Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (33 page)

As predicted, a few months later a bill was introduced by the Minister for Finance and Urban Services to tax the ACT X-rated video industry by a massive 40 per cent of wholesale turnover. This tax, euphemistically called a ‘franchise fee’, was to take effect less than a month after the bill’s passing. It was a cynical move, obviously designed to tax the industry out of existence; after all, licence holders already paid their mandatory 39 per cent company tax, like any other business. AVIA threatened to take the ACT government to the High Court, on the grounds that this impost was unconstitutional, but even if the challenge was successful (and everyone knew running a case like this would be both hugely expensive and protracted), the immediate problem was the looming levy.

Meanwhile, Robbie booked me to do a photo session for the next issue of his glossy
Ecstasy
magazine. While I’d retired from professional shoots, the creativity of this one impressed me. For a segment titled ‘Food for Thought’, the photos were to involve parts of my nether regions combined with alleged culinary aphrodisiacs. The resulting photos were unlike anything I’d ever seen and had the serenity of a Rembrandt still life. Robbie placed foods, ranging from squid and salmon to onions and asparagus, around my vulva and backside.

While John Lark was the undisputed King of Porn, the second largest operator was Gerry Hercus, with his company Leisuremail. Dubbed by Paul as the ‘Queen of Porn’, Gerry was a dapper man in his forties who ran his business with his gay partner.

The firm had achieved some notoriety in the mid ’80s, when it had been at the centre of a controversy surrounding allegedly unsolicited explicit material sent through Australia Post. Hansard recorded a series of questions directed to both the Attorney-General and the Minister for Communications during parliamentary question time, including whether it was ‘illegal to publish brochures promoting videos with titles such as
Tied, Tormented and Loving
It, Husband’s Anal Revenge
and
Flesh and the Priest’.
One can only guess at the reaction these titles must have provoked in federal parliament.

In any case, the impending tax forced these two competitors— the King and Queen of Porn—into a marriage of convenience. Everything was amalgamated: mailing lists, office space and staff were combined as Canberra saw its first industry redundancies—a direct result of the tax. Gerry decided to relocate his share of the operation to Darwin, hoping that the Northern Territory’s government didn’t decide to follow the ACT’s example. Our orders would still go via John’s staff in Canberra, but the videos themselves would be duplicated and despatched from Darwin, meaning additional courier costs. All transactions would take place in Top End bank accounts, so as to avoid the tax. It was a farcical situation.

For us, it meant uncertainty and a drop in profits. Paul’s negotiations with Gerry, however, left him confident that the business was still sustainable, albeit at a much lower profit margin.

Again, I told Paul I wanted to move back to Melbourne. ‘Listen, why don’t we just give up on this porn thing?’ It was all getting too hard, and it was obvious things would worsen.

‘You’re such a pessimist.’

‘I’m begging you,’ I pleaded, reminding him that I still had Dory’s house in Balwyn.

‘I’m not going back to that shithole,’ he said emphatically, calling it a 1950s shack.

‘But it was in
Home Beautiful
,’ I said, hurt by his rudeness. Indeed, the magazine had done a whole spread, over several issues, including the first published photos of me, aged three, in front of our house. To me, it was still a timeless design.

It was true that the house was smallish, but I knew we—or I—could make do. I suspected the real reason he didn’t want to live there was because it had been Dory’s house. I thought he was being totally irrational.

Ignoring my suggestion to move back there, he announced his intention to diversify. ‘I’ve got an idea for a new operation—it’s called The Fun Club,’ he said, describing it as a kind of swinger’s club that would sell sex aids and kinky paraphernalia.

‘But there’s heaps of that kind of thing already,’ I protested. Such stuff wasn’t illegal, so I questioned him as to why anyone would want to buy it by mail order when they could walk into their local sex shop.

‘Because we can sell it cheaper,’ retorted Paul arrogantly. He’d investigated prices and claimed the potential mark-up was huge. ‘And I want to specialise in transvestite and kinky gear.’

‘Yeah, right up your alley,’ I said sarcastically.

But Paul assured me that clients would buy this merchandise by mail order because they were too embarrassed to walk into a lingerie or women’s shoe shop. I knew Paul spoke from personal experience—what he said made sense.

He reckoned he’d already researched suppliers. Apparently, he could get most of the kinky stuff from Sydney: a latex place that imported rubber from Germany; factories selling wholesale lingerie, sex aids and super-size stilettos; and for the leather wear, he had contacts in Sydney’s gay scene. ‘And there’s still Laurie Lane in Melbourne,’ he said.

‘But we can’t afford all this outlay, and—’ ‘And I also want to publish our own contact magazine.’ Paul interrupted, as he often did. ‘I’ve thought of a name for it too:
Flesh
.’

All these new ideas were making my head spin. We had people pestering me for my next movie yet he wanted to start not one, but two new businesses. He was convinced it was all interconnected. As he saw it, the magazine would be the vehicle to sell the sex aids and clothes,
plus
the videos. Enthusiastically, he told me how we’d place Australia-wide contact ads for swinging couples, couples seeking guys, couples seeking girls, guys seeking couples, transvestites, gay, straight, bi, whatever. ‘The sky’s the limit!’

Targeting straight couples seemed odd to me. We both knew it wasn’t women who sustained this kind of business—they had too much sense. It was the horny men who kept us afloat. Paul explained that we’d still market to men through the mailing list and charge them a small reply fee to answer the ads, although it would be free to advertise. ‘Remember,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve worked at a contact magazine before, so I know how easy it is and how much reply money they can make.’

‘My gut feeling about publishing tells me most magazines go broke within the first couple of years.’

‘Stop being so negative,’ scolded Paul, calling me a wet blanket.

Maybe Paul was right. I usually had reservations, which prevented me making spontaneous decisions. We were as different as chalk and cheese, yet something about his proposed publishing venture captured my imagination. I also had no doubt he was capable of publishing a quality magazine—with my support.

So I proposed a compromise: that we start with a limited range of sex aids to see how they went.

‘Well, actually, I think we should start with the transvestite stuff,’ he said, rationalising that it was easier to source but harder for the clients to get.

‘Okay, then. And meanwhile we’ll try and get advertisers,’ I added.

‘Trust me, that’ll be the easy part,’ said Paul confidently.

A sombre pall settled on us and the other pornographers with the introduction of the new tax on 1 July 1990.

Capital Duplicators—still operating from Canberra—paid its first month’s tax bill, totalling several hundred thousand dollars. John Lark’s legal opinion stated that the tax was unconstitutional and he was advised to withhold payment. He therefore began submitting paperwork minus the fees. Predictably the ACT Revenue Office refused to issue his monthly licence, so Capital Duplicators, with AVIA’s support, then commenced legal proceedings in the High Court of Australia.

Capital Duplicators’ lawyers claimed that the ACT government did not have authority to impose
any
tax, arguing that, under the constitution, these powers were reserved only for federal parliament. Even if the judgment was in the affirmative, John’s company would still need to establish that the 40 per cent franchise fee amounted to a tax. They would need favourable decisions on both issues for the porn levy to be deemed unconstitutional and therefore overturned.

Meanwhile, orders for our movies had actually increased, but we knew that operating out of Darwin posed inherent risks. There was talk of several smaller companies inevitably going broke. If not for the backing of Australia’s two biggest players, a similar fate would have awaited us.

20

Paul and I were working feverishly. He designed the logo for The Fun Club, featuring an innocuous exploding champagne bottle, and registered the business name. Our tiny Shoe Box became a hive of activity as all manner of people dropped in—from a string of aspiring starlets to the Commonwealth’s Deputy Chief Censor. Meanwhile, the telephone was ringing incessantly as I tried to keep pace with orders, phone calls and faxes.

Samples from the various suppliers started arriving by the boxload: transvestite goodies, including wigs, shoes and lingerie; rubber wear; cock toys; and leatherwear. Each delivery was met with squeals of laughter from the staff as items were paraded around the office in jest. It was the bizarre latex wear, however, that caused the most amusement.

‘Check this out,’ chortled Tanya. She was sitting knee-deep in styrofoam packing pellets and holding up a pair of large latex pants.

‘And look,’ said Tessa, reaching into the box. ‘There’s a similar pair with a dildo attached. The invoice calls them anatomical pants, but I can’t work this out—is it for guys or girls?’

‘I think it’s unisex—they’re what I wore in Movie 2,’ I said. Although I couldn’t imagine any woman in her right mind actually wanting to wear that.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Tanya. ‘It’s gotta be for guys who want the dildo up their arse. And look at this—it’s reversible! You can turn it inside out to have the latex penis on the outside.’ She donned the rubber ‘erection pants’ over her jeans and was cavorting around the office with the eight-inch black latex penis protruding from her lower abdomen. ‘This is like dress-ups.’ She laughed.

Tessa began putting on the bra and corset, and asked suggestively how she looked.

We all giggled. ‘Fabulous,’ I said, as I started trying to wriggle into a miniskirt. ‘I think we’ll need some talcum powder to get the gloves on, though.’

Tanya put on some AC/DC, cranking up the volume as we all danced to the beat.

‘What’s this?’ Tessa reached into the box and pulled out a full-faced hood. ‘I draw the line at that—it’s just too weird. Look— they’ve even sent some gloss spray, to keep it shiny.’

‘Yeah, I don’t get this whole latex fetish thing,’ added Tanya.

‘Don’t look at me,’ I said, slightly embarrassed. ‘Go ask Paul.’

Flora returned from the local stationery supplier armed with ring binders, folders and reams of pastel pink and blue photocopy paper for the video covers.

‘You’d better be careful with all that stuff,’ she admonished. ‘It costs a fortune and probably tears quite easily.’

Later, I went through the invoices with her; she was obviously concerned about our finances. Paul had been over-ordering in typical Paul fashion, never being one to do things in moderation. I confronted him about the objects he’d been purchasing after I’d had a chance to study the accounts.

‘I thought we were just going to try out a few specialty items. Judging by the amount of stuff here, we’ve enough to open a whole warehouse.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m only ordering one of everything . . . so I can check it out.’

‘Yeah, right—so you can
try
it out,’ I said.

There were three different types of enemas—the hospital disposable kit, a travelling douche and a whirling spray douche bulb. Then there were the cock toys: the cock cage, the 12-speed adjustable cock ring, the steel or neoprene cock rings in four different diameters. ‘You’re going overboard,’ I told him.

‘Trust me, it’ll sell,’ he said, claiming he needed the samples to do drawings and blurbs for the magazine.

‘But how many butt plugs do we need?’ I picked up an invoice lying on his desk and started reading aloud from the itemised list. ‘You’ve ordered the classic, the vibrating, the classic vibrating, the inflatable vibrating, the triple-ripple, the triple-ripple expanding . . .’