So the wife and I have the co-op on the market in the tough buyer terrain of recession ruptured New York City. My shrink had suggested a broker we worked with briefly last year before the crash and burn when we were flirting with a downsize. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Oh well, we live in challenging times.
This time around the broker came from the bride's side. I figure, let the wife control this decision and in the clinches, the broker is her's. I know for sure if the agent was mine I'd take heat. So about six weeks ago I met this woman and she seemed incredibly knowledgeable. An attractive, late 40's-ish woman who is billed as one of this agency's top producers - she is striking, sharp and completely relentless. I even felt a little tingle, but dismissed it immediately. At their most excellent, brokers are all about the deal. Since they're making money off any potential pact, they are, in their best incarnation, shepherds of the sale. At worst they are snakes in the grass who lie, cheat, and steal. I've worked with a few over the years, and have even represented a handful who faced time in the pokey. While Ms. B seemed honest, ethical, caring, and good - a cut above the rest - I just never trust a broker.
As well, Broker Lady knows we're separating because I confessed when my wife and I first met her. I thought it was important she know we are going to rent separate apartments and, with a little help from her, walk away with enough of a chunk-a-ca-ching to ease the pain of transition. Lots of dwelling agents deal in the muck of separation and divorce. Indeed, the prominence of real estate in the annals of Manhattan Splitsville is iconic. Ms. Broker Babe done been around this block before.
Anyway, without revealing too much detail, I made a bit of a risque comment in an email to Ms. Broker. We were talking about the origin of her email name and she said that instead of her current one she had considered insisting that her email name be "ASS" as she'd spent her life convincing people she wasn't one. However, upon reflection, she'd decided to go with the more upscale choice. I replied that although it was clearly the right pick, for some at least, there was a certain down and dirty charm to the road not taken. A bit suggestive perhaps but perfectly within tasteful bounds, no?
So today, without boring you with all the juicy market intrigue of useless, flaccid, soft offers and vainly trying to manipulate a bidding war, we were considering a price drop. At a hurried three way conference call my wife lost her highly vaunted temper and started cursing the absent interested buyers and berating our broker. She's such a top in the street and a bottom in the sheets, the wife. Later, when she and I spoke alone, my splenetic spouse proposed we essentially throw in the country home, like a flat screen TV, to sweeten the pot and motivate these attracted buyers. Since we've seen no interest in our country place despite a year on the market, the wife reasoned, it was a way to simply unload it in order to stimulate an ante. She was calling Ms. Sells Alot with the suggestion and that's all there was to it.
So Ms. Broker emails me and says the wife wants to dump the coop and throw the country home, the dogs and me into the deal to any single, straight woman who'd take the bait. I write to Ms. Broker and ask what she'd bid for me and was she looking for a chauffeur, a secretary, and a willing gofer as I was available. Then I called her to discuss the price drop and asked;
"So, don't you want to bid on me?"
She laughs a real, throaty, genuinely appreciative laugh.
"I can't afford you!"
"Come on! Sell our apartment and you could," I wheedle. "Besides, I look great in a chauffeur outfit."
"Well," she leers suggestively, "there are a few outfits I'd like to dress you up in."
"Whoa." I blurt.
"So now I'm talkin' your language, huh?", she smirked.
I was rendered dumbstruck and, tail momentarily between my legs, stammered back to our price drop chat.
So that was hot, huh? What do you think? Is she just a reptilian broker, not to be trusted and looking for any edge and angle? Or is she a hot, smart, attractive, age appropriate kinky girl? I think I'm gonna think up some more suggestive little come ons to test whether I have Mistress Broker on my hands. Hey, worst comes to worst, I sell my apartment and move into a one bedroom in the East Village.
Best case? She visits me there and we play a little dress up. Because baby, you know I'm a sharp dressed man.
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