So There I Was, Knitting A Three Scarf Ruana In A Lovely Shade Of Winter Wheat

The phone rings.

Before I'm connected to the caller, a recording tells me he called for a transsexual. He wants a walk on the wild side, the best of both words, a he-she, a chick with a di... uh, ahem . Well, you know what I'm talking about right? That special body part only guys have? It tends to stick out on men, where women are smooth? That's right, an Adam's apple.

Anyway, I raise my voice a bit to say "Hello." You might think I'd lower it to sound masculine, but no. If I did that, I'd just end up sounding like a woman with a faux-masculine voice. Conversely though, most men who try to sound like women don't usually pull it off completely either. They often sound a bit too high pitched or too feminine. Even transsexuals, who generally take hormones to feminize their features, including their voices, may speak with an idealized version of a female voice. So, to portray a transvestite or a transsexual, I become more feminine. I raise my voice and soften it. I sound just slightly unreal, just enough to make the caller think, 'she sounds too good to be true. She *must* be a man.'

Back to our story.

I'm connected to the pleasant voice of a man in mid to late twenties. The personality behind the voice however, seems to have never left it's teens.

"Hi, my name's Chrissy. Who’s this?"

"Uh, (giggle) Hi Chrissy, my name's Mike. Wow, are you really a dude?"

"Hi there Mike. To answer your question, I'm a lady, Mike. I'm just a lady with a little more to offer then your average gal. About six and a half inches more."

The giggling continues.

"I take it you've never spoken to a girl like me before. Is that right Mike? Am I your first, darling?"

"Yeah, so far as I know. Man, you sound great. Really? You're a dude?"

"Mike, if you keep asking me that, I'm afraid we're going to miss out on some much more interesting conversation. Why don't you tell me what you're up to today."

"Well, I'm just hanging out here at my friend's shop. You sound pretty hot for a dude. I'm already sportin wood."

"I'm flattered, Mike. But you didn't call me from your friend's phone without his permission did you? That wouldn’t be very nice."

"No, nothing like that, I'm on my cell. But listen, I want you to say 'hi' to him ok? Only don't tell him you're a dude. Ok?"

"I assure you Mike, I never tell anyone I'm a dude."

Mike hesitates and seems unsure of my promise. He guesses I'm teasing him about his repeated use of the word dude, and he's right. He also wonders if I'm going to spell out his little prank to his friend. Here he's wrong. I'm being paid to play a part. I knew my mission and I accepted it. I am now honor bound to lie.

Mike, like the dear friend that he is, passes the phone over to Ike, saying there's someone on the line he'd like him to meet. Within moments, I'm on the phone with Ike, making small talk and getting to know him.

"No, I haven't known Mike long," I tell him truthfully. " He seemed eager for us to meet though," I continue, inwardly applauding myself for finding a way to be candid while simultaneously perpetuating a bald faced lie. Somewhere in the background, I hear Mike tell Ike that I am, in fact, a phone sex operator. He neglects to mention that he called for an transsexual operator. I pretend not to hear his 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' comments in the background

"So, Mike says he's at your store. What do you sell?"

"I own a comic shop."

Alone in my office, I smile, knowing I've just found the path to Ike’s heart. With five little words, I win him over.

"What titles do you read?"

The next half hour is spent discussing the merits of Marvel vs DC, the politics of comic distribution, and reliving the details of a lovely afternoon I once spent with Stan Lee, the creator of Spider-man. We talk about my ex, who managed a comic shop and his ex, who hated comics.

The call automatically disconnects in mid-conversation. Ike calls back from his own phone.

During the conversation I learn that Mike has slipped out of Ike's office to allow us some privacy, no doubt assuming the conversation will be getting steamy but Ike remains a perfect gentleman. He will not be pressured into objectifying a woman he's taken an interest in. Pretty impressive for a guy who surrounds himself with images of unnaturally proportioned super-women in skin tight spandex.

Ike digs me. Ike digs me a lot.

Contrary to the stereotype of a comics reading geek, Ike seems pretty down to earth. He is charming and intelligent. In spite of my truly moderate interest in comics, I find him witty and observant enough to be interesting. Every once in a while, I flirt more pointedly, offering an opportunity to take advantage of the mature possibilities for the call, but I get the distinct impression that Ike prefers simply talking to a woman about all things comic related. He says as much more than once.


"I can't believe there's actually a woman out there who's into comics like this. Of course you'd have to be halfway across the country. How can I tempt you to visit me?"

"I'm enjoying your company as well, Ike. But I'm sure you know I can't agree to meet you. There must be *some* women in your area who like comics. Don't they come into your shop?"

"Yeah, but they all come in with their husbands or boyfriends. I know we can't meet, but I thought I'd at least try. It figures I'd meet a hot girl who likes comics and there's no way I can meet you."

"Now Ike, for all you know, I could be a hideous specimen. I could be acne scarred, morbidly obese, smelly and with one very buck tooth. I could be a man for all you know."

"If you were a man or had one tooth, I don't believe you'd sound as hot as you do. Beyond that, I can handle anything but smelly. Are you smelly?"

"Um, no."

"Ok then, we're good to go."

By now, another half hour had past and we're about to be disconnected again. There's no mistaking the sound of Mike re-entering the room.

"Dude! You've been talking to a dude!" He sounds enormously pleased with his deception. "You're getting into a man, Ike!"

Mike doesn't seem to believe him. "You're so full of it. Now go away, I’m trying to talk to Chrissy."

I can almost hear the penny drop as Ike realizes the unisex nature of the name I've given myself. I can hear him thinking about the part of the conversation where I pointed out I could be a man. At the same time, Mike is trying to convince him of my true identity. He explains that he'd called a number to speak to a transsexual and makes disparaging comments about Ike's virility. He seems to think it’s all good natured fun, but I'm sure the last thing I hear him say before being cut off are the words 'closet case'.

I feel rather sorry when the dial tone sounds in my ear.

The phone rings again and it isn't Ike. Same thing with the next call. I resign myself to talking with men who aren't as charming as Ike, nor seemingly, as intelligent. Not that I normally see men at their best when I take these calls.

Two hours later, I'm about to quit working for the night when the phone rings one last time. Following the formula of only the best Harlequin Romances, it had to be Ike.

"Mike's gone. I had to call back. I could be naive, but I don't believe you're a transsexual."

"I won't try to convince you. I will say this though. Whatever my gender, it wouldn't affect my tastes or my sensibilities. And I genuinely like you. I'm glad you called back. Though I'm sorry you took such a ribbing from Mike."

"Yeah, well, thanks. I'm sorry too. You didn't need to hear that. Sometimes that's just the way he is, but he doesn't mean to be so...."

"Homophobic?"

"Well, yeah. I suppose. I'm sorry if he offended you."

"He truly didn't. But I'll tell you one thing. Next time he calls you a closet case, remind him how he told me he was sportin wood, even though he believes I'm a man."

"He said that?"

"Verbatim. And I'll tell you something else. I don't know where he got the number from, but I *do* know where we advertise. Ask him if he's ever heard of a magazine call Hot Tranny."

I spoke to Ike for the duration of one more call and when our time was up, we said goodbye properly. I never heard from him again.

That was years ago. He’s not the only guy who just wanted to talk or the only one who was ever charming and intelligent. He’s not even the only one I liked or who stood apart from the others in my mind. He’s just one of my favorites.

The moral to this story is simple. You can never judge a book by it's cover. What at first may seem a humorous and titillating anecdote, may turn out to be, nothing more than a rambling and boring blogger’s reminiscence.