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My College Roommate Was a Call Girl
So, my college roommate was a call girl. I could playfully call her names like Candy or Lola, but her real name was more like Jennifer, and she looked like the typical 19-year-old in my economics class, decked out in Jordache jeans, Guess tops, and flip-flops. She was always talking about wanting to teach me some “magic tricks,” but I had no idea what was really going on beneath the surface.
Just days into the semester, she managed to move into my apartment, and we fell into a routine, crisscrossing in the shared bathroom and leaving Post-it notes about when we’d be studying. But soon, I started to notice some oddities. For instance, she had two pagers (yes, it was 1992—crazy, right?), and I couldn’t fathom why she needed both. Plus, she kept bizarre hours and stacks of cash were often on her dresser.
The truth came to light one early morning when she called me at 2 a.m. to pick her up from a hotel. “Bring sweatpants and Nikes,” she insisted. I hurried over, and in room 805, she revealed that the police were waiting to catch her. Her client had just left, and she needed my help to slip away unnoticed. Apparently, her attire wasn’t exactly suited for a stealthy exit (this was long before security cameras and cell phones). Jennifer spilled everything, and I was both horrified and captivated.
I was living with a real-life Pretty Woman.
Jennifer peeled back the curtain on her life and shared her secrets with me. Her “day job” was at a strip club, where she worked one night a week as a cocktail waitress. Her process was pretty calculated: she’d charm the guys by saying she was working to pay for school, insisting she was a good girl who couldn’t strip like the other girls.
Then came the offers for paid sex—think of it as a college scholarship program. She’d feign offense but hint at a possibility, effectively raising the stakes until the price was just right. And that’s when she’d deliver the fantasy of being their first—a high-priced illusion of the good girl with a heart of gold.
Her client pager rang non-stop, and that’s why she had a second one just for family. Business was booming, especially with airport runs where clients would call for a quick service on their way out of town. She was giving Super Shuttle a run for their money.
Over the next few months, I met some of her wealthy, older clients. She would take me to fancy restaurants and events, clearly wanting company during her work hours. “He’s so old and gross. I can’t stand his laugh,” she would whisper to me while plastering on a fake smile.
I learned that “never” was a key word in her playbook. She’d say things like, “I’ve never had an orgasm,” or “I’ve never done a private lap dance.” The one that paid off the most? “I’ve never loved anyone else before.” That line could land her a credit card or even a new car. And then there was “only”—“I only wear these special panties for you.” It was all twisted, especially since she had a real boyfriend who was in med school and whom she adored. Talk about a dysfunctional situation.
Our friendship ended just as quickly as it began, lasting barely a semester. One day, I came home to find her with my new boyfriend. I kicked him out without a second thought, but when I confronted her, she said, “I’ll never do that again. You’re my best friend, and I only love you.” In that moment, I realized that she was manipulative and I needed to step away before I got burned—or worse, caught up in something dangerous.
She dropped out of school and vanished from my life, though I later learned through Facebook that she had been married twice. Those poor guys must have paid a hefty price.
If you’re curious about more stories like this one, check out this blog post on home insemination kits, as well as resources on fertility insurance.
In summary, my experience with Jennifer was an eye-opener into a world I never expected to encounter.