Jeff lived in one of the ugly new condos that had been going up around Logan Square for a few years and recently started creeping into my perfectly nice ghetto. As soon as I saw his building, all fears of awkwardness vanished. I was fully prepared to hate and scorn him (giving me the upper hand).
When I got to Jeff’s apartment, though, it became very clear that hating this man would be completely unfair: he was an average-looking aging-hipster type, maybe in his mid-thirties. He had red hair, glasses, and a somewhat wispy beard.
The first word out of his mouth was “Wow,” rapidly followed by, “You are beautiful.” I was immediately concerned.
I have never really known how to accept compliments beyond the first ‘thank you’, and clients are often given to a kind of verbal diarrhea. It begins with, ‘you’re beautiful’ and then the adulation pours out until they are saying things that defy all reason and telling you that you’re the most beautiful girl they have ever seen, something that cannot be true. Jeff seemed as if he might be at an elevated risk for word vomit, but instead of disgorging a stream of escalating praise, he quickly apologized, confessed he had never done this before, offered me a beer (which I politely refused), and informed that he’d had a few beers of his own to relax.
As I followed him into the bedroom I noticed five Guinness bottles on Jeff’s coffee table and, although he didn’t seem visibly drunk, I became somewhat anxious about how well this call was going to go. After some fairly awful making out (by the end of which we were both stripped down to only underwear) it was clear that my suspicions were legitimate: there were no boners to be had in the room.