His eyes abruptly lifted to mine, his features losing some of their earlier unguarded ease, “You could say that.”

I couldn’t help my own frown and the sinking feeling in my chest. In that moment I felt like a real girl. Like a girl who wants to hear that she is beautiful from the boy she likes. It felt adolescent and bizarrely painful and exasperating because I knew it was adolescent; “So, what is your type? Beautiful? Blonde hair? Model thin?”

His mouth hooked to the side, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well… what did you mean?”

His expression hardened slightly, “Shelly, my sister, and I go to Giavani’s almost every Saturday. Viki isn’t used to seeing me with anyone else.”

“You mean a girlfriend? A date?”

“I don’t date-” his expression slipped into the mask of guarded detachment I’d grown somewhat used to over the last week. He then added, “-Haven’t dated.”

Wendell. He’s a Wendell.

Elizabeth’s words from that morning started parading through my head. I tried to cover the disappointed flop of my stomach falling to my feet with a brave smile and pushed him on the subject, asking another question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to, “So why don’t you date?”

“It’s not a big mystery. I haven’t needed to.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

“What does that mean? ‘Needed to’?” I felt like each time he spoke he was reluctantly giving me a puzzle piece; the finished object was looking more and more like a Wendell. Reluctantly, I was starting to accept that Elizabeth’s earlier assessment had been correct.

“You know what it means.” His voice was hesitant, as if he weren’t convinced of the statement.

I shook my head, watching him with wide eyes, “No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

He seemed to consider me for a moment, his gaze hawkish and searching. He then asked, “What about you? Why’d you and Jon break up?”

“First I want to know what ‘I haven’t needed to’ means. Are you-” I searched for an explanation that was a Wendell alternate and could only come up with one thing, glad for my wine fueled audacity, “are you celibate?”

“No.” A rueful smile passed over his lips, it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Fine. It means: I never needed to date someone in order to have a good time. I have-” he cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and glanced to the side as though to avoid my gaze, “I had a few girls who I partied with from time to time but we weren’t exclusive.”

I blinked, absorbing this information. “You mean- you mean you have girls that you call to have sex with them? Slamps?”

Even under the intimately dim candlelight I could see that his neck and cheeks were red-tinged. He didn’t respond but he did sigh. He let go of my hand, began to stand, and grabbed my coat, holding it up to help me shrug it on. I eyeballed him, taking his silence as confirmation. Wordlessly he placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me toward the door.

I thought, at some point, the sinking feeling would stop. It didn’t. Quinn was a Wendell. Even worse, he was a multiple-slamp Wendell manwhore. I felt sad but resigned and- strangely- a little angry with Elizabeth for being right.

When we stepped outside the chilly Chicago air felt good as it whipped past me, helped me clear my head. I glanced over at Quinn and allowed myself to dwell on the ridiculousness of my situation. I was with a really great guy who, according to Elizabeth, wanted to give me mind-blowing sex but only mind-blowing sex which I would be turning down as, among other reasons, he was already giving the sex to other girls. Before I could stop myself, I stepped away and I asked, “Is it all at the same time or one at a time?”

He stopped, started; Quinn met my gaze, his own betraying stunned surprise.

“What?” I pushed.

He shook his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. His hand found mine and started pulling me until my feet moved. “Your turn.”

“Not yet. I want to more about the logistics of this.” I couldn’t help myself. The whole concept seemed suddenly both absurd yet strangely efficient, “How many are we talking about? What percentage of females in Chicago are ready to have sex with you right now? What happens if one of them needs to travel? Do they have a phone tree? Is there a coverage plan or a backup plan for emergencies?”

Quinn covered the bottom half of his mouth with his free hand, too late to mask the smile, his shoulders started shaking with silent laughter.

I continued, feeling a little better knowing that he was able to laugh at himself, “Is there entry criteria? An established search committee? An interview process? Skills test? What kind of radius do you require? Do you have one circling the block now? Do you always keep one nearby? Was there one at the restaurant? At the bar maybe?”

“Janie. Seriously. Your turn.” His tone was authoritative but I could see his eyes were still lighted with amusement and he was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

“My turn?” My eyebrows lifted in confusion; despite my attempts at making fun of his ‘arrangement’ I was still feeling lingering dejection from confirming Quinn’s somewhat sordid sexual history; well, it was sordid compared to my history which, relatively, made it sordid. “You already know everything. I’m a one-slamp kind of girl.”

“Why did you and Jon break up?”

I thought about the question; however, the reality of Quinn’s confession kept distracting me. Quinn never dated.

Never needed to.

Was I ok with that? What was a manwhore really? Was it such a bad thing if all the practice with slamps meant he was good in bed? If we ever slept together did I need to cover myself in cling wrap and Lysol to protect against his plethora of contracted STD’s? Did he have any STD’s? Were we going to sleep together? If he had unlimited access to veteran slamps, was he even interested in sleeping with me, novice that I was? Did I want to sleep with a Wendell especially after finding out about the multiple-slamps-in-waiting? Was I going to become one of his slamps?

I was pretty sure I didn’t want to become one of Quinn Sullivan’s many slamps.

As an aside, I noted that ‘One of Many Slamps’ would make a good band name or, at the very least, album name.

“Janie?”

My eyelashes fluttered and I looked around the sidewalk unseeingly, “Uh, yeah?”

“You and Jon… why did you split?” I noted his voice was quieter, almost coaxing. We started up the staircase for the el.

I responded without thinking, “I’m not really sure what the real reason was for our split but I’m pretty sure the catalyst was him cheating on me.”

“He-” Quinn stopped on the stairs and pulled on my hand until I met his gaze, “He cheated on you?”

I nodded, “Yes. But, to be fair, he said he was drunk and it only happened once.”

Quinn’s eyes were wide with what looked like disbelief, “I can’t believe he cheated on you.”

“Yes, well… I think I have some insight as to why but I’m still processing the possibilities.” I pulled my hand from his and tucked my hair behind my ears; I started up the stairs again so I wouldn’t have to look directly at him when I spoke, “But there were already other issues before that. For one, he is wealthy.” We reached the landing and passed our transit cards through the gate.

Quinn’s eyebrows shot up at my statement; he asked, “What does that have to do it?”

“For one thing, our priorities never seemed to align. He could, and did, spend money on whatever he wanted. I was- and am- always careful with all my purchases. Second, I always felt like I had a handicap: like I was perpetually taking advantage of him or like I owed him if I accepted whatever it was: money, gifts, help. If I didn’t accept his help it would lead to bad feelings and uncomfortable discussions where I always felt like I was the problem.” My mind began to focus on our current conversation rather than the conversation of two minutes ago. I decided I would work through my slamp issues at some point later. “I’m determined to stay within one standard deviation upward of my own socioeconomic sphere.”

Our train arrived and he waited to speak until it slowed to a stop. Quinn’s expression straddled the triple border of bewilderment, determination, and alarm. “So-” he huffed, his gaze pinning me with its sudden intensity; I was surprised also by the argumentative tone in his voice, “Would you ever date someone who made less than you?” he ushered me on to the el and to a seat by the sliding door, his arm went behind me along my back and against the window.

I nodded immediately, “Oh yes. Absolutely. I don’t have a problem with that. Really, my concern is being with the type of person who has enough wealth to decide- on a whim- to take off from real life and travel around where ever and expect that I’ll be able to do the same simply because he has the means to fund it. Or who buys me extravagant gifts- like a car or expensive jewelry.”

I felt a sudden shiver, like someone was watching me. I turned my head and surveyed the train. I looked from left to right and found only a smattering of what seemed to be college students. It was the same inexplicable sensation that I’d experienced in the club weeks ago.