He said I was photogenic. He wanted to take some shots of me. I was neither complimented nor apprehensive. He was paying enough to do anything he wanted. I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

I don’t really remember exactly what he looked like other than he was slight and wore glasses. He talked about some of the famous people he’d shot, how he had been horny all day long, and I listened and smiled, pretending to be impressed and horny myself.

His house was an old rambling tile-roofed Spanish home with a heavy carved door. The entry was a rotunda with a staircase that hugged the curve of the wall. He led me upstairs. His bedroom bay window was enormous, the expanse of the LA basin hidden in a downy brown blanket of smog. I could barely see downtown, but the afternoon light poured through the leaded glass, and he asked me to lie down.

In less than an hour, I dressed and he gave me a ride back to my apartment in Hollywood.

“I’ll send you some of the pictures,” he said as I was getting out of his car. I nodded, knowing that I’d never see the photos, but a few weeks later, I got a packet in the mail. He kept his word.