Coffee, Tea or Me? (31 page)

“I have slacks . . . and a sweater, if that would be all right.”

“That would be wonderful.” He laughed that same wicked laugh that always sent me to the powder room when I saw him in the movies. “I’m a nudist at heart. But I won’t put you through that kind of embarrassment . . . yet. Go change while I make you a drink.”

I ran downstairs, grabbed my bag, and followed the butler to a powder room. I pictured Robert upstairs swishing gin around in a crystal pitcher as I fumbled with the buttons on the uniform. The slacks I had with me were the tightest I owned, and the sweater wasn’t any looser. I came out of the bathroom and went back upstairs to join Robert.

He handed me my drink, toasted me, and we both took a healthy sip. I had just brought the glass down from my lips when he grabbed me and planted the biggest, wettest kiss on my lips I’d ever experienced.

“You’re very lovely, you know,” he crooned. I wanted to look around for the cameras and microphones. He said it just as he’d said it to all those glamorous actresses in films. I grabbed him and returned the kiss.

“Easy, easy, my dear. The night is ours. We’ll make it ours.”

I know that kind of dialogue sounds corny. But who was I to argue with his scriptwriter? Besides, here I was with my reason for flying—my glamour, my excitement, my romance. Who would believe this back in Amarillo?

He kissed me again and moved away. “Now a superb dinner,” he said, “the perfect wine and music for the soul and for the two of us.” I was totally under his spell as he spoke those words to me. He pushed a button and two servants entered carrying large, elaborate trays. They seated us at a table in front of the floor-to-ceiling picture window, and served dinner with expert care. The steak was delicious and the wine cool and dry. I couldn’t take my eyes from his as he deftly consumed his food, sipped his wine, and talked about a picture he’d just made in Spain. I knew my reactions were those of a silly schoolgirl but I didn’t care. It was just that simple—I didn’t care.

The piano player arrived as we were starting on dessert. He apologized to Robert for being late and immediately sat down and tinkled familiar melodies on the grand piano in the corner. Imagine having your own piano player on call for last-minute dinner dates! You bet I was impressed.

We finished playing out the dinner scene from our script and proceeded to the next stage, the conquest.

Robert picked me up and carried me, like a bride, across the room to the biggest couch I’d ever seen. It ran at least twelve feet long, was easily five feet wide, and was covered with what seemed to be duck feathers, all soft and warm and fleecy. He placed me gently on the couch and slipped his hands under my sweater. It came off easily, and he unzipped my slacks. Soon, we were both on the couch nude. It’s a funny thing to think of at a moment like that, but I noticed he didn’t seem as husky and tan as he did on the silver screen. It was a disappointment, but a mild one. We made love there, smooth, satisfying love during which Robert whispered marvelous endearments.

Afterward we fell back exhausted. Then, like an explosion, a door flew open and someone started clapping with great gusto. “Bravo, bravo,” a female voice yelled. I leaped up from the couch to see a young, shapely blonde coming toward the couch. Robert got up slowly and bowed to her from his naked waist.

He introduced us.

“Miss Baker, my wife, Marcia. Marcia, Trudy Baker.”

“You’ve outdone yourself, Robert,” his wife said as she looked me over from head to toe. “The whole scene was marvelous.” Then she started to slip out of her tight shift. The piano player who had discreetly vanished a little earlier came back into the room.

“Wait a minute,” I shrieked. “What’s going on here?”

“She’s sweet, Robert,” Marcia said, now as nude as we were. “Hurry up, Louis,” she scolded the piano player who was hanging his pants over the chair I’d sat in during dinner.

“Oh no,” I said as I quickly got back into my bra, pants, sweater, and slacks. “I’m not the orgy type. Thanks for dinner.”

I ran down the stairs, grabbed my bag, and raced along the winding drive. I must have walked for an hour before finding a cab to take me to the hotel.

I told the story to Rachel the next morning with great embarrassment.

“What are you upset about, hon?” she asked. “Chalk it up as something to tell your grandchildren.”

I think my night with a leading man was the beginning of a new phase in my flying career. The yen for glamour seemed to be gone. I had no further interest in actors after Robert and his troupe. Well, except Marlon Brando. I still wanted to meet him. You know how it is.

Most athletes like to sit and flex before dinner. We’ve all read about those college whiz kids who plow through the opposition on the gridiron every Saturday afternoon, and still breeze through advanced bacterial science with straight honor grades. Sorry, but we’ve never met one. All the athletes we’ve met have been rather slow and ponderous in their attempts to converse with us, unless they’re complete pigs and just grab (linebackers tend toward this approach).

Of course, the nature of the sport they’re engaged in determines somewhat their mental standing. Golf pros, tennis pros, swimming champs, and badminton winners tend to be a little more intelligent, at least in the way they present themselves to their stewardesses.

But no matter what sport the man is engaged in, one dominant and salient fact stands out: Athletes are the cheapest guys around.

Rachel dated a professional baseball player once. Their date consisted of one line of bowling, a game of skeet ball at the local penny arcade, and a shared pizza.

Never let it be said that stewardesses look only to a man for how much money he’ll spend. That’s not at all true. But when a guy is making forty thousand a year and starts reaching for a feel ten minutes after you’ve gotten into his car, he’s got to come up with something better than skeet ball.

There is some advantage in dating an athlete if you’re a sports fan yourself. He usually can come up with free tickets for you. He’s sold most of his free ones to people like his sister, mother, and brother, but he should have a few left over. Naturally, these tickets always come with strings attached. For our money, or lack of it, we’d prefer to watch the game on TV with a date who just bought us dinner at “21.”

Most writers, even the very successful ones, never acquire a public name. Consequently, when you find out he’s a writer, don’t ask which novel he’s written. He probably hasn’t, but will say he’s working on one.

Writers are the most quiet and reserved men on an airplane. They remain introspective and withdrawn, devoting most of their energy to obtaining an extra drink above the two-drink maximum.

The classic approach for a writer is to say he’s researching a book or movie about stewardesses and would like to spend a few hours asking some questions. We usually accept, after convincing ourselves he really is a writer. Why not accept? You either become the underlying source of inspiration for a great novel or end up reading all your little idiosyncrasies in another best-seller, usually a very dirty one. Either way, you’ve become a lady of letters. The only possible trouble you can encounter is when you marry and your husband reads about all your little idiosyncrasies in someone else’s book.

Stewardesses who majored in English in college are fair game for writers traveling on their flights. The writer can succeed with the girl as long as she envisions him writing the great American novel or Oscar-winning screenplay. As soon as she finds out he’s only a junior editor of the
Montana Coal, Iron and Cobalt Quarterly,
she loses interest.

Between us, Rachel and I can count eleven different men who approached us with the line, “I’m writing a book on stewardesses and would love to be able to talk with you.”

What we’re planning on doing next is a book on millionaires. We intend to approach men of great wealth and say, “We’re doing a book on millionaires and would love to be able to talk with you.”

It’s called reverse seduction.

Doctors are rich. Having so much money gives a doctor a sense of total power, except over those patients he’s always dunning for a late bill. He also picks up a false sense of security in having to sound so cocksure in front of every patient, despite the fact he’s never seen this disease before. We grow up thinking doctors can do no wrong. Then we discover how silly this is, especially when you’re their patient—or stewardess.

The stewardess consensus is that doctors usually make their pitch via a note placed on their tray after dinner. Usually, it will contain something terribly clever like, “I am a doctor. I’m staying at the Mark Hopkins. My room number is 2030. Nine o’clock.”

If you’re pregnant, getting one of these notes could be construed as a good deal. If you’re not, but maybe have a headache, it might also make sense to trudge up to his room. But remember—all doctors are married. You must have this firmly in mind before making any decision. And if you do decide to go, be on time. Doctors hate to be kept waiting.

We feel sorry for politicians. They must, out of deference to their constituents, be at all times aboveboard and pure. They never are, of course, but they must make it look that way. Lately though, with the apparent acceptance of sin, misuse of funds, blackmail, and payoffs by our nation’s leaders, politicians seem to be a little more relaxed, more pliable, and more willing to accept the fact they’re the same as other men.

If a politician is about to make a play for you, he’ll test you for signs of a loose tongue.

“Well, young lady, just what part of this fair nation of ours produced that charming accent?” he’ll start.

“Texas, sir.” Good answer.

“Well, how about that. You folks sure are going to benefit from that new dam. You know, I voted for it.”

“What new dam?”

“Ho, ho, ho, got a sense of humor, too, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, no sense in a pretty young thing like you worrying about dams and things like that. That’s for people like me to worry about, ho, ho, ho.”

“That’s certainly a lot to worry about.”

“That’s my job.”

“Ho, ho, ho.”

“By the way, young lady, you don’t happen to know Sammy Jim Bowie, do you? Fine young Texas congressman.”

“Sammy? I went to high school with Sammy. He sure was a creep. Guess he’s changed.”

That kills it. Had I extolled Sammy’s virtues, or at least remained noncommittal about him, it might have gone further. But politicians hate to be talked about behind their backs. They do it too much themselves.

If the politician happens to be from your own home territory, there is no chance to play with him. Politicians always play far away from home and their voters. Puerto Rico or Alaska are safer than the local motel.

If you do become entwined with a politician, you can count on a secret, over-the-shoulder romance that must be carried on between votes on poverty programs and fund-raising appearances with his wife. It’s better in the long run to stay away from politicians unless you figure they’re going to lose in their next election and return to private life. When that happens, they’re likely to divorce their wives for losing the election for them, and might even consider taking you on as a permanent addition to their new household and career.

Newspapermen are usually traveling free, courtesy of your airline’s public relations department. They’re on your airplane with your airline’s hope that someday, somehow, somewhere they’ll say something nice about your airline. Before they board, they’re fed, boozed up, and taken to the airport in a long, black Carey limousine. They’re already drunk when they get on the plane, and you’ve been instructed by the airport public relations man to forget about the two-drink rule where this elite member of the press is concerned.

Obviously, newspapermen are spoiled by your public relations department. In fact, they’re spoiled and drunk enough to think
you
come with booze, food, limousine, and free ticket.

Their approach is often direct, clumsy, distasteful, arrogant, lewd, and highly annoying.

All of this poses a dilemma for the stewardess. Just how much does she want to endear herself to her airline, its management, and stockholders? Do you go out of your way to be nice to the slob with the pencil behind his ear in 3B, or do you follow your natural inclinations and spill hot coffee on him? There is no answer, at least not in the manual.

Military men are generally polite in their advances to us. Whether this results from their rigid military training or is inborn is unanswered in our minds. But they’ll approach us nicely, directly, and without great fuss.

Unfortunately, men in uniform assume a second-class paranoia because they’re flying at half-fare. It’s a shame they feel this way because we look at their half-fare status as something that should be done for our men in the armed services.

If a military man does make a pitch to a stewardess, and if she does accept, you can count on a pleasant evening with the best bars and restaurants included. Once a man gets away from the grim confines of his club at the military installation, he likes to enjoy the good life. And we do, too.

Advertising men are insecure. Their need to conform to every little whim of fashion indicates this. And because they’re insecure, they approach us as they would a potential account, anxious to get all they can
now
because tomorrow we might sign up with another agency. Actually, their attitude in this respect is probably a realistic one.

But their insecurity poses even greater problems where a girl is concerned.

We know a stewardess who entered into a prolonged relationship with one of these three-button boys (they only button the top two on their jackets). He worked for one of the largest agencies in New York.