In the up and down world of sex workers and their clients, Greer imagines himself as an exception: A man who walks, talks and occasionally fucks to the lopsided beat of his own retarded drum. While every other sex worker patron regards the girls as whores to simply be fucked and then cast aside, Greer has been made party to secret knowledge: All female sex workers, without exception, entered the industry in the hope that, one day, a man with the bearing of a teenage schoolboy, who has recently outgrown his trousers, would present them with a single red rose, a heart-shaped balloon impaled on a stick, and an opportunity to recreate the spaghetti scene from 'The Lady & The Tramp' at the nearest Olive Garden.
We have seen how Greer reacts to the boyfriends of the beautiful women who he habitually stalks and clumsily attempts to woo online. In the aftermath of these failed interactions, he can at least tell himself that he is special and that these women have failed to see his quality.
Imagine if he was dumped, head-first, into one of those online communities that are filled with people exactly like him - who shower sex workers with gifts and Spotify playlists than lean heavily on Sia's back catalogue (I imagine Sia as providing the banal aural canvas for many paid sexual encounters, in the same way that London Grammar make music that seems predestined to soundtrack young conservatives losing their virginity at whatever seaside resort the party has selected for its annual conference).
I think the knowledge that Greer is not unique, but rather part of a crowd; one of many gentlemen whoremongers who foist the boyfriend experience onto their reluctant, temporary sexual partners with far more élan than he ever could, would inflict a more devastating narcissistic injury than any that he has been dealt thus far.