His true nature is insectile. But somewhere in his web work, he has managed to don a different skin. The beautiful dark kind. The cruelly passionate. The Byronic. This is especially useful when he is lonely and needs to go hunting. Moth to a flame. That's his principle for feeding.
He waits patiently in the blackness for unwitting prey. When they come along, he over whelms them with flattery and lip-service intimacy. They always end up helplessly seduced. He makes them believe he is vulnerable; weak against his desire for them. He gives them all his lust and hunger until they think he cannot exist without them. He makes them feel beautiful and important while he secretly laughs at their gullibility.
Sooner or later, they will enter his weave of silk. They will do so on their own violation. He has never lost. He has grown so good at this, to wield his instruments with expertise, that when they see what's really inside, what he really is, they can't look at him for guilt. Instead they impugn themselves. He has given no promises. Therefore, he remains blameless.
There are skeletons around his home, a thousand discarded bones to design it. My spine is there somewhere. We are the tokens from the countless victories he has reaped. He continues to adorn his weaving, nonchalantly and haughty. Waiting for the next victim to knock on his door. Another soul to hand himself over. Poor, damned, yet very sweet. And so very willing.