by Nikki Stern
It was obvious from this and other conversations that Paul had become depressed. His demeanour and dialogue brimmed with negativity. ‘It’s just that things were going so well,’ he lamented. ‘I thought we were on a winner with the magazine. I’d finally found something I was good at.’
‘You’re good at lots of things,’ I comforted him. ‘I’ll talk to Flora . . . and maybe you should see Dr Roland.’
And so I went into the office to look through the accounts. The truth was the situation had been grim for some time and was in fact far worse than Paul had let on. Flora and the other staff were worried about their jobs.
Paul was working tirelessly on The Fun Club News, which was to be an eight-page newsletter with red spot colour. Even though he’d had to inform the mailing list that we could now no longer afford to print and mail Flesh for free, he tried to remain positive. He’d beefed up the two recent Fun Club swingers’ parties—in reality, small affairs in Sydney and Perth. Organised by a fellow Dutchman with whom Paul had become friendly during our 0055 days, they had done a fifty-fifty split: he would organise and we would advertise them.
He now sang the praises of Telecom’s new adults-only electronic communications network, Genesis. Telecom had sold John’s company the rights to use their phone lines so that subscribers could access a vast array of sexual services and content via their PCs.
We would have a presence on the network, advertising our videos and engaging in electronic messaging with clients. Apparently, computer users Australia wide could log on to the electronic magazine 24/7. As service providers, we’d get a trickle of revenue from it—we just had to update the content regularly.
It was deeply ironic. Along with Telecom’s top brass and two Penthouse Pets, we were invited to the Genesis launch at Canberra’s Telecom Tower atop Black Mountain. In the revolving restaurant, Paul and most, if not all, males present proudly had their photo taken with the scantily clad women.
John gave Paul some slick American movies, plus some very kinky, bizarre European titles to offer in The Fun Club News. Apparently, they’d never been seen in Australia before and we’d just need to get them classified.
Paul made several visits to Darwin to discuss the future of Flesh. Because of the respect it commanded in the marketplace, Gerry agreed to fund future issues with Paul as editor. The now-considerable reply money was to be split fifty-fifty. Paul was imbued with a new burst of energy as he took to working maniacally on the next few issues and his Kinky Catalogue, a glossy 60-page affair to be sold for a nominal sum.
Although Gerry’s bailout saved Flesh, at least for the moment, money was tight for the few remaining licensed operators. We had all increased our AVIA contributions to the fighting fund for John’s legal battle with the ACT government over the video tax. One benefit of our AVIA membership, however, was that Robbie provided us with daily updates of any media items of interest.
We soon learnt that a Northern Territory politician by the name of Denis Collins had introduced into their Legislative Assembly a pornographic video prohibition bill, which would ban X-rated material. In his speech in support of the bill, he’d talked about the industry’s alleged links to organised crime and drug trafficking, and then somehow segued into talking about Jews and slamming the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith. Presumably because his speech was so offensive, part of it had been expunged from Hansard—an almost unheard-of occurrence.
I had been hanging out nappies when Paul came home early to discuss the new developments.
‘You know what’s really funny?’ Paul paused. ‘Denis Collins’s electorate is Greatorex and it’s in Alice Springs. Of all the electorates to represent—a porn star has named herself after the place!’
A few months later, the Northern Territory parliament continued to discuss the bill and Paul showed me an update that had been faxed through to him.
‘Well, it seems like they’re determined to stop the porn industry relocating to Darwin,’ he said, highlighting the relevant passages from Hansard where the Territory Attorney-General had said: The government will prevent commercial, creative or artistic production as well as large-scale copying or duplication of tapes.
‘Well, that means we’re all fucked,’ was Paul’s verdict.
‘Sounds grim,’ I agreed.
With Flesh back in full production, Paul worked on the Christmas 1991 issue. After the success of our card the previous year, he decided to feature an entire spread from the Santa shoot.
It was December and World War II was on everyone’s mind. The media was full of items commemorating the 50th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It was after watching one such documentary that we unexpectedly ended up in bed. We had not slept together in over a year and I noted in my diary that, if I was pregnant, it was on the anniversary of this momentous event.
And meanwhile I waited for a photo of my mother.
23
With baby Ya’el only six months of age and Shoshanna six years old, my third pregnancy was confirmed. Paul and I were overjoyed, although I was concerned about the longevity of the business, given my maternal duties.
Paul encouraged me to telephone Trudie to relay the good tidings. I had called her several times since making contact, but on each occasion was frustrated by her apparent aloofness. However, she repeatedly assured me she wanted to come to Canberra to meet me. Keeping her distance, she recounted the endless minutiae of her church activities and friends.
Apparently, she was secretary of the local inter-church council and organised the ecumenical thanksgiving service held during Ayr’s annual Water Festival. She was also a member of the conservative Catholic Women’s League, and I recalled how Dennis Stevenson had mentioned them in one of his speeches as being one organisation that called for the complete banning—rather than taxing—of X-rated videos. For all I knew, Trudie was one of the signatories to their submission. Our spheres of existence could certainly not have been more polarised.
The day after our initial conversation I’d sent her photos of me, and she commented that I didn’t bear much resemblance to her. Assuming I might look like my father, I again broached this topic and asked his name. Again I was stonewalled.
Finally—six months after she’d originally promised it—I received a photo of my mother. I wasn’t sure what I felt as I looked at the grainy image of her at about the time she’d had me—the same age that I was now. She possessed a certain elegance, but her face was not mine.
I wondered what Dory would have made of all this, particularly the fact that my mother was so religious.
With my retirement from all aspects of the business came the problem of how to continue the Horny Housewife brand we’d worked so hard to establish. Paul had long been searching for a replacement for me and, after a few photo shoots, he finally found a young, attractive woman who was amenable to a career in porn.
Using the stage name Vicki, she breezed through her first screen test, masturbating and then sucking and fucking like a true professional. The male performer boasted a beautifully buffed body and Paul was thrilled with the ‘money shot’, where our new male star came voluminously onto her rump. This was to be the opening sequence for Movie 5. In my talking-head introduction I noted that, despite Vicki being a newcomer to erotica, she was one ‘very randy young lady’. I also announced my retirement from porn, citing family reasons—whereupon the camera tilted down to reveal my bulging belly.
The next segment featured Vicki getting her nipples pierced; the travelling piercer who advertised in Flesh had agreed to be filmed. In a clinical setting, with surgical gloves and sterilised equipment, he used pincers and a needle to force through the nylon thread. He explained after-care hygiene, and told her she could expect an increase in erotic sensations once they’d healed. She was certainly braver than me, as I noted in the bridging segment.
Vicki also came to work in our office; it wasn’t long before she swapped the nylon thread for gold jewellery, which she proudly showed off in sit
u. In the meantime we recruited several other performers and, with Duncan on camera, shot several segments at our home. They began with a shaving scene much like the one with Lexie and me. Vicki, minus pubic hair, shaved another novice, a beautiful young blonde woman. Later, they adjourned to the bedroom, where they performed all possible permutations and combinations with two well-toned males.
Via our Flesh advertisements, we’d finally procured some usable amateur footage, which Paul edited into a short segment. He then finished the movie with the unused portion of the threesome footage we’d shot with Sue, my old brothel friend. After classification, we were ready to market it to our list.
Yet another nail in the coffin of Canberra’s porn industry was the closure of John Lark’s Canberra business in the autumn of 1992. The on-going costs of the case in the High Court were taking their toll. We watched in dismay from across Molonglo Mall as John’s huge Capital Duplicators sign was dismantled.
John told the Northern Territory News that he would retain an office in Canberra to take orders, but that all duplication and distribution would be from the Top End, so avoiding the ACT tax. John revealed that he was already using unnamed Darwin duplicators and this sparked a stoush, which resulted in the Northern Territory Attorney-General announcing that he would soon bring before his Cabinet legislation to outlaw the production and duplication of such videos there.
Meanwhile, Paul had finished the artwork for the Kinky Catalogue. He extended the range to contain more transvestite gear, including a deluxe French-maid outfit. Much to everyone’s amusement, he even sourced a novelty blow-up sheep. Porn video titles also caused great hilarity—with preposterous names such as When the Postman Spurts Twice and Edward Penishands.
After one of his frequent interstate trips, Paul called me over to his computer. ‘I’ve just had an idea for a loyalty program,’ he said excitedly. It was to be based on Ansett Airline’s Golden Wing Club. He started reading off the screen the copy he had just written. ‘“We’re proud to introduce a new concept in customer service: the Golden Wank Club. To join as a Golden Wank member, all you have to do is order one of the videos or toys from this catalogue and you’ll automatically become a Golden Wanker. And it gets even better: every time you place an order for any of our products, we’ll send you a special ‘Frequent Fucker’ voucher. Collect five vouchers, and you can cash them in on a video of your choice from our range—free of charge.” So, what do you reckon?’
‘No doubt about it—you’re a marketing magician!’
‘You haven’t seen the best bit yet—the logo.’ He held up the printout: it was based on those air force emblems and Ansett’s Golden Wing Club logo. The central circle had an aeronautical ‘wing’ splayed to the right. Within it was a cartoon drawing of a masturbating hand on an erect penis.
‘I tell you who’s gonna love this,’ I said, ‘all those Ansett employees who sent in their Fun Club memberships giving their address as Gate 10, Ansett Terminal.’ We had indeed received a whole raft of letters from people who were presumably stewards and staff.
As I wasn’t at the office every day, Tanya would save up the gems and corner me when there was a peaceful moment. One day, she returned from her desk with two glossy photos. ‘These came from the Major panty-sniffer—I mean, the Major with a capital “M”’.
I looked at the snaps. ‘Oh, my God! I don’t believe it.’ I had been sent some bizarre photos in my time, but this was astounding. It wasn’t so much the sexual act depicted—because images of wanking men were a dime a dozen—but the context that was disturbing.
Both photos showed the Major naked from the waist down (except for his boots), taken against the backdrop of a suburban mantelpiece full of family photos and trinkets. In one, he was holding his wilting erection with what was presumably ejaculate trickling down his leg. His top half was dressed in his khaki battledress uniform, complete with cap and parachute wings.
‘Fuckin’ hell—I reckon this guy is SAS,’ said Paul, peering over Tanya’s shoulder. Even Paul was shocked. I was shaking my head in disbelief.
‘And look at the other photo,’ said Tanya. He was holding his erection while wearing a red military dinner jacket. ‘Rather smart, actually—the red waistcoat and jacket with white lapels and black bow tie,’ said Tanya, who had a sense of the sartorial. ‘And look at all his medals.’
‘Show me.’ Paul studied the photo. ‘What a shitload of gongs he’s got. World War II, Korea, Vietnam . . . actually, I think one of them is some kind of Vietnam bravery medal.’ Paul was a minor militaria expert.
‘At least it’s not as bad as the guy who sent us piccies of a size-nine knitting needle shoved up his penis,’ observed Tanya.
I cringed—I couldn’t help thinking about that whenever I knitted. ‘But the Major . . .’ I was literally at a loss for words. ‘I actually think it’s very disturbed and demeaning to the army—he could probably be court-martialled for this.’
‘Well, just as well he’s retired,’ said Paul.
‘And just as well I’ve retired,’ I joked, then turned serious. ‘I worry sometimes: we’re only seeing the perverted side of human nature. I mean, I’m trying to see the funny side, but . . .’
‘Well, I’d better not show you the apple pie piccies,’ said Tanya.
Paul smirked, obviously knowing what she was referring to.
‘What apple pie piccies?’ I asked.
‘Oh, they’re just a series of six photos of a guy shoving an apple up his arse. Kind of time-lapse photography.’
‘Oh, no! I don’t wanna see them,’ I wailed. Then curiosity got the better of me. ‘Granny Smith or Red Delicious?’
‘Those green ones.’ Tanya, who was not au fait with apple varieties, cracked up.
‘You realise you have to show me now,’ I said jokingly.
Tanya quickly flashed the final photo of the sequence in the air.
‘Oh, my God—I’m never going to be able to eat a green apple again without thinking of that.’
‘Any apple . . .’ added Paul.
We laughed hysterically until Tanya said to me, ‘Oh, one last thing. You’ll wanna hear this—it’s kinda sweet. This guy’s written you a poem. I promise you’ll like it. He’s called it “Ode to Nikki”.’ She read aloud:
Nikki fills my nightly dreams
Sheer perfection, so it seems.
She doth glow like bounteous treasure,
Made for men’s enduring pleasure.
Abundant fantasies, erotic scenes,
Alas sweet Goddess, I’ve creamed my jeans.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘It’s sorta sweet—rhyming couplets and all.’
In the winter of 1992, I was in the final stages of pregnancy when Saskia announced that she and Paul’s half-brother Rudi, now aged sixteen, were coming to visit. Apparently she would lose her frequent flyer points if she didn’t use them soon. Putting them up at our new house was seriously inconvenient: I was heavily pregnant and the entire contents of Dory’s house had recently arrived from Melbourne, after I had emptied it out for rental. Worst of all, it meant that they would occupy the second master bedroom, and Paul and I would be forced to sleep together in what had become my boudoir.
It took a full week to clean and sterilise Paul’s quarters. The room was riddled with porn magazines, videos, sex aids and transvestite gear. As well, there were the leaking baby oil containers, the dirty anal toys, the enema kits, the used tissues and dozens of empty wine casks. There were also small shards of glass in the ensuite, left over from when he’d recently slipped in a drunken stupor, accidentally putting his foot through a window. I felt sick to my stomach, especially because he left it to me to sanitise his den of iniquity.
Saskia breezed into our home wearing her bespoke clothes and expensive perfume with an air of arrogance. She told us how, with the recent Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia, Vlad was now entitled to reclaim the vast tracts of real estate confiscated by the communists. They’d received several properties back
already and had begun legal proceedings to establish him as rightful heir to the remainder of the family fortune. Apparently she, or rather Vlad, was now worth many tens of millions of dollars. Meanwhile, she still cried poor and we were expected to foot the bills for her visit.
In what was perhaps a moment of weakness, Saskia told Paul a new version of the events surrounding his birth. While she’d always maintained Paul’s father, Brian Demaine, had ‘shot through to Mexico’ at the news of her pregnancy, she now admitted that he had in fact offered to marry her. It was she who rejected him, thus condemning Paul to a fatherless future.
Having always been fed the demonised version of his father, this was a major revelation for Paul. It explained why she had always been so reluctant to reveal his identity: she feared her lies would be exposed. Over the years, I had come to expect only half-truths from Saskia, but this was cruel. Poor Paul had grown up believing that his father, whoever he may be, was a monster. Yet despite reeling from the shock, he immediately forgave her, forever craving his mother’s love.
Paul had absented himself from the office, determined to show Saskia and Rudi the sights of Canberra. While his mother must have had an inkling about the nature of our business, he attempted to hide it from the two of them.
By the end of the visit, I was exhausted by Saskia’s constant demands and breathed a huge sigh of relief when Paul took them to the airport.
Almost immediately, I went into labour.
Our precious son, Ben, was born six weeks premature. Being hugely underweight, he spent time in an intensive-care humidicrib. I could not help thinking that Saskia’s visit had exacerbated my condition.
Paul took further time off work while I was in hospital, and hired a nanny to help with the housework and take care of Shoshanna and Ya’el. During a quiet moment I wrote to Trudie, imploring her to be honest with me: if she didn’t want a meeting I would understand, but I would like to know the identity of my father.