My name is Kitty Cavalier.
I am a full time seductress. In my world, seduction has nothing to do with manipulation. It’s a spiritual practice. A way of life. And it changes everything.
Seduction used to intimidate the pants off of me.
I felt inept at the sensual arts, hated my body, and thought the only two wardrobe choices for my future were a nun’s habit or mom jeans.
It conjured images of whores and bitches; vapid bombshells and evil Disney queens, cackling as they stole someone’s man. I thought it meant losing 20 pounds, never passing gas, having perfect hair, and shapeshifting into whatever other people wanted me to be. It triggered generations-old conditioning and fear about my own sensual power, as a woman.
That may be what we are led to believe, but what I am here on this page and on this earth to tell you: is that there is a lot more to the story than what you have been told.
My darlings, listen up:
Every woman, whether she knows it or not, is a seductress.
Most of us are taught that the measure of our seductive power is how good we look in a bikini. Yawn.
Your inner, sacred seductress is a powerhouse creature. She’s a free-thinker. She’s playful — but never plays games. She’s flirtatious and bold. Irresistible and independent. Captivating, confident, and charismatic. Here’s the truth: you don’t have to change a thing to be seductive. Quite the contrary: the source of your seductive power is your willingness to flaunt exactly who you are — unapologetically, uncensored, and with gusto.
A sacred seductress is a Femme Vitale. She embraces her erotic power and uses it to bring life, joy, live and pleasure to everything she encounters. The original seductresses were no two-bit tootsies. They were smart, empowered rule breakers who lived life on their own terms, and set their compass north according to their own pleasure and desire. They were the original feminists, and it’s high time we bring their genius back.
I’m here to help you feel sexy again (or for the first time). To live each day with flamboyant authenticity. To surrender, get vulnerable, and break the floodgates. To ahhh and moan a little more, every day. To un-shame, slow down, luxuriate, and love yourself — right now, without changing a thing.
In my world, seduction has nothing to do with pick-up artistry or putting on a persona. These things may draw attention like roadside flares, but just as quickly, their fire burns out.
Sacred seduction comes from your spiritual center. It’s a lifelong journey of self-acceptance, luminous delight, and the conscious intention to dance with the present moment. It’s surrendering to the numinous. It takes guts, grace, and grit. (And no matter what you might think right now, you do have what it takes. Trust me.)
Today, seduction isn’t just my business — it’s how I live my life. From a sumptuous wake-up stretch in the morning to applying a provocative shade of red lipstick, to devouring a hot fudge sundae ravenously, to the sensual ecstasy of a silky bedtime massage with sandalwood and shea butter before slipping beneath the sheets.
I’m here to bring your sacred seductress out of the shadows and into the spotlight where she belongs. Most women are starved for the sensual. Seduction gives us permission to feast.
Come to the table my beauty.
I saved you a seat.
In 108 words or less:
I believe that seduction is a sacred practice. I believe in the intoxicating beauty of authenticity. I believe in things that sparkle both on the inner and the outer. I see seduction as a feminist art. I believe that Eve was not only innocent, but that she was a genius for picking that apple. I trust in how things feel over how they look. I think red lipstick makes everything better. I live as though life itself is my lover. I live in service to seeing reclaim your innate seductive prowess, and using it to experience the full spectrum of your power, pleasure and purpose in this lifetime.
The Full Story:
I’ve traveled the whole path: from shut-in to sizzling starlet. But let’s begin, as all great stories do, with something embarrassing. When I was a kid, I used to make out with everything. I practiced kissing on my hand, the wall, the poles of my swing set, dolls; you name it. Romance was my secret obsession. When I played house, I’d spread a picnic blanket on the front lawn, put on my best dress, and bring all sorts of mundane snacks from the kitchen that would magically transform into luscious delights. Ritz crackers became chocolate covered strawberries and grape juice the finest champagne. I would bask in the sun, pretending I was cradled in the arms of a great love. But it wasn’t the boyfriend fantasy I was drawn to. It was living a life that sparkled with magic and merriment. It was savoring every nugget of sensual pleasure. Romance wasn’t some frivolous gesture — it was the JUICE.
On the flip side of things, my home was deeply religious, as was I. I loved religion. I felt at home in the purity of the church. Jesus was hero, the disciples were my bros. I harbored a secret desire to become a nun. This jousting between the saint and sinner inside pulled on me like a tug of war.
Then, puberty hit.
Like most teenagers I desperately longed to fit in, but could never quite get the round curves of my soul to suit the square angles it seemed I should be aspiring to. Like most developing girls, there was no formal initiation to offer safe passage on the journey into womanhood, so I recklessly created an initiation of my own. The inner tug of war that had been going on since I was a child now channeled itself into tremendous insecurity, an eating disorder, and a nasty, bitter hatred for my body. For years, I abused my body with compulsive bingeing, starving, and bulimic behaviors.
Everything revolved around what I ate or didn’t eat. If I was being “good” around food and exercise, I was flooded with a high of absolution for my sin of being not enough. However, these baptismal waters were easily muddied by anything “bad.” Even an innocent Hershey’s Kiss could blow me out of the water, back to where I thought I belonged. My body was my battleground. The place where all my grief, disappointment, shame, fear, and anxiety lived. And if she would just cooperate, I thought I could have it all.
At 21, I moved to New York City. My new life delighted me — and scared me shitless. I was suddenly a tiny fish in a huge ocean, and I turned to my familiar tactics of food and weight control to cope with the fear. Things were more bleak than ever. After so many years of struggling so hard, I was on the verge of giving up.
But living in NYC has its perks. One of the best: you can see a burlesque show any night of the week. I found the idea of burlesque both threatening and somehow liberating. So out I went … and what I saw that night changed my life.
Not knowing what to expect, I saw women onstage who looked just like me. Except they weren’t covering up their “flaws.” They were flaunting them with a raw sex appeal that was irresistible. They ranged from 23 years old to 50-plus. Size A boobs to size G. They had real bodies.But here’s what struck me the most: they made the rules about how they were perceived by how much they owned the skin they were in.
The look in their eyes and the sparkle of their energy easily communicated that flaws don’t exist here. They weren’t waiting for anything external to change or become “perfect” to experience their own raw beauty, power and sensuality. The audience was completely spellbound by their sparkle, their beauty, and their glow. I was hooked. I was in love. I was changed.
I now had a new mission in life. Rather than chasing confidence through achieving perfection, I sought to find the perfection in exactly who I was. I threw myself into learning everything I could about this kind of feminine empowerment. I read books, took classes in burlesque and sensuality. I joined pole-dancing classes, women’s studies groups; anything I could get my hands on. I not only absorbed the information, I put it into action in my life — no matter how scary or how uncomfortable it felt.
And then, as the ultimate demonstration of my willingness to transform no matter what, I performed my own burlesque striptease in front of an audience of 250 people.
At the time, it would have felt easier for me to fly to Spain and run with the bulls than take off my clothes in front of strangers. But I mustered all the courage I had and went for it. I seduced the crowd. I stripped down to pasties and a G-String. I stood before them. Literally naked. Totally vulnerable. To my surprise, instead of being my worst nightmare, it was my greatest triumph. All those things I told myself I would have to change in order to be loveable; all the times I had tried to abuse my body into submission; all the times I denied myself pleasure because I thought discipline and deprivation were what it took to win in life – all of it melted away as I stood there and received my applause. Tears of joy and relief streamed down my face. I felt beautiful and powerful. I loved myself, inside and out. And I didn’t have to change a single thing.
After that performance, I mustered the courage to perform a few more times, and more after that. Girlfriends of mine started asking: “you MUST teach us how to do that!” Teach. Teach? I barely considered myself a performer, much less a teacher. But again, willing to throw my hat in the ring for anything that would advance me further down the path of my feminine power, I printed a flyer, rented a studio and bought a boatload of feather boas.
In those early days I thought I was just teaching dance routines I had made up, but a phenomenon was happening in my classes that shocked me. In every class there was a moment where a woman would leave the choreography behind and just OWN IT. She would stare at her own reflection in the mirror with a flame in her eyes that mirrored the fires our ancestors used to dance around. I started to see the layers of spiritual context that would be uncovered with the peel of a stocking. The air was electric with transformation. I began to see that what we were experiencing in these classes was not just striptease, it was sacrament.
After the class, my students and I would walk out of that room different women than when we walked in. The lessons I was learning on stage and in the classroom began extending into every facet of life. The seductress archetype is the epitome of confidence. But this confidence does not come from wearing a mask of perfection. It comes from taking the mask off. As Albert Camus once said “I don’t seduce, I surrender.”
My journey of teaching started six years ago. Since then, the way in which Sacred Seduction® continues to grow and unfold like a gorgeous, vibrant tiger lily astounds me every day.
My mission in life and my greatest passion is guiding each woman to remember her inherent seductive nature, and to create a world where our inner seductress can not only come alive, but thrive. Simply by reading this page, I know you are starting to feel the tides of Sacred Seduction swell within you. Come on in. The water is warm.
Don’t worry if you don’t know how to swim.
That’s why I am here. I will teach you.