The last sane bloke in Chicago

I liked Linda the moment I met her.  Linda, meaning pretty in Spanish.  She wasn't Spanish, just a plain jane mutt of American breeding.  I met Linda over the phone when she accidentally called me.  I thought it was my voiceover coach, so I answered in a deep voice.

"Jerry?" she asked.  Oops.  No, sorry.  I talked, letting my voice return to its abnormally high and nasally level.  "Oh, wrong number."  I asked her who Jerry was.  "My boss."

She hung up.  That was it.  A week later, another call from the same number.  I answered without saying hello, just saying it wasn't Jerry.  "I'm so sorry, I keep dialing two numbers swapped!"  I laughed, and she laughed too.  "So who are you?"  People call me Sane.  "That's a crazy name."

We ended up talking for about 5 minutes, and then she said she really had to call her boss.  Before hanging up, she said "Call me again, make it your mistake?"  I would.

Months passed and I thought about calling just for kicks.  Anonymous.  Fun.  Could be any age.  I saved her number as Jerry's Employee.  I called just as spring was hitting in Chicago.  She answered.  I said hello.  "Hi!  I was wondering if you'd ever call again."  Why?  "I like your voice." We talked for half an hour, mostly her.  I asked if she wanted to meet.  "That's creepy."  Ok, then not.  "Well, I think it'd be fun, but it has to be public.  Where do you work?"  I told her.  "Hey, that's really close to where I live!"

We made plans to meet up at a local diner.  I described myself as did she.  We met a few days later, and she was exactly who she said she would be.  We talked over coffee.  She's 26, single, just having fun, working for a used car dealer and hating her job.  She went to school for writing (I didn't, by the way) and couldn't find work.  She was dressed in raggedy jeans and a T-shirt with shoes probably 3 years old.  I paid for the coffee.

We talked on and for a few weeks (she called me).  I told her I was sick of talking, let's get together again.  "Not a date, right?"  No, just people who enjoy each other's company.  I didn't tell her of course it was a date, but the semantics confuse people.

We hung out again twice, each time she was disheveled with almost a teenage vibe to her.  Life was not treating her well.  The second time we did, she cried, having recently broken up with her loser unemployed car mechanic boyfriend who did too many drugs.  I held her and she said the words I hate hearing: "Why can't more guys be like you?"  I stopped her and said no guys could ever be like me, because most guys have no idea what it means to be a man.

"What does it mean?"  It means not listening to the bullshit out there in the media, in the public's mind, in the gossip columns and on the TV shows.  "Huh?"  I'm a man, and I treat others like a man should.  I demand things, I stick to my word, I treat women like women and whores like women.

She nodded her head, but obviously didn't get it.  Linda complained about needing new clothes.  I asked her what kind of clothes.  "More jeans, more t-shirts, whatever is cheap."  She thrifted not out of adventure but out of necessity.  She lived at home and her folks didn't have alot.

I offered to take her shopping.  "I have a car."  No, I mean I'll buy you something nice.  "No, that's not necessary."  I reminded her that I treat women like women, and a beautiful woman needs to look like it and feel like it once in awhile.  "Beautiful?  Me?  Look at how I'm dressed.  I'm fat."  You're crazy.

"I wouldn't feel right."  I don't expect anything in return.  "What would you have in mind?"  Hit some stores and boutiques I like.  I'll pick out a few things, you pick your favorites.  I buy, you decide when and where you want to wear them.  "For you?"  No.  She thought about it for 5 minutes.  "I won't sleep with you."  Why would you say that?  "I'm not a whore for clothes."  I never said you were.  I'll get you something nice, an outfit or two, and you can wear them with friends or dates or at work.  Never around me if you prefer.

"And what do you get out of it?"  I get to see you smile, and I get to see a lovely lady feel that way.  "Ok.  But no funny business."  If I'm a sugar daddy, there's never a quid pro quo.  I honestly didn't even think once of wanting to bed her, she had this girlie vibe that I detest.  At her age, she should start acting the part, just a little.

We made plans for an entire day on her next day off, the following Wednesday.  On Tuesday she calls crying.  "I got fired, things are slow.  I think I should cancel tomorrow, I'm not in the mood."  Now is a better time than ever.   "Why?"  You're losing yourself to your life rather than being who you are regardless of life.  "I don't get it."  You will.  I'll pick you up at 10.

I arrived and she came out, dressed as a teenager.  Bad makeup, too.  Hair overdone with hairspray and mousse, my enemies.  She got in my car.  "Where are we going?"  We'll hit a few stores, I'll show you what I like.

First we went to Bloomingdales.  Why?  The makeup counter gals are pretty incredible.  Linda sat down, perplexed.  "No one does my makeup, ever."  The rotund older lady spent half an hour on Linda's face, adding a little of this and a little of that.  When she was done, the makeover was amazing.  I see bits and pieces of woman in her.  "Wow.  I'm... pretty."  I just smiled.  I bought all the items the makeup lady used.  "That's too much.  I usually buy $2 lipstick."  It shows.  We're not paying for product, we're paying for advice.  $500 for 6 months worth of makeup is nothing.  "That's like 2 weeks of pay."  She gets sad, but I tell her don't be.

We look around the women's clothing section but find nothing.  We try Macy's, Nordstrom, nothing.  I decide to take her to Blake, my favorite boutique in the city.

Blake used to be on Lincoln near Fullerton, in a non-descript building with no window display.  You had to be buzzed in.  They sometimes wouldn't buzz people who didn't fit the part.  Pompous, I love it.  She looked around the sparsely inventoried store and said "I don't like any of it."  This isn't for you to like.  You didn't like the makeup at first either.  Do you trust me?  "Yes.  I guess."

I spend an hour looking over everything: dresses and skirts, tops and scarves, blouses and pants, jackets and shoes and purses.  I pick out my favorite 2 items each and give them to her to try on.  "I don't like it." Just try it on.  She spends 2 hours getting into everything and getting out of it.  "Yuck.  Not me."  I don't bow to this and I decide to buy a few items, but not too much.  Just one onefit, in fact.  Plus shoes I liked.  "I prefer sneakers."  I've never worn sneakers in my life.  Gross.

We left and I took her to a hair salon I love in the burbs.  They did up her hair without any major product.  A few cuts, some razoring, plucked some of her eye brows, and she was done.  "Wow, I like this."  Wait till you try on that dress.  "No, I hate that."  Trust me.  She looked down, "I do."

I took her home.  Her parents were on vacation so she invited me in.  Her parents didn't like me because I seemed shady.  Oh well.  I asked her to go and put on the dress and the shoes, the thin sweater top and the ankle bracelet.  She did.  When she came out, she looked magnificent.  "Ok, wow.  This is nice stuff."  It better be, I have taste.  "I can't believe it."  Go do your makeup now, just like the lady showed you.  She left and came back 20 minutes later.  Not really done as well as the professional, but close enough.  "My face looks so fresh and nice."  You look like the lady you are.  "I don't really feel like one."

We go to her living room and she says it again, "You're really not expecting anything for this?"  Just one thing.  "Sex?"  No, I said I wouldn't do that to you.  "So?"  I walk to her father's record collection and grab a Sinatra record.  "What the hell is that?"  I want a dance.

"Dance?"  Yes.  "I haven't danced since prom 10 years ago!"  You dance at nightclubs.  "Sometimes."  You dance at concerts.  "I guess."  All I want is a dance.  "Just one?  I feel weird about it."  Weird because you think I will try something?  "No, I just don't dance."  Good, because I will do the dancing, and you will follow.  I put the record on and pick a tune I like.

I grab her waist and put her hand on my shoulder.  She looks confused.  I dance with her.  She starts to smile as she steps on my toes, neatly trips twice when I spin her.  She's laughing by the end of the song.  "Wow."  That's all I wanted.  We're even.  "I'd do that again."  Then I'd owe you.  "You owe me nothing.  One more song?"  I pick another and we dance.  45 minutes and 2 records later, she's beaming and looks gorgeous.  I wouldn't have wanted to sleep with her before, but now I want to do things vile to her.  I made a promise, though.

"I feel so different."  You feel like a woman.  "I do!  Wow.  Can I wear this stuff out?"  It's your stuff, not mine.  "I mean on dates and stuff?"  Of course.  "But you spent so much money!"  Not that much.  The total was over $2000, but she didn't know this.  I've spent more, I told her.  "And you won't be jealous?"  You're not my lover or my girlfriend, and even if you were, I wouldn't be jealous.  "If I was, and I wore this out, you wouldn't get angry?"  Never.  And you won't be my girlfriend or lover, so let's stop talking about it.  "Does it make you sad?"  No, I'm just bored of that conversation.

I leave and notice she's checking herself out in a mirror.  She's smiling and there's a bounce in her step as she spins again alone, her dress floating up past her thighs.  White panties.  I wish I didn't see that.  I drive off, smiling that I made her day, maybe her month.

A few days later she calls me late at night.  1am on a Friday night.  I answer.  "What are you up to?"  Just getting home from a boring night at the pubs.  "With anyone?"  No.  What's wrong?  "Just wanted to talk."  We did.  She went out in the outfit, the makeup, did her hair without all the product.  She said she looked three times better than the first attempt at dressing like a woman on Wednesday.  I believed it.  Wearing that dress made her horny, she was hoping to meet a guy and bring him home.  Her parents return on Sunday.

So who'd you pick?  "No one.  I went to my usual bar and every eye was on me.  I talked to a few cute guys, but they were boring.  They kept looking at me differently, it was disgusting.  "You are beautiful.  "They didn't say that.  They'd said I was hot or I was fuckable."  So?  Isn't that the point.  "I thought so, but I didn't want it from those dirtbags."  Try a different bar, maybe a lounge.  "I did.  I went with my best friend to 3 other places, got the same shit."  I'm sorry.

"Are you tired?"  A little.  "Do you want to come over?"  For?  "Just hang out."  I'm not sleeping with you.  "Why not?"  You drew a line early on, and I will not violate that promise.  "I changed my mind."  I didn't.  "You don't find me attractive?"  Very.  "You don't want to fool around?"  Not at all.  "Will you come over anyway, just to talk and laugh like Wednesday?"  Of course.

I drove there, tired but happy to spend some time with her.  She really is fun.  We talked.  "I'm really horny."  I'm sorry.  "Can we fool around at least?"  No.  "I need it, bad."  Bars are still open.  "I don't want that."  You want to keep feeling like a woman.  "Yes.  Please."  I get up.  I can't do this.  "I'm sorry I said it would never happen."  It's ok.  But it's the truth.  "I want you, I want more of this."  I don't.  I turn to leave and she tries to kiss me.

"Please stay.  You don't have to do anything to me or anything.  Can we cuddle?"  No.  "Will you at least spend the night?"  On the couch.  "Ok.  That's fine."  She hugs me.  I hug her back.  "Am I pretty to you?" Unbelievably.  "So why won't you sleep with me?"  I said so: I made a promise.  "Do you always keep your promise?"  I'm a man.

I lay down on the couch.  "Ok, I guess I'll go to bed."  I'll see you in the morning.  She goes to her bedroom, I lay down on the big couch.  A few minutes pass and she comes back in the dark.  I turn to look and she's still wearing the dress.  "Can I lay down with you?"  Only on the couch.  She does, spooning against me.  The couch is huge so there was more than enough room for two.

"Would you mind if I took care of myself?"  You want to masturbate in front of me.  "Yes.  Unless you'll touch me."  I won't.  "Will you do it when I do it?"  No.  "Do you want to?"  Yes.  "I don't understand.  I turn to face her, and she puts her head in my neck.  "I really need it."  I know.  "From you."  I'm sorry.

She breathes deeply and swallows, nervous.  Her hand hikes up her skirt and pulls down her panties.  I can see her beautiful pussy and I get very hard.  She starts rubbing herself, but I avoid doing the same.  I wanted to take her right there, but I have my standards.  She comes quickly, kissing my neck as she does.  "Oh, I needed that."  I know you did.  Her hand rests on my pants, I'm still hard.  "Oh, did you like that?"  Very much.  "Can I see it?"  No.  "I'll just touch it, or suck it if you want."  No, thanks.  "So you'll just leave it like that?"  I'll take care of it tomorrow if I feel like it.  "That's crazy.  You told me I was beautiful." You are.  Stunning.  "And you don't want to fuck?"  I don't want to ruin this for you.

I left in the morning, her still wrapped around me.  She still looked beautiful, maybe more so than ever.  We talked often through the next year, about her new job, about guys she tried dating, about how she loves that outfit and still wears it once a week, even by herself, just to feel like a woman.  I told her that women don't need the outside to feel it on the inside, but the outside can help them get there.

"I know.  Will you ever sleep with me?"  No.  "Can we try dating?" No.  "Ok."

The phone calls slowed, then stopped entirely.  I'm not sure if it was her or me.  I wonder how she's doing, if she's still feeling like the woman that she is.

Fast forward to today.  I've tried doing the same for a woman or two in the last year, but they were more hung up on the whole sex thing.  What's the problem?  I don't do quid pro quos.  It's just clothes, and a fun day making her feel like she should.  A sugar-uncle, not a sugar-daddy.  Sometimes, we ended up sleeping together, but it was never expected or even assumed.  The sex was separate.  The few women/girls like Linda usually called me over the years and kept asking why I of all people would deny them.

My reason is always the same: I don't break promises.  

Don't draw lines you might some day want to cross.