This is the second installment in my series of Sultry SoCal Stories -- stories of encounters inspired by events that have taken place over the years I've lived in SoCal and traveled around the country. Some of these may have happened as described, others may have happened somewhat differently from how I narrate them, and others took place only in my vivid imagination. When an actual encounter is the subject of a story, some details may have been changed either to protect the innocent, or to make the story more interesting. Nonetheless, I hope they are all enjoyable to the reader.
---------------------
Other than sex (the obsession with which takes up an undue amount of my time), my three passions are cooking, writing and investing in real estate. Through the years I have bought many more houses than I have sold, which means that I now own quite of lot of rental properties. A few of these I've lived in myself, though the majority of them have been acquired solely as income property. Given this interest of mine, the most recent depression in the economy served me quite well; I could buy homes in decent areas at rock bottom prices, finance them with mortgages that had rock bottom interest rates, and still rent them out for a decent chunk of change as the SoCal rental market remained strong.
Most of these houses I bought without the aid of a real estate agent; however when, at the very bottom of the recession I started taking an interest in foreclosure properties and REOs, I realized I'd be well served to have a professional at my side. Not only is the offer and purchase process different, the seller's disclosures are nonexistent and the importance of a thorough pre-buy inspection becomes paramount.
I had this naive idea that one real estate agent would be as good as the next, and it took me a couple of rounds of hired and fired agents to realize how wrong I was. The first agent I contacted got fired within a week. He was absolutely clueless about the foreclosure process, from how to find suitable properties to how to prepare an offer. Well, I thought, he was young and inexperienced and I'm doing him a favor by giving him a lesson in the hard knocks of life.
Next I engaged a seasoned veteran who not only turned out to be equally inept at the foreclosure process, buy who also was fundamentally unable to analyze whether a particular home was a good investment, or even appropriate as a rental property. The first home he brought to my attention had five bedrooms "for all the kids" (no landlord wants five kids, and the house is must likely going to be used by five beer drinking and pot smoking college students), and it was in a neighborhood where all other houses only had three bedrooms (it turned out two rooms came from a cheap backyard addition -- there goes the resale value). I didn't give him the chance to bring me another.
After having re-evaluated the importance of finding a good real estate agent, I did my research and narrowed down my choice to two candidates, a man and a woman, both of whom specialized in foreclosure transactions, and both of whom were active in the general area where I intended to purchase most properties. I decided to interview the woman first, yes, because she is a woman and judging from her picture a very attractive one at that. I shamelessly admit to being shallow that way.
We made an appointment to meet at her office, and I emailed her a list of what I was looking for and a request for a list of suitable properties to discuss. As I drove over I hoped that she was competent in her field so that my faith in the real estate profession can be restored. I was also hoping that she looked like she did in the picture. In the service industries people all too often use professional photographs taken ten or more years ago, and when you finally meet them face to face you feel like you must have been stuck in a time capsule while this person aged (some not too gracefully, which may explain the never changing photograph).
The agent's office is located in a small business park, and as I walk into the reception I am pleased with the quiet, efficient look of the place. There are a few desks around main office areas, and offices towards the back. There are several people working in the office, a couple of them meeting with clients and most of the others working the phones. This does not appear to be an office that is suffering from the recession in the real estate market.
I introduce myself to the pretty young receptionist and let her know I have an appointment with Bree. She picks up the phone and announces my arrival, and then invites me to take a seat in the visitor's area just to the side of the reception. Less than a minute later I look up to see Bree approaching -- there is no doubt it is her, the striking face and big, blonde hair gives her away. I smile, pleased to see her and even more pleased that no time travel will be necessary - she looks exactly like her picture if not better! As I stand up to shake hands, I notice that she is a little bit taller than me.
"Hello I'm Bree, nice to finally meet you." She has a deeper, husky voice that goes really well with her appearance. Her eyes meet mine as we shake hands, and we let the touch linger for what seems to be a few moments too long.
There are a few occasions in life when you meet someone whom you immediately know is going to become special in your life. As I was touching Bree's hand and looking into her eyes, I knew that she was going to be very special in my life, and I could see it in her eyes that she felt the same. It was both a feeling of excitement and attraction, along with a confidence, bordering on certainty, that before long I will be in a relationship with this woman. Looking into her eyes was like reading an invitation: you are the one I've been waiting for, let's throw all caution to the wind and just give in to our most basic desires. Or to put it more simply: I want to fuck you.
She lets go of my hand with a little embarrassed smile, and we head back towards her office. I let her take the lead so that I can check out the real estate, figuratively speaking. She is dressed in a conservative black suit with a knee-length skirt and a light blue blouse underneath the jacket. From the look of her legs I can tell she tries to keep in shape, and from the curves in the fabric of her skirt I can tell she has been very successful at it. I raise my glance just in time to catch her eyes as she turns around.
"Please come inside, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?" Hmmm, how about a cold shower?
"Thanks I'm fine. I had one of those two gallon Starbucks servings on the way over here."
"Not one of the 2,500 calorie heart attack inducers, I hope?"
"No, plain old java and fully caffeinated. That must be why everything is looking fuzzy in here." That gives her a laugh. The walls of her office are filled with reprints of famous impressionist paintings; I recognize some of the more well known ones -- Monet, Matisse and Pissaro, but there are plenty I've never seen before.
"My secret passion. One day I hope to take a tour through Europe and go see all of these for real. A few years ago I was in New York for a large impressionist exhibition at the Met, and saw a few of these." She indicates the famous water lily painting by Monet.
"I think I may have seen some of them when visiting Paris and London after college" I tell her. "At least I think I did. I never stopped drinking while I was there."
