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While Mademoiselle’ s conversazione, by and large, added nothing of significance to the technique of seduction, it did produce one blockbuster-a generalization about womankind that struck me as revolutionary. Perhaps he had a secret fifth category-“nice to pump up a football with.” I had a friend who had a football pump, and we went over and pumped up the football and then went out and had a drink.” Whether Phil’s petite amie was subsequently classified under his “great to go to bed with” heading he was too gallant to divulge. To illustrate, he evidenced the case of a recent amour that flowered from a haphazard encounter with a lady whose party he chanced to attend: “She was a very honest and shy little girl, so the next week I called her up for a date. “My life is such that I take it as it comes,” he said, doubtless fingering a hairline mustache in the manner of the late Lew Cody. Phil’s reaction to so premeditated a campaign, it appeared, was contemptuous in the extreme.
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I happen to be a very good cook.” This culinary approach, presumably, creates such ardor that on the fourth date the two reach fulfillment in her pad, sleeves rolled up and exchanging recipes like mad. The third date is: I cook dinner in my apartment. . . . It may be a hamburger or a Forty-second Street movie. . . . The second date is usually a very offbeat sort of thing. What actually eventuated, however, was a vast quantity of flatulent chin music, studded with words like “communication,” “relationship,” and “chemistry.” Spencer, for example, advanced a master plan of enticement based on three dates with his quarry, as follows: “The first evening you have quite a good dinner somewhere, where the opportunity essentially exists to talk a great deal and get to know the person. . . .
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On the face of it, the juxtaposition of such divergent stags might be expected to produce at least several novel methods of conquest. In the resulting twenty-one-column symposium, “How Do Bachelors Get Away with It?,” the quintet of participants, shepherded by a moderator, included Spencer, an advertising man Tom, an airline employee Max, a magazine editor Larry, a municipal-bond trader and the aforesaid Phil, the fiddler with feminine virtue. Well, sir, it all originated in some fertile editorial brain over at Mademoiselle, which was celebrating its thirtieth anniversary with a number roguishly designated “Man Talk Issue.” The notion, in brief, was that five young men-about-New York should freely discuss the strategy and techniques they use to artfully entangle unattached women. You haven’t a glimmer as to what tape I mean, or how it evolved-right? Permit me to sketch in the background. Sure, they’ll come over and cook your dinner, and sure, they’ll stay all night, and sure, they’ll move in if you want.” Yes, indeed, he’s quite a tiger, is Phil, as he emerges from that tape recording. We know he likes girls, because, by his own candid admission, he’s got a little black book carefully dividing them into four categories-“pretty,” “great to go to bed with,” “nice to take to parties,” and “nice to talk to.” Any chap with that many categories, it follows, must be darned attractive, and Phil doesn’t bother to deny it: “I average a couple or three calls a night from girls. . . . Let’s see, now-exactly what do we know about Phil? He’s twenty-five years old, he’s an investment banker, and he went to Yale.