Why sleeping with your agent is a bad idea

Why Sleeping with your Agent is a Bad Idea

My grammy once told me, “Baby, don’t sleep with the help.” I was 16, totally hot, and into this smokin’ Cuban who did light housework for her. I didn’t seriously have plans to do anything except gawk (what 16-year-old has any kind of game, you know?) but my grammy put it in my mind as a delicious forbidden snack. Grammy’s housework got heavier and the Cuban had hardly any muscle definition, so the working relationship dissolved. The message, however, stayed.

I spent four years in a condo and then finally decided to sell it because of the whole Barbie Dream House vibe it had. I read this article online about alternative living so I looked into getting an agent who specialized in alternative, non-urban dwellings. A lot of people say they do alternative spaces, but then you get there and it’s like a subdivided, foreclosed Safeway and they’re trying to sell it for $400 a square foot and it’s like, seriously? I wanted an arboreal, if possible, so I looked up a local woodworker to see about building my own place on some land I inherited.

Woodworkers, cabinetmakers, and carpenters are universally babes. Every single one I met was rugged and charming. The most rugged and most charming one was married, but had a friend who worked in real estate. Obviously, I had found my agent.

Sam was the almost too professional during our first meeting. By the end of it, we had four dwellings for me to look at and one I was really interested in. Over my multi-week search, however, it became obvious that we were into each other. Our first kiss happened literally inside a hill (a modern repro of one of those kick-ass Lord of the Rings hobbit houses). Every house we checked out after that was a milestone in our relationship. One apartment had a built-in hot spring hot tub that got hotter than expected. Four exhausting and exhilarating months after we first started my house hunt, Sam made it a moot point and asked me to move in. My condo had moved really quickly, so all my stuff was already boxed in storage, and I thought, why not? Things were perfect.

It didn’t strike me as strange that Sam insisted, for some perfunctorily-explained insurance reason, that I was put on the lease. After all, real estate agents know things regular people don’t when it comes to housing. Lots of people go through purges of their stuff when a new significant other moves in. Boxes get moved out, anything that reminds that person of their ex, even if it’s a completely functional espresso maker, gets thrown out. That’s normal. What’s not normal is coming home from work on a Thursday to find that there is not one single trace of Sam, your real estate agent / live-in partner, but there is a letter from a brokerage firm billing you for their agent’s commission!

I should have listened to you, Grammy. I dated an employee and what do I have to show for it? A literal god forsaken tree house.

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