Tom is the pile of crusty tissues next to the bed of amateur photography. A man with the personality of a discarded FHM magazine on the floor of a urine soaked roadhouse bathroom.

Tom fondly remembers the first time he saw a girl bend over at the beach. From that point on he knew he wanted to be a photographer. However, in his early days, his path lacked as much focus as the Polaroids themselves.

That was until he was struck with an epiphany on leavers after a girl obliged his drunken roar for her to lift up her shirt. Despite having the approachability of an entire drunk football team, Tom was able to talk to women through the medium of skank-whispering.

Thus, Tommy’s Naughty Photography was born.

Tom’s true talent doesn’t extend to lighting, angles, flash or any of that photography horse-shit. It lies in his ability to convince girls that his grainy photos will separate them from the desperate herds of insta-models who believe paying for shoots in their Calvin Klein undies is a pathway to the Forbes rich list.

How is his talent rewarded? Well, not with any form of income, which is fitting, because that’s exactly what his services are worth.

It’s Wednesday morning, and Tom has finished shooting a backyard carwash scene in Forrestfield. After playing pocket billiards to the photos, he browses Instagram looking for new “clients”. He notices an up and coming Motorplex-model and messages her:

“Love your pics babe. If you’d like to step up to a professional shoot, we should get together and chat, awesome exposure for you! 😛 😛 xxx”

Christ, his creepy message oozes its way into her inbox. Unfortunately, she is blown away by his fancy watermarks and 3,000 followers. She agrees.

Tom can’t believe his luck, she agrees to some nude shots under the promise that he will tastefully Photoshop stars onto her nips & poon. He promises them he will promote the photos and she should expect lucrative deals to come flooding in.

Naturally, none of this will occur and the model will eventually realise she joins an unexclusive club of women that Tom has tricked into thinking he can make them famous.

At which point, they will react like they’d found a tube of Zovirax at a glory hole: sickened but not surprised.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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