This is the first graf of Joel Stein’s new Joe Francis profile in GQ :
The first time I wrote about Joe Francis was six years ago; I rode with him on the Girls Gone Wild tour bus, where we watched a woman spread-eagle on a bunk bed and writhe for a video crew. At one point, Francis sent me to fill a Mike’s Hard Lemonade bottle with water, which the woman poured on her breasts before shoving the bottle inside her. When the woman’s cell phone rang, Francis grabbed it and asked whose number it was, and when she said that it was her boyfriend, his eyes went manic. He flipped it open, told the guy that he was the owner of Girls Gone Wild and was enjoying watching the dude’s girlfriend use a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade as a sex device. He was barely looking at the woman. Francis’s real passion is dominating other men.
And this is the opening of Claire Hoffman’s excellent LA Times piece on the same subject from 2006:
Joe Francis, the founder of the “Girls Gone Wild” empire, is humiliating me. He has my face pressed against the hood of a car, my arms twisted hard behind my back. He’s pushing himself against me, shouting: “This is what they did to me in Panama City!”
It’s after 3 a.m. and we’re in a parking lot on the outskirts of Chicago. Electronic music is buzzing from the nightclub across the street, mixing easily with the laughter of the guys who are watching this, this me-pinned-and-helpless thing.
Francis isn’t laughing.
He has turned on me, and I don’t know why. He’s going on and on about Panama City Beach, the spring break spot in northern Florida where Bay County sheriff’s deputies arrested him three years ago on charges of racketeering, drug trafficking and promoting the sexual performance of a child. As he yells, I wonder if this is a flashback, or if he’s punishing me for being the only blond in sight who’s not wearing a thong. This much is certain: He’s got at least 80 pounds on me and I’m thinking he’s about to break my left arm. My eyes start to stream tears.