Indeed, his fabulous body glistened with drops of water.

“C’mon in.”

He led me into a bright and airy living room. Sleek black-leather-and-chrome furniture stood out in contrast to the bungalow’s quaint architectural moldings.

“Make yourself comfy while I get dressed,” he said, then padded off down a narrow hallway.

Why did I get the feeling that it was no accident that he’d just stepped out of the shower, that this whole Fabio routine was a ploy to woo potential customers? I could easily picture SueEllen’s wealthy girlfriends forking over big bucks for Eduardo’s artwork when what they really wanted was his body.

Minutes later he came back, in shorts and a tank top, still doing Fabio.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “I was just about to make myself a non-dairy tofu-carob-lecithin shake.”

“No, thanks,” I said, thinking that the bum down on Main Street would probably love some.

He led me into his high tech kitchen, where he tossed a slimy white glob of tofu into a blender. Then he added a raw egg white, some grayish brown carob powder, and the contents of a vitamin capsule.

If that’s what it takes to stay healthy, I’d rather die young.

“Sure you don’t want some?” he asked, pouring the viscous mixture into a glass. “It’s delicious.”

“Looks mighty tempting, but I’ll pass.”

I shuddered as he drank the stuff down in a few gulps.

“Say,” he said, wiping away his tofu mustache with the back of his hand, “you ever do any model-ing? I’d love to paint you some time.”

He flashed me another megawatt smile.

“The only thing I’ve ever posed for is the photo on my driver’s license.”

“Maybe some day,” he said, huskily, “you’ll let me do you.”

The guy was about as subtle as a bazooka.

“In the meanwhile, how about we go out to the studio and take a look at my paintings?”

“I can’t wait,” I lied.

He led me outside past a flagstone patio to his studio, which was housed in a converted garage. Sunlight streamed in through an overhead skylight.

“Voila!” he said, pointing to about a dozen paintings stacked up against the wall.

Holy Moses. I thought I’d died and gone to hell. Every canvas was filled with scenes from your worst nightmare. Dismembered bodies. Fetuses on crucifixes. And a colorful assortment of maggot-ridden corpses. Anyone with a mind this sick, I thought, was capable of throwing a hair dryer into SueEllen’s tub.

“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

I think I’m going to throw up, that’s what I think.

“How interesting,” I finally managed to croak.

“They make quite a statement,” he said.

Yeah. They’re saying, “Burn me.”

Outside of the contents of an unflushed toilet I’d once stumbled on in Tijuana, never in my life had I seen such nauseating stuff. How the heck was I going to get out of buying one of these monstrosities?

“They’re all so wonderful,” I chirped, “I’d really like to bring my fiancé back to help me decide.”