I have been thinking a lot about the origin and purpose of flirting recently, as well as its expression in language as a creative and literary act. To my mind, flirting is best described as a primitive instinct expressed through cultural filters. The primitive behaviour is sexual interest in a partner, and the cultural filter is a means of expressing this interest which is both socially acceptable and allows the actor to manage the risk of rejection.
There are many obvious examples in nature of behaviours which indicate readiness and willingness to mate. The peacock’s fan, bird song, all kinds of dances. Some are highly elaborate to the point of weirdness. The male giraffe for example rubs the female’s rump with his neck till she pees. He then drinks the pee to discern whether or not she is in heat.
Such behaviour would never do in polite human society. For us, sexual behaviours are subject to strict taboos. Sexual relations necessarily involve such powerful and disruptive instincts that they threaten social cohesion. We are not great citizens when in the grip of lust, and there is always the underlying issue of competition. If someone else is having sex with a partner, then you, almost necessarily, are not.
It therefore becomes necessary to temper displays of sexual interest to make them more socially acceptable. This involves inventing a secondary language of attraction which can be decoded only by those who are tuned into that attraction. Hence the entire repertoire of hair flicking, smiling, gazing, head tilting, etc.
But we also flirt when we are alone with our partner, suggesting that it is not solely the result of conformity to social mores. There is of course a lot to be gained and lost in the expression of sexual interest. Sex is after all the greatest prize in all evolution. But our culture too bestows high status on those who win and retain a partner.
Anxiety over rejection in a potential sexual encounter also explains why flirting takes the form of a subtle and ambiguous language. Flirting has been called ‘intention without intention’. That hair flick may be a come on. But it may equally be just a hair flick. And expert flirters will dial up and down the volume of their signals depending on the feedback that they receive.
A final word. The language of literature, and of poetry in particular, has a lot in common with flirting. Irony, ambiguity, symbol, metaphor - all of these literary devices allow the expression of multiple meanings at once. Through expert use of these devices, authors mask, filter and proliferate their intentions, leaving the discerning reader in the position of divining their design. Or lack of it.
This is one reason why, in the service of desire, linguistic intelligence may be the most effective trait, albeit one which must find its mirror in a partner who can speak the same language.
It also explains why flirting can become an end in itself. Couples in the isolation of their nuptial suite, partners who have been together for years, can and do still flirt. Here, I would argue, the behaviour has become motivating in itself. It has lost its exclusive status as an instrument of seduction and become instead a joyous game in which the promise of meaning may or may not be present. Just like poetry.
There are many obvious examples in nature of behaviours which indicate readiness and willingness to mate. The peacock’s fan, bird song, all kinds of dances. Some are highly elaborate to the point of weirdness. The male giraffe for example rubs the female’s rump with his neck till she pees. He then drinks the pee to discern whether or not she is in heat.
Such behaviour would never do in polite human society. For us, sexual behaviours are subject to strict taboos. Sexual relations necessarily involve such powerful and disruptive instincts that they threaten social cohesion. We are not great citizens when in the grip of lust, and there is always the underlying issue of competition. If someone else is having sex with a partner, then you, almost necessarily, are not.
It therefore becomes necessary to temper displays of sexual interest to make them more socially acceptable. This involves inventing a secondary language of attraction which can be decoded only by those who are tuned into that attraction. Hence the entire repertoire of hair flicking, smiling, gazing, head tilting, etc.
But we also flirt when we are alone with our partner, suggesting that it is not solely the result of conformity to social mores. There is of course a lot to be gained and lost in the expression of sexual interest. Sex is after all the greatest prize in all evolution. But our culture too bestows high status on those who win and retain a partner.
Anxiety over rejection in a potential sexual encounter also explains why flirting takes the form of a subtle and ambiguous language. Flirting has been called ‘intention without intention’. That hair flick may be a come on. But it may equally be just a hair flick. And expert flirters will dial up and down the volume of their signals depending on the feedback that they receive.
A final word. The language of literature, and of poetry in particular, has a lot in common with flirting. Irony, ambiguity, symbol, metaphor - all of these literary devices allow the expression of multiple meanings at once. Through expert use of these devices, authors mask, filter and proliferate their intentions, leaving the discerning reader in the position of divining their design. Or lack of it.
This is one reason why, in the service of desire, linguistic intelligence may be the most effective trait, albeit one which must find its mirror in a partner who can speak the same language.
It also explains why flirting can become an end in itself. Couples in the isolation of their nuptial suite, partners who have been together for years, can and do still flirt. Here, I would argue, the behaviour has become motivating in itself. It has lost its exclusive status as an instrument of seduction and become instead a joyous game in which the promise of meaning may or may not be present. Just like poetry.
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