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I Lived It: One Year in an Evanston Brothel

I Lived It: One Year in an Evanston Brothel

My intentions were pure when I signed a lease with six roommates last spring. Sure, I’d heard about Evanston “brothel law” (it keeps more than three unrelated people from living together). Yeah, I was a little nervous that my landlord was breaking the law. I guess the rent was too good to pass up.

But I thought that we were right to ignore that crotchety, outdated ordinance. Brothels haven’t been a thing since prohibition, right? Plus, group sex? Gross! And all of my roommates were total squares, anyways — they all still went out wearing purple lanyards. Of course these nerds weren’t going to run a brothel.

If only I could travel back in time.

Just one year later, I wake up full of regret and shame. I tried to take a shower today, but my drain was clogged with maraschino cherries and (I think) anal beads. My favorite spaghetti spoon was defiled. I went class with a coursepack that was covered in jizz, and my professor could tell.

Evanston is right, our house is totally a brothel.

It all happened so fast. I remember the first day of classes in September, my roommate David writing C++ functions on the dry-erase wall in expo marker. Jordan was going out for a long run. Regina was boiling a pot of water for tea.

Before we knew it, Evanston’s freaks had descended on our whorehouse. Their noses sniffed out our breeding grounds and their tongues tricked us with wicked lies. They suckled the last of our spirits, celebrating the lewd and satanic. And honestly, I was totally into it.

By reading week, I’d slept with at least 40% of my graduating class. I think I railed the whole golf team (men’s and women’s) in one night, except for that one kid who was sick. He still had that cholera from the brothel three nights earlier.

My grown-ass neighbors even got in on the fun. They streamed in from Maple and Sherman, some brought their dogs like it was Fireman’s Park. I doubt the Evanston City Council ever even dreamt of brothels with beastiality.

I write to share what I have lived. Nearly a year of sex uninterrupted, bodies indistinctible from the crusty sofas beneath them. My house observed a constant stream of harlots. All because I signed a lease with six other people.

I’ve learned my lesson. Next year I’ll have two roommates, a monthly rent of about $2500, and absolutely no sex. And I can’t wait.

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