I was a “houseboy” for a couple for about five years, from ages 19 to 24.

I was born in America but spent most of my childhood in England. Home life wasn’t great, so the moment I turned 18, I left. I moved back to the US with a small amount of money saved from birthdays and a part time job and absolutely no real plan beyond survival.

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I got a server job at an upscale restaurant and barely scraped by. If I’m honest, I’m pretty sure the only reason I got hired was because of my English accent. The place leaned fancy and people loved it.

There was a woman who came in a lot. Sometimes with her partner, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. She tipped extremely well every time. If I was working, she’d ask to sit in my section. She liked to chat and she mostly asked about me. Where I grew up, how I ended up there, what my life was like.

One day, completely out of the blue, she called me. Apparently my boss had given her my number, which I know is inappropriate, but at the time I didn’t question it. She said she wanted to offer me a job.

We met at a coffee shop and she explained it. She wanted me to be a houseboy. Not in a weird caricature way, but basically someone to help around the house, do chores, be present. Her partner traveled a lot. She described it as needing help and, honestly, needing company. An emotional support human, more or less.

I took the job.

I stayed in that role for about five years. She was in her mid forties when it started. Over time, we became incredibly close. I won’t pretend it was simple or clean. I did end up playing a role in the end of her relationship, though I don’t think I was the cause. That fault was already there.

She was always generous. With money, with opportunities, with support. I don’t regret it. I actually enjoyed the work, strange as that might sound. It gave me stability when I had none and set me up for a much better life afterward.

I don’t really tell people about it now. It’s one of those chapters that doesn’t fit neatly into conversation.

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