Wanted: Beautiful Young Women.
 

Are you a stunning, intelligent woman? Billionaires request your companionship. The compensation is just as amazing as you are. Call the Billionaire Exchange Club at 555–1212 to learn more.
 

I sigh as I place the Student Gazette in the center of the table.

“Can you believe this crazy ad?” I ask my friend Stacy, as we finish up our chicken sandwiches in the student union cafeteria.

I point it out to her with my finger and she glances it from across the table.

“I can’t believe the college lets someone run this ad. If it’s even real. Do you think it’s even for real?”

“Only one way to find out,” Stacy says, her mischievous grin spreading across her freckled face.

I giggle nervously. I know there’s no way I would ever call that number as she’s suggesting. I’m too shy. Stacy is more the type to do such a thing.

I wouldn’t know how to entertain a billionaire. Even though I’m a freshman in college, I’ve never even had sex. I’m sure that if these billionaires are paying so handsomely, they would expect some nookie in return.

“I’ve heard about these escort agencies that act like they’re only for dates but really they’re for prostitution,” I tell Stacy. “I bet you anything this ‘Billionaire Exchange Club’ is a place like that.”

“Sounds exciting,” Stacy says as she dips her fry into some Polynesian sauce. “And I bet those girls really rake in the money.”

I laugh. Leave it to Stacy to be humored at something I’m horrified by. I can’t imagine selling my body. Sure, it would be intriguing to be with a billionaire. I bet an older, more experienced one would be perfect when it comes to losing my virginity. He would certainly be better than any of the guys around here I’ve tried to date. All my dates have been so lame.

The last one I went on, the guy asked me if he had to pay for my dinner— after we had already eaten and the waiter had brought the check. This is after he had spent half of the second semester asking me out every day in biology class. You would think he would’ve saved up some money by the time I finally agreed to go on a date with him.

The only reason I said had yes was because I was bored and I was thinking in may be time to give up my V card. But not to him. I really regretted saying yes just to dinner. I told him we could split the bill, and I didn’t make a fuss over it, but then he had the nerve to tell me that even though he knew I was a big girl he didn’t know I would eat so much. While I’m plus sized, and I like a burger and fries as much as the next girl, I hadn’t even ordered that much food. It’s these kind of things that maybe want to swear off dating forever.

At least a billionaire would have money to pay for dinner. And at least he probably wouldn’t make crass remarks. But I’m sure there has to be more than dinner involved at this “club” that the student newspaper is advertising. And while I’d like to sit here and fantasize about an older, much richer man having his way with me for my very first time, I can’t imagine actually doing it.

“I bet you’re thinking about what it will be like to lose your virginity to a billionaire,” Stacy says with a laugh. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

I blush and shake my head but my smile betrays the fact that she has guessed correctly.

“I’ll go do it with you if you want,” she says. “Check out this billionaire club. Sell my time, or my body, or whatever it is these old rich dudes are wanting to pay for.”

“You would,” I tell her.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Stacy asks, throwing a french fry at me.

I catch it and then put it in the bag with my garbage.

“Just that you’re a lot more adventurous than I am,” I tell her. “And that’s a good thing.”

“Yeah you really need to relax and let go sometimes,” she says. “At least go on this blind date with me next Saturday night. You know I’ve been dating Scott and he wants to set you up on a double date with his friend Jerry. He’s a football player. I’m sure he’s a stud. All of Scott’s friends are.”

“I’m kind of burned out on dates right now.”

“Oh please,” Stacy says. “I’m setting a new rule right now. Either you have to go on this blind date with Scott and me or you have to go on a date with one of these billionaires.”

She points her finger at the Student Gazette which is still open to the Billionaires Exchange ad on the table in front of us.

“Well in that case, my decision is easy,” I tell her “I guess I’ll be joining you on the blind date. And this guy better not think that I’m eating too much just by ordering a burger.”

“I’m so glad to hear that you’ll come,” she says, as if she had given me a choice in the matter. “I know that with everything going on with your mom…”

She doesn’t finish and I’m glad. My mom is part of the reason that I both do and do not want to go on dates with random people who probably won’t turn out to be suitable date material.

My mom was diagnosed with cancer a year ago and her progression has been rather downhill. So, going on dates is a welcome distraction to take my mind off things but then when they don’t turn out well I’m left feeling even more depressed than I usually am.

“I know you’re just trying to be a good friend,” I tell Stacy, because she looks regretful that she brought up my mom and I don’t want her to feel bad. “I appreciate your help and I’ll go on this date that you want me to go on. As long as you stop bombing me with french fries.”

“I promise I’ll stop,” she says, solemnly. “And not just because I’m out of fries. But I don’t want you to think that I’m pushing you too much or making fun of you. You’re a beautiful girl and the world is your oyster. You should be out there having fun and experimenting and exploring. But I also can understand why you’re hesitant. Especially after the crappy date with the cheap guy from biology class.”

“So, you think I’m a beautiful young woman?” I ask her, batting my eyelashes in mock flirtation. “But what about stunning and intelligent? Those are the requirements to be with these billionaires.”

I point again at the classified ad in the Student Gazette.

“I deftly think you would qualify,” she says. “And you might as well be making lots of money instead of having to spend it on your own dinner with a guy who insults you.”

“Speaking of biology class, I better get going,” I tell her, standing up and picking up my bag.

I’m partly changing the subject but partly realizing I need to hurry to class for real. I really hope I don’t have to see that guy I went on a date with. I’m going to ask the the professor if I can change seats.

I scoop up the trash on the table so that I can throw it away. But when I pick up the Student Gazette, I don’t add it to the pile of trash. Instead I slip it in my backpack along with my cell phone which was also on the table. I’m conscious enough of this fact that I stop and think about why I did it.

I guess a part of me is intrigued. But not intrigued enough to call that number.