During my college years, I found myself sharing a living space with an unexpected individual—an escort. While I could playfully refer to her as Candy or Lola, her real name was something more typical, and she blended seamlessly with the other 19-year-olds in our economics class, sporting her Jordache jeans and flip-flops. She often dazzled with sleight of hand tricks, offering to teach me a few, but I had no idea what her true talents really were.
Just days into the semester, she managed to move into my apartment, and we established a routine, leaving each other notes about our study schedules. However, certain oddities began to surface. For starters, she owned two pagers (a rarity back in 1992), and I couldn’t fathom why anyone would need two. Additionally, her unpredictable hours and the stacks of cash on her dresser piqued my curiosity.
The truth came to light one night when she called me at 2 a.m., urgently requesting a pickup from a nearby hotel. “Bring me sweatpants and Nikes,” she instructed. I complied, and in room 805, she confessed that the police were on the lookout for her. Her client had just left, and she needed to escape without drawing attention. It seemed that her attire wasn’t suitable for a hasty getaway (this was before the era of widespread security cameras and cell phones). Jennifer, as I later learned her name was, unveiled her secrets, leaving me both horrified and fascinated.
I was living with my very own Pretty Woman. Jennifer allowed me a glimpse behind the curtain of her life, revealing her methods. Her job at a strip club was merely a front—she worked one night a week as a cocktail waitress. Her strategy unfolded like this:
- She would charm the men, making it clear that bartending was her way of funding her education.
- They’d often propose payment for sex—like a twisted scholarship program.
- She’d feign offense but dangle a thread of possibility.
- The offers would escalate.
- Once the price reached a certain threshold, voilà! She’d fulfill their fantasy of being her first.
While her service was sex, the real allure lay in the illusion she created: the image of a good girl with a heart of gold—or perhaps a golden allure? Her client pager buzzed non-stop, explaining the second pager she kept for family calls. Airport runs were common; men would call her for a quick encounter just before or after flights. She was rivaling Super Shuttle in business.
Over the next few months, I met some of her affluent, older clientele. She often invited me to upscale restaurants and events to stave off boredom during her work hours. “He’s so old and gross. I can’t stand his laugh,” she’d whisper to me while donning a dazzling smile for him.
I learned that “never” was her magic word. Phrases like “I’ve never had an orgasm” or “I’ve never done a private dance” would captivate her clients. The ultimate line? “I’ve never loved anyone else before.” That one could net her luxury gifts. On par with “never” was “only”: “I only wear my special panties for you.” Her manipulation ran deep—she even had a real boyfriend, a med student, whom she genuinely adored. This was dysfunction at its peak.
Our friendship was fleeting, lasting just under a semester. One day, I returned home to find her with my new boyfriend. Kicking him out was easy, but when she said, “I’ll never do anything like that again. You’re my best friend, and I only love you,” I realized she was a user. If I didn’t end our friendship then, I knew I’d face serious consequences.
She dropped out of school shortly afterward, and we lost touch. However, through the wonders of social media, I’ve discovered she’s been married twice. Those men likely paid a hefty price for her company.
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In summary, my experience with Jennifer was a whirlwind of revelations about the complexities of her life as an escort. It opened my eyes to a world I had never known, blending fascination with horror, and ultimately leading to a necessary decision to part ways.