“And everything’s paid for, and everything’s for sale,” he told me with a boyish grin.

“Everything?” I asked him curiously.

He said, “The pretty girls, the pretty boys, the clothes, accessories, pictures, you name it, as long as the price is right.”

“So, they’re not really models then,” I commented. “This is more like an exotic brothel.”

He said, “It’s all a brothel anyway. The world is a brothel. We’re all selling ourselves for something.”

I had used that philosophy in Miami with Judi, but I didn’t think of taking it to the extent of calling the world a brothel.

I asked him, “Ain’t that illegal?”

“Not if you’re doing it the right way. How can you stop an American citizen from paying for what they want. Or an international citizen for that matter.”

I wasn’t expecting that to come from Mr. Vissel. After all, he was a photographer, a visual artist who models trusted.

I said, “How did you even…”

He cut me off before I could get my full question out.

“It was simple,” he told me. “I’d get around wealthy admirers of my work, and they would always bring up how wonderful it would be to go out with a few of the models that I would shoot.

“On the flip side, I would have models who would overextend their budgets and beg me for advances,” he told me. “So I simply put the two together. And like I said, I don’t know anything about it. We deal only with adults here. Underage or immature models are not included in the program.”

I said, “But how would you stop an underage model from getting involved with that? You know how much guys like the young ones.”

I had been in the business long enough to know that there were plenty of older guys dying to reclaim their youth through alliances with much younger women. The idea was even more prevalent internationally.

Marcus answered, “Easy, you don’t shoot them, you don’t sign them, you don’t let them on the premises. That solves that problem.”

“So, you don’t deal with underage models at all anymore?”

“Well, I can have one of my photographers shoot them, sure, just not here.”

I nodded and grinned. I said, “So, this really is like the Playboy Mansion.”

Mr. Vissel didn’t flinch. He boasted, “It’s better. We have men and women, legitimate models, high-end fashion, better photography, and it’s much more exclusive.”

I said, “But you’re here doing an article for Esquire magazine. Isn’t that going to bring too much attention?”

I was sorry I said anything to the reporter without knowing his plans. Did I really want to be a part of his propaganda? No. Hell no!

“They’re doing an article on the uniqueness of opening up the modeling world to those who are fascinated by it. It’s like virtual reality and fantasy football. You get to be closer to it. Nothing else exists here.”

I said, “But all they have to do is send in an undercover agent posing as a rich man, or even a woman for that matter, and everything falls apart.”