I am a huge fan of James Bond, both the literary and film versions. Why ? Because he is one of my kind. He draws universal admiration where ever he goes. Women want to be with him and men want to be him. No wonder he operates at a whirlwind speed. The fuel 007 is receiving must be ultra grade, super refined, mega potent fuel. I can feel myself surging just at the thought of being him. He draws women in within a matter of moments, deploying a range of seduction techniques that have been highly polished from repeated practice and his expert observation of people. He goes from meets to sheets in sixty seconds. He is some boy. He never holds on to the particular woman as another one will soon be along to furnish him with further admiration and affection.

Bond loves his gadgets and conforms with our objectification focus. He clearly belongs in our gang when he derives more enjoyment from a pen which turns into a laser than he does in hunkering down for a night in watching a soap with a long term partner. See how his eyes widen with delight when Q unveils to him a watch which also doubles as an explosive. He appreciates perfection and expert craftsmanship. From his Turnbull and Asser suits to his Walther PPK and then to the high quality motor vehicles which he drives at a reckless speed.

He has no concept of boundaries. He will join a card game without invitation, enter the villain’s lair through a series of destructive acts and thinks nothing of stealing a lady away from a competitor. He even breaks into M’s home and tinkers with her laptop. His addictive qualities come to the fore in the appearance of copious vodka martinis and his serial womanising. He regards everyone around him as inferior and has no difficulty in offing anyone who is of no use to him or gets in his way. His sense of entitlement is massive. He will go where he wants, have any woman that he desires and shoot anybody that tries to confront him without a second’s hesitation.

His self-confidence is off the scale. In Die Another Day he struts into a hotel in Hong Kong looking like Robinson Crusoe but does so with the air of a man tailored in an expensive dinner jacket. In the Moonraker novel,Bond attends a club, Blades with M and imagines the clientele regarding him as a ‘tough looking individual’ and ‘not the usual chap one sees in Blades’. Is he not using them as reflectors?

Ultimately, anyone with the motto ‘The World is Not Enough’ can only be one of my kind.

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I am a product of those that I purposefully draw into my fabricated world. It is through those that are caught in my web that I find some semblance of identity. At this current moment in time, I know of several people who I take from to give me a sense of being. If I did not do this I would feel empty, vapid and lost.

In a session with Dr E he asked me to describe who I am. For a moment I was seized with panic as I scrambled to try and answer him. It only lasted a moment but it was very unpleasant. I felt like I was falling from a bridge ,plunging towards the abyss as my stomach churned. Thankfully my swift mind came to my rescue. I realised that I had slipped into Dr E’s trap of striving to give him a truthful answer. Somehow he has begun to cause me to always consider the truth when I am asked a question by him. I am not sure how this has happened. Has he been putting some kind of serum in my drink? Is that possible or just something from spy films? I will have to remember to investigate that. If he is, is that ethical? Well, whatever it is he is doing, he is not ahead of me. Not at all. My initial panic at trying to give a truthful answer vanished as my metaphoric parachute opened and I smiled inwardly as I floated to safety. You are not catching me out Dr E.

Instead I explained who I am. This was easy. I am the beautiful, considerate lover (that is supplied by the beautiful, considerate Kim who is the current beneficiary of my affections). I am the keen-eyed marksman (supplied by that brilliant marksman Steven, one of my closest friends). I am the successful businessman and dynamic motivator of people (the former from my boss Julia and the latter from a member of my team Eric). I am the engaging polymath who lights up dinner parties (that is provided by the cerebral monster that is Paul) and I am the loyal, understanding friend (courtesy of Tania). I was rapidly able to assemble all those parts which I have relied on to create my own self and convey that to Dr E. He said nothing as I listed these attributes, his pen moving smoothly across the page in his black and red notebook.

I did not admit this to Dr E but I rely on these people to create the essence of me. That is the easiest way for me to exist and survive. Are we not all a product of those we associate with? I think so. I need these people who I render to the status of props to provide my sense of self. I do not regard them as separate tome, but rather part of me, that is why they were drawn to me in the first place. They saw in me the traits they possess and they wanted to meld those two similarities together to create something more powerful and potent. They prop up my self.

I sat back in the comfortable chair in Dr E’s study and gave a nod of contentment. I had given him the answer and he could go and add it to his growing portfolio of information about me, I wonder what conclusion he might draw from my answers? I am proud of my ability to attract and utilise similarly brilliant people. After all, which actor has never used a prop in his or her performance?

I still remember with breathtaking clarity the first time I fell in love. I was 17 and there was a girl in my class called Amanda. She was tall, gamine and with a slightly upturned nose. Her hair was blonde and long, always sweeping behind her.. She always seemed to be hurrying from one place to the next, yet she did so with a measured glide that made her seem somehow ethereal. I would stand and watch her as she bustled along the corridor in college, her hockey stick poking from her bag and apologies issued from that enticing mouth as the stick bumped against people. I would position myself in class so I could look at her without her noticing. I sat at seven o’clock to her and I drank in her frame as it was hunched over the desk, those long fingers gripping her fountain pen, the blue ink staining her index finger. How I loved her slender wrists which would often be turned towards me, the skin slightly paler than the rest of her sun-kissed self. Her figure was athletic, her skin lightly tanned and there was always a clean scent about her. Whenever she passed me I would breathe in as deep as I could to savour every molecule of her fragrance that washed over me. I would lie in bed, my eyes closed and invent scenarios for us to meet and spend time together. I imagined protecting her from those that would seek to defile such a precious person as I knew full well of the darkness that lurked waiting to trap someone as pure as her. I knew my kind and what went on in our minds.I masturbated frenetically conjuring up images of her naked frame enveloped around mine, her soft lips pressed onto my cheek. I could not resist the allure she exhibited yet I cursed myself after my climax for allowing me to think of her in this way.Occasionally she would smile at me and leave me dizzy with elation.

Carefully I built up a portfolio of information about her. There was no internet to aid me then and my intelligence was gathered through a combination of observation and discrete questioning of her friends. I knew where she lived, in a small town along from mine and her bedroom was at the front of the house above the main entrance. She often rode a bike and on a Saturday morning she would go horse riding. I learned she was a fan of Duran Duran and had something of a crush on Simon le Bon when she had been in her younger teens. I knew she enjoyed playing a lot of sport and her favourite drink was Vimto. Little by little I noted all of this down and then memorised it in readiness of the day that we spoke. I envisaged how I might ask her to go on a date with me. I thought about the two of us going to see a film together, something a little scary so that those delightful fingers might reach out and grab mine by way of reassurance. I wondered if she could ice skate and if not how she could hold onto me as we moved about the rink. I longed to hold her hand and let my fingers caress her clean, clean skin.

I never saw any evidence of a boyfriend although I knew from what other lads in the class said that they fancied her. Inside I churned when I heard them refer to her in a sexual fashion. She was not theirs to be spoken of in that way and during history lessons I would plot how I would cause those leering fools to suffer for their graphic slurring of my beautiful Amanda.

All through that first year of sixth form college I loved her with a noble purity and never spoke to anyone of how I felt about her, but I knew that it was love. How could this powerful sensation I felt each time I saw her, heard her or smelt her, be anything else? The summer holiday was a painful hiatus and my sporadic passes of her home never produced a glimpse of Amanda. I once walked up to the front door and nearly posted a note through her letterbox, but my nerve failed me and I retreated down the path.

Once Autumn arrived and with it the start of the upper sixth, I returned to college with expectant enthusiasm. As I settled into my usual seat and waited for her to glide into the class room I wondered if she had changed much over the summer holiday. The teacher arrived and commenced the lesson, but there was no Amanda. She made no appearance all that week. Nor the next. My sleep was fragmented with concern as to her whereabouts and eventually I asked our form tutor. He explained that her family had moved abroad over the summer owing to her father’s job. He did not know the exact whereabouts. My fury at losing her was monumental but I kept it within, as I had been taught, not wanting the world to know of the agony that I bore. I tried to ascertain where she had gone but my questions bore no fruit.

The decades have passed and I have looked for her again and again. I have used technology to try and locate her but there has been nothing. Her name may have changed and thus she eludes me. I have checked her old friends’ profiles to see if she is amongst their friends but she remains elusive. I have had to carry the burden of my lost love all this time and though I have sought sanctuary in the soft embrace of countless ladies, each time hoping that Amanda will appear to me through their embrace or their fragrance, every time I am left broken and bitterly disappointed. None of them come close to that angel which graced my class room. None of them equal her purity and grace,her unsullied manner and gracious movements.My love for Amanda was perfect and I feared it could never be matched. Each and every time they show such promise and every time they leave me disappointed and full of bile as they fall monstrously short of her perfection. I will not give up on my angel, I never shall, for it is with her that I shall find salvation.

There once was a girlfriend of mine called Lesley. My preferred method of gathering fuel from her and also manipulating her was to call her It. This was extremely demeaning and in line with my worldview that people are just objects and appliances to do things for me. You may be an admiring appliance, you may be an accommodating appliance and run around for me. Alternatively you may be an enabling appliance providing me with what I want. A person is an appliance is an object. I was able to reinforce this especially with Lesley. I did not do it all the time. This would have diluted its effect. I would however be consistent in its application however. In some respects it was a half-way house to the Silent Treatment as I was not acknowledging her completely, I was belittling her but not quite ignoring her totally. The fact I was talking about her made her feel as if she had to respond and thus I got what I was looking for; a reaction.

I would start first thing in the morning. As ever, I was awake first as I had had a refreshing night’s sleep, the sleep of the just. She had probably lay awake for a few hours after I turned my back on her when she wanted to make love. She knew better than to pester me though. As I lay on my elbow looking at her freckled face, she would blink into wakefulness. Her blue eyes would meet mine and I would see the hope surge in them as she knew I was looking at her.

“Ah,it is awake,” I would  smile maintaining my gaze. The hope immediately became crushed and although she tried to hide it, I could see my blow had landed.

“Oh don’t do that please, it is horrible,” she would say pleasantly.

“It seems to have something to say. It always has,” I would remark. She would shake her head.

“Please, stop it, you know I don’t like it when you do that.”

“It wants us to stop. It always wants its own way.”

“No I don’t.”

“It is getting annoyed now. It is always loses its temper.”

“Pack it in.” She would rise from the bed and make for the shower. I would hover nearby and give a running commentary.

“It is washing itself using the shower gel we bought for it. It likes to smell nice.”

“It is washing its hair now. It is trying to wash the guilt away. It reeks of it.”

Lesley would try to ignore the comments but I knew from her sighs and the slumping of the shoulders it was getting to her. Having subjected her to maybe fifteen minutes of commenting on what she was doing, I shifted the tack and began to use this technique in a more suggestive fashion.

“It ought to wear a pencil skirt and blouse today. It does not want to look too sloppy even if it is a Friday.”

Lesley would pick out the suggested outfit. I knew why she did it. She felt that by making this suggestion, even though I was still calling her it, it showed I was interested in her and she lapped it up. She completely missed that this was what I wanted her to do for me and was nothing to do with being interested in her.

“It really ought to cook breakfast as we must not go hungry.”

“It would do well to ensure the shopping is done before we return this evening.”

“It should remember we are going out tonight and it is not invited.”

She would depart for work, bristling but not wanting to escalate matters. My technique would continue through the day. I would telephone her and ask,

“Is it busy?”

“Yes I am, so now you are talking to me are you?”

“It wants to know if we are talking to it. Now we are not.” I would put the phone down.

By evening she would be pleading with me to stop it, tears welling in her eyes. Lesley had had enough of my objectification which was sustained and cutting through out the day. As I picked up my wallet in readiness to heading out with my friends, without her, I would turn and say,

“I am going out now. I will see you later.”

The smile that erupted across her face was immense as I had dropped the It commentary.

“Okay, have a good time,” she would answer pleasantly.

“I will. Bye Karen.”

I never looked over my shoulder but I knew how using the wrong name would hurt her.

Learn more about how the narcissist is manipulating you. Knowledge is power.

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