Have you ever been half way through a professional conversation then realize the person you’re talking to is:

A. Nuts
B. Hitting on you
C. Getting a stiffy
D. All of the above

That’s where I found myself earlier. A friend referred me to her photographer pal. Cool, I thought. I went to his site and read his bio. I was impressed! His cliental list read like a who’s-who publication and his work was brilliant. Anyway, the guy and I connected—had a nice chat, nothing big. Then the conversation took a turn for the weird.

Let the record reflect! I’m a little slow when it comes to these things! Recall the FB post?

I couldn’t figure out how seeing his ‘other’* work was relevant to our conversation. He kept suggesting I view the pictures…and I struggled to grasp what he was talking about. You see, until then he seemed perfectly sane; nothing in his manner forewarned of the nastiness which lurked. There were no outward perv signs.

You know the slime-ball smell—that pungent bouquet of fossilized sperm, damp basement, and Drakkar? That’s the slime-ball smell. But he didn’t reek!

In the end I cut him loose and blocked his ass. His images were sooooo beautiful! Asshole.

* By ‘other’ work I mean his pecker. I didn’t want to see it in a house, with a mouse, with a fox, nor in a box. I didn’t want to see it here nor there, I didn’t want to see it anywhere!!