Other People's Houses

I've been thinking about this memory a lot, lately, since my house has been on the market, and strangers have been tramping through it.

I thought it was unusual, the first time I met him, that he was waiting for me outside the house at the address he’d given me, leaning on his car. Even twelve years on I can remember how imposing a figure he was—broad-shouldered, thick-necked. He was a coarse and handsome man who sported the kind of club-like jaw with which you could smash oysters. A wedding band hugged his ring finger, but I'd expected that.

“Hey,” he said in a booming voice. “Glad to finally meetcha.” He grabbed my hand in one of those hearty hetero-looking handshakes and pumped it up and down like I was a pump on a prairie farm and he was desperate for the water.

He led me up the sidewalk, inserted the key in the front door, and fumbled with the locks. I thought he seemed unusually nervous. While I waited for him to let us in, I wondered what the inside of his house would look like. From the obvious expense of his shirt and tie and shoes, I was picturing tasteful furnishings. Expensive reproductions of antiques. Wood floors. Subdued lighting. I’d scarcely formed the picture when he finally popped open the door and let me in. The heady scent of potpourri assailed my nostrils as I stepped into the hallway. I’d been wrong about the décor. Nothing was antique or wooden about the place. The place was clean, but cluttered. The deep pile carpet was of a red hue that approached scarlet. The furniture consisted of mismatched tables and sofas clawed by generations of pets, alternated with cross-stitched samplers and little bouquets of dried flowers on the wall. It looked as if tornado had denuded a country kitsch store and regurgitated it all here.

“Um,” he said, looking from the dining room to the left to the living room at the right. “Let’s go this way.”

He led me through the dining room with its quaint variety of candles and pinecones and photographs framed cunningly with bark-lined sticks, and into the gingham-wallpapered kitchen. Neat rows of jams and jellies in squat little jars decorated with cloth lid-toppers and handmade labels had been spread across the window over the sink; a cross-stitched sampler saying Bless this mess hung among the pots and pans on the wall. He looked around, confused. “This way,” he said.

We passed through a small hallway past a bathroom that reeked of lavender, and back into a den where all the chairs had been pointed in the direction of a giant television screen. A flight of stairs in the house’s center led to the second floor. “Let’s go upstairs and get comfortable,” he said in a meaningful tone.

Our footsteps barely sounded as we climbed the carpeted steps. He looked wildly around at the summit, peeking first into what was obviously a child’s bedroom, and then a guest bedroom, and then finally into a large, dark blue room with a canopied bed that was the master suite. I assumed he was making sure none of his family was home. “Here we are,” he said with a leer. He immediately began unbuckling his belt, and then unzipped. “You like what you see?” he asked in a softer, more urgent tone. When I nodded, he took me by the shoulders and pushed me to my knees.

All I did was suck him, nursing on his dick until he grabbed my shoulders and pumped a salty load down my throat. Afterward, when I had rinsed my mouth in the sink and washed my hands and reclaimed my clothes, he followed me downstairs. “Let me walk you to your car,” he whispered in my ear. He opened the front door. Still sheltered by the latticed screen, he gave me a deep kiss against the doorframe. “I hope we can do this again,” he growled. “You are one fuckin' good cocksucker.”

My attention, though, had shifted to the lockbox hanging from the front doorknob, something I’d overlooked on the way in. it was one of those types with a push-button code, and it hung ajar. “This isn’t even your house, is it?” I accused, suddenly more than a little freaked. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find his way around!

“Hey, hey,” he said, grabbing my hands to calm me down. “It’s okay. I’m a real estate agent.” When I didn’t reply, he kept on explaining. “I can’t do this shit at home!”

When we left, he fastened the front door and deposited the key back into its lockbox. “Act casual,” he instructed, turning us around and pointing up to the second floor, as if drawing my attention to a feature up there. “Just in case the neighbors are watching.”

I got in my car and drove home, angry and guilty. Never again, I swore. Never again. He sent me email that night. Sorry if I misled you, it said. But I’d like to have more of that sweet mouth sometime.

After that, I felt angry and guilty and aroused.

For three months I met him in other people’s houses. At my request, most of them were deserted and unfurnished. We’d fuck on the carpets, surrounded by the impressions of where furniture used to be, illuminated by the dusk filtering through dusty Venetian blinds. We’d roll and tumble and hear our grunts and shouts echo in the emptiness of the rooms, and then we’d make a circuit around the back of the house and out the front again, as if checking out the yards before parting. It seemed a victimless crime, pure and simple, without much risk. It was sleazy and sordid and kind of exciting.

Very occasionally—maybe three times—we would have to meet in a still-occupied home. He wanted to have sex on top of the beds there, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to touch anything that belonged to anyone. It made me uncomfortable.

The affair peaked the day we arrived at a house before the couple living there had managed to leave. They were still racing around, trying to collect the dog and escape before we arrived, when he and I reached the door. “We’re just getting out of your way,” said the young woman.

“How long are you going to be, about?” said the young man. They seemed like a nice pair, probably married out of college. She was clearly expecting. Even the black lab seemed amiable.

“Oh, I don’t know. A half hour?” said my real estate agent.

“We’ll be gone an hour, in case,” said the wife. She smiled at me, having obviously assessed me as a fine and upstanding candidate for the suburban neighborhood.

They left the door open for us. We entered the house. To my ears it felt as if it was still ringing with the sound of their hurried voices. “So where do you want to do it?” he asked. I sat down on the stairs and shook my head. “What?” he asked. He looked out the front window. “They’re almost gone. They’re loading up the dog.”

“I can't,” I said. He tried cajoling me back into a good mood, but it was gone forever. “We're done.”

I rose to my feet and made for the door. He tried catching my wrist. “They’re not even gone yet. They’re going to think it’s weird if you leave so soon.”

I didn’t care, though. I opened the door again, but he grabbed my wrist. “How about later this week?” he insisted.

Shaking my head, I yanked my arm from his grasp, turned away from him for the last time, and sprinted to my car. The couple had just slammed the back of their van shut, and looked at me in surprise. I spared a wry smile for them, hopped into my car, and slammed shut the door. Through the crack in the window, I could hear my real estate agent approaching the couple. “Sorry for the trouble, folks,” he said. “He’s really looking more for something with a garage.”

The sound of my ignition drowned out their chorus of understanding. Though the three of them waved at me as I drove off, I didn’t return the gesture.