Not Your Ordinary Housewife

by Nikki Stern

  There was further, more persistent knocking as we scurried around.

  ‘I know,’ said Paul, in a quick-thinking moment. ‘I’ll find a sheet to throw over him and you go get the door.’

  ‘But I’m in my bitch goddess outfit.’

  Paul suggested I open the door on the safety chain, so only my head was visible. ‘They’ll never know what you’re wearing so long as you don’t let them in,’ he said. ‘Just take off the surgical gloves.’

  I struggled with the latex, which had become stuck to my skin; Paul grabbed at them roughly.

  Donald tensed visibly as Paul threw a sheet over his spread-eagled form. Thankfully, he was unable to call out because of the ball-gag in his mouth, although I heard little whelps as he strained to follow what was happening. Paul’s carpentry skills were tested as he struggled unsuccessfully to release himself.

  The knock became even more insistent as I ran to the entrance in my high heels, peeking out from behind the solid wooden door as I opened it.

  It was our teenage neighbour, Nora, who agisted her horse on our property in exchange for babysitting occasionally—apparently her pedigree palomino had escaped and was cantering along busy Kangaroo Ground Road. I sent Paul out to help her locate it.

  Thinking I’d compensate Donald with his favourite—a golden shower—I stood astride him as he lay on the slate floor, his mouth agape. Nothing. Not a drop of urine could I force from my bladder. In desperation, I finally finished him off with a whipping and an enema, which he voided into a large nappy bucket.

  Removing his gag, I pressed him over his lateness; he admitted he was an eminent doctor, and had given expert witness testimony at a case in the Supreme Court that day.

  ‘Poor Donald,’ I said after he left. ‘No wonder he tried to escape—I think he thought we’d betrayed his trust.’ I knew he would have panicked when he heard the knocking.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think we’ll ever hear from him again,’ said Paul.

  And we never did.

  ‘I don’t know if I can keep doing this shit,’ I announced to Paul. Acting dominant just wasn’t coming naturally to me, and we couldn’t afford to have another debacle like Donald and the horse. ‘And this golden shower thing they all want . . .’ It wasn’t that I was pee-shy, but I just couldn’t do it on command, no matter how many glasses of water I drank.

  Paul reminded me that I’d managed some ‘water sports’ for our video, but that had been somehow different—I was less self-conscious. I could be a dominatrix but with difficulty, and it was draining. ‘I feel terrible being such a bitch—I’m no good at mind games. It’s much easier doing porn or Watch & Wanks—all we have to do is fuck.’

  ‘Maybe we should consider doing horny phone calls,’ he suggested.

  ‘Yeah, you could do gay ones.’ I’d found the few I’d attempted difficult. Clients frequently tried to persuade me to talk dirty to them, but I’d get embarrassed.

  ‘Well,’ said Paul. ‘I think I’ve got a way I could do them for hetero men.’ I knew from his expression that he’d had an idea.

  We combed the electronic and music stores, looking for a voice modulator that would transpose Paul’s baritone into a higher register. Inevitably the shop assistants enquired as to why we wanted to alter his voice. Eventually we simply came out with the truth: he wanted to do phone sex and needed the dulcet tones of a female to pose as a woman. Invariably this revelation was met with great mirth. After an exhaustive effort, however, we decided that technology just couldn’t keep pace with Paul’s creative acumen, so we shelved his idea.

  Out of the blue, we received a reply to one of our ads from a local respondent who was talent scouting for an American porn producer. We met with Archie, who showed us a letter of authority to prove he was bona fide. He had himself starred in many bisexual movies in LA with big-name production houses. He was looking for males for gay roles, but told us he was happy to perform on both sides of the camera if we needed some extra footage, which we did. Over the coming months, we shot several sessions for our own porn library with him and Tim.

  Archie was a man of many talents: not only did he have a whopping nine-and-a-half-inch penis, but he was an artist of some ability. His house was adorned with his photo-realist oils—large canvases of flowers and faces. He seemed to have an idyllic lifestyle, painting from his home studio and supporting himself by making movies for several months each year.

  Archie broached the subject of Paul starring in gay movies, explaining that, before recommending him to the American producers, he’d have to give him a screen test. I was convinced that no definite movie role existed and was most unhappy that Paul seemed so determined to oblige. My parting advice as I dropped him off was simply to make sure he used a sturdy condom.

  I picked him up from his ‘sleepover’ the next morning only to learn that no footage was actually shot. ‘Why don’t you just come out as gay?’ I said.

  ‘Because I’m not.’

  ‘Well, bi then. Anyone who says they sleep with a guy at fifteen “just to do them a favour” is bullshitting.’

  ‘Pet, I fancy you and only you. I love you,’ he said, insisting that he was doing this because there might be a movie deal in it.

  The thought of the two of them together was unbearable. I told Paul I just wanted him to be honest. I had nothing against gays, and reminded him how I’d grown up in a household frequented by Dory’s numerous homosexual friends—dancers from the Bodenwieser Ballet, the Australian Ballet, the Opera Orchestra. The list was endless. They all had a standing invitation for Sunday lunch and would buy her flowers on Mother’s Day. She was the classic ‘fag hag’ and I was the beneficiary of her broadmindedness. ‘So, I don’t care if you’re gay, but I need to know.’

  ‘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.

  Through our friendly bank manager—a regular client—we traded in t
he Volvo and leased back a new one. Paul insisted on spending thousands on a fax machine. He rationalised that since only large companies owned them, the fax machine, in conjunction with the mobile phone number, would give the impression that we were corporate high-flyers. In addition, he bought a second-hand 8-track recorder out of the Trading Post and a supply of blank audiocassette tapes. I watched in amazement as he started writing scripts.

  Paul arrived home one afternoon from the ABC sound effects library. ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got,’ he said, holding up a cassette for me to see. ‘I chatted up this very helpful gay guy. He’s given me all these samples to use in our scripts, like what they use when they broadcast radio plays.’

  I looked at the labelled case, reading aloud: ‘Airport noises, surf crashing, Hawaiian music, musical bridge . . .’ It was a pretty eclectic list and I was curious as to what kind of story he would write. Paul assured me it would be brilliant.

  And so Paul wrote his Fantasy Line script one morning and I recorded it that afternoon. I put on my sexiest, sultriest voice and began: ‘Hi, I’m Sharon, and I’m about to tell you my favourite fantasy. Please don’t think I’m a deviate or anything, just because I have fantasies . . .’ The script continued with a description of Sharon, a housewife who fantasises, while doing the ironing, about a trip to Hawaii. On board the plane, she meets Scott. ‘I could see he was the athletic type from the way he filled out his designer jeans and polo-shirt. A talented young man . . .’ She continued: ‘He reached over and a thrill ran down my spine as his strong, capable hands fastened the belt around my waist . . .’

  I could barely contain my laughter as the script ebbed and flowed; the action perpetually promised, but never delivered. A brief mention of joining the mile-high club was followed by the line: ‘Scott invited me to stay at his apartment and insisted on giving me a traditional Hawaiian welcome—a pineapple cocktail and a lei.’ But the denouement was unfulfilled and it unravelled: the smouldering smell from the cooked eggs in Sharon’s fantasy brought her back to reality with: ‘It was burning cotton. Suddenly, I’m back in my lounge room. I’m still wearing an apron, doing the ironing. And I’ve just burnt a hole in a king-size sheet (sigh). Thank you for calling the Fantasy Line.’