Not Your Ordinary Housewife

15





Operating a legal porn business in the ACT meant acquiring a licence from the government. The problem with video pirates was a constant one, and this system was a means of keeping track of legitimate operators. One of John’s contacts, a retired senior public servant, had a small sideline completing the complex paperwork for the porn industry. Our application was successful—we were licensee #20—and each month, we had to send a fifty-dollar cheque to the ACT Revenue Office.

As the printing deadline for John’s mailer drew near, Paul began a filming frenzy. Through one of our stripper ads we met Duncan, who offered his professional services—in front of, and behind, the camera. He worked in the parliamentary studios of the ABC as a sound technician and was in training to be a cameraman. Besides his regular gig on Channel 2’s Lateline each night, we would often see him on the nightly news holding the boom microphone for some senator or other. He even gave us a tour of the ABC studios—through strict security—and it provided a fascinating insight into the workings of parliament.

After a hardcore photographic screen test, we scheduled a camera shoot at our Reid home. Duncan proved to be a consummate professional: not only was he technically savvy, but his good looks, toned physique and pleasant disposition made him ideal to work with.

Paul wrote a rough treatment for our first legitimate movie. It was to open with me undressing to reveal a pink lacy corset, white fishnets and high heels. As I lay provocatively on the bed, Paul responded to my announcement of how horny I was by shouting off camera, ‘Start without me!’ I quickly progressed from ‘fingers only’ to simultaneously inserting anal and vaginal vibrators. To everyone’s surprise, me included, I came for real. While it was a relief not to have to fake it, I regarded it merely as a measure of my disengagement from all around me while I pleasured myself.

Paul entered and we engaged in a 69. We bantered as he complimented me on my sucking, admonishing me not to ‘talk with my mouth full’. We ad-libbed, chatting about the mess his friends left after a fictitious party; I couldn’t resist needling him that cleaning up would be a novel experience for him. As always, Paul came on cue, spilling his semen onto my rump.

With Paul filming, Duncan’s screen debut saw me sucking him and then f*cking him reverse-cowgirl style: me straddling him backwards, with my face and his feet to the camera. Reiterating how horny I was, I expressed the usual pornographic utterances of ‘F*ck me! F*ck me harder!’ Even the phone unexpectedly ringing in the next room caused him no consternation, and he maintained his proud erection throughout the shoot. The scene climaxed with a double-penetration sandwich shot and me proclaiming how much I loved two cocks at once. I had once upon a time been inhibited in my dirty talk, but I was learning fast.

The resulting stills proved to be high quality and, on reviewing the video rushes, Paul estimated there was at least half an hour of usable footage. I fast-forwarded randomly through it: I’d long ago learnt to detach from such images. I’d become desensitised and aloof, assessing the mechanical thrustings only in terms of camera angles, lighting and other technicalities. I had slipped effortlessly into my Horny Housewife role, but I privately longed to leave this salacious world of sleaze.



Serendipitously, one of my regular Watch & Wankers was coming to Canberra and requested a private session. He was staying in the ACT’s premier hotel on Capital Hill—the Pavilion—and offered me the use of the suite after he’d left. This was too good an opportunity to miss, and so we arranged a shoot for the afternoon.

Via the fire escape, we smuggled the cameras, monitors and lighting equipment up to the top floor of the four-and-a-half-star hotel, thus bypassing the main lobby with its cavernous canvas-roofed atrium. The honeymoon suite, which boasted a sumptuous granite bathroom with a spa, would provide quality production values. To my amusement, there was also a splendid view of the iconic parliamentary spire.

As it happened, my old Brashs boss, with whom we’d stayed in touch, was teaching video courses for their Canberra store and offered to film for us. There was also no shortage of volunteer male performers, stills photographers and gaffers. In addition, we’d contacted one of John Lark’s starlets. Humorously named after that Central Australian oasis, ‘Alice Springs’ agreed to be in our movie.

The majority of the action involved girl-on-girl footage, with me and Alice romping around in the bubble bath. Both of us naked, we began by kissing and caressing each other’s breasts. She sat on the spa ledge as I rubbed her *oris and tested out our new waterproof G-spot vibrator, which she then turned on me. The action escalated as we engaged in sex talk and moaning. Only later did I realise that our orgasmic oratorios could well have been heard in the adjacent rooms.

A scene with Alice masturbating on the bed was followed by both of us in lingerie doing a 69. I was having a hard time trying not to gag; I was worried that viewers would be able to tell that I wasn’t enjoying myself and I fervently hoped that the footage would be usable. Nevertheless, we licked each other while she pumped two vibrators into both my orifices.

The action progressed until the various men entered for an orgy scene. Paul directed all camera angles and shots: he and I were having anal sex as I was sucking and f*cking some of the other males. The culmination was a series of cum shots, in which all and sundry orgasmed for the cameras. The shoot ran late into the night, but by the end we had enough footage for the pivotal segment in what we were calling Movie 1 and part of Movie 2.

We filmed a brief talking head, emphasising the fact that we were now in the ACT and legal: ‘Hi, I’m Nikki, the Horny Housewife, and I’m coming to you live from Canberra. This movie features me and hubby and a few friends doing all kinds of naughty things . . . Well, I hope you have half as much fun watching it as I had making it.’


All that remained was to devise some simple titles on a whiteboard. Paul filmed me as I wrote: The Horny Housewife Home Movie, starring Nikki as herself, Hubby and friends. I was keen to record myself singing an improvisation or playing one of my own guitar compositions; but instead, Paul insisted on playing some blues riffs on harmonica while I drew a cartoon face with a speech bubble reading Enjoy.

John gave us access to his editing suite, where Paul put the 72-minute movie together. There was a preview screening for John’s top executives and all involved seemed most impressed. We still needed to decide on a stage name for me.

Paul announced his suggestion. ‘McNeil. What do you reckon?’

‘Great name.’ I laughed. ‘You know I love all things Scottish.’

‘Yeah, it’s gotta be something totally unremarkable to go with the whole housewife theme,’ said Paul. ‘And it’s Anglo-Saxon— well, Celtic—so you won’t seem ethnic. The clients will go for that.’

‘What’s wrong with ethnic?’ I asked indignantly. I was sure that if I ever found my birth parents, I’d turn out to be a ‘wog’.

With the name decided, Paul set about designing the cover. He wanted it to be deliberately unprofessional. He showed me the mockup, asking my opinion as he turned the computer screen towards me. ‘It can’t be too slick, or it won’t go with the amateurish theme.’

I looked at the text and the stark black-and-white image. He had used the 0055 Fantasy Line graphic of me in lingerie with my legs kicked in the air. Paul cleared his throat and proudly read out the blurb. ‘Nikki McNeil IS The Horny Housewife. If you’re sick and tired of seeing the same old American actors playing the same old weak scripts and seeing one minute of sex for every ten minutes of dialogue, then this is the movie for you. It really IS home-made, the actors aren’t actors, and the action is non-stop, shot just as it happened—the real thing. This is what happens when Aussie swingers get together and party all night.’

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit over the top.’

Paul assured me it was fine. ‘Besides, it’s true; you know what those American movies are like.’

‘No, actually.’ I’d never ever seen a porn movie, American or otherwise. It was just not something I’d ever had any interest in.

‘Well, I’ll watch some with you. Out of professional interest, of course!’



Paul was immensely proud of his work and I had to admit that his flair for marketing was superb. All that remained was to send it to our contact at the Attorney-General’s Department, where it would be officially classified.

I called my mate Mitch in Melbourne. We’d only ever met once, but had spent hours on the phone and formed a friendship. He would amuse me with stories of the workings of the Attorney-General’s censorship department: how the movies were classified with the use of a clinical spreadsheet with headings such as Full-Frontal Nudity, Erection Visible, Penetration and so on. The classifier would record a series of ticks and crosses in the appropriate boxes, also documenting the rough duration of each event via the time code.

It was clear that our movie would be X-rated, because it showed erections and penetration. I also wanted to get our photos classified, even though this was voluntary. As Mitch explained, there was no such thing as X-rated photos; the photographic version of an X-rated movie would only ever be rated R category 2 (R category 1 being so-called soft porn). He promised he would issue the classifying X certificate immediately, and indeed we got the notification within days.

Paul’s plan was to offer another freebie photo via a group flyer John was about to send out. He’d already selected the image: shot by a professional, it featured me in black lingerie and manacles, staring down the barrel of the camera with a ‘f*ck me’ expression. Most importantly, it had a clear view of Paul’s cock shoved way up my rear passage. It was the perfect shot: the lighting and colours all combined to produce an aesthetically pleasing photo that Paul assured me was erotic. But we would still need to find a film lab that would not have any moral objection to duplicating the negative in the anticipated vast quantities of prints we would need.

Our ad in the flyer would have simple text on a pink background. The other ads featured various video specials, with glossy photos and fancy text. Our ad would stand out through its sheer simplicity.

Paul read aloud from his computer screen the copy he had prepared for this ad: ‘Bored, horny housewife is sick of watching soapies—sex is much more fun. I’d love to send you a long, dirty letter and action photograph free of charge.’

Paul’s stroke of genius was to put in big bold letters: DO NOT SEND MONEY. He assured me the clients would love that and we’d be swamped. All he’d requested was that they send a large stamped, self-addressed envelope to our post-office box.

I didn’t want any trouble with minors getting unsolicited stuff, so he agreed to add a sentence or two. He read these additions out to me as he typed them. ‘Dear Nikki, please send me some sample goodies. I understand that they are not available to persons under eighteen years. The material may be offensive.’ Paul laughed. ‘They’ll love that: it’s a selling point.’ He continued, ‘I certify by my signature that I am over eighteen years.’

He planned to get stickers printed up, saying Category 2 Restricted Warning: this material may cause offence. In response to all the requests we got from this ad, he would wrap up the freebie photo inside his four-page freebie letter—most of which comprised the two new horny stories he’d written—and send this off, together with an order form, all sealed with the warning sticker.

This time we’d get the letter professionally printed—but I would personally sign each one. ‘It’s got the usual soft sell for the video,’ he assured me, ‘plus I thought we could sell photo sets . . . you know: anal, bi girl, threesome, whatever.’

In the weeks leading up to the flyer deadline, I left to Paul the intricacies of the mail-order business while I spent quality time with Shoshanna. I had all but ceased work at the brothel and had more spare time now. She was settling in beautifully at Ainslie Primary School and I often took her on short excursions. We would walk to the war memorial or along Anzac Parade, where she would play on the sculptures—her favourite was The Rats of Tobruk. I lived for these brief moments of intimacy with my child, when I could pretend that my life was normal.

Paul returned to the Shoe Box one day, very excited, saying he’d found a reliable professional photo processor—Fletchers Fotographics in Civic, run by some Dutchmen. Paul always gravitated towards his fellow countrymen, relishing the opportunity to speak Nederlands.

‘Yeah, and naturally, being from Holland, they’ve got no problem with processing porn,’ he said. ‘And you’ll never guess what the funniest thing is?’

‘I have no idea.’ I sighed.

‘There’s a testimonial on the wall. It’s from none other than our dear prime minister, Paul Keating. He gets his photos developed there, too—maybe ’cos his wife’s Dutch. Anyway, I love the idea that we share a photo processor.’

The day prior to the mail-out, Paul picked up the four-page freebie letter from the printers. He was brimming with pride as he carried the boxes into our office.


‘Well, if it’s anything to go by, all the guys in the print shop read the letter and loved it. They wanted samples to take home.’ Paul had promised to put them on our mailing list—they’d said it was the sexiest stuff they’d ever done. It had caused quite a stir. ‘You’ve already got a little fan club,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what do you think?’

I looked at the pastel pink paper printed with its clunky typography. ‘It definitely looks amateurish.’ I laughed. I was thinking that we’d need to stock up on pretty pink pens and that I was going to get writer’s cramp signing all those letters.

So the flyer went out as planned and we sat back waiting for the influx of orders.