Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (18 page)

With Paul working sporadically for the magazine, our spirits lifted. Almost immediately, he gained a new-found confidence: he believed he could set up a similar contact magazine. ‘I’ve seen how it’s done—it’s easy. All you’d need is a computer and one program to run it.’

‘Yeah, and what about the printing costs? How about you just concentrate on keeping this job,’ I said.

‘But you should see how much money they’re making. I know I could do this.’

The ads in
ACM
, combined with me on the cover and centrefold, resulted in a financial boom the likes of which we’d not seen before. Paul convinced me to buy a mobile phone, a technology still in its infancy, so we could take bookings on the road. He calculated it would take only a few months before the investment paid for itself with extra appointments. So, with an outlay of many thousands of dollars, he secured a phone, paying extra for a number ending in ‘69’.

Reluctantly, I agreed to this major purchase and we soon owned the most up-to-date version of a mobile phone—it was the size of a couple of house bricks and was so heavy I could barely lift it. Paul would carry it over his shoulder, proudly parading it around and enjoying the stares that inevitably followed the appearance on the streets of such a novelty. Despite the fact that I felt it drew unwanted attention to us, it nevertheless allowed increased efficiency in our time management.

Soon afterwards, Paul noticed an article in
The Warrandyte Diary,
our local paper. It was in their ‘Out & About’ section and it described a woman talking on her phone while supermarket shopping. He showed me the article and giggled as he read it out to me.

A person of much attention, guarding her trolley with one hand and
dialling the world on the other
, the piece said. Obviously it referred to me, because no-one else around Warrandyte had a mobile phone. The writer then implied I was from somewhere trendy and had accidentally taken a wrong turn. Indeed, Warrandyte had the reputation of being a sleepy hamlet, away from the rat-race. We were both in stitches as Paul kept reading. ‘“But what on earth was she gabbling about?”’

I remembered that day . . . and the call. I had been dressed to the nines, because we’d come from an appointment. I had been carrying the phone itself in the front of my trolley while arranging a Watch & Wank with a journo from
The Age
who’d mischievously used the pseudonym ‘Bob Woodward’—the reporter who’d uncovered the Watergate scandal and brought down President Nixon, thanks to his mysterious source, codenamed ‘Deep Throat’. It was a nice touch. We reckoned that our client probably figured we wouldn’t get the reference. In fact, I’d just bought a copy of
The Age
and was thinking how funny it was that I didn’t know my caller’s real name—he could have been any male journalist on the paper.

‘I hate it when people make assumptions about us,’ complained Paul as he read out
The Warrandyte Diary
item to me. ‘And look at the last line in this story, where it says that you were probably discussing your tennis court lights.’

‘I think it’s hilarious,’ I said. ‘If only they knew who I was talking to and what I was actually chatting about.’

Indeed, it wasn’t the first time our appearance belied our true occupation. On one occasion, we were driving between Watch & Wank appointments in St Kilda and pulled up at the traffic lights next to some punks. In our business suits and white Volvo station wagon, we looked a picture of establishment success. They scowled at us disdainfully. We laughed as we realised they’d judged us superficially—yet our boot contained the Suitcase of Sex and our lifestyle was anything but conventional.

We had a narrow escape with one of our regulars, nicknamed Frank the Wanker, when his wife came home unexpectedly and we were forced to hide in his bedroom wardrobe. Luckily, she left soon after, but the episode gave us a nasty jolt.

With business booming, we decided to trial renting a motel room in nearby Ringwood. Paul negotiated a favourable weekday rate for the honeymoon suite with the manager, who turned a blind eye to our activities. It certainly meant a lot less driving around and the clients could feel secure in their anonymity. This was the nearest thing yet to ‘normal’ hours, and our mobile phone proved an invaluable asset for cramming in appointments.

Then, unexpectedly, Saskia announced another visit. Resigned to the fact that Paul was back with me, she wanted to get to know her granddaughter. We ceased work and put her up in the motel—hoping no clients would come knocking—even though it was slightly beneath the standard to which she was accustomed.

As had always been the case, Paul’s relationship with his mother was troubled. He was angry and upset that she constantly cried poor, and yet she showed up with a recent edition of a classy Dutch interior-decoration magazine,
Eigen Huis & Interieur
. It featured her house in a glossy six-page spread, complete with sumptuous photos of her opulent abode. Its recently added second storey housed a glass showroom, complete with display cabinets.

‘That fucking bitch,’ said Paul. ‘She turns up here with no money, saying she’s forgotten her credit card. It’s an obvious lie.’

He was convinced she was only visiting because all her frequent flyer points were about to expire—he cautioned me not to believe ‘her bullshit’ about wanting to get to know Shoshanna. ‘And then she has the gall to give me a magazine featuring her palatial home.’

‘Yeah, she’s got chutzpah,’ I said.

He gave me the article to read and I could make out most of the Dutch. Apparently, she and Vlad had secured the distribution rights to some Czech crystal from the Moser glass factory—it was a huge coup. ‘That’s why they’ve turned their house into a fucking glass gallery,’ he said. ‘And all their fancy paintings, sculptures and designer Italian furniture—it makes me sick.’

Being confronted with pictorial evidence of their lavish lifestyle hurt Paul to the core. Here we were, immersed in the seedy side of sex, while she was a lady of leisure in her glass castle.

‘Speaking of mothers,’ I said, ‘I’ve recently put myself on a contact register for adoptees.’ I had to put down everything I knew. Sadly, all I could write was that my mother died in childbirth and I was in an orphanage for many months.

Paul was convinced that eventually the laws would change and I’d gain access to my records. ‘Just be patient—you’ll find your birth mother one day.’

How I desperately wanted to believe him. I’d always felt that being adopted might explain why I sometimes felt so disengaged from people and situations . . . and why I could do the Watch & Wanks.

10

Since we’d first taken out our ads, we had been showered by offers to do photography and videos. Many clients were sick of slick American porn and wanted to see home-grown Aussie talent. I resisted the idea after the wrangle we’d had with Greg over copyright, but naturally Paul was gung-ho. However, I was seriously concerned that we would be breaking the law.

Paul came home after a long lunch meeting with Lloyd. I asked eagerly what he’d said. ‘First of all, it’s technically illegal,’ Paul said. ‘But he reckons nobody’s ever been busted for it and, while he’s not advocating breaking the law, it would be a calculated risk.’ It all came down to what was obscene and the old sexist joke:
What’s the legal definition of pornography? That which gives
the judge an erection.

Lloyd had said that although the Police Offences Act talked about ‘obscene and indecent publications’ or articles that tend to ‘deprave and corrupt’, it was all a grey area that revolved around prevailing community standards. Given that one could walk into any sex shop or corner video shop and buy X-rated tapes ‘under the counter’, he reckoned it was obvious that the police weren’t too concerned about it: they had bigger fish to fry. And it was all totally legal in Canberra.

‘So I reckon we should go for it,’ Paul concluded confidently, assuring me that, even if we got busted, the penalties weren’t much more than a speeding ticket.

I replied I wasn’t comfortable with it, but he asked me to call Lloyd if I didn’t believe him.

‘Listen, why don’t we do it for a bit,’ said Paul. ‘Test the market. We’re not hurting anybody. If we start selling videos, we can stop with the Watch & Wanks.’

I called Lloyd, who confirmed what Paul had told me, and, as usual, I allowed Paul to persuade me. I was never entirely clear on my motivation for yielding to Paul—all I knew was that, in the interests of harmonious relations, I was the one who compromised. On the other hand, to be fair, there was a part of me that seemed to enjoy being outrageous—a reaction perhaps to my serious upbringing.

Paul espoused the financial benefits of his new initiative, and I eventually agreed to try a few sessions. He coached me in what to say to clients. ‘Tell them that, besides wanking, they can also take photos. Hell, if they want, they can take video footage—but we’ll charge more for that.’

I told Paul I’d only do it if we kept the copyright on absolutely everything—I didn’t want people making money off my image. We agreed that we would insist that all photos and videos were for personal use only, not for commercial sale. In the case of photography, we would retain the negatives and give clients a set of prints. With videos, we’d keep the original footage, and only give them a first-generation copy. This way, I was still in control and they would have no model release form. ‘If they do publish anything, you’ll sue their arse off ’cos you can prove you never relinquished ownership,’ Paul asserted belligerently.

He had everything neatly figured out. The only thing that remained was to settle on a price. I had no idea, but Paul had a certain marketing intuition. He reckoned we could charge a base rate of one hundred dollars a session, plus get them to pay for film stock, processing and printing. He even proposed adding a small mark-up. ‘And don’t forget to offer them an unemployed or pensioner discount. Make it two hundred dollars for a video.’

‘That’s going to be too expensive,’ I said.

‘Trust me—they’ll go for it. It’s unique—no-one else is doing this, so you can carve out a niche market. We’ll be like a travelling circus, but we’ll get to shoot an endless variety of locations. Tell them we’ll come to their place or, if they want, they can hire a hotel.’

Paul was right: none of the clients baulked at the price and all were happy for us to keep the negatives or original footage and retain copyright. He had thought the sessions would take longer than the Watch & Wanks, but we could squeeze in up to two a day. So I went ahead and booked appointments all over town.

Most clients were actually very shy and nervous at first. While the Watch & Wanks were already an established success, nothing compared to the thrill they got from photographing their very own erotica. It seemed we’d inadvertently tapped into a market of would-be porn photographers. We had recently purchased a basic video camera; I’d wanted to film Shoshanna, but it would be perfect for porn. And because we were mainly doing still photography, we traded in our professional Canon for a high-quality ‘auto everything’ camera—all the client had to do was point and click, and quality prints were practically guaranteed. With his artistic eye, Paul guided the photographer on how to compose a picture: where to stand and how to maximise the aesthetic appeal. Close-ups were discouraged because, inevitably, they’d be too clinical. Of course, many photos were taken one-handed, with their other hand on their dick; but, judging by the response we got, they were thrilled with the results.

Paul taught me the secret to creating successful erotica—stills or video. Apparently it was all in the woman’s expression—the more lustful and lascivious, the better. The only porn I’d ever seen was what he’d carelessly left lying around, so I was totally reliant on him to tutor me. Over time, I relaxed enough during the sessions so I could form my facial muscles into the desired expressions. With still photography, it was easy to hold a pose or expression for the instant required to depress the shutter, but video proved much more challenging. Still, I persevered, knowing that moving images were what most clients wanted. Paul never faltered in his ability to achieve an erection on command, and together we were able to provide a discreet and professional service.

We had set up our spare room as an editing-suite-cum-duplication plant. We were buying blank tapes wholesale but, with only two VCRs, production was glacially slow. Our biggest hurdle, however, was finding a reliable and broad-minded photo processor. We trialled a myriad of places, from pharmacies to professional camera shops, but we were met with hostility on several occasions. Finally, we found a shop in St Kilda where the proprietors were pleased to accept our quite considerable business. Keeping our clients happy was paramount, and so we always sent their photos in a timely manner and in plain packaging.

Success emboldened us and we began placing ads that directly offered our modelling services. One day, Paul was smoking a joint when he had an epiphany. ‘I’ve just had a stroke of genius,’ he pronounced arrogantly. ‘I know how we can make this thing
really
work for us.’ His plan was to place another ad in
ACM
offering photos and footage for sale. When we got the film developed, we’d order several sets of prints and then sell the spares to other clients. ‘The photographer’s already paid for the printing, so it won’t cost us a cent. We own the copyright, so they’re ours to reproduce.’