I first learned about the mythical Houseboy position at a Christmas party during my freshman year at Cal. Soft lighting, gentle conversation and good wine set me up to be completely enchanted by the beautiful sorority girl and her story of the Houseboy, that one lucky man chosen to live and work inside the sweet sanctuary of the sorority house. Could such heavenly treasures truly exist? Yet here she was, a recent graduate of my university, telling me of the opportunities that were indeed within my reach. I went to sleep that night dreaming of pajama-clad women, pillow fights, great majestic houses and me, in the middle of it all.

In my second year of college, I was determined to make those dreams a reality. I wrote up elegant cover letters and reached out to all of the sorority houses at Cal. Yet there were simply no Houseboy positions available. I was beginning to lose hope. My friend, however, had heard about my search and informed me that her sorority house had an opening for a Houseboy. She dutifully recommended me to the House Mother in charge, and I was granted an interview.

I wasn’t sure what exactly a Houseboy did, but this was irrelevant. I always envisioned myself as a cabana boy, dressed in a bright pink thong and serving the girls drinks by the poolside. Trying to keep that particular vision repressed for my interview, I did my best to present myself as a proper young lad. I dressed in crisp business casual and mentally rehearsed the personal experiences that I thought would make me a good Houseboy: the close and excellent relationship I shared with my younger sister, my comfort in being the only guy amidst 40 girls in the dance classes I had taken. The two main questions the House Mother asked me, though, were “Are you a student here at UC-Berkeley?” and “How well do you clean?” My responses “Yes” and “Amazingly well” seemed to satisfy her. Disappointingly, nothing was asked about how I looked in a pink thong.

I started the Houseboy position the following year, and learned there were several main tasks involved: washing dishes, serving dinner and cleaning up afterwards, stocking breakfast and weekend foods, general house security and making sure that the girls didn’t ravage the supply of ice cream. In exchange for my faithful labor, I was to receive free room and board and was given a private room with a bathroom on the bottom floor of the house, separate from those of the girls. My fellow residents were one other Houseboy, a House Mom and Dad (married couple, the only way a man was allowed to manage the sorority) and 57 girls. During my time there, I always viewed myself as more of a Houseman than a Houseboy, but I stuck to the name due to the fact that it was fantastic and a less threatening title because boys, unlike men, are technically sexually immature. I was the exception to this rule.

Wanting to be an excellent Houseboy and learn everyone’s name, I immediately made the rounds to the girls’ rooms with my camera, introducing myself and asking to take their pictures with a voice memo of their names so that I could more easily memorize their names. Unfortunately, this made me come off as weird, and I had to circle back a second time, offering chocolate-covered gummy bears as reconciliation. I attended drunken sorority soirees and facilitated the recruiting events, harsh affairs that rivaled the toughest job interview. After a while, the whole setup became routine, like living in a co-ed dormitory. The work could get draining, and sometimes I thought of the girls as the enemy, smirking when I overheard their sorority troubles or leaving their cereal bins slightly less than full in the hopes that hunger would strike them down.

Recounting the whole experience, I came away with the following wisdom: sorority girls are fickle creatures who can be kind upfront, heartless behind your back and seriously poisonous in large groups. Their appetites are voracious and desserts are always the best way into their (and almost any woman’s) heart. Being a Houseboy can be everything from mundane to fantastic, and it depends in part on the attitude you bring in with you.

I was very appreciative of the ability to save so much on my housing costs while living in a sometimes-loving community of women. To the sororities of Stanford, I say this: open your doors and let a Houseboy into your house and heart. It’s an act of goodwill and graciousness, good economics if you have an unused or unwanted room and an excellent way to have a loving and adoring pet that cleans up after both itself and you.