Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (22 page)

‘I’m not gay . . . or bi,’ Paul repeated testily.

I couldn’t figure Paul out, although I knew that not too many wives would put up with his behaviour. Maybe it was true and he wasn’t gay—or bisexual. I just didn’t know what to believe: he never seemed to be attracted to specific men, but had an undeniable amorphous interest in the gay subculture.

I came to the conclusion that it was futile to try to change Paul. He was what he was, and I would stick by him—for the sake of our child and because I loved him, despite his shortcomings, and because I believed that he loved me.

12

With anything sexual, Paul had a sixth sense. When he heard that the Dutch telephone carrier was allowing time-charged erotic calls, he began to enquire about what Telecom Australia was planning. We learnt that a premium-rate service—double 0, double 5—was to be launched in August 1988. With that in mind, he was determined to be one of the first operators.

He recalled how one particular company in the Netherlands had ‘cleaned up’. They had the busiest numbers in Holland—probably in all of Europe. ‘We could stop doing all that other crap and become respectable.’

I was interested; we were both tired of carting our gear around, like a travelling sideshow. Excitedly Paul itemised what we’d need. ‘We’ll buy a shelf company and register a business name . . . and get business cards and another line for a fax and . . .’

I reminded Paul that we weren’t even sure what was involved, or if we could get a licence; and neither of us knew the first thing about business.

As was typical of Paul, his creative brain raced way ahead of the detail. He said we’d worry about trivialities later—for now we needed to be in on the ground floor of this enterprise. ‘This is our lucky break.’

He set up a meeting with Telecom, but what they told him was very disheartening. Not only were they licensing a limited number of 0055 services, but the cost of these licences was far beyond our means.

But it was their contract with service providers that caused Paul the most concern. ‘Look at this bullshit,’ he scoffed after studying the complex document. Telecom was obviously determined not to allow sex calls of any sort. ‘It actually itemises the words that are prohibited—can you believe this in a government contract? It says one can’t say:
fuck, cunt, dick
, blah blah blah. Fucking wowsers!’

‘Relax,’ I said. ‘This is Australia. Things aren’t quite as progressive as in Holland.’

Paul thought the Dutch were a lot smarter. ‘They just tax everything. Like with dope and prostitution—legalise it, then tax it.’ He theorised that the only 0055 numbers that would make any money would be erotic calls.

At this stage we saw little hope of getting involved in such an amazing new opportunity.

We had been searching for a studio for some time and were lucky enough to negotiate an informal arrangement with the owners of a nearby cottage. They gave us the keys to the place, but insisted on occasionally visiting for gardening maintenance. Paul explained we were artists and wanted to set up a studio; but, under cover of darkness, we moved in a bed and the bondage horse. Here, we were able to arrange meetings with our clients and so save them—and us—costly motel expenses.

One evening, after a particularly tiring day of sessions, we must have left the curtains gaping slightly, so that the horse and one of our large vibrators were visible. Presumably the owners looked in and realised what we were up to, because they terminated our arrangement immediately. It was then that Paul decided a trip to Sydney might be a fruitful exercise; we had large numbers of clients living there, due to our ads in the sex paper
Searchlight,
and they had long been begging me to visit.

I called my all-time favourite client, Julian Durie, a high-profile barrister with chambers in prestigious Phillip Street. He had been an early respondent to our modelling ads, and was a photographer of some skill and sensitivity. He and I had developed an instant rapport and he occasionally visited us in Melbourne, whenever his hectic schedule allowed. During his visits, he sometimes invited us to social events at which his wife would have been present, but he told us if asked to say that we knew him from his days at the Trade Practices Commission. I always felt uneasy at the prospect of lying like that, so we had never taken him up on his invitations. When he heard that we were venturing north, however, he immediately arranged a serviced apartment on Sydney Harbour and, as usual, insisted on taking us out to dinner.

This was to be our first family holiday. Although we needed to make the trip a financial success, we took the opportunity to spend quality time with Shoshanna. She would be babysat while we met the obligations of our diary, which I had solidly booked with appointments. A few clients were keen to do outdoor shots, with the Harbour Bridge and Opera House as a backdrop, all of which provided welcome additions to our photographic files.

I had been looking forward to the dinner with Julian. Embarrassingly, Paul brought the 0055 contract along and wanted to discuss ways of circumventing its ‘keep it clean’ clauses. Eventually I insisted Paul put it away, because Julian was stimulating company and had a wonderful sense of humour.

On returning to our apartment for coffee Paul intimated he wouldn’t be averse to a threesome, and suggested I take Julian to the bedroom. This was one occasion where I needed little persuasion and Julian turned out to be a passionate lover. We connected on a profound level and I think we both knew that, had circumstances been different, we could have fallen deeply in love.

After fifteen minutes or so Paul became impatient and called out to see if everything was okay. So, reluctantly, I let Paul enter the room, although it was obvious that neither of us wanted him there. It was at times like this that I caught glimpses of how my life could have been if I’d made other choices: I
could
have been Mrs Corporate Barrister—attending cocktail parties at the bar association, discussing the latest chief justice appointment or perhaps accompanying my husband to a conference in the Cayman Islands. Instead, I was about as far from that as anyone could be. Not that I was bitter—but I knew I didn’t really fit into the sex and sleaze world either.

Paul arranged for us to go to a swingers’ party near Bondi Beach the next night. A number of clients were coming specially to meet me; I was dreading going, and we argued.

‘Listen, can’t you just go alone and say I’ve got a headache?’ I really hated playing the sex-crazed swinger.

‘You know that single men aren’t allowed. Besides, it’ll be good for business,’ argued Paul, who of course never took no for an answer.

‘Money—that’s all you ever think about. Well, I’m not swinging with anyone.’ My night of passion with Julian was still fresh in my mind and I was starting to wonder if I hadn’t fallen a tiny bit in love with him.

‘You seemed happy enough to fuck Julian last night. Maybe a bit too happy,’ Paul persisted.

‘Yeah, right—you pressure me relentlessly to swing and then, when I finally find someone I actually like, you get jealous. You can’t have it both ways. This is not a normal marriage.’

Paul paused. ‘It’s your
lawyer
thing,’ he sneered.

Undeniably, I had had a penchant for legal professionals since my university days, when I’d fallen for a radical student from the Socialist Lawyers Society. He’d seduced me with his idealistic notions of fighting for Fretilin in East Timor.

‘No,’ I countered. ‘It’s my
decent person
thing—I can respect him.’

‘Ha, he’s cheating on his wife—and you respect that?’

‘At least he’s not pimping her,’ I snapped.

Nevertheless, Paul had made a valid point. I was troubled by the fact that Julian’s wife apparently didn’t know of his secret sex life and I wondered if I should feel guilty, even though I’d never encouraged him.

So we attended the party. Although it may have been bad for my reputation not to fuck anybody, the thought of swinging sickened me. I was virtually the only one with their clothes on by the end of the evening, when we beat a hasty retreat. I chuckled to myself as I realised how well observed
Eating Raoul
’s swingers’ scene was.

We returned to Melbourne with our pockets full of cash, plus rolls of new negatives and footage. We were unprepared, however, for the shock of having been burgled. While most things were replaceable, some were not: my treasured set of 72 Derwent pencils in their cardboard box; a hand trolley I had made at art school—I was immensely proud of my welding—and the 29-cent engagement ring from the Montreal Toyworld. I would have the last laugh if they ever got it valued.

Paul’s persistence with 0055 finally paid off. Using his charm, he negotiated a deal with one of the licensed service providers so as to become a sub-service provider on a fifty-fifty basis. We would pay all advertising costs, but would effectively net one-quarter of the gross revenue. However, he was still frustrated by the fact that the contract forbade explicit sexual content.

One evening, he was smoking a joint in the garden while studying the contract. Paul called out to me excitedly. ‘Eureka, I’ve got it!’ He said he’d found a loophole that even Julian hadn’t seen.

‘Here’s what we do. I’ll write a series of scripts and stick to their puritanical rules: I won’t use any profanity . . . but I’ll write it so that the listener thinks that, at any moment, they’ll be getting to the “good bit”.’ The first one would be called the Fantasy Line and we’d advertise in
Truth
newspaper.

I laughed. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’

‘Of course,’ he said, pointing out that there was nothing in the contract to say he couldn’t do it. I hoped he was right. ‘It’s just a shame I can’t give the wankers what they want. I know I can write great horny stories, but Telecom won’t let me, because of their fucked-up antiquated morals.’

A new fervour gripped Paul. Within days, he organised a shelf company with both of us as directors. He designed the business logo—a graphic of a phone handset incorporating the buzz word ‘infomarketing’—and printed up business cards and letterheads. We registered over twenty business names, many using the word fantasy: Fantasy Line, Call-a-Fantasy, Ring-a-Fantasy, Phone-a-Fantasy and Dial-a-Fantasy, plus others such as the Pornography and Wife-Swapping lines.