Stabbed for not being sexy enough
Andrea and Jason in happier times
Monday 8th October 2007
A group of drooling women might be most men's idea of heaven, but not mine. As Tom Jones' 'You can leave your hat on' boomed through the smoky bar, I could feel sweat prickling on my back. Squinting through the smoke I could make out at least 50 women, fists pumping the air.
'Get em off,' the crowd roared.
As the chants grew louder, I realised. It was now or never. With a sweaty hand I undid my belt and ripped down my trousers. The crowd went wild. And I wanted to die. It was my first day working as a kissogram and I was hating every second. At the back of the crowd my girlfriend Andrea Essnert, 35, gave me the thumbs up. Why had I let her talk me into this?
I'd been a landscape gardener when I'd met Andrea three years ago. My mate Terry Martin, 38, ran a kissogram service called Ace Entertainment in Newquay, Cornwall and she was one of his strippers. With her long blonde hair she'd caught my eye straightaway.
Eight months on, I'd moved into Andrea's council house. But just four months later in August 2003, she'd decided to start her own strippergram company, Angels.
'We'll rake it in,' she'd beamed.
At first Andrea had worked on her own and I'd escort her on jobs. Some blokes might have got jealous watching their girlfriend dressed as a nun or nurse, stripping for a bar full of men. But I was proud other men fancied her.
Then three months after starting the business Andrea had another bright idea.
'Why don't you work as one of my strippers?'
'You've got to be joking,' I'd gasped.
'You've got a fantastic body,' she insisted.
Admittedly, I was 5ft 8in tall and toned from working long hours in gardens. Andrea could be very persuasive, so I found myself agreeing to give it a go. Which is why I was here on November 5th 2005, at the Ship Inn in Lostwithiel, Cornwall trying to keep it together in front of a terrifying hen party.
By the time I stumbled off the stage, my heart was pounding in my ears.
'You look like a man who's been thrown to the wolves,' Andrea laughed.
'I feel like one,' I groaned.
She pressed £135 into my hand. Not bad for 25 minutes work.
Back home though, I was still shaking.
'Never again,' I vowed. But there was something about Andrea I couldn't say no to. So for the next five months I carried on stripping at weekends. I'd like to say taking your clothes off got easier in time but I'd be lying. Every time I undid my trousers the same sick feeling swept over me. The only thing that amazed me was that no-one could see my terror.
Until that fateful Saturday night in April 2006.
'You're booked at the 2001 Club in Falmouth,' said Andrea, handing me a white navy uniform.
But as I tried on the white trousers I felt positively sea sick. They were miles too big and dropped straight to my ankles.
'I look more like a clown than a stripper,' I grumbled, securing them with a safety pin.
'Nonsense,' snapped Andrea. 'You've got a job to do.'
I'd been booked by a group of just four women. Nerves flooded through me. I was used to big groups. But this was more like an audition on X Factor. Only these women were way scarier than Simon Cowell.
'Get on with it then,' one snapped.
'Righto,' I gulped, pressing play on the stereo.
'I'm Too Sexy' by Right Said Fred drifted through the club. What a joke.
Within minutes my safety pin had snapped and my trousers were round my ankles. I hopped around trying to pull them up. After ten minutes of trying to be sexy I gave up.
'This isn't working,' I laughed. 'Sorry, can I buy you ladies a drink instead?'
Half an hour later it was beers all round and we were chatting away. Finally I drained my pint and walked to my car. I'd barely pulled out the car park when my mobile rang. Andrea. She was furious.
'I've had a complaint that your strip wasn't long enough,' she shouted.
'Let's sort this out when I get home,' I said.
It was 1.30am when I walked through the door. Andrea was waiting.
'What happened?' she roared. 'That woman said your strip was rubbish.'
'My uniform was too big and I wasn't in the mood,' I said.
Andrea's face was purple with rage. 'Can't you do anything right?' she screamed.
Suddenly I was raging. Was stripping all she cared about? Livid, I snatched a picture frame from the mantelpiece.
'I never wanted to be a stripper in the first place' I cried, slapping her round head with it.
The minute I did it I regretted it. For a second she stood, stunned.
'I'm sor...' I went to say.
Too late. Andrea pulled back her fist and walloped me straight in the eye.
'Arghh,' I yelled, doubling over. Then I felt a searing pain slice up my left shoulder.
Whirling round, I couldn't believe my eyes. Andrea was holding a six-inch kitchen knife, and it was covered in blood. She'd stabbed me!
'Andrea, no,' I yelled, crashing to the floor.
Pain shot through my calf muscle as she plunged the knife in twice more. Desperate, I lunged and grabbed it from her hand.
'I hate you,' she yelled rushing out the front door.
Slumping on the settee, I heard Andrea making a call outside.
'I-I've stabbed my boyfriend,' she cried hysterically.
Minutes later the police arrived with an ambulance. Andrea was arrested and taken to Newquay Police Station while an ambulance took me to Royal Cornwall Hospital in Treliske. I had two stitches put into every wound and was allowed home the next day after giving a statement to the police.
I stayed with Andrea's sister Leoni, 23, for a week then moved back to Manchester in May 2007. It was only then it actually hit me - the woman I loved stabbed me because I wasn't sexy enough.
Three months later in August 2007 Andrea appeared at Truro Crown Court where she admitted wounding with intent to do grievous bodily harm. I didn't go but read in the newspaper she'd received a ten-month sentence suspended for a year. Now, two months on she's out of my life forever.
My shoulder still aches and because of my injuries, I haven't worked for the last year. One thing's for certain, my career as a stripper is well and truly behind me. I've learned the hard way that it's a risky business.
Andrea says: On the night in question Jason had turned up drunk to a booking and been abusive. When he arrived home, we rowed and he grabbed a picture and smashed it in my face. Then he cracked my ribs and set my hair on fire with a lighter. Two members of staff were in the room and I didn't want them to come to any harm so I reached for a knife. I don't remember much of what happened after but that was when I must have stabbed him. But the idea I did that because I was angry about his performance that night is ridiculous. It was purely an act of self-defence.'
Read other stories of lust and violence only in Pick Me Up:
Stalked by an arsonist
Whatever happened to... The victim of Britain's worst wife-beater?