Thompson Bang To Writes

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-4835-0598-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 300 Seiten

In 2010 call girl Jennifer Thompson hit the headlines after her infamous affair with Manchester United football megastar Wayne Rooney. Since then the middle-class girl from Bolton and her scandalous lifestyle has barely been out of the tabloid press in the past three years. Now in her first explosive confessional book 'Bang to Writes' Jennifer lifts the lid on her days as a high class escort and recounts her liaisons with many famous Premiership players. The novel is a true autobiography chartering her life from a young naive 'Daddy's girl' into one of the most famous hookers in Britain, mixed up in a world of cocaine, cash and sexually charged clients. With shocking candour, Jennifer details her threesome with family man Wayne Rooney behinds his pregnant wife's back, her liaison with boxing legend Amir Kahn in nightclub toilets, how she played a part in a gay sexual scenario between a footballing star and his agent and how she was roughly abused by another foreign football ace. The brunette beauty describes in detail how she was invited to the Manchester United Christmas party by the team's 'Mr. Fixits' and how one of her fellow call girls was given £50,000 to terminate a baby born to one of the wealthiest men in football. Jennifer holds no bars when it comes to sharing her entire journey including a magical night in London with a famous actor, how she eventually falls in love with a notorious criminal and decides to 'go straight' eventually giving up her life of prostitution and partying. For a while life was sweet for Jennifer, until her secret affair with Wayne Rooney became known to the national press and reporters hounded her and her friends until she was forced into selling her side of the story, a decision which broke the heart of her loving, supportive parents. Shocking, juicy and full of provocative stories about a lifestyle that has to be read to be believed. You will not want to put this one down!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Thompson, Jennifer

Leseproben

TWO

OCTOBER, 2008

I suppose you're wondering how this all came about, how an upper-middle class girl like me, Jennifer Thompson, from a rural part of Lancashire, turned into Katherine the kinky call girl or Juicy Jenny, the most famous escort in Britain. It's the question the Daily Mail love to lament over - just what on earth drove her to enter the oldest profession known to man?

Well, let's start at the beginning.

Many men had my number. 'Call Jenny, she'll show you a good time,' was a well-known catchphrase in Premiership circles. I was the girl who would provide guys with opportunities to fulfil their needs and desires. I was the girl they called to make their fantasies come true.

You see, I've always been a very sexual person, but I always kept my slutty desires to myself growing up. When I hit my late teens, it was a different story. If you saw the way I behaved and dressed, your first impression would be, 'Wow! That girl is up for a good time. A really fucking good time!'

And you would have been right. I was looking for a good time. I'm a girl with the morals of a man, that's all. If you think that makes me a slut, then so be it. As far as I'm concerned I'm just a girl who likes to have sex and I don't care what you think. I am who I am and you'll just have to accept that fact.

I was born on 13th March 1989 in Aberdeen. My Scottish dad, Hamish, is an oil company executive and moved us to the Gulf state of Qatar when I was just a baby - I had a happy childhood and loved the country but nine years later Dad took a new job which meant the family had to up sticks and move to Bolton. I grew up in a loving but firm household where I was taught not to do anything considered tawdry and sleazy. But I still had these urges and cravings to rebel against everything that had ever been expected of me. I'm sure psychologists would love to pore over it, but I never looked that deep. I just kind of admired those classy ladies who just had sex for fun. Although, I could never express this to anyone because it would be considered unladylike. My three brothers, Alex, Charlie and Max, wouldn't allow it either, they were protective and really did think the sun shone out of my rear.

My glamorous blonde mum, Danuta, was born in England and is the youngest daughter of Polish immigrants who fled their country after the Second World War in search of a better life. And that's all she ever wanted for me, the best for me in life.

When I turned eighteen, she nagged me for months to get a job; I'd just left college and was now a fully qualified beautician. I had only bothered with the course to please her; I never had much interest in actually working in the beauty industry. Both my parents were getting fed up with me and who could blame them? Truth is, I never knew what I wanted to do but they would shout at me if I were hanging round the house all day and partying all night. And if they weren't shouting at me, they would shout at each other about me. I had to feign interest in something - how hard could waxing and tinting a few eyebrows be anyway?

I started work at a salon after Mum practically begged the owner to take me on. She dragged me down to this small, chic shop just outside Manchester and insisted they gave me a job. I don't think the owner was too thrilled at the prospect, but Mother could be very persuading when she wanted to be. Working there for a few hours a day, answering the phones and booking appointments was soul destroying. It bored me to death. The only way I could pass the time was by reading the glossy magazines, but I found myself wishing that it were me they were writing about. I wanted to be photographed everywhere I went. I wanted to be chased by paparazzi. I wanted the limelight. The attention. I was just as pretty as any of those Z-list reality stars. Why couldn't I be famous? Their flashy lives looked exciting, glamorous and downright fucking fascinating compared to mine.

Don't you ever feel like that? Long for something different to happen? Something so exciting that it carries you along without a moment to stop and realise what's happening? Partying with the rich and famous, rubbing shoulders with the cool crowd, a purse full of money and a worn out passport - that was a life I wanted. It's a life I craved.

Instead, I was sat in a dead end nine-to-five job which I hated, breathing in acetone all day for a fiver an hour. This job wasn't for me. I had to get out. I just didn't know how.

At this time I was also working as a promotions girl. I would don the smallest arse-skimming outfit I could find and run the guest-list at club night Candypants in Manchester once a month.

The night attracted all the city's glitterati: the high rollers, the footballers, the soap stars, the WAGs, the wannabe WAGs, a few well-off students and a whole host of other cool cats.

My uniform was tacky. A cotton crop top that barely covered my chest and a pair of French knickers with the club night name emblazoned on the bum in pink lettering. I would team my outfit with fishnet stockings and heels so high they could cause a nosebleed. It wasn't the most flattering ensemble but it did the trick - I was never short of male attention.

The job was a piece of piss. It was just like being out on the razz. I would put names down on the guest-list and got paid for every clubber who turned up. It was as easy at that. For the rest of the night I was free to flirt my way around the club, accepting drinks off anyone who was willing to offer and get so slaughtered I was incapable of standing. I lost count of how many times I got carried home, that's on the nights I could remember how I got home.

This was where I encountered my first working girl. A few escorts would come down to the nights. I'd see them dripping in designer jewellery, the latest Louis Vuitton bag, their fake tits squashed into an expensive figure hugging dress, all tottering around on their Louboutin-clad feet. Glamazons - the lot of them.

I'd always thought of prostitutes as being rough and ropey like the Band of Gold streetwalkers you'd see on TV. Not like these stunners. That was the first thing I learned. The call girls that work for escort agencies, especially the expensive ones, don't look any different from any other young glamour-puss. They were beauties that looked like they had leapt off the page of a Loaded cover shoot; gorgeous, preened to perfection, with bodies to die for. Those girls worked on their looks, not their minds, because they know boys are stupid, not blind.

Over the years I learned of a few very well known models, actresses and singers that were on the game, too. They were just looking for a way to make some extra cash in between jobs and guys would pay extra to fuck a face from TV.

One night while I was working, I began eyeing up this crowd of off-the-job call girls and an unexpected rush of excitement came over me. I suddenly desired to be like them. I wanted to have their glitzy expensive clothes and jewellery. I wanted to have their confidence and contacts. They got invited to the best parties, in the best places, with the best people. I knew they slept with men for money but since most girls I knew were fucking for free, what's the big deal if they did it and got handsomely paid for it? The more I thought about escorting, the more it seemed like a good idea.

These chicks were earning more in one night than I could in a month shaping a few eyebrows. I wanted to join them right then and there and be part of their private provocative world where they got paid for their pussy.

I'm no slouch when it comes to getting what I want. And as soon as I decide I want something, I'll make sure I get it, by any means possible. I craved cash and escorting was the only way I could think to make it. I'd been caught up in the club and party scene for years. It was a lifestyle that satisfied me for a while, until the night when I got chatting to Adele - a high-class escort who worked for a private agency and had her own regulars.

Originally from London, Adele was slender and beautiful in an Angelina Jolie kind of way. Straight-talking and stunning, she had long dark hair, azure blue eyes and sharp angular features.

That night in the club, she beckoned me over to her booth. I'd met Adele a few times; she was a cool girl and was always up for a good time. I liked her and I didn't like many girls.

'Come and sit with us, you need to give your feet a rest from those heels,' she said earnestly as I wobbled towards her. She stretched out her hand and offered me a glass of Verve Clicquot. 'Cheers,' she said as she clinked my glass and flashed her pearly white veneers.

'Thanks,' I replied sheepishly. I was intimidated by her good looks and boldness. Adele was five years older than me and oozed a maturity that none of my other friends had. I was in awe of her.

Adele knew she was striking. She told me enough money had been spent along the way to make sure of it. A hefty boob job on the day she turned eighteen paid for by her much older boyfriend at the time. A nose job when she was twenty to disguise her Jewish roots. A new set of dazzling teeth. And later, another boob job, Botox, collagen, frequent facials and laser hair removal treatments to keep her feeling smooth. She wanted to be perfect and she almost was.

We chatted all night about everything and nothing. Men would circle around our table, trying to speak to us by offering drinks and drugs, but Adele always declined on my behalf which I liked.

One guy, a young overweight Arab wearing baggy rappers clobber, awful wrap-around sunglasses and mountains of bling, came over to our table. He plonked down a bottle of Cristal champagne and two glasses because, as he...