by Nick Molloy
However, genetically there existed far more gifted athletes than I and also I didn’t use the drugs. Contrary to what may be banded about in the popularist media, virtually all athletes (most sportspeople) use performance enhancing drugs. It isn’t possible to succeed at the highest level without them. Urine tests are easily passed and the authorities will always sweep things under the carpet for the betterment of the sport. I carefully considered the possibility of joining the ‘steroid brigade’ but concluded that although I would improve markedly, I almost certainly lacked the genetics to take me to the very top. I would have probably been a top 20 athlete as opposed to a top 100 athlete. Essentially that still an also ran, just a more up market one. Top 20 athletes don’t earn a living from the sport and the long term side effects from steroid usage can be quite harmful.
After training, I regularly used to go to the sauna to try and ease those aching muscles (if I woke up in the morning and wasn’t sore I wondered what was wrong). It was one bank holiday Monday, after a hard session in the gym, that I went to the sauna and first met John. I was sitting there stretched out minding my own business when this guy asked me if I was a model. I said no, only to be informed that given my physique I should be. John introduced himself and said he was a photographer. He also added that yes he was gay, but that wasn’t the reasoning behind his line of enquiry.
Curious, I asked him for more detail. John explained that he was only an amateur photographer, but he had his own studio and his main area of interest was photographing artistic male nudes. Furthermore, models got paid. That got my attention, so I asked him how much and how often. The answer wasn’t quite what I had hoped. Photographers will typically pay the model a fee (circa £100). If the photographer is an amateur, the images would just be for his private collection. If the photographer is a professional he will then seek to sell them for publication. The model should be asked to sign a model release and can expect to be paid a more princely sum – maybe as much as £125-£150. I enquired how often one can expect this kind of work. John replied that the magazines may publish the same model about twice a year, so in essence not that often.
I explained to John that I had a very well paid job and that £100 here and there didn’t especially appeal to me at that particular moment in time. That was when John said that if I was more interested in the money I should consider being a stripper as they worked much more often. He knew someone who trained strippers and could give me his phone number if I was interested. Strippers could expect a similar fee to models, but could also expect to work a few times a week. I re-iterated my first point that I was earning a lot more than that and between training for the track and my job I had no spare time. Thus, part-time was not an option and full time simply wasn’t lucrative enough. John expressed his understanding and gave me a card saying that if I ever changed my mind, he’d be glad to take my photo.
In truth, my time at work with Passive was nearing its end, political games had abounded for months and the situation was stressful. When we parted company, my lawyer made it plain to me that my mitigated loss in court would be far higher if I ‘was unable to find suitable similar employment’. I therefore, sat on my hands and prepared for the court war. My training suffered terribly during this period. I guess the situation was more stressful than I gave it credit for. It was during this period in late 2000 that I dug out John’s card and gave him a call. I did so as much as out of curiosity as anything else. We arranged to meet and he took some nude photos of me, in return he provided me with a set of large glossy prints. The shoot was the night before the court case and although John wanted to shoot some more, I soon became embroiled in motor-racing and football projects. They kept me occupied for a further 18 months or so.
After the motor-racing had failed, my money reserves were depleted and I was at a very low ebb, I again called John and asked him about the possibility of modelling for pay. Suddenly, £100 for a couple of hours work looked far better than it had a couple of years before. Deep down, I knew ultimately that I would have to return to the ‘real world’ – the world of work that I so truly despised. The reality of acting like a drone for the betterment of the great corporate monolith, in return for some coloured pieces of paper as remuneration beckoned. I still have nightmares about the thought of it to this day and getting paid for showing my body was a way of delaying the inevitable. Also, modelling didn’t really feel like work – it was too easy.
John gave me four telephone numbers of people he knew who booked models. He also gave me a number of a company that made gay porn films (I told him I wouldn’t be interested). Just as he finished his list, he remembered another number. He said I might as well have the number of Mike Baldwin. “If you are interested, he trains strippers. I’m sure he’d love to see you”.
I began by telephoning the people who booked models. A couple were outdated (one wrong number the other one said he didn’t hire models anymore) but two of them requested that I e-mail them a photo. I did this and received an immediate response. One wanted to book me instantly for a paid session and the other said he would like to meet me with a view to taking ‘test shots’. Their response was in stark contrast to more mainstream modelling agencies. As an experiment, I spent two days contacting over 50 ‘modelling agencies’ by telephone and on the request of some of them, a further follow up e-mail with attached images was also sent. Some showed ‘interest’ but their ‘interest’ was of little use. They either wanted to charge a fee in order to join their books, wanted to arrange for a portfolio to be done with their photographer (at my expense) or some simply said they don’t scout new faces. Only one asked to see me in person and he was to close down soon afterwards. Either way, all the terms favoured them. Acceptance of their terms would have meant they win and I lose. None of them were willing to guarantee any work. That is, they were a waste of time.
On the face of it, the companies that were marketing themselves as mainstream modelling agencies seemed to be reliant on aspirant models who were naïve and gullible enough to pay fees for the ‘services’ of the modelling agencies. In our now very much established 24 hour reality TV, celebrity obsessed society there will no doubt be an endless supply of young celebrity wannabees who believe that the modelling agency will actually look after them and find them work on a regular basis. I would wager that the majority of the income from most agencies comes from hopefuls as opposed to finding assignments for their models and taking a commission. I keep bumping into an ever increasing number of these young hopefuls.
Thus it was that in March 2002 that I boarded the train to Brighton and arrived for my first paid photo shoot. Richard and Barry were a gay couple that ran one of those high street photo development franchises. They had converted the room above the shop into a studio. I was asked to pose naked with various props and towards the end of the shoot some shots were taken with an erection. The whole thing lasted a couple of hours, they even bought me something to eat afterwards. I boarded the train back to Crawley £100 richer and it was probably the most stress free £100 I had ever earned.
I few similar sessions followed. I posed for a group at the London Camera club and a few of their individual members booked me privately. Each time I posed for somebody I asked if they knew any other photographers who booked models and so my contact list began to grow as did my portfolio of photos. Initially, I was doing a photo shoot every week or two. Because I was a new model and I appeared to be reasonably popular, the photographers were quite keen to shoot me (with their cameras not a gun). I began to contact some magazines to see what their level of interest was. Esme, from a magazine called For Women met me one day and we did some shoots outside. She was quite taken by one of the images I had sent her and asked if I would take her there. The shot was taken by an old boy called Pierre Gibbons. He probably took the best photos of any photographer I worked with. The image shows what looks like and infinite number of huge archways stretching into the distance, and nestled in one of them, quit subtly, is a naked model. That
was the image that so interested Esme.
Sure enough, I took Esme to the location and we shot some film. I also took her to another amazing outdoor location in Sussex. Shoreham cement works takes some believing. Set back off the road, this enormous works site, has huge warehouses (one of them flooded), filled to the brim with rusting and decaying industrial machinery. As you reached the quarry at the back, the noise from the road disappears and only the crows can be heard. It was like a scene from some post apocalyptic earth where civilization has been wiped out. Whilst exploring the site, I found a small office where a newspaper lay on a desk, undisturbed for 12 years. I later did some digging and the date of the paper corresponded with the date of the site closure.
Anyway, Esme took some photos at Shoreham too and these became my first published images. I actually got fleeced, because I only got £100 and the images appeared across a few issues. However, I was young and naïve back then. Also, the images shot were a little amateurish. The tone of For Women is probably more Readers Wives than Playgirl, although it was probably the closest thing Britain had to Playgirl.
I registered with a couple of agencies who supplied naked male models and a couple of their assignments proved to be a bit different. At the time I was being offered a fair amount of porn work, both gay and straight. However, I always turned it down. I had a girlfriend that I was loyal and faithful too and furthermore, I would have been forever fearful of what one might catch. However, I always stressed that I would be happy to shoot anything in the singular.
One of the agencies to which I belonged was run by a guy called Scott (Scott is actually a pseudonym because he has a job as an actor and he doesn’t want one role ever to be associated with the other). Scott’s agency didn’t find me much work because most of their assignments were for gay porn (early after registering with them, they asked if I was willing to appear in a film getting shagged up the arse by a girl with a strap-on. I politely declined at the time. However, one of the assignments they sent me to was a private photographer in Oxford. John was an elderly gentleman who wrote for one of the broadsheets as their tennis correspondent. His favourite hobby, as he called it, was to shoot naked young men in various states of undress around his house.
I posed for John on several occasions. Every time the formula was the same. There was never anything untoward. He was extremely polite and after the shoot, he would always cook me dinner. He was also very keen to show me some of the photos he had taken of other models.
I always talked to John afterwards for some time and I’m guessing I probably did so in a way that few of his other models did. I was always enquiring about life and the nature of his work. I remember another photographer friend of mine, Mark Glenn told me that he met him once. Funnily enough Mark wanted to talk to him about tennis, whereas John only wanted to show him pictures of models.
John was often jetting around the world covering various tennis tournaments and it was plain that he led a double life. On the one hand there was his conservative, almost haughty profession, where he was revered in the highest regard. On the other hand there was what most people would consider his sordid ‘hobby’. He had managed for years to keep the two lives completely separate and although I didn’t know him for long enough, I would imagine he did so at considerable angst and grief to himself. He probably came from an era and an environment where his hobby simply ‘wasn’t tennis’ and he was forced to hide it for most of his life.
I would have liked to have got to know John better, he seemed a really nice, sweet old man, no doubt with many tortured demons waiting to burst forth from his closet. Unfortunately he died whilst I was imprisoned in Dubai (more later). The last time I saw him, he was in failing health and he told me that he literally had a walk-in cupboard the size of a small room overflowing with the photos of the models he had taken over the years. Whether they sat there on the shelf or whether they were a constant source of amusement to him, I’ll never know. He told me that upon his death, his most trusted friend had been instructed to enter the house and destroy all the material. The friend, I believe, was a former model of his.
I understand that several models turned up at his funeral. I was on a mailing list of his as the most trusted friend e-mailed a small number of people about his health, as he was nearing the end. My Dubai e-mail was on this list. Apparently, the models’ appearance caused some embarrassment and consternation amongst certain parts of the family. Also, John’s wishes hadn’t quite gone according to plan. His sister had apparently reached the house first before the trusted friend. She found his store of photos and his hobby was unintentionally revealed. The trusted friend was apparently left the house in the will. However, he evidently wasn’t the only one with a key. Rest in Peace John.
After I had been posing for cameras for about a month or two, there remained one number that I was yet to call. I was quite enjoying my ‘work’ as a model. It was certainly very easy and relaxed compared to what had gone before. However, I also knew that unless I could find enough John’s, that is people who would book me on a regular basis, I knew I could never sustain a living doing it.
Thus, with a mixture of hesitant trepidation and wondrous curiosity I phoned the man who trained strippers to see how the land lay. There was no hard sell, the voice at the other end simply invited me to come and see him in his Balham abode. A couple of days later I was heading into London……..
===============
I was on the way to Merthyr Tydfil in the Welsh Valleys with another stripper, Toni Boredano. I was hopeful it would be a good evening. Welsh girls had a reputation amongst strippers as being ‘up for it’. Furthermore, I liked Toni. He was one of the few strippers I have met that I feel I can safely turn my back on. That is to say, he won’t stick a knife in it.
This however was in sharp contrast to the night before. I took a job that even the agent was dubious about. He had taken a call from people who in his words ‘sound dodgy’. They had paid the deposit but he was still unsure. He said he’d leave it up to me as to whether I wanted to do the job. I phoned the booker who was a man with an Irish accent called Mary. He wanted me to arrive as a Policeman and tell the female victim that there had been a mix up at the court. I had to take her back to jail (she was apparently to be released that morning) ! I guessed that they were pikeys (travellers). I knew from my experience down the boxing gym that they were a strange bunch. They could be fiercely loyal and respectful but also prone to thievery. My tracksuit top went missing down the gym and one of the boxing coaches simply said ‘don’t leave anything lying around these pikey kids – they’ll have it’. Twenty minutes later he was trying to tell me what nice people they were. I didn’t share his sentiments. I found then incredibly cliquish and unwelcoming to outsiders. I therefore approached this job with caution.
Stimulation X had once told me of a similar job he had attended whereby the Police were dragging somebody from the house as he arrived. He understandably declined to enter the said abode and perform. The pikeys wanted to string him up !
To be fair the job was Ok. Aunty Mary was a man dressed as a woman. The victim thought I was a real copper given that she had just been released from the slammer and I kept the strip pretty tame. I collected my money, delivered the ‘congratulations on getting out of jail card’ and made my goodbyes. There were a couple of pikey brats who wanted to cause mischief on my exit (the brats were numerous and had all been thrown outside for the performance), but that was all. I struggled most of all with the broad Irish accents.
Toni and I went on in Merthyr to a storming reception. It was a stark and welcome contrast to the night before. Afterwards we both went ‘fishing’. I was having more luck than him and pulled him aside.
‘I think I’ve netted us some fish. Two sisters, but we may have to do the friend as well to sign off the deal’
‘No problem, let’s go’ came back the reply.
We made our way back to one of the sister’s houses. I was driving and somewhere between the venue and t
he house, Toni managed to steal the one I thought I had bagged. No matter, we could swap afterwards, I thought. Toni was quick out of the blocks and persuaded his chosen sister to swallow well and early. In the meantime, I was having problems breaking down the defences of the other one upstairs. Firstly, she wanted the mate to get some action as well. I had agreed to this, but the mate was comatose at this point having drunk about three times as much as anybody else in the club that night.
Having overcome this hurdle, and egged on by the other sister, she finally succumbed. Toni said afterwards that he thought we were going to come through the ceiling ! We then set to work on turning the bout into a tag team affair. That is, you tag and swap partners. However, this was a step too far, even for the ‘up for it’ Welsh valley girls. I once shared a girl with another stripper after a show over the bonnet of my car down a dark country lane. Sharing is rare. Still, Toni and I had a satisfied glow about us as we made our way back to London that night.
