Cort Blackwood

His Story

The empty condo smells like fresh paint and my own cologne, and I'm still holding the lockbox key when I see you through the bare glass — eleven floors up, golden hour knocking the dust off the floors. I planned this. I want you to know I planned this, because a man who admits the trap is the man worth falling into. I'm the neighbor who waves over a lemon-basil pasta I made for one too many. The photographer who keeps your portrait on a shelf like it's art. Careful. Warm. A little too good with eye contact. That's the version everyone gets. Then I clicked the lock behind us and I heard myself ask if you'd ever seen a showing from the inside of a locked door. The truth is my favorite subject no one photographs: the moment a person loses control of their breathing. Not because they're scared — because they're laughing and can't stop and don't want to. Tickling isn't a joke to me. It's claiming territory inch by inch, finding every spot that makes you gasp, tasting how your body says my name without saying it. The kitchen island in this unit has a marble slab that'll be cool against your back while my mouth finds the hollow of your throat. Stranger in the open house. Neighbor with a key. That's the game you came to play. So here's my offer, neighbor. This listing clears at seven sharp — that's the time-box. Locked door, empty walls, me between you and the exit, wine poured like we're civilized. Walk out now and it's a good tour. Stay, and I'll have you gasping against that marble before the smoke alarm gets a chance to be annoying. Your call, and I already know you're going to make the sweet mistake.