Not Your Ordinary Housewife

18





Out of the blue, John Lark proposed another business venture. He was impressed with the way we were running ‘Housewife Headquarters’ and wanted to cut another deal. In the adjoining office space he ran an operation called Phone Sex Girls, in which the stars of his movies operated an erotic telephone service. The ‘girls’ were unreliable and disorganised, and he wanted Paul to turn it into a money-making venture. Again, we would do a fifty-fifty split.

Immediately, Paul’s excitement took control, but I was dubious and we argued. I pointed out that it was already a failing business. ‘Why do you think John doesn’t want it? And what makes you think you can turn it around?’

‘You know how I am with marketing anything to do with sex,’ said Paul haughtily.

However, I thought things could get complicated with twelve new employees on our books. ‘It means extra wages, tax, insurance . . .’

‘But we’ve got Flora now,’ Paul protested.

‘Yeah, and we’ve also got our videos selling like hot cakes.’ With the clients screaming for another home movie, I thought we should concentrate on that. ‘Anyway, some of these girls are dodgy.’

Paul was derisive. ‘You just can’t see the big picture. You’re always so f*cking conservative.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I can see the big picture—where we go broke.’

Eventually I agreed to a trial period, although I’d met the women and wasn’t overly impressed. Paul streamlined the operation, working out new price structures and writing scripts for them. He whipped up numerous ‘fantasies’—from the simple masturbation scenario to the more complex B& D role-play. Using his Brashs training, he coached them in how to turn an enquiry into a sale by asking a series of leading questions and how to take their credit card details in as subtle a way as possible.

Almost immediately, the operation was beset with problems. Unbeknown to us, several of the women were on drugs; also, one’s abusive boyfriend would visit in the wee hours of the morning. We hired a security guard, but then one of the women began an affair with him, which created tensions. Then another’s car broke down and Paul had to get up to drive her home. At other times, they simply wouldn’t turn up and I was forced to fill in for their shift.

In a last-ditch attempt to save the business, Paul recruited some of the women into a six-way lesbian shoot. Given that the most common male fantasy was seeing women together, he theorised that if our employees offered explicit photos of themselves it might boost sales. And despite my promise that I’d quit porn, I agreed to this, vowing that it would be the last shoot I’d do.

Finding a date that suited everyone, fitting their lingerie and getting their model release forms signed all proved to be a logistical nightmare. After our previous experience with Abigail, we were meticulous in explaining what was required. Of the five women, only two of them had previously been in John’s porn movies, including the beautiful Nioka—Australia’s first indigenous porn star. Because the rest were screen novices, we opted for a photo shoot only; to their credit, all performed beautifully. There was plenty of sucking and vibrators, fingers and strap-ons.

Although ‘p-ssy perfume’ always made me retch, it was a fun shoot—for a change. There was lots of laughter as we tried to arrange ourselves into contorted positions for the camera; the photos reflected the frivolity.

These photographs gave the Phone Sex Girls a last spurt of success, but ultimately Paul decided it would never be a viable proposition. Reluctantly we closed the doors on the business, retaining two of the more talented women to assist us with the Horny Housewife operations. Tanya and Tessa were delightful to work with, and we merrily chatted while filing orders or despatching videos. Flora’s gravitas added a touch of reality as we settled into a routine.

I always asked the women to hold on to any interesting correspondence, and every so often we would stop to read out a letter that amused us.

‘Look at this,’ cried Tanya, waving a neatly written three-page letter in the air. ‘It arrived today from a retired army major. He’s crazy about you . . . says you have the most beautiful face . . . “lips that would send any man into raptures and a pair of breasts that are absolute perfection” . . . and he reckons you’ve got the shapeliest legs since Betty Grable.’


‘Great,’ I said. I was flattered to be compared to the famous pin-up girl of World War II. ‘Did you know she had her legs insured for a million dollars?’

‘No, but listen,’ continued Tanya, who wasn’t interested in trivia. ‘He’s ordering another pair of your knickers.’ He’d written his whole knicker-sniffing history—how he started with his older sister’s at fourteen, and then progressed to aunts and cousins who’d visit.

We all crowded around as Tanya read the copperplate script aloud. ‘“The dirty linen basket was a happy hunting ground for me then . . . And when I was in Vietnam, my wife would regularly send me knickers she’d worn for not one, but two days, wrapping them in cling wrap to preserve the scent”.’

We received numerous letters from such men. One day we had a request from a guy in Port Pirie that I piss on the panties I send him for his next order, so he could suck out the pee.

‘Jeez, that would be a packaging nightmare,’ said Tanya, who usually took care of such things.

‘Is that legal to send through Australia Post?’ I queried. I figured there was probably some obscure postal regulation about ‘noxious substances’ or ‘hazardous waste’. ‘I’m curious now.’ I giggled.

‘I’ll look into it, if you like,’ offered the always-helpful Tanya.

‘Well, there’s no way I’m gonna break the law,’ I said emphatically. ‘Imagine being busted for that—not that I’m contemplating doing it . . . But imagine the headlines: “Pissed Panties Posted to Port Pirie”!’

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘he’d rather see me in person, because he said something about wanting to guzzle my pee while it was dripping out of my cunt, which he would then lick clean and dry.’

‘God, these guys have vivid imaginations,’ said Tanya, who was still unaccustomed to the candour of some of my correspondents.

‘Yeah, but you get used to all this,’ I explained apologetically. ‘After a while, your idea of what’s normal shifts.’

I called out to Paul, who was sitting at his corner desk, eavesdropping on our exchange with bemusement. ‘Hey, remember that guy who wanted me to send him “Pissy Knickers”—what did he say exactly?’

Unlike me, Paul could remember conversations or text verbatim. ‘He said, “Could you make them wet—just a few drops of urine and brown from your arse—thanks. I would be your slave, obey your every command, suck your toes or whatever pleased you. You could use me as your toilet”.’

We all laughed. ‘It must be my marketing,’ said Paul cockily. ‘Calling the knickers a Scratch ’n’ Sniff set on the order form—it makes them laugh.’



The volume of mail was such that it no longer fitted into the large post-office box in Fyshwick. Instead, the local postie—nicknamed ‘Bongo’—would deposit an Australia Post sack of mail in our office each day. We bought a motorised letter opener to cope with the daily deluge of mail. Feedback from the clients was supremely encouraging: they raved about the wall-to-wall action and the fact that there were no formulaic dialogue scenes to fast-forward through; and they loved how everyone, except for Paul, had Australian accents. Many hailed it as the horniest porn they’d ever seen. Paul had sensed correctly that the market for American-style fake plots had run its course; indeed, much of my fan mail demanded to see another video.

Paul and I set to work on Movie 2, employing only old material. We used some bi-girl footage with Lexie, the beautifully buxom woman with a hint of Asian blood, which Paul edited into the major segment. She was a natural at porn, and Paul proclaimed that our shower scene, where we shaved each other’s pubic hair, was the sexiest footage he’d ever seen. After sampling a series of vibrators and douches, including a phallic stainless-steel shower attachment, we adjourned to the bedroom. Numerous toys were road-tested amid the standard lesbian fare. After she’d f*cked me anally with several vibrators, I f*cked her doggy style with a large strap-on dildo. While my orgasms were faked, I always wondered if hers weren’t real.

A second segment was edited from the unused portion of the Pavilion hotel footage. Several ring-ins, one wearing a mask to preserve his anonymity, completed my four-guy gang bang. Naturally, our meagre budget didn’t allow for ‘fluffers’, but somehow I managed to keep all erections up.

A splendid touch of authenticity occurred when the phone rang unexpectedly. As it happened, it was the Watch & Wank client who’d paid for the room. He’d thoughtfully called to see how the shoot was progressing, not realising that the camera was rolling and I was mid-f*ck while conversing with him. After the usual anal sandwich, we captured that most elusive of all shots: the cum shot, where several of the guys came on my buttocks and breasts.

Paul was adamant that we include a B& D scenario to add variety to the otherwise straight and bi mix in the rest of the movie. So we used a kinky champagne-enema scene in the kitchen of a client—a senior tax office accountant—that we’d shot soon after arriving in Canberra. Besides my high heels, I wore all black rubber—stockings, gloves and dildo panties, the thick black cock of which was inserted in my cunt; Paul wore just a rubber jockstrap. Thoroughly immobilised, with my manacled hands clipped to a neck collar, I got on all fours on the cold kitchen floor as Paul assembled the three-piece enema kit he’d bought at the pharmacy. Suspending the enema bladder, with attached hose and rectal nozzle, from a hook above my head, he filled the gravity-feed pouch with champagne—pink, for visibility purposes. He then inserted the rectal tip and turned on the tiny tap so the cold bubbly filled my bowels; the double penetration of large black cock and enema completed the fantasy. Later, I fellated Paul before he f*cked my cleansed rectum, coming on my backside.

Back in the Shoe Box, we filmed the talking-head intro, outro and bridging segments, emphasising the fact that our movie was 100 per cent Australian made. Paul’s sense of humour got the better of him as he scripted my assessment of the gang-bang scene with me proclaiming: ‘Well, that was great, but I couldn’t walk for a week.’

In truth, I had been sore. I never enjoyed anal sex with its associated cleansing enema and fervently hoped my grimaces were interpreted as extreme ecstasy rather than the torture it was. It had taken all of my limited acting ability to persuade those around me that I was a sex-craved bisexual who loved being gang-banged. If not for the anaesthetic cream I used, I don’t think I could have borne the pain.

Paul edited the movie using John’s facilities and again I called on my friend Mitch in the Attorney-General’s Department to expedite the classification process. We also sorted out more photo sets to offer for sale. The Six-Way Lesbian set proved very popular, as did the new School Girl Bondage with Paul’s florid copy stating: Hand-cuffed wrist and ankles, I get f*cked in every hole while wearing my old MLC uniform. A new catalogue was being despatched soon and Paul was determined that the Movie 2 release date should coincide with this. The cover was identical to that of Movie 1 except for the numeral ‘2’, and was photocopied on pastel blue rather than pink paper.

In addition, John’s operation had a multitude of 0055 numbers they were using for advertising. Telecom had finally relaxed its stringent restrictions—as we’d suspected they would—and we were able to record and advertise messages without fear of disconnection. Clients were calling our Housewife Hotline in droves, where they would hear my message delivered in a sultry sotto voce. Starting with a brief description of myself, I would progress to outlining the videos and photos that were on offer, directing clients to our post-office box or phone number.


The sense of isolation I had been feeling since Dory’s death had not abated, but I was being distracted by all this business activity. The irony of promoting myself as a Horny Housewife had not escaped either Paul or me, but true to my word, I remained resolutely celibate.