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Filed under

girls gone wild

joe francis

sexual abuse

sexual assaults

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4/20/22

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The early 2000s were a crazy time for self-crowned “party girl” Jannel.
With a badass under-lip piercing, rock star-reminiscent locks and a petite frame, the vivacious 18-year-old was a regular on the Chicago nightlife scene.
But the thumping club anthems hit a shrieking record scratch around 2:30 a.m. Aug. 25, 2006.
That’s when Jannel claims that “Girls Gone Wild” creator Joe Francis brutally raped her in the back of his logo-wrapped tour bus, which was parked near Chicago’s Club Envy, where they’d partied earlier in the evening.
She claims that Francis cherrypicked her from the crowded dance floor, fed her alcohol “like it was water,” incessantly complimented her looks and then invited her onto the bus — where she assumed that the worst she’d be asked to do was flash her breasts at a “Girls Gone Wild” camera.
Instead, she said, she was forced to “touch” herself with objects that he’d stored on the sleeper bus in a bedside dresser drawer. Then Francis allegedly pounced on her.
“He kept trying to kiss me and saying, ‘It’s going to be OK, it’s going to be OK.’ And I was like, ‘Get off of me, get off of me,’ ” Jannel says in “Girls Gone Wild Exposed,” the first episode of TNT’s new true-crime anthology series “Rich & Shameless,” airing Saturday. “He basically forced himself on me, and it hurt because I wasn’t ‘turned on,’ so it really hurt … He took hold of me. I was this 100-pound little girl. I didn’t give my consent that night, and he totally raped me. And then he got off of me like I was garbage.”
Directed by Katinka Blackford Newman, known for blowing the whistle on Big Pharma with the nonfiction book “The Pill That Steals Lives ,” the TNT show draws back the curtain on the “Girls Gone Wild” machine. What was sold as sexy, sunny, Y2K-era spring-break hedonism — and even sex-positive female empowerment — was actually, according to Blackford Newman, darkly exploitative and sinister. And despite high-profile fans and friends, Francis was a cruel, abusive ringmaster.
“Behind the fun, the wet T-shirt competitions and the faux-feministic liberation centered around flashing your breasts in front of a camera, lives were being ruined,” Blackford Newman told The Post.
“Young women like Jannel thought Joe Francis was OK because he hung out with celebrities,” the Emmy-nominated filmmaker continued. “Nobody could believe that somebody who rubs shoulders with the Kardashians, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston could be a violent abuser and a criminal.”
(Joe Francis did not immediately respond to The Post’s request for a comment.)
Launched in 1997, “Girls Gone Wild” raked in $20 million within its first two years of operation. By 2004, the never-ending, boob-centric party was amassing a cool $100 million annually, and numerous celebs were part of the party.
The documentary features footage of Pitt talking about being a fan of the videos and noting that Aniston gave him some as a gift.
But the wild good times the “GGW” videos portrayed were actually terrible for many of the women on the other side of the camera.
Blackford Newman recounted footage from the documentary in which a Francis employee tricks barely legal, inebriated women into shooting same-sex pornography. An off-camera man can be heard coaching three woman to perform oral sex on one another and make sexy sounds while he films.
One of the women confusedly asks, “My parents aren’t going to see this, are they?”
“It literally turns my stomach,” Blackford Newman, a 50-something mother of teens, said of such footage. “That could have easily been my kids. Some famous guys who’s friends with the Kardashians comes along with a camera, asks them to sign something, they’re drunk and don’t know what they’re doing, and bam [their sex tape] is out there for the next 20 years.”
Much of the 90-minute documentary is devoted to Francis’ sordid story and his twisted journey from troubled adolescent to smut-peddling superstar to accused child pornographer, sexual assault abuser and domestic violence offender.
A social outcast who had to be shipped off to boarding school for bad behavior in the late 1980s, he was heralded as the Hugh Hefner of the new millennium at the height of “Girls Gone Wild.” Then, in 2003, he was arrested on child pornography charges for allegedly filming two underage girls having sex in a shower. He was also accused of forcing a pair of 17-year-olds to massage his penis. That same year, a woman named Michelle Padilla filed a federal lawsuit against Francis for nonconsensually plastering her topless photo on “Girls Gone Wild” DVD covers and paraphernalia.
In 2007, he was arrested on contempt of court charges for telling the opposing counsel in his child porn case to “suck my d–k.” That same year, he reportedly advised good pal Kim Kardashian on how to make the most of her leaked sex tape.
Francis served 11 months in a Reno, Nevada , jail for $20 million in tax evasion in 2009, while celeb fans like Kardashian stood by him, sporting a “Free Joe” T-shirt in public. While in jail in Reno, Francis also concurrently served his 339-day sentence in the child porn case.
In the years that followed, he avoided legal consequences over a slew of alleged assaults on women, and a Thanksgiving Day attack on his elderly parents, Raymond and Maria — who ultimately secured a five-year restraining order against him in September 2011.
Then in August 2020, Francis spent 73 days in a Mexican jail for allegedly brutalizing his estranged girlfriend and the mother of his now-7-year-old twin daughters, Abbey Wilson, whom he had first met when she won his “Girls Gone Wild: Hottest Girl in America” competition in 2012.
Blackford Newman said the audio from his alleged attack on Wilson at his Casa Aramara resort in Punta Mita, Mexico, in 2020 was “the most unbelievably chilling” footage she uncovered during her research.
“When you hear a story about abuse, that’s one thing,” said Blackford Newman. “But when you actually hear somebody being beaten up … it is absolutely chilling.”
In a recorded call to resort security, which is featured in the documentary, Wilson is heard screaming, “You’re scaring me. Joe, stop. Stop it. You’re hurting me, you’re killing me.” To which Francis — who, at the time, had tested positive for COVID-19 — responds, yelling, “Good. I hope you f–king die. You f–king bitch,” before spitting in her face.
Wilson is now said to be raising their daughters “in hiding,” out of reach of Francis and without his financial support. Francis, now 49, is living as a fugitive in Mexico to escape battery and false imprisonment charges.
Blackford Newman told The Post that she reached out to more than 100 of Francis’ A-lister pals, including burgeoning social activist Kardashian, for a comment on his alleged reign of terror, but no one responded. (Representatives for Brad Pitt, Kim Kardashian and the Kardashian family did not immediately respond to The Post’s requests for comment.)
The documentarian hopes that her exposé serves as a wake-up call to the Kardashians and other big shots to be more mindful of the company they keep.
“Younger, impressionable women, like Jannel … trusted Joe Francis because of his celebrity [affiliation],” she said. “[These celebrities] need to understand that they have a responsibility that if they befriend abusive child pornographers like Joe Francis, they’re giving them credibility.”

Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
In October 1985, I attended a pop concert against my parents' wishes. By the end of the night I had been gang raped in circumstances similar to those alleged by the 17-year-old girl accusing several men, including Premiership footballers, of raping her at the Grosvenor House hotel. The men who raped me weren't celebrities and they weren't even rich. In reality they were nobodies. But to me, a 14-year-old girl, only 4ft 11in tall, with very limited experience of the world, they were glamour personified.
The men, who were about six years older than me, were in a pop band, playing village halls and occasional support slots to bigger bands. They talked about a world I knew nothing of, a glamorous world of recording studios and record contracts. Their faces pouted out of photo- graphs in the local paper. They were local celebrities. They were a gang with catchphrases I didn't understand, mostly referring to sex acts, and little hand signals that my best friend and I emulated and giggled over in the playground at lunchtime.
That night, I watched them on the stage high above me and when they smiled at me, pointed me out and waved, I felt grown-up and glamorous, and important. I had been seeing one of them, Liam, for three weeks and had met Phil and Simon once or twice. Liam asked me to arrange to stay out the night of the concert. He suggested I lie to my parents and say I was at a girlfriend's house, so we could "spend the whole night together". I would have done anything he asked because I had fallen in love with this man who spoke of grown-up things, who said, "I can't believe you're only 14, you look so much older" - though the photos I gaze at now tell me that I didn't. He also told me that he couldn't believe I was a virgin when I first met him. Couldn't believe his luck, more like.
So I arranged my alibi and went to the concert. I wasn't plied with champagne but with cheap vodka. I didn't drink much of it and certainly wasn't drunk. I was never a teenage drinker. After the concert, the men were on a high, enjoying the attention of their groupies. I waited while they circulated for half an hour and then they came over to me. Liam asked if I had made the arrangement to stay out. I said yes and he shuffled me out of the door quickly, followed by the others.
Liam asked if I would like to stay at Simon's house where we would "all be together" or go back to the fourth member of the band's bedsit. (He was also a model and actor and was having a party.) I didn't understand the hidden meaning. I thought he wanted us to spend the night alone together at Simon's, so this was what I chose. This is what, he later told me, he took as my consent. Asking me where I wanted to stay was taken as consent to group sex.
The year before, our county had been terrorised by a rapist known as the Fox. Malcolm Fairley broke into houses during the night and raped women at gunpoint in front of their husbands. My father, desperate to protect his family, would stay up all night after barricading the windows. He was determined no rapist would get near us.
I felt safe, with my father watching over me. That was what I thought rape was, a man climbing through your window in the night. I never thought it would happen at a local music festival, the first I had ever attended, after days of begging and pleading with my parents. I didn't think Liam would spend three weeks getting to know me, before passing me on to his friends.
I was taken to a small modern house. There was a black leather sofa, black ash veneer furniture and Athena pictures of semi-naked women. It was a 1980s bachelor pad, I suppose, though I had never been in one before. I still had a Pierrot duvet cover. The men said they were tired and that we should go to bed. I followed them up the stairs, led by Liam. When we reached the room I looked around, confused. I asked Liam where we would sleep. He said, "We'll all squeeze in together."
As the other men got into bed I asked Liam if we could sleep downstairs, but Phil was growing impatient and told us to hurry up because he wanted to sleep, and Liam jumped at his command, hurrying me along. I left my shirt and underwear on and got into bed next to the man I had trusted, feeling embarrassed, knowing that I wouldn't sleep a wink.
The light went out and Liam started touching me. I whispered, no, said it wasn't right with his friends there, and asked again to go downstairs. But he wasn't even listening. He had sex with me. I won't say this was rape, though it was statutory rape because of my age, but I was uncomfortable and uncooperative, hating every second of it. I thought that if I just let him do it, it would be over and I would be able to wait out the long hours until it was safe to go home without arousing my parents' suspicions. But then the light was on and Phil said, "Can we join in?" And Liam said, "Be my guest." None of them asked me.
I won't torture the reader or myself with the details of what they did to me. Suffice to say, I was the victim of a "ramming" - one of their catchphrases. I was raped by Simon and Phil in turn, each with the "assistance" of the other. To this day I can still feel the chill metal of Phil's nipple-rings pressing against my flesh as I was torn apart in every sense. I often wake from nightmares where I am having the breath squashed out of me, a huge weight pushing down on me and the smell of his aftershave in my nose.
In Nicholas Meikle's words, like the 17-year-old girl, I "stayed for breakfast", though I didn't eat a thing. I watched them stuff their mouths with fried egg sandwiches and waited for them to drive me home. I couldn't call my parents or go home early, or they would know I had lied and, like many teenagers, I was scared. So I waited and they drove me home. I ran a hot bath and began a ritual that would last for years, scrubbing my flesh in an attempt to get clean. Friends frequently joke about how obsessive-compulsive I am when it comes to cleaning but the truth of this obsession lies in that night.
I have lived with the shame and consequences of their actions for the past 18 years. The emotional repercussions have been enormous. Soon after the attack I attempted suicide but I never told a soul my secret. The men, however, bragged about the "three's up" as they put it. It wasn't seen as rape, though. It was seen as me being a slag, a willing participant in group sex even though I was a child with no experience of men like them, and almost no experience of sex. I have suffered from clinical depression, panic attacks, nightmares and many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder ever since.
The physical consequences of that night scarred me, too, and the physical damage I sustained during the attack has had serious health implications for me ever since.
I have dealt with my disgusting secret without therapy or help of any kind, other than the endless support of my husband and family. But now, everywhere I turn, I am faced with the story of a teenage girl who says she was gang raped by a group of men who had wooed her with their celebrity. It is in every paper, on the radio and the television. It isn't hearing about it through the media that causes my anger, but rather the comments and opinions of others who question what she was doing drinking in those sorts of bar, pursuing those sorts of men, going back to hotel rooms with strangers, and in their judgment of her behaviour, I feel judged - though they know nothing of what happened to me.
Teenage girls will always be impressed by older men, particularly those who promise a world of glamour and glitz that is far away from their experience. For some girls it might be a premiership footballer but for others it will just be the lad in her class who everyone fancies, or the singer in a local rock band.
I applaud the 17-year-old's ability to tell her parents and go to the police. Much of my anger is at myself for my inability to do these things. At the age of 14, I could only see that it was my fault. I lied to my parents, I agreed to go to the house, I didn't know how to stop the men raping me and so how could I face my family with that amount of shame? I didn't report the rape until many years later, and even then I decided in the end that I couldn't go through with it. I had moved away and wanted to forget it had ever happened.
At a book signing, in my hometown, 16 years on, Liam turned up. I had him ejected. Some months later, Phil turned up at a friend's party just a few minutes from my home. He said hello as if we were old friends. Furious, I confronted him with the truth.
"The thing is Emilia," he said, "we really liked you. We thought of you as one of the gang."
But I was never part of their gang. Their gang was about subjecting schoolgirls to humiliating, degrading sexual acts. What these footballers are accused of is nothing new. The frightening part is that this has always happened. It happens in small towns and cities up and down the country, on council estates and in middle-class suburbs. It happens to nice girls and girls who get drunk, in bars and clubs, and it will go on happening until this issue is tackled head on.
I don't think Phil or Simon believed at the time that they were committing rape. They viewed this type of sex as "normal". Liam later told me he thought I was participating. "You never said anything," he said. When confronted with the victim's per
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