I first came to L.A. as a famous actor’s personal physician and soon found myself associating with highly revered group of Hollywood psychiatrists who dealt with the selfish and addictive troubles that besmirched the film capital of the US. The appetizing temptations of their penthouse lives saw me ditch the awkward British romcom hero I signed up with and tend to the needs of the more insane stars.

However, this group did more than simply compare medical notes and discuss the peculiarity of Stendhal Syndrome. Once a week, we select few would venture off to some quiet wood and indulge in deer hunting, just as I did with my Oxford fellows in times long past.

It was on one such trip that I met the industrious boy that was Tibbs. His scent of pine and sawdust was truly addictive, filling me with lust beyond that which any Catholic priest could fathom.

Our encounter was short, filled with ecstacy beyond what any wife could give. We did not love, nor could we, for such is the nature of Hollywood.