I covered our somewhat unpleasant exchange on Thursday and the fact that I was now forced into the bondage of carrying a cell phone.

I ended with a short, short version of our day, training, and then the after part where everything went from calm to a cavalcade of crazy.

When I told her about the sex conversation she hit my shoulder and said, “You didn’t!”

When I told her about the kiss she gasped, her eyes grew wide and she covered her mouth.

When I told her that he’d asked me on a sorta date she started bouncing up and down on the couch and sang, “Who called it? I called it! That’s right, uh huh!”

I skipped over most of the concert and when I told her about Vincent and what I learned regarding Quinn’s part in arranging the car she frowned, blinked, and said, “I guess that was nice of him… in an overreaching kind of way.”

Then, I told her about his, basically, last comment of the evening that he ‘doesn’t date.’

Her frown grew more pronounced and she leaned back in the couch, crossing her arms. She was silent for a moment then sighed, “You know, I kind of guessed that about him.”

It was my turn to frown, “What do you mean?”

“Some guys just aren’t boyfriend material.”

“Well, then, what kind of material are they? Suede?”

The corner of her mouth hitched as one of her eyebrows lifted; she gave me a knowing look. The problem was I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I shook my head at her, “What? What’s that look for? What don’t I know?”

“He’s a Wendell.”

A Wendell.

“What is a Wendell?”

Elizabeth quickly added, “He’s a hottie player; a Wendell. Someone you don’t date.”

“What am I supposed to do with a Wendell?”

She pushed me on my shoulder, “Janie! You have mind blowing sex with a Wendell! You have your way with him and spend hours in orgasmic paradise taking advantage of his hard body and each fantastic orifice and pleasure causing appendage until you get tired of him.”

I blushed, glanced at my hands, “I don’t- I mean, I don’t think-”

“Yes. That’s right. Don’t think. Just let yourself have a good time.” She covered my hand with hers and patted it until I met her gaze, “You deserve this. Repeat after me: I, Janie Morris, deserve splendiferous orgasimtherapy with Sir McHotpants.”

My eyes widened and I took a brave breath, “This is madness.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, “Say it!”

I shook my head, “I can’t! I can’t say it!”

“You’re not just going to say it, you’re going to do it! With frequency!”

I started to laugh in spite of myself. “You want me to have intimate relations with a manwhore.”

“Alleged manwhore. And, yes. I do.” Her face turned serious, “You’ve only ever been with Jon and-” she huffed, “and I know he wasn’t so great in the bedroom department.”

“I never said that.”

“You never had to. The fact that you didn’t say anything at all spoke volumes.”

I bit my lip. The truth was I thought Jon was fine in the bedroom department. Just fine. He was… just… fine. And what was wrong with fine?

“Janie- sex can be great. It can be really great and fun and amazing. This thing- with McHotpants- this could be a great thing. This could help you become more comfortable around guys and experience what sex and physical intimacy can be like when it’s really good. Wendell- I mean, Quinn- Quinn is being honest with you about his intentions. When you get tired of him you don’t have to worry about his feelings- how great is that? Then, when you meet a non-Wendell who you like and who likes you, you’ll know how to command yourself in the bedroom.”

I shook my head, “I don’t think I can be that person. I don’t think I can have sex with someone without-” I continued to shake my head, “without knowing that he cares about me, that he wants to be with me, without something more. I know it sounds Victorian but I don’t want great sex if it doesn’t come with- with-”

“Love?” Elizabeth supplied, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

I twisted my lips to the side, “Mutual care, respect, compassion, commitment, and- yes- hopefully all of that adds up to love of some kind.”

The truth was being that person, the person who could value the physical over and beyond emotional commitment and consistency, scared me. The untamed, unpredictable nature of it scared me. It reminded me of my mother, of how she abandoned her family with alarming frequency in favor of temporary sex partners. It was important to me that I never have anything in common with that woman. And if it meant that I ended up without any partner or in a staid, passionless- albeit reliable and dependable- relationship then I was really ok with that.

She huffed, “You can get all of that with a dog or a cat. You say these things and think this way because you’ve never had great sex.”

I laughed at her discontented scowl, “Then, oh well. I guess I’ll never have great sex.”

She huffed again then pulled me to her for a hug, “I love you Janie and I could give you great sex but I’m just not into girls.”

I smiled into her shirt, “Well, let me know if you ever change your mind.”

She withdrew and held me at arm’s length, her face and tone serious, “If you don’t want hot Wendell sex then, I have to tell you, you need to be careful with this guy. He’s being honest with you when he says he doesn’t date. You should believe him.”

I nodded and tried not to betray the sadness I felt, “I do. I do believe him.”

She watched me for several moments, considering me, then she prompted, “What did he say next- after the no dating comment?”

I swallowed, my fingers drifting to my lips of their own accord, “Then he kissed the hell out of me.”

CHAPTER 12

I finally responded to my sister’s email on Saturday afternoon after a great deal of procrastinating.

I slept in till nine-thirty then laid on the futon for a further twenty minutes thinking about Quinn Sullivan’s lips of magic and mystery. I then decided, on an odd whim, to go for a run along Lake Michigan. The weather was still nice, especially for late September, and the wind felt clarifying. I distracted myself with sights of Millennium Park, the Aquarium, the Natural History museum and reflected on my city.

There is something really special about Chicago.

Chicago is the proverbial middle child of large US cities. Some might consider this analogy only in reference to Chicago's geographic location (it's in the middle of the country). However, the analogy is multifaceted; like most middle children and like books between elaborate bookends, Chicago can sometimes be easy to overlook. It is smart and genuine but always compared, for better or for worse, to its older and younger siblings: it's the less notorious but smarter sister to New York; it's the less ostentatious but considerably more genuine sister to Los Angeles.

It is breathtaking and beautiful and yet somehow caught in the blind spot of popular consciousness.

I’ve always wondered if Chicago prefers to shy from the onerous and usually dysfunctional limelight of notoriety; I hypothesize that it is more than to content to be smart and genuine and breathtaking without attracting the attention that plagues those that are notorious and ostentatious.

On my way back I picked up coffee from Starbucks and indulged in more Quinn Sullivan obsessing; eventually, I stopped outside of Utrecht Art Supply and accomplished window shopping. When I arrived home I found Elizabeth cleaning the kitchen. I felt a little disappointed; I was planning on spending time procrastinating by cleaning the kitchen. Instead I took a shower and shaved everything that could be shaved. I plucked my eyebrows then decided to give myself a pedicure.

Elizabeth eyed me with suspicion as I sat on the couch and propped my foot on the coffee table. I attempted to ignore her pointed gaze.

After a period of tense silence she said, “So, what are you needing to do that you don’t want to do?”

I huffed, disliking that she knew me so well, and confessed, “Jem sent me an email.”

“Jem?” Elizabeth didn’t try to suppress her surprise, “When?”

“On Thursday.”

“What does she want?”

I uncapped the nail polish remover and applied a liberal amount to a cotton ball; “She wants to visit.”

“Who?”

I half laughed, half groaned, “I’m guessing me. She said she wanted to see me.”

She shook her head, “This is so strange. She doesn’t even like you.”

I shrugged, “I know.”

It was true. My own sister didn’t like me. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along; Jem just didn’t seem to like anyone. Sometimes she pretended to like people but only for as long as was necessary to obtain what she needed. I felt that there was a distinct possibility that she was a sociopath.

Abruptly I placed the cap back on the nail polish remover and pulled out my laptop. I needed to rip off the Band-Aid of fretfulness and just answer her damn email. I responded:

Jem- I’m in town all next week but will be gone part of the week after for a business trip. When do you plan to arrive? How long are you staying? Do you want to see/do anything in particular while you are here? Let me know the details when you are able. Talk to you soon, Janie