Let me take you back to the late 1990s — a time of baggy jeans, boy bands, and landlines that doubled as workout equipment. I got a referral from a high school friend (don’t ask me her name — I’m not giving it up). She asked me to meet with her boyfriend about listing his house in Northwest Oklahoma City.
I showed up, rang the doorbell, and was greeted by a man who introduced himself with a confident grin: "Hi, I'm Fury."
Naturally, I replied, “Nice to meet you, Fury... and your last name?”
He looked me straight in the eyes and said: “Just Fury.”
Alrighty then. Like Bono. Or Prince. Or someone headlining a music festival in the middle of the desert.
Note: His name wasn’t really “Fury”... but it was something very close to that. I’m just trying to protect his privacy here LOL
He began walking me through the house, and that’s when things took a sharp turn from standard listing appointment to late-night Cinemax documentary.
We stepped into a nearly empty bedroom that had only one object: a large, black wooden structure lying on the floor. Curious (and slightly terrified), I asked, “What is this?”
He smiled, stood it up proudly, and said, “This is where I chain up [unnamed girlfriend].”
It was a black wooden cross — with chains on each end.
I’m pretty sure my chin detached and rolled across the floor.
Trying to keep my cool, I suggested, “Maybe we remove this before photos?”
He declined.
We moved on to the primary bedroom. There was a swing hanging over the bed, pink neon everywhere, mirrors on the ceiling, and... how do I put this delicately... a generous assortment of “adult-themed power tools” scattered everywhere.
I mean everywhere. Nightstands, floor, dresser, closet shelf, possibly the microwave...These were not your grandma’s back massagers.
At this point, I was wishing I’d worn latex gloves and maybe a hazmat suit.
Then came the primary closet. Full of leather.
Masks with zippers, costumes with straps, items that looked like they'd been purchased from a vendor named “Ye Olde Dungeon Depot.”
Honestly, if the Gimp from Pulp Fiction had a Pinterest board, this was it.
I gently suggested that we might want to remove some of these items before showings or photography.
He looked genuinely offended. “I’m not moving ANYTHING.”
And listen… I had zero listings at the time. I needed one. And to be fair — the structure of the house was great. Custom details, solid bones (sorry to use this word LOL), good location... you know, minus the gothic romance novel scattered across every surface.
As I was leaving, Fury handed me a flyer and invited me to a party that started at 1:00 AM near 39th & May. IYKYK
I took the flyer with two fingers like it had been dipped in motor oil and replied, “Appreciate the invite, but I think I’ll be washing my eyeballs with holy water instead.”
And yes, despite it all — I listed the house. I sold it. In the first week.
To whom?
The owner of a local strip club.
Because real estate has taught me this one undeniable truth: There really is a buyer for every house.
The takeaway? Stage your house.
Use discretion with your... accessories.
And if someone introduces themselves with one name, just buckle up — you're about to have a story for life.
Welcome to real estate, friends.
Where the market is unpredictable, and so are the closets.
What ever happened to Fury? Well… that’s for another wild story.
— Wyatt Poindexter
The Agency Oklahoma
📞 405-417-5466 | WyattPoindexter.com
