His voice oozed from his throat like warm brie spilling from a toasted baguette. Not just any brie either. Clotted brie. Brie a dozen years past its use-by date. Brie that had mutated into a virus. An Ebola of seeping dairy. I shuddered. His intent was as slimy as his accent.
“You know, Zoë”, he smirked as he pushed his cocaine laced mirror closer towards me on the chaise, “We are going to ‘ave to ‘ave sex one of zeeze days.”
My skin crawled. I felt alone, alert, resentful, and extremely pissed off. The gravity of the situation sunk in and it crossed my mind that I might be the only woman in the world who was repelled by French men and their Teflon accents.
Slowly, mulling over my options, I reached for the mirror, rationalising that his drugs were the lesser of the two evils being presented to me.
He was my modelling agent.
I was seventeen years old, far from home and living in his house.
My agent’s name was Jean Luc Brunel. He tried to have sex with me when I was a child. He gave me drugs. It’s high time he was outed for it
https://medium.com/bullies-assholes-i-have-known/my-french-modelling-agent-the-pedophile-fe1f9aa1e956