The Sex Stare

Try this. Next time you and a woman are walking toward each other, make eye contact and lock it in. Don’t glance away bashfully to return to the scene of the oracular crime. Don’t blink, wink, or unlink your pupils from hers. Dive into her vitreous orbs with a strong, unrelenting, remorseless stare. Not a psychostare. No, no, not like that. No deathbrow furrows or judgmental squints. No wide-open, twitchy, soul-sucking Manson gaze. No salacious leer. Just a confidently casually neutral stare of visual assessment, as if she were a sunset dipping below the ocean horizon, or an odd splotch of graffiti in an unlikely place.

One other thing. If you can hitch the tiniest hint of an approving smile to your stare, all the better.

You will notice something wonderful when you do this. No woman can resist returning your stare. She will relinquish her eyes to the noose of your iris, and won’t try to wriggle free. An inflamed rush of arousal will course through her capillaries instantly, even if you aren’t her “type”. The sex stare, as I call it, isn’t about seductive flirting so much as it is about impudent masculinity — the assertion of visual entitlement and dominance over the female. The dominance is subtextual, a refracted signal of high sexual market value that prompts an equal and complementary reaction; a locked stare is rarely broken by the woman, intolerant as she is to preempting her conscription into a moment of spellbinding pleasure.

A gripping sex stare takes a little practice to get right. Newbs will walk close to the creep line. You will have to battle the urge to look away or break visual rapport with a goofy grin or a flustered introduction. Once you avoid the obvious try-hard pitfalls, it’s a simple task to land the sex stare with a natural’s composure.

The more you do it, the more positively intrigued return stares you’ll get from women. It’s lasciviously linear. This will grow your scrote three sizes, and then you will want to graduate to the big boys’ broadroom: at the threshold, when shoulder-to-shoulder, convert your sex stare into a strategically platonic opener. The contrast between pregnant eyeplay and pallid wordplay will drive your mark to the brink of Tinglegeddon. Contrast is king.