Turning tricks

A few nights ago, Eros woke up in the middle of the night, stood up in his crib and attempted to carry on a conversation with us. It would have been darn cute, had Ares and I been sleeping, but we were having sex. Explicit sex. Bend-me-like-a-pretzel sex.

As a result, we’re now turning in our hip urbanite lives for a more seemingly laid back life out in the suburbs. Yes, we’ve bought a house… our very own box of space. It feels like we’re turning in the sports car for a minivan. Well, actually, it would be more like a trailer, since it is more country than rock and roll out there. We’re elated, a bit sad, and scared shitless, but at least the kids will each get their own room, and we’ll have that much needed privacy –and space- for acrobatic sex.

House shopping is like giving head. It’s not only time consuming, but it’s also not something one is readily available to do. It starts on the slow side, with an offering from the giver, some shyness and reluctance from the taker, and it always ends with a seemingly unstoppable flow of some sort… cash or otherwise. Then it’s entirely up to the taker to keep it or toss it. End of story. Quite the pleasurable experience for the giver, sometimes though, things can get a bit prickly for the taker…kind of like sucking on a cactus.

Ares left what he called the “home selection process” to me. Generally, I would applaud such courageous behavior, and even reward it with some form of fellatio. However, given the enormity of the task at hand, I felt his attitude was more of a slap in the ass with a spiked paddle than a gesture of trust… and given my lack of taste for the more sadistic forms of sex, I was sure to pound his pocket in return.

First in line, a pre-foreclosure in one of Houston’s most coveted master planned communities. The sellers were broke, but quite friendly considering I was there to try to cash in on their misfortune. Secretly, I gagged at the thought of my children becoming part of that ever-increasing group of kids who expects a Sweet 16 birthday party, Lexus and Rolex watch included. But, the property was new and priced way under market value. My teeth were dripping with blood just thinking about flipping the sucker. We flexed our guns, our pockets cringed… and the house went to someone else. The damned pricks!

Then a more mature house reared its ugly head onto the market. A wide angle mirror on the wall would have made this palatial mess the next rocking Casbah. Then, there was the ‘you’re-fucked-if-you-break-your-leg-house’, a two-story maze with an entry half-way between the first and second floors, an upstairs kitchen and a love lounge downstairs. Next was a colonial/barn revival, a plethora of ugliness more suitable for murderers and gun totting confederate neo-Nazis, than a family of four. After twelve houses or so, I felt like a whore turning tricks for crack, settling for whatever came my way… wanting to put offers anywhere.

Tired and worn out, I took a break. Then, my friend Zelda called with an online link to a new listing. Not knowing what to expect, since browsing through online pictures of houses is much like browsing through the personals- the nicer their resume, the more grotesque the candidate- I dragged Ares by his nut sack to come see this one with me. An oldie but goody, in a fantastic neighborhood, with an exemplary school, this one was THE one. It took some giving and taking, but we’ll close in just a few short weeks. I even got the seller to throw in his new pool table to seal the deal.

Now, Ares gets to dust the felt!