I had the mixed fortune of being invited to the garret apartment of a middle-aged Parisian fashion photographer. He lives at the site of the famous Lolita-esque Marlon Brando film, Last Tango In Paris.

He offered me fresh strawberries and told me that he had had a rich life, peppered with exciting encounters with Carla Bruni (before she had plastic surgery and became a model), Jean-Michel Basquiat, Karl Lagerfeld, and all the top supermodels of the 1970s. He asked me if I wanted to write his memoirs: “the story of a sensual young man who wasted his life on party people.” I think that, like most fashion photographers, he wanted mainly to have sex with me. So I ate the strawberries and made a run for it.

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