His body feels polluted. He feels like it was trampled over by a tornado or stomped down like the midway of a state fairground. Either one of them would temporarily ruin perfectly good farmland. That’s how his head and body feel: like aftermath, and for pretty good reason. Jeff had started his night out on a date, his first since moving to the city. He thought his move to Chicago from Peoria would increase his chances of finding the perfect man, but things just got harder. He isn’t the best looking guy in the world, he knows, but at least back home he didn’t feel like a hick. Here, guys are different but the same: Different because they are more metropolitan and polished and worldly; the same because men, he supposes, will be men. He just needs to find one that’s like him and wants a boyfriend. His date last night did not. Ever. And about five minutes into dinner he made that perfectly clear. When Jeff asked him why even asked him out on a date, the guy answered “because, well, you know.” Jeff did not know. He wishes that he had said no. He knew that nelliness did not dissipate with the amount of muscle a man has and that the eyebrows are always a dead giveaway. Still, he agreed and now he thinks all dates in the city are going to be doomed to conversations about cats or protein powder. When dinner was over, Jeff’s date left to go met his friends out. He didn’t invite Jeff along. Pissed and a little saddened, Jeff headed to the only country-western gay bar to do shots and feel sorry for himself. He downed countless little glasses of Jack Daniel’s with a drag queen named Victoria who had an equally terrible night. Things get a little blurry after that, but he remembers dancing way past his bedtime. He recalls stepping in time with other men in line formations that brought him the comfort and familiarity that he so needed. He recalls being spun around like a midwestern whirlwind. Apparently he made it home safe and sound and alone. He decides that for the time being, he would swear off dating and just make some new friends and learn his new city. He rolls over to check his phone, hoping it was still early enough to catch Sunday brunch. There’s a text message waiting for him that says, “Great to meet you. Looking forward to dinner on Friday — Riley.” He sits up with an audible “who the hell is Riley?!,” and falls back with “crap.” Well, he thinks, at least that gives him a week to recover, maybe figure out what this is about, and re-grow some hope before the next tornado hits.