Free Sex and the Single Girl: The Unmarried Woman's Guide to Men by Helen Gurley Brown Page A

from days on the road, thought this couple as shimmery as Prince Ranier and his Grace—or at least Grace’s mother.
    At 30th Street Station in Philadelphia when she couldn’t get a cab, the dapper attorney came to her rescue. His lady friend had departed. He said strangers in their city often hadn’t the knack of hailing taxis and he offered to share his with her. Bliss, thought Louise. Pure bliss! To her consternation, however, as they sped along the cool Philadelphia streets that night, he didn’t try to get better acquainted. He barely talked. The shared taxi was strictly an act of kindness. They reached his hotel first, he paid his fare, bid her good night and a pleasant stay in the city, and disappeared like Rumpelstiltskin.
    Louise brooded about him for two days. He hadn’t asked her name or where she was staying so he couldn’t call her. And since he had evinced no red-hot interest, she couldn’t call him. Besides, she didn’t know his name … not all of it. Her fingernails down to the half-moon, she finally picked up the phone, dialed the Warwick, asked for the name of the attorney who lived there—Marcus somebody. The switchboard girl who could have been a pill but wasn’t, supplied the name quickly. Apparently he was a favorite. Louise, still a pussyfooter, didn’t ask to speak to him even then. On leaving the city, she sent him a little note saying she appreciated his kindness at the terminal, that she was traveling in the East on business, that if he were going to be in New York City—her next stop—during the next two weeks, she would adore to have a drink with him. She mentioned her hotel.
    How much did she have to lose? If she never heard from him again, there was no person-to-person embarrassing rebuff. He did call her in New York, however, suggested that she hop on a train and come down to Philadelphia for dinner with him at his club, the Brookline.
    Knowing she ought not to do anything of the kind and should insist on his coming up to see her, she got right on the train!
    They had a marvelous evening. They danced. She met some of his friends, and discovered that he was extremely rich, played golf with Eisenhower and was about as good a marriage bet as Cardinal Spellman. This was the most bachelor bachelor she had ever met … a good gray bachelor with a permanent hotel suite for a home, his golf cronies, an occasional girl, and that was that. But it was a lovely petite adventure. Carol got back on the train at midnight to look for her next Philadelphia lawyer.
    Sometimes you can embark on petite adventures on trips-business and pleasure—that you wouldn’t quite have the nerve or impetus to embark on at home.
    Planes, Trains, Boats
    Planes can be great providers of men, for temporary use at least. It’s blind luck when you sit next to a Possible, but remember … airline stewardesses have full date books and marry young. (Too bad we civilian girls can’t prowl up and down the aisles and pop down next to the Most Likely too. Oh well!)
    Whether the man is date material or not, he can make the trip go faster; and if your four-leaf clover is fresh, you may sit next to a downright fascinator. There’s something sexy anyway about being sequestered 20,000 feet above the earth almost as close to a strange man as a banana to its skin, motors humming (yours and the plane’s) and nothing to do but get to know each other. (Faster jets than ever are going to come along and louse up everything, of course. You won’t even get to unfasten your seat belt, much less delve into your respective childhoods.)
    I don’t have to tell you to be sure you sit next to a man. If you see a lady bearing down and there are still empty seats in the plane, be ruthless. Pile your hatbox, coat and newspapers in the seat next to you and go to sleep immediately. Remove everything and wake up smiling when a man appears. Incidentally, if you should draw a real bore, male or female, simulated sleep may be the only defense. If