by Nikki Stern
‘There’s no way I wanna do that,’ I said. ‘It’s so tacky.’
But Paul’s tenacity was unsurpassed. He worked on me constantly but I kept saying no. A week later, the phone rang. It was the producer. Paul got off the phone, smiling.
‘That was a guy called Greg Lynch—he’s really keen for us to do this video.’ Ken had described how photogenic Paul was and how he thought he’d be perfect for the role. Paul had already accepted the part, but Greg was trying to arrange another female because I’d refused to do it.
‘What—you’re gonna fuck some woman on camera and you expect me to be pleased about it?’ I was upset that Paul couldn’t empathise with my point of view.
‘Hang on—we’re not gonna fuck. It’s only R-rated. It’ll only be simulated stuff—you won’t actually see anything.’
‘But still, you’re gonna be naked with some woman . . . simulating sex?’
‘Well, maybe not naked—she might be wearing lingerie. Anyway, it’s an educational movie, not smut—contrary to what you might think.’ Paul’s tone softened. ‘I’d much prefer to do it with you—God knows we could use the money—but you said you weren’t interested. Think about it, though—all we have to do is fuck.’
‘I thought you said there was no sex!’
‘Well, there would be if it was with you.’
I knew Paul was manipulating me, but I desperately wanted to make him happy. Somehow, I couldn’t say no to him. It bothered me that this was the case; I didn’t know why I was so under his spell. There were the tangible things, like the way he looked at me with soulful eyes, or the picture he painted of how the movie would solve all our problems; but it was much more than that too, as if I needed to please him at all costs. I contemplated only briefly what would happen if I simply refused to comply. I needed to acquiesce, as if to prove my loyalty and love; I was standing by him whereas others, like Saskia, had done him wrong. Why was I so unsure of myself and unable to stand up to him? I knew that most people would be appalled at my apparent spinelessness, but I suspected that my adoption was at the heart of it.
I accused Paul of being Machiavellian and manipulative— constantly talking me into things against my better judgement. I wrestled with my conscience. Was this tantamount to prostitution? Was this moral turpitude? Or was it justifiable as a practical solution to our financial woes?
Finally I relented—I’d do the movie because he didn’t seem to be capable of holding down a job and we needed the money. We’d been subsisting on one hundred dollars a week, so the prospect of being paid one thousand dollars each for our roles was a windfall beyond our wildest dreams. ‘But I’m not happy about this,’ I said. ‘And I’m definitely not doing anything X-rated.’
When I agreed to do the video, I knew then that I had crossed the line—that imaginary barrier that stops most people from undertaking sex work.
We met with the psychologist couple and the producer, Greg: it all seemed above board. He showed us the contracts, explaining that it would be R-rated—meaning that erections and penetrations were concealed. If we were agreeable, he also wanted to ‘shoot for X’, as he put it, so that we had the option of re-editing it later.
Again I protested, but Paul countered every argument I raised. He began berating me, repeatedly screaming that I was selfishly denying our family further financial opportunities. I guessed he was right and eventually backed down on my no-sex stance. Although I’d already agreed to the movie, Paul thought we should still take up Ken’s offer to photograph us: it would prepare me for what was expected in the video.
A shoot with Ken was arranged. I decided to wear my black torsolette with fishnets and high heels. I was very nervous, but immediately Ken put me at ease. He seemed to be more of an English gentleman, with his British racing-green Jaguar, than the sleazy pervert I had envisaged.
Ken’s bedroom, dominated by a big brass bed, had been set up as a makeshift studio. He explained that we’d start with me alone—that is, masturbating—and then bring Paul into the action. His directions were clear and concise: Relax. Don’t look at the camera. Shut your eyes. Don’t smile. Head back. Arch your back! interspersed with praise—Fantastic! Looking very sexy. Fabulous! These’ll be brilliant! As I followed his instructions, I had no time to hesitate. I wanted these to be professional shots and, when Paul joined me on the bed, I could tell that he was enjoying himself—his erection was instant and hard.
Before I knew it, Paul and I were sucking and fucking for the camera. Ken gently guided us—never in a lascivious manner— suggesting positions and poses. He was purely concerned with making the photos as professional as possible. Still, I couldn’t wait for the session to be over. While Paul was obviously very turned on, I hadn’t allowed myself to become aroused: it would have felt too personal. I was, underneath it all, modest and, despite the fact that I’d just exposed myself to a total stranger, revealing my wanton side would have felt very inappropriate.
Afterwards, Paul was positively joyous, saying he couldn’t believe we’d just done a porn shoot. He saw it as a lark—something to boast about. I hoped that, if nothing else, it would bring a new closeness in our relationship—and that he’d stop pestering me for sex for a few days.
‘You’re a natural,’ Paul complimented me. ‘The photos will be amazing.’ I was unsure, although I sensed from the framed prints on his wall that Ken was an excellent photographer. ‘I told you it would be fun,’ Paul said.
I would hardly have described it as fun: it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, but I was still feeling somewhat tacky. It had felt weird having someone present while doing something so private. ‘I’ve never had anyone watch me have sex—other than Chaimie—and rats don’t count!’
7
In the days that followed, I was still digesting the fact that I’d just shot my first hardcore session, but Paul’s mood had changed immediately. He became affectionate and loving, his sombre disposition instantly evaporating. It seemed I’d inadvertently stumbled on a way to make him happy, perhaps because it had been a while since we’d had sex.
Ken dropped off the prints, saying how stunning I looked. Paul was ecstatic. As I flicked through the photos self-consciously, I felt detached: this wasn’t the real me, it was me posing in a prescribed artificial manner. I knew my face and I thought it obvious—from my eyes and my mouth—that the expressions were faked. Yet I seemed to be quite photogenic: I looked better than I did in real life. My ego had been stroked, especially after Paul proclaimed it the hottest porn he’d ever seen.
Greg had seen the prints too and loved them. He phoned with further details about the movie: titled Let’s Make Love, it was to be shot by an AFI-award-winning cinematographer. It would be a combination of talking heads—the psychologists—interspersed with simulated foreplay and intercourse—Paul and me. It was to be a soft-core, R-rated self-help video for premature ejaculators, focusing on the ‘squeeze technique’, a way of preventing premature ejaculation by squeezing the base of the penis. The only word uttered by either of us would be Paul saying ‘squeeze’.
It worried me that Dory might learn of my movie role and I cringed, imagining her reaction. But we’d use fake names and I knew she didn’t frequent video shops—I’d just have to risk that someone else might see it and tell her.
With the signing of the film contracts a week later, Paul’s mood soared even higher. He continued to refer to Dory as being vengeful and spiteful but at least the talk of her imminent demise abated, as did talk of Francine’s alleged machinations. I knew, however, that it wouldn’t take much for them to reappear.
I was relatively relaxed as we began shooting that same month. I knew how to pose and everyone assured me the camera liked me; along the way, I had overcome any qualms I had had about performing sex on screen.
After a problem with window glare at the original location, I offered Greg our house, believing the bush setting would provide attractive production values. Several days were spent shooting, including outside fill
er footage. By the time we wrapped, Paul and I were totally comfortable with our own nudity and the notion of being watched by other people. We shot both R and X versions, Greg promising that the latter would be used only with our consent.
Despite the occasional calls from the males present for me to try and enjoy myself, I felt no sense of arousal whatsoever. I had learned from Ken how to play to the camera and I seemed to have developed a knack for making it look real. I doubted that even Paul realised I was acting; I’d learnt a repertoire of facial expressions and postures, and was simply going through the motions.
Greg seemed pleased with the footage. He said I looked great and he was thrilled that Paul was able to maintain his erection as if on command. Greg would be editing it and we would still need to do promotional shots with Ken; he would then let us know the release date.
Our fee was welcome too, but we argued about how it was to be spent.
‘So now we can go on a holiday,’ said Paul.
I assumed he was joking: we needed to save. We’d been going backwards financially; I couldn’t believe he was even suggesting this. He pestered like a child, saying we hadn’t had a real vacation in ages and he wanted to see Sydney.
I was feeling guilty—we’d been living in Warrandyte virtually rent free for the past year: ‘It’s just not right—we promised to pay Dory.’
‘She’s loaded,’ said Paul dismissively. ‘She can afford to do without the income.’
But on my next visit, I offered Dory the rental arrears, explaining that Paul was working as a film extra. She declined the money, saying that perhaps, when he found a steady job, she would accept it.
‘I’m doing this for you and Shoshanna,’ she said, ‘not him.’
‘I know, but he’s my husband and I love him.’ I wondered whether I wasn’t trying to convince myself with such affirmations.
‘I don’t care about Paul—he’s a nasty piece of work—but I don’t want to see you and Shoshanna suffer.’ Dory’s voice quivered with emotion.
Her words reverberated in my head. By now, I was ambivalent about my marriage: I felt guilty for staying with Paul, but I wasn’t a quitter and I’d committed to a shared life with my soul mate—the man I loved, or thought I loved. Giving up on that would be admitting defeat; it would mean acknowledging I’d made a mistake and that Dory was right. My pride was preventing me from tossing in the towel. Everyone knew marriage had its ups and downs, but my natural optimism had me rationalising that things would improve.
I also believed that Shoshanna needed her father. If Paul suffered psychosis, I wanted to support him—I knew he was capable of being highly functional, and I believed that together we could overcome that.
With the movie money spent on some much-needed furniture, Paul thought we should cash in on my photogenic nature. He did a mail-out, with a photo of me included, to Melbourne’s camera clubs, offering nude modelling by ‘the star’ of an R-rated movie. The response was instant, and we charged a premium rate; I was relieved that there was to be no sex and managed to relax a little. Everyone was extremely professional as they photographed me in assorted cheesecake poses. Paul was right: the movie had already led to other financial opportunities.
A month later, Paul’s Canadian cousin, Keuntje, called to say she was coming to Australia. She and Paul were extremely close and I was looking forward to meeting her. Roughly my age, she was a pilot with United Airlines and had swung a one-night stopover.
Keuntje arrived with her overnight case. Stupidly, Paul showed her his marijuana plants and boasted about our sex video. She was horrified, and I knew this news would immediately be relayed back to Saskia. As she hugged me goodbye, she said that she loved me; but Paul told me, after he returned from taking her to the airport, that she’d offered him three thousand dollars to leave me and move to the States, where he could live with her and she would support him.
I felt angry at her insincerity and her disregard for Shoshanna, who by now was eighteen months old—how could Keuntje justify leaving her fatherless? Paul categorically denied he was tempted, saying he’d never desert Shoshanna and me. But I wasn’t sure: it was a generous offer, although it meant living on Keuntje’s Californian ranch. Still, I was pleased Paul had rebuffed her and saw it as a sign of his devotion.
Soon afterwards, however, Paul’s moods became intolerable and I suspected he resented staying with me. His behaviour was deteriorating: I couldn’t rouse him from sleep, and he was permanently uncommunicative. I knew I couldn’t continue putting up with his mood swings and slovenliness. I was fighting a losing battle against overflowing ashtrays, empty beer bottles and unwashed dishes. The house was no longer just mess—we were living in squalor and filth as his smoking and drinking escalated. Often, I’d catch him out lying—over trifling matters, but it always upset me. Most disturbing, however, was the resurfacing of his diatribes against Dory and his renewed plotting of her death. Plotting anyone’s demise was unconscionable—let alone my mother’s—and I begged him to stop this craziness.
I began imagining life as a single parent. I craved a peaceful environment for my child and a caring and trusting relationship with my partner, not one filled with anxiety and stress. My affection for Paul was waning; it pained me, but he was driving me away as he descended into depression.
His constant badgering was leading me to feel brainwashed; I was starting to doubt my own instincts. I wasn’t seeing any friends and so I couldn’t discuss things with them; Paul was my only adult company.
Hard as it was, I would have to admit that our marriage looked like a failure. Finally, I felt I needed to bring all this to a head one evening after dinner.
‘We have to talk . . .’ I hesitated, unsure of what I would say next. ‘Things aren’t working . . .’
‘What are you saying?’ he said, with menace in his voice. Paul reached for his cigarettes as I followed him out onto the patio.
‘You know exactly what I’m saying: I can’t go on like this, listening to your constant carping on about how evil Dory is. Your craziness is driving me crazy.’
‘You think I’m crazy? I assure you I’m totally sane.’
‘Whatever . . . I want to separate—at least until you can get some help to become a decent person again.’ I knew I couldn’t continue to abide the obsessive and sickening hatred he felt for my mother. ‘You can still see Shoshanna whenever you want . . .’
‘But I can’t survive without you two, I love you,’ he said, with tears in his eyes. ‘You’re all I’ve got.’ I knew it was true.
‘You think all you have to do is tell me you love me and I weaken. This time, I’ve decided: get yourself together then, maybe, you can come back.’
I didn’t want Paul to leave—I still loved him—but I thought separating was the only thing that would persuade him to change: all my pleading had failed. I reasoned that, if he saw how serious I was, he would at least try.
‘I’m not asking for much, just stop criticising Dory . . . and show me a little consideration occasionally.’
‘Okay, I’ll move out . . . I’ll find a share household somewhere.’ Paul was crying and it took all my willpower not to immediately rescind my demand. He could be so unpredictable, I hadn’t expected him to capitulate so readily. I had hoped he’d change rather than leave. Part of me was deeply hurt: I wanted him to realise how difficult surviving on his own would be. What I had really wanted was an undertaking from him that he’d reform. But he seemed optimistic and I needed a break from his torment.
Luckily, he found some share accommodation quite quickly. We phoned each other daily. I was delighted to hear he was doing regular work as a film extra, but unfortunately he always seemed stoned.
Our relationship had gone into remission, although he made regular visits to the house. He’d only moved a foam mattress and a few clothes, so it felt as if we were still living together. I called Dory to tell her, hastening to explain that the separation was only temporary. Her reaction was thinly veiled joy—I susp
ected she didn’t want to appear excited, in case we got back together.
Soon after Paul’s move, Saskia phoned to say that she and Vlad were planning to visit Melbourne, accompanied by Paul’s half-brother, Rudi. She intimated that Keuntje had given a grim report card of her son’s circumstances and she wanted to see for herself first-hand. Paul’s contact with his mother in recent years had been minimal—a handful of phone calls and two letters in the two and a half years since we’d left Holland—but he was clearly excited at the prospect of seeing her again and was hoping they might fund his attendance at art college.
Despite my reservations about her, I was happy for her to bond with her grandchild. Paul temporarily moved back with me, to facilitate Saskia seeing Shoshanna. He picked them up from the airport and took them to their suite at the Rialto. When he first brought them to visit me—Saskia dressed in her French designer clothes and Patek Philippe watch, and Vlad looking like an advertisement for the larger man’s GQ—both seemed uncomfortable in our relaxed surroundings. They were obviously unimpressed with our bohemian lifestyle; Saskia clearly found our house and the surrounding bush distasteful and disapproved of my op-shop-chic décor. I felt judged and humiliated, even though I was clearly doing my best.
A few days later I returned from a visit to Dory’s to find everyone in the lounge room. Instantly I knew something was awry.
‘We’ve got some great news,’ Paul said, excitedly. ‘I’m moving back to Europe and we want you to come.’
‘What? I can’t believe this.’ Paul’s revelation had me in shock. ‘Australia is my home—I love it here—I don’t want to live anywhere else.’
‘Well, I’ve decided. I’m going. Mom’s bought me a one-way ticket, leaving in two days, and we’ve reserved tickets for you and Shoshanna.’
‘But I haven’t agreed to go.’
Apparently, Saskia and Vlad were willing to help us, but only if we were living over there. My dreams of his attendance at art school, with their assistance, had evaporated. Paul’s expression was determined and I knew it would be futile to attempt to change his mind.