Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (35 page)

‘Jeez, Paul—enough already.’ This was going to his head.

‘And, by the way, we already have the best-selling porn movies in Australia.’

I thought he was kidding—I had no idea.

‘Yeah, Movie 2 is breaking records,’ Paul gloated.

‘Well, it’s just not something to be proud of. In fact, I feel deeply ashamed, but I manage to forget about it most of the time. Maybe I’m in denial, but it’s my way of coping. It’s not like this was what I had wanted to do when I grew up—I wanted to be an architect, but Egon thought a five-year course was too long and pressured me to accept a teaching studentship . . . Ironic really, because I spent eight years at university anyway.’

‘It’s not too late, you know,’ said Paul, telling me I could still do a course.

‘But I’m thirty-four.’ That was something
The Australian
got wrong: saying I was 28, plus implying I was a teacher. I had a Diploma of Educational Psychology, not a Diploma of Education.

‘And why did you say all that stuff about married men who like to cross-dress,’ I asked, ‘and the problems
they
have in getting court shoes that fit?’ It seemed disingenuous. ‘You’re one of them and you should have owned up—rather than pretending to refer to other men.’

Paul didn’t answer and quickly changed the subject. ‘By the way, you look gorgeous and very sexy in the picture.’

The shot was of me in my black torsolette with fishnets and high heels sitting on Paul’s lap while he sat at his computer. ‘I look awful,’ I said. ‘And your desk is so messy. I hadn’t noticed at first, but Bruiser could just be seen sitting under the desk. That’s your second published photo taken with a German shepherd,’ I commented.

‘Yeah, but at least I’m in focus this time—not like in
Campaign
.’ He laughed. Despite everything, we could still enjoy each other’s company.

The recent success of
Flesh
and The Fun Club had created a new-found intimacy between Paul and me. I could never forget the ugliness of Paul’s behaviour after Dory’s death, but we did have a working relationship again. He had regained a shred of my respect after I saw his raw talent in action as he put the magazine together. Perhaps Richard Brautigan had been right: no longer a teenage
wunderkind
, Paul had morphed into a 26-year-old genius.

I still wanted to have another child and I had been thinking long and hard about it. I was financially independent, and the money we were making from the Horny Housewife operations was icing on the cake. Even if I left Paul, I could support Shoshanna and a baby on my own.

When I asked him directly whether he felt up to impregnating me, he sniggered. ‘You just want me for my body.’

It was a sore point for both of us. He knew I no longer found him attractive and I felt guilty. ‘Well, no. Actually, I want you for your sperm.’

That evening, in a rather unromantic and awkward embrace, we had sex. I lay there, wanting it to be over as soon as possible and hoping that the time was right for me to conceive.

21

The crippling 40 per cent tax claimed its first bankruptcy casualties. Most remaining X-video industry operators downsized, including John Lark, who vacated his graphic production office where we’d first met.

Paul, however, saw this as an opportunity for expansion. We argued about the wisdom of this, but he refused to heed my advice. He maintained that John’s office was three times the size of the Shoe Box, that we were running out of room and needed the extra space for the magazine plus all the mail-order goodies.

‘Yeah, but it’s three times the rent,’ I countered. I feared he was making that classic mistake of business failure: expanding too rapidly. But he was determined and snickered with delight at the turn of events that saw us about to occupy John’s old office.

Sadly, it was a really ugly trait he had that allowed him to laugh at someone’s misfortune; his sadistic streak was scary. ‘Even if you think things, it’s not okay to gloat,’ I said. I reminded him that John had been very good to us—if not for him, we wouldn’t have been making the kind of money we were.

‘Yeah, I know,’ conceded Paul pensively, ‘but eight months ago we were still doing the strip shows—and now we’re turning over millions.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t forget—it’s profit, not turnover, that counts. There’s a big difference.’ Paul had always struggled with the fundamentals of accounting.

‘Anyway,’ he said cockily, ‘that’s why we have Flora . . . and why we need to hire more staff.’

So we moved from 8A to number 11 Molonglo Mall, installing pastel pink blinds to keep away prying eyes. We were luxuriating in space, with separate storage and despatch rooms, a kitchenette and enough space for a dozen desks. Paul hired five new staff, including a graphic designer, as the orders continued to flood in.

In what could only be described as unfortunate timing, in the middle of all this we received notification that the lease on our house was to be terminated. With just weeks to find a new home, we settled for a tiny townhouse in Lyneham—a serene suburb north of Parliament House.

As soon as the dust settled, Paul began work on Movie 3, utilising John’s professional editing suite. Again, no new material was shot. The first segment used that perennial favourite: schoolgirl lesbian, with old footage of me and Lexie. Paul was sure the clients would love the scene where we fucked each other with whatever was at hand: cucumbers, vibrators, a champagne bottle and a strap-on. Then, Paul put together another sandwich segment from more old footage we’d shot with Archie at one of our first meetings: with his artistic eye, he had been a perfect choice for cameraman, and concluded my double penetration with Paul and Tim by inserting his own nine-and-a-half inches orally.

Lastly we used material from our early days at Anzac Parade. This final scene featured Sue Metzenrath, a brothel colleague with whom I’d become friendly. Active in the prostitutes’ collective, Scarlet Alliance, she was doing her masters in geochemistry and even had a species of fossil fish named after her—
Bothriolepis
metzenrathis
. We’d already done a rehearsal of sorts when a client booked both of us for a bi session: pampering him, we took turns to deep throat him as he lay back savouring the moment. The shoot had also included Paul in a three-way, although that footage was to be saved for another movie. The highlight was a 69 scene, where Sue inserted the anal vibrator while simultaneously licking me.

When Paul had finished editing and it had been officially classified, the master was handed over to John’s duplicating warehouse. This time, we photocopied a yellow version of our cover, which by now had become our trademark. Meanwhile, he was frantically working on the second issue of
Flesh
, which was to be bigger and better than the inaugural issue.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ Paul said excitedly. ‘I want to do a Christmas promotion using photos from that shoot we did years ago with me in the Santa Claus suit.’

This had been one of the funniest shoots we’d ever done. It had been a hardcore session with me in my old school uniform and him in a Santa outfit, complete with beard and boots. Reminiscent of those typical yuletide shopping centre photos, we had had a professional backdrop and Christmas tree. I remembered the hilarity on the day, but I couldn’t imagine a photo of me having oral and anal sex with Paul in a Santa suit gracing many people’s mantelpieces.

However, Paul had decided it would be softcore for a change. The photo he had in mind showed me sitting demurely on his lap, cheekily lifting my dress to reveal my shaven pussy—my face displaying an expression of mock shock. ‘We’ll send it out with a letter promoting our “X-mas fun pack”—we can have toys for him and toys for her . . . and gift vouchers,’ he enthused.

The photo reproduced perfectly and inside the card was an ‘X-mas’ message from Nikki McNeil with my trademark signature. So, in early December, some tens of thousands of cards, together with the promotional newsletter, were sent from the mailing house to our list. We waited for the response.

As always, the reaction was massive and we worked round the clock to despatch the orders in time for Christmas. Invariably, the clients loved our card and I was getting all manner of presents in response.

Tanya called me to her desk and handed me two overflowing in-trays: one she’d labelled
Nikki Must Answer
and the other
Special
Requests
. She picked at random from the former, telling me that most of them just needed a quick thank you for whatever they’d sent me—everything from cash donations to pink condoms. ‘I could whip up a form letter if you like,’ Tanya suggested.

But I thought we should stick with the individual touch; after all, that was what made the business so successful. Besides, some of them were very personal. I read about how lonely one man was since his wife died; another had meticulously covered his envelope with exquisite pencil drawings of tattoo-style hearts and roses with a scroll saying
Nikki forever
. Many had given me their life stories; they were writing to me as a friend, often confiding secrets and sharing fears. Somehow, Paul’s marketing of me was eliciting a very personal response. ‘I have to reply to them,’ I said.

Tanya told me how I’d also received numerous offers of accommodation. ‘There’s one guy who sounded really sweet—where is it? . . .’ She riffled through the letters and pulled out one to show me. He wanted to fly me to Queensland so I could stay in his flat. ‘“Darling Nikki, how I’d love to feel you in my arms right now,”’ she read from the child-like script, wrapping her arms around herself with a blissful expression on her face. ‘“I could show you a great time without overstretching my
pension
.”’

Pension
? Obviously he couldn’t afford this. He’d also sent me a horny story. ‘Oh, God, not another one,’ I thought, knowing I never had time to read them all.

‘Now, here’s by far the biggest pile.’ Tanya produced a wad of letters held together with a large bulldog clip. ‘These are guys who’ve given you a sob story about how their wife “doesn’t understand”.’

I never really knew what to say to such men, except just commiserate.

‘Most of them are whingeing that their wives don’t want to fuck them any more.’

‘Yeah . . . seems to be a common problem,’ I said ponderingly.

In truth, it was an utterly farcical situation. Paul’s marketing of me as the Horny Housewife was so successful that clients were turning to me for advice on how to remedy their sexless marriages. Of course, our own marriage was consistently celibate, aside from trying to have a child, but I was nevertheless conflicted. Was I duplicitous in perpetuating the Horny Housewife persona, or was I merely feeding them the fantasy they craved? Wasn’t it a form of acting that most porn stars learn to do? I was, after all, seemingly making many men happy while simultaneously providing my family with an income. Although it would have meant instant death for the business, I longed to tell them the truth.

The other office staff gathered around Tanya as she read out some of the special requests amid squeals of laughter. There was everything from nipple and pussy weights to Lycra body suits and crotchless body stockings. There was a guy in Bundaberg who wanted baby clothes and plastic pants for himself.

‘Oh, no.’ I thought immediately of Donald and his penchant for all things infantile. ‘Apparently there’s a shop in London . . .’

‘And there’s a whole heap of guys who want your everyday knickers . . . not G-strings,’ added Tanya.

‘Yeah, panty-sniffers can be very fussy,’ I lamented. ‘We just can’t cater to all that.’

‘And you’ll love this one,’ said Tanya, reading from a typed letter on a plumber’s letterhead. ‘“Next time you cum, could you get a piece of paper and slap it against your cunt slit and give me a lasting impression of your hot box? I’m sure it would be worth framing.”’ Tanya took the letter and rubbed it against her crotch in mock imitation of an orgasm. We all collapsed in fits of giggles.

‘I’ll have to tell Paul to stop saying we can source all this weird stuff,’ I said.

Unsurprisingly, we were getting an unprecedented number of contributions to
Flesh
: cartoons and articles, but mostly horny stories. One in particular grabbed my attention: called
Sex Invaders,
it was a six-page sci-fi porn story. I didn’t even know there was such a genre. It had everything, from alien abductions, airlocks and a giant space dog to little green men with exploding nine-inch penises. Tanya started reading out one of the bits I’d underlined. ‘“After an orgy of tits and twats, the alien queen pleasured her victim with an electric toothbrush.”’