surreal estate
we’ll call him christian grey, because that was very much the vibe i got.
the initial task was simple enough. we connected through zillow, set up an appointment, and i showed up to walk through a listing like a normal, functional adult with normal, functional intentions.
then he opened the door.
i was not prepared.
tall. muscular. dark hair. tight-fitted clothing that suggested he owned mirrors and knew exactly what to do with them. the heat index was over a hundred that day, and he had the top few buttons of his white cotton shirt undone. the fabric clung just enough to be rude. his black slacks were fitted in a way that made professionalism feel theoretical. he was barefoot except for a pair of fashion flip-flops, which somehow made the whole thing worse. and there i was, pretending to care about crown molding.
he gave me the tour, and somewhere between the entryway and the second bedroom, the whole thing started to feel like a game neither of us had agreed to name. there were glances. little ones at first. quick, harmless things. then not so harmless. he told me about the history of the house, the neighborhood, the square footage, the schools nearby, the last time the roof had been replaced. i nodded like i was absorbing important homeowner information, when really i was watching the way his shirt pulled across his chest every time he gestured toward a doorway.
then we stepped into the backyard. that was where the pool was. beautiful. inground. bright blue water catching the sun like it had been staged for bad decisions. the only problem was the privacy, or lack of it. the neighboring houses had a pretty clear view, and i said something about that before i could talk myself out of it.
“shame,” i said, looking at the water. “i like to sunbathe and swim in bare flesh.”
he went quiet for half a second. then he tugged at his collar. just once. but i saw it.
i followed him to another property after that. this one was different. a fixer-upper, though even that felt generous. the first house had been polished and staged, all bright walls and clean counters and a pool pretending not to be obscene. this place had been abandoned for years, lost in a foreclosure or a family dispute or whatever lore the neighborhood had assigned to explain why nobody had bothered saving it. it sat back from the road like it was embarrassed to be seen.
between the first property and the second, he had undone another button. i noticed immediately. by then the heat had only gotten worse, pressing down on everything, turning the air thick and slow. his shirt hung open just enough to make professionalism feel like a costume he was getting tired of wearing. maybe it was the weather. maybe it was an accident. maybe he was just that kind of man, casually devastating without meaning to be. but i didn’t believe that. not for a second. i was convinced it was intentional.
standing in the open-concept kitchen and living room combo, i did what any sexually frustrated man with limited self-preservation would do. i threw out a feeler. nothing too elaborate. nothing that couldn’t be laughed off if he looked at me like i had lost my mind. just a small line to test the temperature of the room, though at that point the room was already somewhere near boiling.
there was a breakfast bar set lower than the rest of the counter, the kind of useless little design choice realtors probably called charming. i saw it differently. i saw the edge of it. the height. the way a person could stand in front of it with both hands braced against the surface, using it for support. he was saying something about opening up the space, maybe knocking down a wall, maybe replacing the cabinets. i wasn’t listening anymore.
“i bet it would feel good to get fucked right here,” i said. half-joking. half-not. then i looked over at him and waited to see which half he heard.
he got shy after that. not offended. not confused. shy. there was a little bashfulness to him suddenly, like i had reached across the room and touched something without using my hands. he looked away first, which told me enough. then he gave this small laugh and started walking the property again, pretending the tour had not just veered violently off-market. he circled through the kitchen, into the living room, back toward the hallway, saying things about heating ducts and load-bearing walls and electrical updates, or whatever language men use when they need something practical to hide behind.
but his voice had changed. and every time he passed me, he came a little closer.
on the third pass, somewhere around the guest bedroom, i stopped letting him pretend. he moved past me again, close enough this time that the air shifted between us, and i reached out before i could overthink it. not a grab exactly. just my hands finding his hips and staying there for one suspended second, long enough for him to pull away, laugh it off, tell me no, or remind me that this was still technically a real estate showing.
he did none of those things. instead, he went still.
we looked at each other and for a few seconds the whole abandoned house seemed to hold its breath around us. the silence stretched in that impossible way, too long for ordinary conversation, too short for whatever was about to happen next.
then i said, “if i don’t buy, this technically wouldn’t cross any ethical boundaries.”
he did something with his mouth. a slight twitch. it could have been a smile.
then he looked down at my hands. then back at me. that was the permission, or close enough to it, but i still waited for him to move first. he did. barely. just a step closer, his hips shifting into my reach like he had finally decided to stop pretending the house was the point.
so i reached for his belt. slowly. not because i needed help figuring it out, but because taking my time felt better. because he was watching me do it. because the silence in that empty little guest room had gone thick enough to lean against.
his breath caught when i got the buckle loose. mine did too.
by the time his pants slid lower, there was no mystery left about whether he wanted this. the answer was right there, straining against black fabric, patient and not patient at all. i touched him through it and made a small, involuntary sound, the kind that gave me away before i could dress it up as confidence.
he looked almost embarrassed by how much i liked what i found. which, naturally, made me like it more.
i hooked a finger under the waistband, freed him slowly, and gave him a few lazy strokes while he braced one hand against the wall behind him. then i sank down in front of him and took my time proving the listing had at least one selling point.
i let him finish in my mouth. afterward, neither of us said anything right away. there was nothing to say that wouldn’t have made the whole thing smaller. the abandoned house creaked around us, hot and empty, pretending it hadn’t just become part of the story.
i stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked at him.
he was still catching his breath, shirt open, belt undone, pants somewhere south of respectable. for a second, he had the stunned expression of a man who had just realized the showing had gone significantly off-script and had no immediate interest in correcting it. that was when the bashfulness left him.
he stepped closer and reached for me with the same careful confidence i’d used on him. not rushed. not greedy. like he understood there was etiquette to this sort of thing, even in a half-abandoned foreclosure with dust in the corners and sunlight cutting through cheap blinds.
i let him take his time. after all, fair was fair.
he backed me toward the breakfast bar, the same one i’d noticed earlier, the one i’d been stupid enough to mention out loud. my hands found the edge of it. his hands found me. and suddenly the house had a second selling point. his lips were wrapped around my shaft, forcefully sucking, as i forcefully thrust forward.
by the time he was done returning the favor, i had stopped pretending this was anything other than exactly what i’d hoped would happen.
tit for tat. a good way to spend a sunday afternoon.