by Nick Molloy
Motor-racing truly is a past-time without merit. As Chris (my ex boss) once said, the F1 world championship is best likened to ‘the lets all race around my garden pond world title’. That is to say, its permissible entrants are limited. I have long maintained that if motor-racing were open to all, the likes of Michael Schumacher would not even make the grid of Formula 1. If for example, every Olympic 100m athlete had to pay £5 million in order to enter, the chances are that the Olympic 100m champion would be a plus 12 second runner. It doesn’t take a genius to do the maths and work out how many would be excluded.
Needless to say, the whole project died a death. Adam’s talent was recognized by him being given a ‘paid’ drive in the German Porsche championship, the following year. The drive was offered by the team at the back of the grid the previous year and his drive was to be funded by a rich kid team-mate. His payment was his expenses and a couple of hundred quid per race. We drove to Germany in my car to sign the contract. I was entitled to 30% of anything he earned but I told him to keep everything.
I lost all my hard won Passive money on this project and most of the savings I had in the bank. It was a very bitter pill to swallow, particularly as in many ways we had achieved so much. 43 separate sponsors had come on board from scratch (albeit mostly small sponsors) and interest, had been garnered in a relatively unknown driver from Formula 1 teams. I even managed to get Passive to sponsor us for £3000. I went back into their offices in a disguise. Accompanied by a TV crew, I successfully pitched the idea to a group Marketing Director. They would have been horrified had the documentary actually aired!
Yet, it was all for nought. I was hopeful that the documentary would bring some money back. We called it the Ghetto Kid (because in motor-racing terms Adam was from the Ghetto). However, we were unable to sell the programme. Despite the numerous contacts that the production company had in television and despite although those that viewed the programme commenting on the excellent story and production, it remains on the shelf to this day. Its content was just too controversial and revealing about how Formula 1 really works for any of the major networks to show it.
I lost my shirt on this project and it seemed that I was standing there again as the lone fall guy. I’d put my money up and so had the eccentric millionaire. However, he could afford to lose his money. He made more in interest every year than what he lost. I had just taken a huge right hand square on the chin and was seeing stars.
I was now facing the terrifying prospect of returning to work in an arena I couldn’t stand. Furthermore, if I was being realistic I would have to retrace my steps and take a role lower down than I would like. That is, in all likelihood, I would have to start at the beginning again. Quite frankly, I’d have been willing to do just about any reasonably viable alternative….
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I had received a call from a Frenchman in London one Sunday afternoon. He wanted to know if I performed private shows. That is, shows for one. I have been asked this many times over the years and the answer will always remain the same. Namely, as long as the fee is paid then of course I do.
It is nearly always men who ask for private shows. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been asked by women to perform private shows. You can then further divide by a quarter the number that actually meant it. A few dozen men have asked however, and they always mean it. Some people think I’m mad for doing these.
‘What if he had a gun ?’ they ask.
‘What if she had a gun?’ I counter.
Weirdoes are fairly common in my world but most of them can be screened out in the initial telephone call. If I’m really suspicious I ask them to supply all their personal details in writing or pay a deposit. This kills off the Peter Sutcliffes pretty quickly.
In fact, I have made a few genuine friends through 1:1 shows. In that sense they have enriched my life. Some people will book you time and time again (say 3-4 times a year), others once only. Others still, believe that they will get a little more than a strip show if they repeat book. They really shouldn’t think this as they have been told otherwise upfront. Still, it sometimes it takes then 2-3 attempts before they realize what I told then initially holds true. You then never hear from them again. Some of the guys that book 1:1’s are incredibly wealthy. Others just have regular jobs and have maybe seen me on stage somewhere and want to hire me for themselves – like a personal treat.
Most of the guys I have seen, have also hired prostitutes/escorts in the past and wanted to try something a little but different. It is true that most of these bookers are hoping that strips might eventually lead to sex. I’ve always said I’d do anything for a million, but nobody has ever made such an outrageous offer. Demi Moore is therefore safe in her role for the time being.
It isn’t as if some of these guys couldn’t afford to make the offer. Some of them most definitely could. I’ve been to some places that are positively palatial. One place was the top floor penthouse (on three floors) in a block of flats near Mayfair. I estimated its value at about 10 million quid. The guy later told me it was worth 12 million. Similarly, a mansion in Hampstead I was once called too, must have pushed it close for total value. I have also attended countless others where the guys have been millionaires (or thereabouts) without being stupidly rich. To be fair most of the bookers are quite wealthy by most people’s standards.
Anyway, as I was saying, I’d been booked by the French guy for the very same evening in Earls Court, London. I arrived and was warmly greeted by him and ushered into his spacious flat. He paid me upfront and then asked me if I was ok with two ‘escorts’ also performing for him at the same time. I replied in the affirmative and we sat down to await their arrival.
Whilst we were waiting he asked if I was also an escort. I replied in the negative, which seemed to disappoint him. Eventually these two young antipodean guys arrived, looking like they had just finished surfing. The French guy really didn’t know what he wanted. He got the two surfers to drop their trousers and start wanking either side of him whilst I was still sitting politely on the other side of the room.
‘Would you like me to perform now’ I asked inquisitively.
He stared at me in a drug fuelled haze and simply said
‘No, I think I just want sex. Perhaps it would be better if you just went’
I’d been paid to sit in an armchair for thirty minutes. It was the easiest payday I think I’ve ever had. I bade my farewells to the wanking surfers, collected my belongings and left.
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I still had a couple of thousand in savings. I decided to take one final look at being a Football agent. What I found in that industry however, horrified me even more than motor racing. Firstly I made the mistake of offering to work for free in order to gain entry and to acquire some experience. When I first graduated everybody in sport had made it a prerequisite to work for free in order to enter the industry so I was following that same logic. Several agents were willing to see me on that basis, but once they met me they couldn’t get me out of their offices quick enough ! I made the mistake of not dumbing down. Instead I came across as a bit of a live wire who might well be able to enhance their business, but crucially, also steal it.
I decided the only route was to go it alone and this created many problems. Firstly, the Football Association officially require you to put down £100,000 as a bond to register as an agent. Hundreds don’t bother and nothing is done to enforce it. Others (such as well thought of ex players) are hurriedly ushered through the system and licensed. The only agent I found to be helpful was an ex England player who was getting out of the agent game. He laid it out quite simply and plainly for me when I met him – don’t bother. He stated that it would be impossible for me to make it as an agent because the industry is so corrupt and incestuous. Without highly established contacts and a hefty bank balance it would be impossible to even begin to consider it, he contended. After all, ran his argument, he knew everybody in football and he hadn’t been able to
make it work the way he would like. I asked him to elaborate further and he did.
He gave me a theoretical example. Lets say I had a player who was very good and I approached club A, who happened to be very interested in my player. They would approach their preferred Agent J who in turn would make an approach to my player. My player would be asked if he would like to play for A (he would presumably reply in the affirmative) and would then be told that the deal could be done but he would have to sign with Agent J and ditch his current agent (me). I protested and said I would sue the player for breach of contract if he reneged on the deal. My informant (Paul) said that would be admirable but the incestuous nature of football would mean that no player would ever sign with me again. Furthermore, if my player didn’t sign with Agent J then Club A would refuse to deal with me and would not sign the player. Inevitably, Agent J would therefore get his man (unless my player was incredibly loyal and a lifelong friend).
Agent J would then invoice club A for his cut in brokering the resultant transfer. However, Mr. D an official of Club A would then arrange for his son to invoice Agent J for ‘consultancy’ services involved in the deal. Thus, a slice of the pie made its way back to Mr D, the official at Club A. In the picture Paul painted, everybody in this very small industry wins except outsiders and new entrants. Furthermore, club officials (such as managers/chairmen) who broker transfer deals were incentivised to purchase players that were less than ideal for their team. That way they could sell them on again after a season and legitimately buy their replacement because ‘the deal hadn’t quite worked out’. Those officials then directly benefit from the sale of the failed player and the purchase of his replacement. This certainly explained some of the more perplexing/unnecessary purchases by major teams over the years.
I again suggested an antidote to this scenario. I would simply approach other premiership teams. The news wasn’t great. Paul went through every team I could mention and named the inside contact who brokered the transfer and his son/nephew/family member who acted as a consultant for the preferred agent with whom that club dealt. If Paul was to be believed it was to be a forlorn task.
Nevertheless, not to be deterred so easily, I shook hands with Paul and thanked him for his insight. Six months later I phoned him up and said I wish I had taken his initial advice (don’t bother). Everything he had said had turned out to be correct. During that time I attempted a number of things to gain entry. I tried partnering with scouts (to quote one “this game is like being in the masons”), offered my services as a sprint coach to clubs and tried touting around a couple of junior players to clubs. Whilst conducting the latter I will never forget the conversation I had with the head scout of Swindon Town. He stated that they are unwilling to look at players who are not recommended to them. I said ‘I am recommending this particular player’. He said that I wasn’t one of his sources. I countered by stating that if my player was the next Pele, how would he ever know if he wasn’t prepared to watch players in his role as the scout ? He went quiet and then muttered something about if I wasn’t prepared to play the same as the others then that’s just the way it was……..I was beginning to understand what Paul had meant. The Swindon scout was not alone in his outlook (just more blatant) and when I finally secured the player in question a trial with a Conference team he didn’t show up !
Eventually, my head began to hurt from banging it against a brick wall too many times. My money reserves were near depleted and anyway I had begun carving out a career elsewhere and that career looked far more interesting………….
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‘Ok Ashley, start wanking him now until he comes………..and cut’
I suppose I was on a porn set, at least it was sort of porn. I had been approached by an agent about being one of the victims in something known as CFNM. To the uninitiated, that stands for Clothed Female Nude Male. It is an emerging genre of fetish, in which men are sexually humiliated by women. The women retain their dignity throughout the proceedings.
In line with the rest of the porn world, the stories are corny and unbelievable and the acting is appalling. Strictly speaking it isn’t porn as we know it because there is no penetrative sex. A CFNM woman wouldn’t stoop that low. From my point of view it was porn without the risks. I had been offered the chance to do porn before but had declined on the basis of risk. So what if everybody was tested ? The sex was unsafe and viruses like HIV can lie dormant and undetected in an initial test.
My first venture into CFNM had been less interesting than I had hoped. The director had hired a farmhouse in deepest Sussex for his requirements. The setting must have eaten too much into his budget because he couldn’t afford any women that would actually touch any of the men. As a result the story lines had to be adapted and the men had to wank themselves off as the women watched pointing and laughing.
As someone who’s sexual fantasy is to be gang raped by at least five women, it was all a little tame and disappointing. In between takes, I got chatting to some of the girls. A couple of them were porn actresses. This was child’s play to them. They obviously would have been willing to do just about anything, they just hadn’t been paid enough on the day.
The one that had interested me most was Ashley. After all, she had piercing blue eyes and curly brown hair. She reminded me of Zoe. I got her number hoping to meet up with her sometime outwith of a CFNM film set. However, she had deliberately given me a false number. Ok she wasn’t interested. I could handle that. It’s not a problem. The sly method of saying no was a problem. It got my back up at least. What’s so difficult about being honest ?
This time the setting was different. The director had spunked less of his budget on setting and more on actresses. He had hired somebody’s flat in Bromley (albeit a nice modern flat). The actresses had been hired this time on the basis that they were going to get their hands grubby (literally).
Ashley was again one of the motley crew. In the morning I had played out a quite ridiculous story line whereby I was getting frisky with my ‘girlfriend’, but before we could really get down to it her mother came home. So that we wouldn’t be found out, I then had to climb naked over a balcony and hang down over a mezzanine floor only for an estate agent and her client to walk in the room whilst I was dangling. In my helpless position they giggled and wanked me off whilst I protested. My ‘girlfriend’ was most helpful during the wanking. She played with her fanny, out of the shot of the camera, to help me along.
As I was having to do two shoots that day (interpret the word shoot as you see fit), I was to be filmed first and last so that I had the maximum ‘recovery time’. The second scene was almost as ridiculous as the first. I was ordered to strip by my mum because my sister’s friends wanted to examine a naked male body. I would then be called a ‘dirty boy’ by my mother whilst the sister and friends giggled and played with my cock. Ashley was ‘made’ (read contracted) to wank me off. This felt like sweet vengeance after she had given me a false phone number previously. Whilst she was doing the deed, my head was full of fantasy. Most of it was along the lines of ‘serves you right for lying bitch’. It was a most satisfying orgasm. Most guys would actually pay for this and I was actually getting paid. It sure beat the hell out of working for a living.
Chapter 3 – It all Started with a Sauna….
I rung the door bell again. Still no answer. It way May 2002 and things hadn’t been going my way these last couple of years. Forced to take my original employer to court at my own expense, I then saw nearly all my savings evaporate in a high octane experiment that went wrong. I wasted a further six months investigating the football business and now I had travelled two hours to get to Balham, South London for a pre arranged meeting with this trainer of strippers and he wasn’t in ! What had I done to piss the gods off ?
I staggered back from the building straining my eyes to see if there was any sign of life. If was a warm may day and I was hot and bothered from the tube journey. I tried calling his number from my mobile, but there was
no answer so I turned begrudgingly to head back towards the tube station. As I did so, a big black guy wearing an expensive and very gay looking string vest were helping an elderly gentleman along the road, a man I was later to know as the Rock of Ages.
The elderly gentleman introduced himself as Michael and his helper was Paul. He bade me enter his flat. Those in the know often assume that it was Michael he helped me start my career as a stripper, but in truth, we have to delve further back than that to an encounter a couple of years previously in a sauna.
The sauna encounter is not as seedy as it initially might sound. At the time I was an aspiring track sprinter. Years of constant training on the track and power training in the gym, combined with a careful diet, had brought my body fat level down to just above 6 %. I was every bit the professional in attitude, training six days a week (sometimes twice a day). I researched and implemented the latest training theories and pushed myself to the limit in order to be the best I could possibly be. Eventually I posted times of 22.4 for the 200m and 49.7 for the 400m. They call the 400m the man killer with good reason. Even when you are trained to the hilt it is still going to really hurt and quite possibly end with you crawling onto the grass so that you can throw up. I was told that breaking 50 seconds for the 400m puts you around the top 100 mark in the UK. This only left me to lament further about what might have been. If I could make it into the higher end in something as hard as the 400m, what might I have done in football ?