Sex and the Real Estate

It wasn't his eyes, a common brown that can be found on any street corner in Bairro Alto. It wasn't his sense of humor, which oscillated dangerously between "barbecue uncle" and "depressed accountant." No, what made my heart beat faster, what caused me to break out in a cold sweat and uncontrollable erotic fantasies, was the three-and-a-half-meter-high ceiling and the unobstructed view of the Gulbenkian gardens.

Salvador was a solid "6" on a scale of physical attractiveness, but his apartment on Avenida Ressano Garcia was an absolute "10." It had original hardwood floors, double-glazed windows that silenced the city's chaos, and the holy grail of Lisbon life: a parking space.

While he talked about his collection of Fusion Jazz vinyl records, a musical genre that should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention, I found myself wondering where I would put my velvet sofa or whether the morning light on the balcony would be suitable for my plants. And I couldn't help but wonder: In a city where rents cost more than human dignity, has "Real Estate" become the new erogenous zone for gay men?

In the past, we looked for intelligence, kindness, or a well-defined abdomen. Today, Maslow's hierarchy of needs has been rewritten by real estate speculation. Shelter has risen to the top of the pyramid, pushing self-realization and love into the damp attic of secondary things.

Sleeping at his place wasn't just a sexual act; it was an act of luxury tourism. Waking up in São Sebastião, far from the tourist chaos of Baixa or the dampness of cheap basements, gave me a sense of security that no post-coital embrace could ever replicate. I felt protected, not by Salvador's arms, but by the solid walls of pre-1950s construction.

I felt like a fraud. I was practicing a very specific form of emotional prostitution: "real estate prostitution". I wasn't interested in his wallet, nor his car. I was a gold prospector of square meters. I was trading my company, my forced laughter, and my sexual availability for the privilege of using a bathroom with real marble and decent water pressure.

Do we like them, or do we just like the fact that they solved the most difficult equation of adult life? The man who owns his own home has become the new Prince Charming, and the key to the house is the glass slipper that we all want to fit us.

There's a cruelty in that. Salvador believed I was fascinated by his personality, when in reality I was in love with his pantry. But, in an urban jungle where finding a roof over your head is a bloody war, perhaps love is just a matter of logistics. Perhaps compatibility isn't measured by zodiac signs, but by geographical convenience.

I left the next morning and never went back, with the scent of his Egyptian cotton sheets still on my skin. As I walked down the avenue, I looked up at the balcony where we had breakfast. The apartment was perfect. The man inside was... acceptable. And in a city that demands your soul in exchange for rent, "acceptable" with a good location starts to look dangerously like "happily ever after."

Maybe I don't love him. But I love the idea of ​​living so far away that I don't have to see him. And for now, in a gentrified and merciless Lisbon, perhaps this will have to serve as my love story.