where she kept them and weep over the beauty contained in those first letters. Knowing that these letters would be clutched in a shaking hand as the tears rolled down her cheeks however  many weeks down the line was edifying indeed.

I still use them. In a world governed by technology, text speak and the immediacy of communication, the provision of a hand-written billet-doux has a tremendous effect.

I have written previously about Ever Presence. This is a deliberate state that we create so that you repeatedly think about us. We weave into your lives a number of triggers that affect each and every sense. When we are not there then something will trigger and a memory of me will flood into your mind with the associated euphoria of that once wonderful moment. This serves a purpose in causing you to want to be with me and making you susceptible to the inevitable Hoover.

One of my trademark steps is to use a form of this Ever Presence at the outset of a relationship. I will select a particular fragrance applicable to the newly acquired target. A recent example was the use of Chanel Allure Homme Sport. When my bottle of fragrance is running low I do not use it all up but I go and buy another bottle. Then when I select a target I choose an applicable fragrance that is to be used in my seduction and ensnarement of them. Accordingly, I would always wear Chanel Allure which my target would naturally compliment me on and she would naturally associate with me. After three or so encounters at an opportune moment when she remarks on how good I smell I will give her the bottle with a little fragrance left in it.

“Here, take this,” I offer, “you can spray it on a scarf so you can always smell it an feel near to me.”

This gesture is always met with thanks and a warm smile. The target thinks that she is being granted admittance into part of my world with that small gift. Of course she is utterly unaware that I am sliding a tendril around her as I present this token. She goes away happy and I of course have created another connection. The sense of smell is a great evoker of memory and emotion. I know it will not be long before I receive that first text confirming that my use of this technique has proven successful. Sure enough that evening my ‘phone alerts me to a text message.

“I am lying on my bed holding a scarf to my face and drinking in your scent. How I wish you were here with me.”

Later still.

“It is dark. I cannot see you or hear you but I know you are here with me. All I do is drink deep of your scent and I can feel you next to me.”

After a day or two of deliberate incommunicado.

“I miss you. I have the scarf pressed to my nose. You are here but you are not. I need you. Please call me.”

In order to ensure that my target becomes subsumed into my world and is malleable to my manipulative wiles I need to ensure I am present as often as possible. Technology has made this task far easier than it used to be, but the seemingly thoughtful gesture of the provision of a near empty bottle of scent works wonders. It is a significant step towards conquest and victory. I have a further target in my sights so I need to allocate a sense to her. I think this time it will be Truth by Calvin Klein. That seems apt somehow.


I remember when I was younger that I would fall in love so quickly with the objects of my desire. To me there was nothing untoward about this. I found someone who had so many attributes that I admired and loved that it was entirely conceivable that I would fall head over heels in love with them. People often speak about love at first sight. I was a great believer in that phrase as it happened to me time and time again. I could not help but feel that way. It would never last however and I soon found myself falling in love with somebody else. They appeared to me and instantly I wanted them. I was infatuated with making them mine. I wanted to please them so they would love me back in the same intense way that I loved them. I would say the most wonderful things to them and they would thank me and tell me how talented I was at writing down poems for them or with the way I would convey how I felt about them. I loved to hear this praise. I would sit and think about new ways I could get this new love of mine to think highly of me. I would concoct fresh ways of impressing them. I regularly would invent stories about the things that I had done in order to produce that amazed look and then lap up the marvellous things that they would say to me.

After a while I found that they did not say the praise as often. It became harder and harder to think of new things to say and do to draw this reaction from them. I found this unfair. Surely they realised and recognised my talent and brilliance, I knew they did because they had remarked upon it, but why did they not continue to do so? Why did I sometimes even become tired of hearing them say the same thing to me? As soon as I found the effect was less I would be off to hunt down someone new. It was easy enough. At sixth form college and then university I was immersed in a pool of intelligent, engaging ladies by the hundreds and then thousands. I merely had to place my net in the water and in moments I would catch somebody from whom I could then gather this praise and admiration I needed. I found that it yielded results for me if I had more than one girlfriend on the go at once. There were a couple of close calls and sometimes the tearful questioning I was subjected to when they became suspicious of my evasiveness or other behaviour, would take place. I felt no shame or guilt in doing this. I wanted the attention of two ladies (sometimes more). Indeed on certain nights out at university I would make it my mission to see how many I could ‘pull’ and then bask in the warmth of their admiration. When the tearful inquisitions took place I realised I was not bothered at all by their distress. I just did not care. In fact,I realised I enjoyed the fact that they were getting upset over me. I found the fact that I had made them react in this way rather edifying. I would then go out of my way to upset one girlfriend whilst adoring the other. A few times I did used to wonder if this was normal. A couple of my friends had long-term girlfriends and when we spoke they assured me they had always been faithful to them. I did not believe them. Surely they did as I did? That was part of being young and learning wasn’t it? Trying out new partners to see who you fitted with best. I just had not found the ‘one’. I often believed I had done so as when a new prospect came into view I found myself drawn to them by the most powerful force. I needed to ensure they felt the same way. I had to make them want me too. I found I was very able at doing this, my natural magnetism and charm enabling me to seduce these ladies with ease.

The more women I seduced the stronger I felt. I was all-conquering. I saw someone, felt an instant connection and went after them. It did not matter if I was seeing someone already, this new person was obviously a better fit for me, otherwise why would I feel so strongly about them? It just happened to be the case that every time someone better was available and I went after them. Was it the case that my existing girlfriend was inferior or had I become bored of her? Perhaps it was a bit of both. Either way I did not ponder long on this state of affairs, there was too much to do. Too many women to bring into my life, too much admiration and praise to extract from them and the need, always the need to put them down as well, to show them who was in charge and have them weeping as I chastised them for the smallest of transgressions. No matter how much I punished them they still wanted to be with me. I had always been told I was special and this confirmed this to me. If I was not brilliant why on earth would someone who has just been called every name under the sun still want to be with me and be my girlfriend? They knew they were on to something good.

This through those early years of college and university I moved hither and zither as I gathered conquest after conquest. It was intoxicating. I was addicted to hunting these ladies down, drawing them into my world and then seeing how long they would hang around once I tired of them and began to put them down. I would keep a list of the names and the time periods, compiling this chart and seeing the list become longer and feeling powerful.

Of course back then I was not aware of what was really happening. To me this was all that mattered. This was what life was all about. The hedonism and admiration that came with it. I loved it. This was the beginning of my life-long attraction to fuel.