I have a new word to add to the dictionary of types I encounter in this city. Have you ever talked to someone for an extended period of time only to realize you can barely get in an “uh huh” between their never-ending load of jargon that feels as if it’s being sprayed at you like a garden hose? Well, you have met a Mental Masturbator.

Mental Masturbator (n): The Mental Masturbator is looking for an ego boost.  This person has an Inferiority Complex and will suck the life force out of anyone who will listen in order to find motivation to act in his/her own life. The Mental Masturbator doesn’t know what he/she wants.  This person talks at you as if trying to work toward some sort of enlightenment. Ultimately, it doesn’t really matter who the listener is, just as long as that person is nice and willing to take it.  Mental Masturbators are self-fixated and cheap, and the may have occupations as personal trainers, political zealots, philosophy or literature grad students or are nearing a mid-life crisis. They may have no job at all and continuously talk about their grand plans.

I recently worked for a Mental Masturbator here in my Brooklyn neighborhood. I was hired to paint his kitchen. Yep. Tape, sand, spackle, roll, paint, perfect. I do that.

When he opened the door to his apartment, I saw a red flag. This man simply didn’t fit into the neighborhood. If you live in Williamsburg, you probably prefer Indie music, dress vintag-ish, have some kind of shag in your hairdo, or at least a moustache and slight beard. Its also common to be in your 20s or early thirties.

This man, let’s call him Nathan, was in his late thirties and was wearing a tight-ish sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers from the 90s, and not ones that were bought at a thrift store.  He was clean-cut, and his voice sounded like a male aerobics instructor from some Buns of Steel video. I was not surprised a few seconds later when this man revealed that he is a personal trainer.

“Want an omelet?” He asks, and I take a look at the walls I am to paint. “Sorry, I just got in, you know, I was in Manhattan, training people and now I am starv-!”

“That’s okay.  I’m fine. So, I’m gonna need a mask. Do you have-”

“Ok, da da daa, eggs, onion…” He sprinkles on the pepper, fairy-like. “Oh, whole-grain toast, I forgot! Oh, what’s that you said?”

“A paint mask.”

“Oh, I can get you that if you want. Wow. I can tell you are a no BS type! Well, you’re on the clock! Oh, so hey, I figure, 3 hours, sixty bucks?”

He flips his omelet. I think the job will take longer than 3 hours but I think, ok, $20 an hour, not bad for this work. I nod.

“Oh! I was gonna add cheese. Eh, too much dairy…”

I just stare at him.

“Well. I can tell you want to be the boss. So, I’m gonna let you do your thing!”

I do my thing. He puts on 80s music and occasionally sings along, while walking through the kitchen several times announcing that he has to pee, that he is nervous. Throughout the snowy afternoon whenever he checked up on me, Nathan kept repeating the same phrase:

“You are the boss! You the girl!”

I kept wondering if this man secretly wanted me to boss him around. When the job was done and a good one at that, it was 6:30. I had put in 5 hours. He had a brand new white kitchen, and it was clean, too.

Then, he invited me to a taco joint for some din-din. I knew I shouldn’t depend on this man to feed me, but like a carrot on a stick he held the opportunity for free delicious tacos and and I hungrily accepted. It was then that the mental masterbating began to take off.

We sat down and all I can think about is how much I want to be digging into the guacamole that arrives at the table next to us. But Nathan starts to talk about his mom. Then, his neighbor, then some girls he dated, then his old roomate who was “emotionally dependent and attention-seeking.” That’s funny, for a second I could have sworn Nathan was talking about himself. I think I said “Uh-huh,” maybe thirty times. It was as if he was desperate to unload himself and I happened to be there.

We left the restaurant. He still hadn’t paid me for the job. The original ad said $100, and that’s what I am expecting, for 5, not 3, hours of work. We hit the ATM. He withdraws money and holds it for a second.

“So, we said sixty.”

My mouth opened.

“Uh. I worked five hours. That’s $100.”

“No.  I said sixty for the afternoon. And, well, you got dinner!”

“That was something you wanted to get me!”

“No, no, see, I had grown MEN responding to my ad who would work for $12 an hour. Now, you are overcharging me.”

“But you said $100 originally!”

“That was when I wanted the bedroom painted too!”

We continued this idiocy for five minutes. I got him to pay me $80, and ran.

Two hours later I get a text:

“Hey M! I had fun this afternoon. All misunderstandings aside, I’d love to hang out with you again, preferably in a non-paint setting. You game?”

Unbelievable. This guy just didn’t get it. Wow. I thought of writing back, Gee, I can’t wait to see what our next date would be like if you can’t even pay a service worker properly, especially when I’m the service worker! But, what the hell, I have nothing to do tomorrow, so I would love to come over and make you an omelet. I’ll listen to you complain about your life while giving you a massage. Then we can go in the bedroom and you can do anything you want to me. Just be sure to call me the boss, ok! Yes, I’m game!

But I did not respond to the text. And that was the end of Nathan.

Mental Masturbators are all over the place. When you see the flag, save yourself the enervating experience of watching them do their thing, and take the money and run. You can get your own tacos. And, set the boundary for the money BEFORE you arrive.