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My College Roommate Was an Escort
My college roommate was an escort. I could playfully call her Candy or Lola, but her real name was something like Jennifer, and she looked just like any other 19-year-old in my economics class, decked out in her Jordache jeans and Guess tops. She had this talent for making magic with her hands and promised to teach me a few tricks, but I was completely oblivious to what she really had in store.
Within a few days of starting school, she managed to move into my apartment, and we quickly fell into a routine, exchanging notes about our study schedules and passing by each other in the shared bathroom. But then I began to notice some oddities. For starters, she had two pagers (yup, this was back in 1992), and honestly, who needs two pagers? Plus, she kept bizarre hours, and I’d often see stacks of cash piled on her dresser.
The truth came to light one night when she called me at 2 a.m. asking for a ride from a local hotel. “Bring me sweatpants and Nikes,” she instructed. I complied, and in room 805, she revealed that the police were waiting to arrest her. Her last client had just left, and she needed my help to sneak out. Apparently, it wasn’t easy to do that while dressed as a hooker (this was long before the age of security cameras and smartphones). Jennifer spilled her secrets, and I was both horrified and strangely intrigued.
Living with a “Pretty Woman”
Living with a “Pretty Woman” was wild. Jennifer let me peek behind the curtain of her life and opened up about her secrets. She worked one night a week as a cocktail waitress at a strip club, but that was just a ruse. Here’s how her scheme worked:
- Charm the men, telling them she was working to fund her education. She was the good girl who couldn’t strip like the others.
- They’d offer to pay her for sex—kind of like a twisted scholarship program.
- She’d act offended but give them a glimmer of hope.
- They’d keep raising their offers.
- Once the price was right, she’d fulfill their ultimate fantasy of being her first client.
What they paid for wasn’t just sex; it was the illusion of the good girl with a heart of gold…or maybe it was the golden vagina? Her client pager buzzed around the clock, explaining the second one was for family. Airport runs were super common; they’d call for a quick hookup on their way out of town or just after landing. She was basically Super Shuttle’s fiercest competitor.
Over the next few months, I met some of her regulars—wealthy older gentlemen who took us to fancy restaurants and events. “He’s so wrinkled and gross. I can’t stand his laugh,” she’d whisper, all while flashing him a sweet smile.
I learned that “never” was a magic word for her. She’d tell them things like, “I’ve never had an orgasm,” or “I’ve never done a private lap dance,” and the ultimate one: “I’ve never loved anyone else before.” That last line could score her a new credit card or even a car. It was all about the twists; she had a real boyfriend, a med school student her age, whom she adored. Talk about dysfunctional!
Our friendship fizzled as quickly as it ignited, lasting just shy of a semester. One day, I walked in to find her sucking the fingers of a guy I had just started dating. Kicked him out, of course, but then I truly saw her for what she was—a user. The way she said, “I’ll never do that again. You’re my best friend, and I only love you,” made me realize I was playing with fire. I knew if I didn’t cut ties, I might end up in a dangerous situation.
She eventually dropped out of school, and I lost track of her, though thanks to Facebook, I learned she’s been married twice. Those poor guys had to have paid dearly.
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In summary, living with Jennifer was a rollercoaster of revelations, from her secret life as an escort to the bizarre dynamics of our friendship. It taught me a lot about trust, boundaries, and the unforeseen paths of college life.