Not Your Ordinary Housewife

10





Since we’d first taken out our ads, we had been showered by offers to do photography and videos. Many clients were sick of slick American porn and wanted to see home-grown Aussie talent. I resisted the idea after the wrangle we’d had with Greg over copyright, but naturally Paul was gung-ho. However, I was seriously concerned that we would be breaking the law.

Paul came home after a long lunch meeting with Lloyd. I asked eagerly what he’d said. ‘First of all, it’s technically illegal,’ Paul said. ‘But he reckons nobody’s ever been busted for it and, while he’s not advocating breaking the law, it would be a calculated risk.’ It all came down to what was obscene and the old sexist joke: What’s the legal definition of pornography? That which gives the judge an erection.

Lloyd had said that although the Police Offences Act talked about ‘obscene and indecent publications’ or articles that tend to ‘deprave and corrupt’, it was all a grey area that revolved around prevailing community standards. Given that one could walk into any sex shop or corner video shop and buy X-rated tapes ‘under the counter’, he reckoned it was obvious that the police weren’t too concerned about it: they had bigger fish to fry. And it was all totally legal in Canberra.

‘So I reckon we should go for it,’ Paul concluded confidently, assuring me that, even if we got busted, the penalties weren’t much more than a speeding ticket.

I replied I wasn’t comfortable with it, but he asked me to call Lloyd if I didn’t believe him.

‘Listen, why don’t we do it for a bit,’ said Paul. ‘Test the market. We’re not hurting anybody. If we start selling videos, we can stop with the Watch & Wanks.’

I called Lloyd, who confirmed what Paul had told me, and, as usual, I allowed Paul to persuade me. I was never entirely clear on my motivation for yielding to Paul—all I knew was that, in the interests of harmonious relations, I was the one who compromised. On the other hand, to be fair, there was a part of me that seemed to enjoy being outrageous—a reaction perhaps to my serious upbringing.

Paul espoused the financial benefits of his new initiative, and I eventually agreed to try a few sessions. He coached me in what to say to clients. ‘Tell them that, besides wanking, they can also take photos. Hell, if they want, they can take video footage—but we’ll charge more for that.’

I told Paul I’d only do it if we kept the copyright on absolutely everything—I didn’t want people making money off my image. We agreed that we would insist that all photos and videos were for personal use only, not for commercial sale. In the case of photography, we would retain the negatives and give clients a set of prints. With videos, we’d keep the original footage, and only give them a first-generation copy. This way, I was still in control and they would have no model release form. ‘If they do publish anything, you’ll sue their arse off ’cos you can prove you never relinquished ownership,’ Paul asserted belligerently.

He had everything neatly figured out. The only thing that remained was to settle on a price. I had no idea, but Paul had a certain marketing intuition. He reckoned we could charge a base rate of one hundred dollars a session, plus get them to pay for film stock, processing and printing. He even proposed adding a small mark-up. ‘And don’t forget to offer them an unemployed or pensioner discount. Make it two hundred dollars for a video.’

‘That’s going to be too expensive,’ I said.


‘Trust me—they’ll go for it. It’s unique—no-one else is doing this, so you can carve out a niche market. We’ll be like a travelling circus, but we’ll get to shoot an endless variety of locations. Tell them we’ll come to their place or, if they want, they can hire a hotel.’

Paul was right: none of the clients baulked at the price and all were happy for us to keep the negatives or original footage and retain copyright. He had thought the sessions would take longer than the Watch & Wanks, but we could squeeze in up to two a day. So I went ahead and booked appointments all over town.

Most clients were actually very shy and nervous at first. While the Watch & Wanks were already an established success, nothing compared to the thrill they got from photographing their very own erotica. It seemed we’d inadvertently tapped into a market of would-be porn photographers. We had recently purchased a basic video camera; I’d wanted to film Shoshanna, but it would be perfect for porn. And because we were mainly doing still photography, we traded in our professional Canon for a high-quality ‘auto everything’ camera—all the client had to do was point and click, and quality prints were practically guaranteed. With his artistic eye, Paul guided the photographer on how to compose a picture: where to stand and how to maximise the aesthetic appeal. Close-ups were discouraged because, inevitably, they’d be too clinical. Of course, many photos were taken one-handed, with their other hand on their dick; but, judging by the response we got, they were thrilled with the results.

Paul taught me the secret to creating successful erotica—stills or video. Apparently it was all in the woman’s expression—the more lustful and lascivious, the better. The only porn I’d ever seen was what he’d carelessly left lying around, so I was totally reliant on him to tutor me. Over time, I relaxed enough during the sessions so I could form my facial muscles into the desired expressions. With still photography, it was easy to hold a pose or expression for the instant required to depress the shutter, but video proved much more challenging. Still, I persevered, knowing that moving images were what most clients wanted. Paul never faltered in his ability to achieve an erection on command, and together we were able to provide a discreet and professional service.

We had set up our spare room as an editing-suite-cum-duplication plant. We were buying blank tapes wholesale but, with only two VCRs, production was glacially slow. Our biggest hurdle, however, was finding a reliable and broad-minded photo processor. We trialled a myriad of places, from pharmacies to professional camera shops, but we were met with hostility on several occasions. Finally, we found a shop in St Kilda where the proprietors were pleased to accept our quite considerable business. Keeping our clients happy was paramount, and so we always sent their photos in a timely manner and in plain packaging.

Success emboldened us and we began placing ads that directly offered our modelling services. One day, Paul was smoking a joint when he had an epiphany. ‘I’ve just had a stroke of genius,’ he pronounced arrogantly. ‘I know how we can make this thing really work for us.’ His plan was to place another ad in ACM offering photos and footage for sale. When we got the film developed, we’d order several sets of prints and then sell the spares to other clients. ‘The photographer’s already paid for the printing, so it won’t cost us a cent. We own the copyright, so they’re ours to reproduce.’

I had to agree: it was a brilliant idea.

‘I can splice together some of the video footage as well,’ he said excitedly. ‘We won’t even have to do much editing, because they actually prefer the uncut version—so that’s easy. It’ll sell for sure.’

We had many, many hours of footage and Paul thought that eventually we’d build up an archive of thousands of photos, all in different locations. The only thing we’d need was more variety. So far, we only had me masturbating or us f*cking, plus the occasional bit of B& D: ‘We need some threesome footage: male-female-male and female-male-female.’

He suggested we contact some of the guys who wanted a threesome with me—and those who’d offered their cameraman services. ‘We’ll be doing them a favour.’ Paul laughed. ‘We’ll have to hire the females, though, because no normal woman is going to do this for free.’

‘But you know I’m not a dyke.’

‘Just close your eyes and think of England.’

It would feel weird; I wish I fancied women, but I didn’t. ‘Well, most guys love lesbian stuff,’ said Paul, reminding me it was one of the most common male fantasies.

In the weeks that followed, I trawled through our correspondence looking for likely prospects. Besides the usual mail requesting appointments, we had piles of letters from men offering to be involved in porn—as cameramen, participants or both. Judging by their photos, some were actually very attractive.

One in particular grabbed my attention, so I called him and invited him out to dinner. Tim turned out to be a delightful young man, beautifully spoken with his posh Geelong Grammar accent. Classically handsome, with liquid brown eyes and a dazzling smile, he oozed charm and charisma. He felt sure he would be able to maintain his erection, and so we asked Ken to photograph and video us.

All that remained was the model release form, which would need to be signed by all our actors. Paul drew up the contract. Lloyd checked it and told Paul it was so ironclad he couldn’t have done better himself; he said Paul should consider studying law one day. Paul was chuffed because he knew that Lloyd did the legals for some of the biggest names in the film and TV industry.

We explained to Tim that there would be no scripted dialogue: everything would be as natural as possible, and he should try and enjoy himself. Tim told me I looked ravishing dressed in my white torsolette, stockings and six inch heels. As I proceeded to undress him, I wondered if he wasn’t attracted to me; I certainly found him engaging. And there were several instances where he outshone Paul in his concern for my wellbeing.

The shoot went well and Tim fulfilled our wildest expectations. We were even able to capture that elusive ‘sandwich’ shot, which Paul assured me was mandatory. The logistics of filming this was no mean feat. Tim lay on the couch while I straddled him, constantly moving to maintain his erection. Paul climbed on top to penetrate me anally as I leaned over Tim, lifting himself up so the camera could ‘see’ the action. Meantime Ken, armed with lights, SLR and video cameras, filmed us.

Paul was thrilled with the stills and footage, perhaps also because it was his fantasy to see me with another male. Later, I found him masturbating to the photos of Tim and me. As with Ewan, there was no overt sexual interaction between them, but it gave rise to my theory that males who prefer MFM threesomes have an element of bisexuality about them.

Finding a suitable female proved much more challenging. My first lesbian photo shoot was with a young woman called Iona, whom Ken introduced us to. She was a beautiful brunette with a stunning figure and pert breasts. She and I needed to work together to perform that perennial favourite: the schoolgirl fantasy.

Luckily, I still fitted into my old MLC school uniform: a green plaid tunic with white collar. Iona brought along her own uniform and together, without the pretext of a plot, we began sucking, licking and fingering. Vibrators abounded. The scene heated up, with us f*cking each other with a huge nine-inch strap-on penis, before Paul joined in. He lay back while we took turns to lick and then suck his cock; it climaxed in a ‘daisy chain’, with her f*cking me and me sucking him. Neither Iona nor I had ever been with a woman before, and I especially found it difficult to relax. Iona was a genuine bisexual and seemed to get caught up in the action. Sadly for me, however, this was just work. But Paul directed us superbly: every angle, expression and position was choreographed so that the result was a professional-looking product—all assisted by one of our eager volunteers.


Before long, we were casting around for another female to satisfy demand. Through ACM we met Lexie who, together with her husband, liked to swing occasionally. She too looked fabulous: high cheekbones, indicative of her Chinese heritage, and large pendulous breasts. Like me, she also shaved her pubic hair. We both wore lingerie: I in my black lacy torsolette and she in a similar white outfit. She had described herself as ‘bi and horny’ and was a natural in front of the camera—far more relaxed than I was.

While I was never comfortable with the lesbian action, I learnt from Lexie how to make it look as if I was enjoying myself. We hired her on several occasions, and she was always a delight to work with. Paul would film until he eventually joined in; then her husband would take over, seemingly content just to watch and never wanting to participate.

Paul did a rough edit of both the lesbian footage and the threesome with Tim. Together with the scenes of me masturbating, various combinations of us f*cking and some mild B& D, it filled a three-hour tape. I protested that I was already in my thirties and looked ludicrous in a school uniform, but Paul convinced me the clients wouldn’t care. Again, he was right: they absolutely loved the action.

We began offering the photos and videos for sale and were flooded with orders. Each day, when we weren’t doing sessions, we would empty our Warrandyte post office box. I attended to the correspondence and answered the phone, while Paul took care of the editing, duplicating and marketing. Despite our long hours together, friction between us ceased. Life was frenetic, but we were forging a new affection for each other not seen since our Amsterdam days.

Meanwhile, Shoshanna was now attending creche full-time and thriving. Whenever possible, I insisted we did normal family things, like taking her to play in the park. Once, after a particularly hectic day packed with video appointments, the three of us were sitting around the pool, which had long ago become a murky morass after the filter broke. I was helping Shoshanna catch tadpoles with a sieve.

Paul spoke out of her earshot. ‘Our life is extraordinary. This morning we were doing hardcore porn sessions—and here we are with our beautiful child, enjoying the bush serenity, tadpoling.’

Of course, it wasn’t normal at all, and really I just wanted to be permanently in ‘mama mode’. I hated constantly switching and clung to the brief moments of happiness we managed to create. But for Paul, our lifestyle was sustaining his deviant sexual needs and attention-seeking behaviours. And I was coming to the painful conclusion that he could only be happy if he had money. It was too simplistic to suggest that his motivation was greed alone. It was perhaps more to do with his deprived childhood and his need for validation; possessions were merely the tangible representation of his new-found success.

While I could be happy in an impecunious state, my motivation was more to do with my self-esteem. The money was undeniably appealing, but I had come to enjoy the adulation that accompanied my unusual occupation. Perhaps it was because my parents rarely praised me—either for my physical appearance or for my intellectual prowess—but, paradoxically, I was starting to gain a modicum of self-worth. Spurred on by the results of Paul’s marketing genius, my ego was being constantly fed. I didn’t want it to go to my head, but there was no denying that my legion of adoring fans gave me new confidence.

The demand for lesbian footage seemed endless and Paul decided that it was time to do another lesbian shoot. Lloyd introduced us to Abigail, an attractive if somewhat plastic woman with a fake tan, boob job and alleged family connections to a former Liberal prime minister. She was a family friend of Lloyd’s, who also looked after her trust fund.

Due to popular demand, we would again film a bi schoolgirl scene. Luckily, I owned a spare MLC uniform, which I lent to Abigail, and we set about explaining to her the gist of the action. All was agreed, and she donned our blonde curly wig. But, from the outset, she was uncooperative and surly; even after we urged her to at least pretend to enjoy herself, she remained unwilling. We asked her to vocalise, prompting her with dialogue such as ‘Lick my *!’, ‘Harder, faster!’, ‘F*ck me with that vibrator!’, but she refused point-blank to speak or act, turning her head away in order to hide from the camera.

Paul was annoyed—not only had she taken her considerable fee upfront, but she had assured us she was more than willing. We parted on pleasant enough terms, but we all knew that she’d obtained her money through deception.

After she left, Paul lit a joint and reviewed the footage. ‘That’s some of the worst stuff we’ve ever shot,’ he confirmed grimly. We knew we couldn’t afford to ruin our good reputation by releasing it like that.

Then he announced he’d just had a great idea and knew how we could salvage the situation. ‘Do you think I’d fit into that uniform?’ he asked. I knew immediately what he was planning.

‘You gotta be kidding,’ I said. ‘You, with your broad shoulders . . .’

He proposed to reshoot some of the close ups of her licking me—only it would be him licking me. He’d wear the blonde wig and set up the angle so no-one could see his face. I would do all the dialogue, saying stuff like ‘Suck that p-ssy!’ so he didn’t have to talk, and then he would edit it into the original footage.

‘But your chin—it’s too masculine,’ I protested. ‘The clients will know.’

‘No they won’t—unless you tell them. Anyway, it appeals to my warped sense of humour to have me as her body double.’ He drew back deeply on the roach. ‘She’s signed the model release form so there’s f*ck all she can do. It’s either that or we turf the footage—and what a waste of time and money that would be.’

Somehow Paul squeezed into my spare school uniform, leaving the buttons down the front undone; we shot with precision, so his gaping chest couldn’t be seen. We set the camera on a tripod with a tight frame. He lay on his back with the wig’s golden tresses covering his face; I was on all fours in a 69 position, with my arse to the lens. Luckily, with his head buried in my crotch, his face was in shadow and his chin hidden. We stopped laughing just long enough to get the required close-up shots, but we knew that this would be reserved only for the die-hard fans, who lapped up anything we shot.

Needless to say, Paul enjoyed the experience of donning the wig and wearing make-up. While still in drag, he asked me to photograph him in a variety of feminine poses and I took some excellent black-and-white art photos. I was still having mixed feelings about his transvestite tendencies, but I preferred the openness of his current display to the clandestine masturbation that usually accompanied his cross-dressing.



Being an early adopter of technology, Paul decided that we should become computerised. He purchased a small Amstrad computer and dot-matrix printer, and set about teaching himself how to use it. He was already an accomplished typist and picked up the intricacies of word processing effortlessly.

Soon he had written a ‘horny story’, which he was proposing to give away with the videos.

‘Hey, listen to this.’

‘If I must.’ I sighed.

‘It’s about a horny housewife—well, that’s you, even though I know you’re not at all horny—who has a threesome with her hubby and his mate. She ends up with all her holes filled.’ Apparently, the software allowed us to insert the name of the client and even customise the letter.


I read the story. It was two pages of text, and he bought several reams of pastel pink A4 paper on which to print out copies. Paul had a definite flair for language, drawing the reader into a series of literary tableaux and finishing with a soft sell for our videos and photos. Lines like ‘If you’d like to see and hear more of my adventures, just call me on my mobile or drop me a line at my PO box’ peppered the text.

As predicted, the clients loved the Horny Story. Paul even added some strike through marks, to make the letter appear hand-typed— he didn’t want the clients to realise it was mass-produced on a computer. But, as we got busier, the customising ceased and all letters simply began ‘Hi there’. No-one ever complained.

Using a magenta marker, I would sign each letter ‘Nikki’—an effeminate loop for the ‘N’, two little love hearts dotting the ‘i’s’ and a curlicue kiss at the end. Often I would personalise their letter by adding a PS, usually referring to something they had said in their correspondence.

No sooner was the Horny Story in place, Paul pondered a marketing plan to boost sales. ‘We should offer the guys a freebie,’ he announced. He wanted to streamline operations by compiling a mailing list. We would find our best photo, get it duplicated by the hundreds and then give it away with the Horny Story.

I protested that it would cost a fortune in reprints, but Paul insisted it would pay off. He cited the old adage: you have to spend money to make money. He knew that many of the clients had been ripped off before by shonky operators, so we needed to gain their trust. And what better way than by giving them something for nothing? They wouldn’t be used to it and would end up spending more with us than they might otherwise do, he theorised. ‘It’s a sure-fire investment.’

His reasoning was sound. A professional photographer friend of Ken’s offered to do some promotional shots and the results were encouraging. We picked what Paul described as a gem: a frontal shot of us engaged in anal sex. My expression was wild and wanton, and the colours harmonised superbly. This was our freebie.

The sheer volume of photo sessions we were doing was generating thousands of negatives and many days’ worth of footage. As time went on, we bought a new video camera and professional lights, tripods and filters. Paul purchased a movie editing system, allowing us to do basic wipes and fades, and we bought a second VCR with which to duplicate footage. We were buying bulk blank videos from a wholesaler and churning out copies around the clock.

Our main video itself underwent many versions; inferior segments were replaced as we produced new material. We bought yet another VCR to keep pace with duplication demand. Most of the videos were posted out nationwide but sometimes I would deliver them personally, meeting a client at a local landmark, such as the Ringwood clock tower. Several times I rendezvoused outside my alma mater, which seemed strangely appropriate, given the MLC schoolgirl segments.

I began to immerse myself in this world of porn, and I wanted to do things as efficiently as possible. I created an index-card file of all our clients and their contact details. In addition, I kept particulars of their sessions: whether they were Watch & Wankers or ‘Pornographers’, how much they’d spent, personal details, including their profession or marital status, and their special interests, such as anal or cum shots. We always made a strong point that we definitely did not cater for paedophilia and bestiality. Any clients who displayed even a skerrick of interest in these unspeakable acts were flagged as ‘sickos’ and rejected; despite my moral corruption, I felt nothing but revulsion for these activities.

We were also doing a number of specialist photo and video shoots, such as rope bondage, golden showers—me peeing in the garden—and sex in public places. We had been contacted by a client with a passion for outdoor sex, and Paul explained to me the popularity of this particular genre. We decided to do something special to satisfy such demand.

I wore a revealing top and miniskirt with no knickers underneath, and we headed out to a nearby Safeway supermarket with our client/cameraman. Stopping off to buy a large cucumber prop, Paul took photos of me flashing in the aisles when the coast was clear. After a number of shots of me sucking Paul in the lift wallpapered with large posters of that day’s specials, we made our way to the roof-top car park. We strategically parked the Volvo on the perimeter so that the back of the station wagon was facing away from the exit.

The client filmed us sucking and f*cking in the boot, even managing to capture a passing train and two huge billboards in the background. Paul was amused that one of the billboards featured an ad with grotesquely large images of some well-known TV news presenters, one of whom was a client of Lloyd’s, giving the impression that they were watching us. By the end of the session, we knew we had some of our best shots to date.

Whenever a new batch of photos arrived, I would meticulously label the back of each print with a code using three variables: the client’s initials and the numbers of the roll and negative. The negs in their plastic pockets were filed in date order with lists of the best shots—in case we ever wanted reprints. In this manner, I catalogued our entire collection of photos.

‘Jesus, pet,’ Paul exclaimed, ‘you should be a librarian.’

‘Yeah, actually, I’d love to work in a library,’ I said. ‘They’re my all-time favourite places. You know how I love reading.’

And I loved creating order out of chaos; I found it satisfying to catalogue all our photos. Paul admitted he’d never have had the patience to do it. ‘That’s why we’re such a good match. We’re opposites; we complement each other.’ Indeed, we made a perfect team.

We put in an extra phone line for our clients to contact us on. Paul joked that it was like the American president: when the red phone rings, it’s time to scramble. We recorded what could only be described as a novel answering-machine message. Designed to give the effect that I was mid-f*ck, Paul used a squeaking mattress to produce a rusty-spring sound behind my breathless voice—complete with moans and groans. I struggled to record the message without giggling. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone at the moment . . . (squeak, squeak) . . . as I’m busy (moan) . . . But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can (groan).’

Of course, our clients rarely left a message. But it created a humorous touch, which fostered trust; some clients even told us they rang our number just to get a laugh and were giving it out to mates.

Our financial situation had become very comfortable, although we still weren’t saving anything. We had settled into our roles: Paul as the brains of the outfit, and me as the body. It seemed that what had started as testing the market had now flourished into a profitable business that neither of us could quite make up our minds to forgo, despite its inherent risks.