Residence Life: off campus. Women 18-35. Live-in position, expenses paid. Pay negotiable.
Contact Mme Anne.
That was all the ad said. I know what it looks like, and if I'm honest, I may've known, deep down, what it looked like back then, too. But it was the summer of 2009-I had graduated in 2008, at the worst part of the Great Recession. I'd spent the better part of a year sending resumes into what felt like an endless abyss. Responses were rare, and in all of my group interviews, me and my BA in English Lit were competing against people 10 or 20 years older than me with more experience. It was as if no employers appreciated my ability to analyze sexuality and gender in early modern literature or that I could churn out a 15 page paper on 3 lines of Browning.
That's fair. I was tired of that joke by then too.
So I applied for literally every job I appeared qualified for, many that I did not.
And Mme Anne called back. Simple as that.
"You read the ad?" She asked, simple, curt, without even a greeting.
"Oh, um, yes, my name is," I stammered.
"Mm. The address is 735 Jefferson. Come in the back."
click.
If you're old enough, or young enough, to remember, you will probably understand why I went there, with so little information. My loan grace period would be over in 15 days. I had not had a job for more than a month in the past 9. My roommate had left earlier that month to go WWOOFING or Teach for America-ing or live in a yurt on a commune or some damn thing. So I put on my best interview clothes and took the train as far as I could, then walked. And walked. And walked. Back then, I could walk pretty far.
Walking wasn't without its hazards, of course.
"Hey, baby, why you walking? Come on in here with them blowjob lips of yours," Some white asshole trying to impress his black friends would holler from a passing car.
"You look skinny, mami! Got something for you to eat in here!"
"Fuck you," I'd shout, from a safe distance.
"Come on in, then!"
I wondered then, like I wonder now, what would happen if a woman ever took one of those assholes up on their harassment. What if I had honestly hollered across the street and said , "Pull into the alley, I'll suck you dry!"? What if I just hiked my dress up and presented to those hardhat asshats with jackhammers, spread my cheeks and told them to do what they claimed they wanted to do?
Pussies, the whole lot of them.
***
735 Jefferson was a nice, large house, but not much more could be said for it. Some Greek Letters I did not recognize out front, a big, brick mini-mansion identical to those around it. I walked to the back door, as per instructions, and knocked once.
A woman in a trim black pant suit opened the door at once, and motioned for me to come inside.
She raised an elegant hand over her shoulder and snapped, indicating that I follow her.
Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, her cheekbones high, her skin uncommonly healthy for a woman who appeared to be her age. I'm not queer enough to call myself bi, really, but I was still sure I'd be thinking of her later, maybe even with the suit on...
"You are here about the ad?" She asked.
"Yes, my name is..."
She cut me off again.
"Irrelevant, for now," she said, opening and office door and showing me in. "So. You read the ad. You appear between 18 and 25, and are willing to answer an ad that promises free living quarters and little else,"
I laughed nervously, "It's hard out there."
"Yes, quite. Tell me, are you on birth control?"
I was startled by this question, but answered nonetheless.
"Um, yeah,"
"What sort?" She said, not looking up from her clipboard where she made furious notes.
"Just the pill?"
She nodded , curt, "Our agency has excellent healthcare. We may provide for more permanent birth control, such as IUD, if you are willing."
I shrugged "I'd never thought about it. I guess that'd be nice,"
"No diseases? Drugs?" she continued.
I had been asked stranger at interviews and answered without hesitation.
"No, not really,"
"Not really?"
I blushed. "Weed, a little. And a touch of asthma"
She shook her head, "Bad for you, but I hardly care about that,"
"Before we go any further, I need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement," she said, pushing a paper across the desk, "stating that you will not disclose any information you may uncover in this interview to any person, publication or other media entity."
A member of the digital agreement generation, I signed, without reading a word.
"Quite good," she said, not even glancing at my name.
"Now, as for what this organization does," she leaned forward, fingers tented, "we protect the education interests of certain young men,"
"Like, tutoring?"
She smirked.
"Somewhat like that. You see, our organization hosts the sons of some of the wealthiest families in the world. Oil magnates, sons of CEOs, minor princes. The odd American political son. They are, quite literally, the future of the global economy. The weight of this is quite the burden, as you could imagine."
I could not imagine. My bra was held together with duct tape and I only still had internet at home because my roommate had forgotten to cancel it before she went to Tibet or Tuscon or wherever.
"The problem then, is that they are boys, rich boys, but boys nonetheless. And young men, they think with their cocks," she said, not dropping her gaze from mine.
I laughed, "Am I right, ladies?"
She did not laugh.
"Ok, then what does that mean for your organization? Is this some kind of Christian abstinence thing?"
She did laugh then.
"I am glad you asked. You see, these silly boys' parents pay us quite well to keep their sons out of trouble. Do you understand me, miss?"
