Open House

Spacious 1554 sq. ft. home with . . . huge dick for entertaining & enjoying the views . . .

— An online property ad

The real estate that’s sold like sex was bought like sex with a typo I didn’t not notice. Space was male when unchallenged, generally not trusting. Fake was the arboreal décor near the porch, the half-hackled trunks slumbering from winter to winter to wince at absences, but what’s real was I, like the seller, also lied: finances, dreams that failed to cash out, hollowed bridge loans. And a few visitors. Body and home were proportioned to not function — My hand turned a knob, then a lock on the other side of the same door, where someone’s thigh was grabbed by the same hand that should have stayed away from all doors. Physical in-coordination was a sign of overinvestment. I thought of giving it up, this private space that gave me possibilities, but fidelity was warm, meanwhile full of holes. I once believed in settling, which was only guaranteed with buy high, sell higher. Who could? Outside, the shadows of trees dwarfed all uniqueness — the house’s, its cement’s. And the muscles’. Toes grew to aid Homo sapiens to pause upon walking. The sixth and twelfth ones I had made a sextant. I gave accurate readings on space. Space was never tired of errors, of erotic trespassing. It didn’t empty a wallet, the walls did.