Chapter 1
I have no luck. Not one ounce. Let me demonstrate it to you.
Markets go up and down. Peaks and troughs. That’s normal. They teach you that at the course. Just ride it out. Well, I graduate from the course and begin my career as a real-estate agent at the lowest point of the biggest tsunami that has ever hit the industry.
Now, they teach you something else when they prepare you to become an agent: they teach you that you’re paid on commission. You sell a bunch of apartments, you eat this month. You sell a house too, that’s even better. You sell a mansion, you can buy yourself a nice car or ship yourself to Hawaii for the holidays.
Of course, because of the commission system, the whole industry is rigged in favour of senior managers who never lift a finger but are somehow always cut in on the deal. So, the junior scampers through town to open up the properties on the portfolio, to take down phone numbers, to call prospective buyers back, but the manager is always part of the deal, and you’re lucky if you get a sliver of what you have earned.
Well, as unfair as that is, that would be preferable to what I’m faced with now, that is that nobody is buying anything. Poor people have no money. Rich people go bust, and those who are left are scared of spending money unnecessarily.
At least, I got a job.
I still haven’t figured out what happened there, but I did.
Selmer & Faulkner is the agency. A small boutique firm owned by a couple, the Selmer and the Faulkner whose names are stencilled on the shop window in cursive. He’s rarely there. I suspect he’s one of those entrepreneurs who owns a bunch of businesses and doesn’t get involved. She’s an icy lady who I saw once for my interview. Somehow, she liked me, so I’m here.
Who I see on a daily basis is the various agents who occupy the desks in the main room. At the moment, they oscillate between rabid fervour to show what they have to offer to everybody, ready to entertain any offer, and despondency when they see that no fish will ever bite in this climate.
I get the call.
I get it because today nobody thinks that picking up the phone is anything more than a waste of time.
I note down the number, the name, and the details, trying to look casual.
‘Yes, it’s on the market,’ I say, trying to hide my excitement from curious ears. ‘Noon today is fine.’
One of the agents tilts her head to peak past the partition.
‘Which one?’
’37 Long Drive,’ I say but quickly add: ‘But doesn’t sound serious.’
The other agent yawns and disappears behind the partition.
I make myself a cup of tea and wait. The phones are not ringing. There’s nothing to do. I feel fidgety, but I know I need to keep the excitement at bay.
Finally, at 11:05, I announce: ‘I’m off for a couple of hours.’
Someone yawns.
The house at 37 Long Drive has been shown. Many times. The price has been dropped. Many times. Still no buyers.
I drive the winding road that takes me to the hills. Only mansions here, but the landscape is somewhat off: many houses look empty; the grass on the lawns is high and yellow in patches; there are for-sale signs everywhere.
I moved out of my parents’ house after highschool and lived in a rental, which I could barely afford waiting tables while I studied to become a real-estate agent. Now that I’ve joined Selmer & Faulkner, that stream of income has dried out, and, unless I begin to sell something, I may have to move back in with mother and father.
Yikes!
37 Long Drive belongs to a famous actress. If I told you, you would know the name. She has a house on the West Coast and a house in New York. I don’t know why, if roles have dried up or some investments have gone bad (which would be super-plausible, at the moment). In any case, she needs the cash.
‘Sell the bitch!’ she’s ordered us.
Sure. Unfortunately, I count four for-sale signs on Long Drive alone, on top of the one planted next to her mailbox. It would be a bargain, but there are no buyers, right now. Not for the money she’s asking.
The mansion is one of those modern things, a big glass box with little character. There’s a big garden at the back, with a lap pool, and two tennis courts. Before the crash, there were a handful of people who could entertain this proposition. Now, I’m not sure.
But, and here’s the big twist, the guy on the other end of the phone gave me a name. A name any sports fan would recognise. He’s one of the top quarterbacks in the country. I Googled his salary for the season on my phone before starting the car. He could definitely afford this house.
I’m sure I will have to reserve part of the commission for someone in the office. I’m not even sure how that situation will evolve, but, if I play my cards right, I could probably get enough to stay afloat while the whole correction is over.
I park in the driveway and look around while I wait for the client.
There are small mounds of dried leaves gathered at the side of the road. The property has not been maintained. The white paint of the external walls is discoloured in yellow patches, and, here and there, you see cracks where the bricks underneath have moved.
You can tell an expensive car is coming your way: they’re designed to be obnoxiously noisy.
The QB walked out of his looking exactly like you would expect a World-famous athlete to look like. Aviator sunnies, which he lifts as he climbs out of the vehicle under the gullwing door and rests on his short, overly gelled blonde hair; white shirt very tight around the pecs and the biceps; ripped jeans that showcase the sizeable groin.
Each element is comedically bombastic, but, as a whole, you can’t help but being a little starstruck: this is what a rich people is supposed to look like.
‘Good afternoon,’ I say.
He gives me the smile he must have practiced with his agent for the promotional photoshoots: bright white teeth and deep, childlike dimples. He’s absolutely gorgeous.
I fumble with the keys, feeling observed.
When we walk in, I’m struck by the size of the place. The front door opens onto a large space that’s two storeys high (you can actually see the landings of the first and second floor open onto one side). In the middle of the ceiling, an immense chandelier made of a hundred glass tubes catches the sunlight coming from the ceiling-high windows. There’s a white grand piano on one side. Actually, everything is white: sofas, furniture, carpets.
I glance at the buyer. He nods: this will do, he seems to be thinking.
‘Would you like to show me around?’ I ask.
The smile again.
‘Let me look around,’ he says.
I just stare at him. Celebrities look so weird in real life: bigger and more real than you could ever imagine.
‘I think you can trust me…’ he adds.
‘Yeah, sure…’ I mutter. ‘Everything’s open. I can wait here. If you need anything…’
I sit on the sofa, and I watch him walk up the stairs (I basically check out his butt tightly wrapped in denim as he walks away).
Look, I’m not one of those girls who dreams about celebrities or wealthy men who can whisk me off her feet. I accept that’s not going to be me. But there’s no harm in watching, right?
I look around at all the white stuff. I think about the (many times reduced) asking price and what commission I could possibly get out it. I think about a bag I would like to buy. Maybe a new wardrobe. Of course, rent and food come first, but still…
I finally check my watch. The QB has been wandering the rooms for half an hour already. Should I… I mean, he said not to bother him, but should I see if he needs anything? What’s the protocol in these cases? If I’m too eager, I might scare him: he could literally ring the doorbell next door at number 39 and make an offer. Also, at number 12 and number 26. They’re all huge properties, and they’re all for sale. The question is just how many squash courts you want, if you need an indoor cinema, or whether you prefer a faux-Edwardian or a wannabe Frank Lloyd Wright.
Finally, I decide to see what has happened to the client. After all, I need to show him I care.
I check out the rooms on the first floor. There is a projection room, a large office, a few empty bedrooms. There’s the faint smell of a space that hasn’t been aired for some time. No trace of the client.
I climb to the second floor. At the end of the hall, in the master bedroom, I can see some movement. I walk towards it and stop at the threshold.
Now, let me go back a step: while I don’t know football, I am familiar with this man. He’s the quarterback of the decade. After a string of models, he tied the knot with the heir of a cosmetics dynasty. Her very symmetrical face is a regular feature on fashion magazines. Her body has inspired fashion designers. There’s a diet, which includes an exhausting fitness routine, named after her.
This is the guy who has everything.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I notice a white shirt, a pair of male underpants, and a pair of ripped jeans on the bed of the famous actress who presently owns the house, and I discover said quarterback dressed in one of the actress’s ballgowns.
‘Oh, shit!’ he says.
‘I’m sorry… I wanted to make sure…’
‘This is not what it looks like,’ he says, more embarrassed than me.
Well, if this isn’t what it looks like, I really don’t know what it is.
He notices a look on my face. It’s… pity.
The QB sits on the bed.
‘I know, right. Pathetic…’ he says.
I walk in.
‘I think it’s… If that’s what you like… You just might want to…’
I really don’t know what to say. I don’t want to miss out on the sale, if it’s even on the cards.
He’s staring at his feet.
‘You might want to try a green one?’ I venture, trying to sound helpful.
He looks up at me with an awkward smile.
‘You think?’ he asks.
‘It’s your eyes,’ I explain. ‘If you add a shade of blue and some lipstick…’
‘Will you help me?’
Err… I guess…
I look around. Maybe there’s some makeup. I check the ensuite bathroom, some of the drawers… Bingo!
I fan out the little compartments in the set and begin to work.
‘You know, I can’t do this at home,’ he explains dejected.
‘Stay still,’ I say. ‘A bit of rouge for the cheekbones… What lipstick?’
‘What do you think?’ he asks, shily.
‘How’s this?’ I say, offering a skin-coloured one.
‘It’s a little… drab,’ he says.
Ok, let’s try something more flamboyant.
‘How’s this?’
‘Purple?’ he asks, unsure.
‘Too daring? I think it might work. Don’t be afraid.’
I apply the lipstick. Then, I do the eyes.
‘There. Check it out.’
He goes to the mirror.
‘Oh…’ he exclaims. ‘I’m so… pretty!’
I smile.
‘Ok,’ I continue, ‘let’s see what’s in these closets. Too long… Too red… Try this one!’
‘Can you help me?’ he asks. ‘It’s a little tight…’
I unzip the dress, and he remains in a frilly bra and matching undies. I notice his large dick and his balls overflowing out of the fabric.
‘Ok, try this,’ I say, helping him into the dress I chose.
It’s short and loose, which highlights his tall physique and, at the same time, doesn’t look too constrictive.
‘What do you think?’ he asks.
I nod:
‘Perfect.’
I watch this man. Even in drag, he’s very attractive. He moves his muscular body with unexpected grace.
‘I haven’t shown this to anyone,’ he says, coming close to me.
I smile, unsure how to answer this confidence.
‘You’re pretty, you know?’ he says, getting closer.
Now, his tongue is down my throat.
‘Tell me I’m pretty,’ he whispers when his lips lift from mine.
‘You’re… pretty,’ I say.
He kisses me again and holds me in his arms.
I feel the bulk of his body against mine. He is powerful, and yet he’s gentle.
‘You’re very pretty too,’ he replies.
He puts one hand on my breast. He undoes the first button of my stiff, starched blouse with the company’s initials. He looks at me wondering if he should go on.
I run my hand on the fabric of his dress, feeling his chest, his back, his ass.
He undoes a second button.
I move my groin closer to his, which I feel tense. His dick is tangled in the underwear, and it sits in an awkward angle against his thigh, but it’s already growing hard.
He smiles, and I wonder for a second if this is to make me keep my mouth shut: the tabloids would pay a good sum for the story, after all.
I push against him, feeling his dick against my stomach.
‘You’re hard…’ I say.
He unbuttons my blouse.
‘I like your tits,’ he says.
I take off my bra, quickly, eager to show him.
He stares at my chest for a moment.
‘Nice and round… Your skin is so smooth…’
The man feels my ass and slowly unzips my skirt.
I am left in my underwear, while he’s still wearing the dress.
He holds me for a moment, then he says:
‘I want you to fuck me like a woman…’
I nod.
‘Let me…’
‘Check the drawers,’ he says.
‘Maybe in the closet?’ I tell him, while I look around.
It doesn’t take me long to find the box under the bed.
‘Which one would you like?’ I ask him, showing him the sex toys.
He looks at them, one by one, then picks a black one. It’s thick and veiny. It’s made of some sort of rubber, so it’s not too stiff.
‘Here,’ he says, and he gives me the toy.
I hold the dildo in front of me, and the man quickly kneels before me and begins to suck it.
‘You’re so big… Oh, how I want you to fuck me,’ he says.
I wonder what I should do next. I think of the men I have ever slept with. I rest my hand on the back of his head and push him towards my dildo.
‘Come on, suck it!’ I say.
He looks up and giggles:
‘I like it.’
Then, he begins to lick the toy, putting more and more of it into his mouth.
I then climb on the bed and lie on top of it. I lodge the toy between my thighs.
‘I know you want it,’ I say.
He nods:
‘I want you to fuck me so bad!’ he whines. ‘Please put some lube on it. You’re so big, and I’m so tight!’
He hands me some oil, which I pour on the dildo, while he lifts the dress and removes the undies.
‘Be gentle,’ he says.
He’s squatting on top of me, lowering himself until his anus touches the tip of the toy.
‘I’m a little scared,’ he says.
‘Be a good girl,’ I say. ‘I know you want it.’
He giggles again. He’s aroused by our game, and his dick is hard. The man lowers himself slowly.
I watch the tip disappear into the anus, which stretches around the thick cylinder, as the man goes down, lower and lower, until his thighs tough mine.
‘Mmmh!’ he moans.
I give a little thrust.
‘Oh!’ he cries out. ‘You’re going to break me.’
I find this game strange, but exciting. I hold the toy as the man moves up and down, and it rubs against my clit. I bring one hand to my breasts and begin to play with my nipples.
‘That’s a good girl. Take it all!’ I say.
The man has his eyes closed and is biting his lips. He whines in a high pitch, like a puppy who’s enjoying a treat.
‘You like it?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Yes… Oh, fuck! You’re so big…’
He begins to massage his dick, which is thick and long. His balls move up and down with every thrust.
I hold him by the waist, like men have done to me, pushing him onto my appendage, making him move to my pace, forcing his orgasm.
‘I’m gonna come…’ he moans. ‘Oh… I’m gonna… I’m coming… Fuck me, fuck me!’
Then, he sprays his load in the air. One, two, three times.
The man rolls over next to me.
I am too wet and excited to stop here, so I remove my undies, which are totally soaked.
‘Now, you can do something for me,’ I say.
I don’t even wait for an answer. I climb on top of his face, offering my pussy to his painted lips and his photogenic dimples.
‘Lick me!’
With two fingers, I spread my outer labia.
I feel his tongue on my clit.
I can see his eyes watching me as he works me thoroughly. They do not waver for a moment.
His tongue is thick and strong. It knows where to go, how long to rest, when to move away, and when to return.
I feel it explore the opening of my vagina. It presses. It’s inside. Then, it’s back on the clit. It gives the labia a long lick until it reaches my asshole, that is licks playfully. But it’s again on the clit.
I cannot control my movements. I’m frantically trying to reach my orgasm. I twitch a little, as I feel it approaching, like waves lapping on the shore.
‘Suck me, like a good girl,’ I say.
I close my eyes and bring my hands on my breasts, which I hold and almost squeeze, as the pressure grows, and my thighs spasm.
‘You’re… making me… mmmmh... Oh, shit! I’m coming!’ I announce.
I move away from his face, unable to resist another moment, and quickly torment my clit, then I feel the familiar pressure release and the quick, hissing sound of my squirt on his face.
I open my eyes, as if I just woke up from a dream.
He’s licking his lips, smiling at me.
We shower in the palatial ensuite (which is bigger than the place I’m staying at). We say nothing, but we soap up one another, and we wash each other’s body.
When we’re dressed, we suddenly feel awkward with each other.
We walk to the front door.
‘So,’ I ask, ‘the house? You like it?’
He has his aviators firmly on his nose, and I can’t see his eyes. Only my own reflection on the glass.
‘I… have a house… I just thought there might be nice clothes here,’ He says.
I have no luck. Not one ounce.
