Not Your Ordinary Housewife

20





Paul and I were working feverishly. He designed the logo for The Fun Club, featuring an innocuous exploding champagne bottle, and registered the business name. Our tiny Shoe Box became a hive of activity as all manner of people dropped in—from a string of aspiring starlets to the Commonwealth’s Deputy Chief Censor. Meanwhile, the telephone was ringing incessantly as I tried to keep pace with orders, phone calls and faxes.

Samples from the various suppliers started arriving by the boxload: transvestite goodies, including wigs, shoes and lingerie; rubber wear; cock toys; and leatherwear. Each delivery was met with squeals of laughter from the staff as items were paraded around the office in jest. It was the bizarre latex wear, however, that caused the most amusement.

‘Check this out,’ chortled Tanya. She was sitting knee-deep in styrofoam packing pellets and holding up a pair of large latex pants.

‘And look,’ said Tessa, reaching into the box. ‘There’s a similar pair with a dildo attached. The invoice calls them anatomical pants, but I can’t work this out—is it for guys or girls?’


‘I think it’s unisex—they’re what I wore in Movie 2,’ I said. Although I couldn’t imagine any woman in her right mind actually wanting to wear that.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Tanya. ‘It’s gotta be for guys who want the dildo up their arse. And look at this—it’s reversible! You can turn it inside out to have the latex penis on the outside.’ She donned the rubber ‘erection pants’ over her jeans and was cavorting around the office with the eight-inch black latex penis protruding from her lower abdomen. ‘This is like dress-ups.’ She laughed.

Tessa began putting on the bra and corset, and asked suggestively how she looked.

We all giggled. ‘Fabulous,’ I said, as I started trying to wriggle into a miniskirt. ‘I think we’ll need some talcum powder to get the gloves on, though.’

Tanya put on some AC/DC, cranking up the volume as we all danced to the beat.

‘What’s this?’ Tessa reached into the box and pulled out a full-faced hood. ‘I draw the line at that—it’s just too weird. Look— they’ve even sent some gloss spray, to keep it shiny.’

‘Yeah, I don’t get this whole latex fetish thing,’ added Tanya.

‘Don’t look at me,’ I said, slightly embarrassed. ‘Go ask Paul.’

Flora returned from the local stationery supplier armed with ring binders, folders and reams of pastel pink and blue photocopy paper for the video covers.

‘You’d better be careful with all that stuff,’ she admonished. ‘It costs a fortune and probably tears quite easily.’

Later, I went through the invoices with her; she was obviously concerned about our finances. Paul had been over-ordering in typical Paul fashion, never being one to do things in moderation. I confronted him about the objects he’d been purchasing after I’d had a chance to study the accounts.

‘I thought we were just going to try out a few specialty items. Judging by the amount of stuff here, we’ve enough to open a whole warehouse.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m only ordering one of everything . . . so I can check it out.’

‘Yeah, right—so you can try it out,’ I said.

There were three different types of enemas—the hospital disposable kit, a travelling douche and a whirling spray douche bulb. Then there were the cock toys: the cock cage, the 12-speed adjustable cock ring, the steel or neoprene cock rings in four different diameters. ‘You’re going overboard,’ I told him.

‘Trust me, it’ll sell,’ he said, claiming he needed the samples to do drawings and blurbs for the magazine.

‘But how many butt plugs do we need?’ I picked up an invoice lying on his desk and started reading aloud from the itemised list. ‘You’ve ordered the classic, the vibrating, the classic vibrating, the inflatable vibrating, the triple-ripple, the triple-ripple expanding . . .’

Paul interrupted. ‘Believe me, “back-door” stuff is very popular,’ he asserted.

‘Yeah—with you. You’re just indulging your own fantasies. Please . . . stop buying so much stuff.’

At least Paul had done exquisite drawings of all the items he planned to offer in the catalogue section of Flesh. He also wrote a sales pitch for each that showcased his copywriting skills. He placed advertisements offering free membership of The Fun Club in some of John’s newsletters—but the club in reality was just a mailing list with clever marketing: clients were promised a free magazine and received a printed business card with their name and Fun Club number. Still, membership requests were pouring in, all of which were entered on the database.

Paul’s vision for Flesh was slowly taking shape. It would be a kind of one-stop sex shop with as many contact ads as we could muster. He wrote an editorial, allegedly by me in my role as Fun Club secretary, in which he explained that we’d started the club as a hobby because we loved swinging so much. He told readers that the volume of membership requests we were getting from the flyers meant we’d have to charge a small forwarding fee for the contact ads to cover publishing costs. Interspersed with compelling crossheadings—such as ‘Help, we’re going broke!’ and ‘Way out of control!’—his editorial beseeched members to support the club by purchasing our new range of ‘goodies’. In truth, it was he who was way out of control, and there was very little I could do or say to rein him in.

Somehow, Paul managed to entice numerous people of myriad persuasions to place ads in the forthcoming magazine. Some even sent explicit photos. There were the usual groups from around the country: couples and threesomes, gay or bisexual girls and guys; transvestites and transsexuals; guys seeking girls or couples; and girls seeking guys. The ads were varied and interesting, and Paul edited them to maximise their reply potential.

While most were run-of-the-mill couples looking for a threesome, some were more interesting. They included ads placed by a travelling erotic piercer from rural New South Wales; a nudist club seeking couple memberships; and a professional Dominus (the male equivalent of a Dominatrix) interested in ‘refined enslavement of timid creatures’, to name but a few. One particularly touching ad was sent in by a self-confessed ‘shy closet TV’ wishing to meet couples who would allow him to cross-dress and do housework or chores in exchange for the freedom and opportunity to be himself.

Flesh would also contain one of Paul’s horny stories. Entitled ‘Three’s Company’, it was an erotic romp written about a threesome with a man I supposedly meet via a swingers’ contact magazine. Little asides—such as ‘There’s nothing like being f*cked by two guys at once’ and ‘I love it—and, lucky for you, I’ve got the photos to prove it’—peppered the text, as did the photos themselves. Taken during one of our video shoots, the explicit photos showed me with Paul and Tim: me with two cocks in my mouth, me having a triple penetration with Paul, Tim and a vibrator and then the climactic sandwich shot in which Paul f*cked me anally while Tim did so vaginally.

Paul completed the finished artwork for Flesh within days. He had previously registered the name and designed the logo; he was now liaising with the printers, the mailing house and our accountants at Deloittes. John Lark and Gerry Hercus were most impressed and agreed to sell the magazine in their supermarket chain, Fantasy Lane. The first issue would be black and white, with red spot colour; although only sixteen pages, it was expected that that would increase soon. It would have a cover price of $1.50, but would be free to Fun Club members.

Paul showed me the mock-up with great excitement as Tanya and Tessa looked on. The masthead boldly boasted the word Flesh in large red type. ‘How do you like my tag-line: The official organ of The Fun Club?’

‘Yeah, very clever.’ I chuckled. ‘The clients will love it.’

‘Yeah, and they’ll love the photo of you sucking that huge cock on the cover.’

I studied the picture. It was true—it was one of our better shots taken from our oral/cum photo set.

‘And have a read of the horny story,’ Paul urged. ‘I think even you will enjoy it.’

Paul never missed an opportunity to allude to my lack of interest in sex. I perused the text. It was masterful and there was no denying Paul’s uncanny gift for language—erotica in particular. I began reading at random.


Tanya and Tessa were in stitches as I acted out the text and affected a suitably breathless voice.

‘“I looked deep into Tim’s eyes before my lips slowly teased their way down and found his cock. I formed a little ‘O’ with my mouth, and teasingly sucked the tip of his prick in. Slowly, I worked my mouth all the way down his stiffening rod. My lips reached pubic hair and I stopped, holding his entire shaft in my mouth. I sucked gently and twirled lazily with my tongue, and I savoured the way his cock twitched and grew and filled my throat inch by inch as his erection reached its full glory. Tim shuddered with pleasure . . .”’

I paused. ‘Well, no doubt about it—you write a great horny story.’



The response to Flesh hit like a tidal wave. Everybody sang its praises. Paul’s mood was buoyant. He was more content than I’d seen him in years and I knew he’d finally found his niche: smut publishing. His ‘enemising’ and cross-dressing had stabilised and he was already planning the second issue.

Meanwhile, I devoted myself to the daily running of the business, attempting to keep pace with the phone calls and orders that were swamping us. We were outgrowing our tiny office as Paul continued ordering large quantities of the sexy goodies to keep up with demand. Our small staff was indispensable in sorting the orders, payments and queries, yet Paul was adamant we needed more employees.

Whenever possible, I tried to write personal letters to accompany the orders. Clients often asked me for advice concerning their personal lives, and at times I felt like an agony aunt. However, the sheer volume of orders meant that things needed to be highly organised if we had any hope of coping.

Paul had inserted a paragraph in Flesh about how we’d be happy to source unusual items and the clients were going berserk in response. I thought we should simplify things. To make my point, I began reading from a copy of the magazine lying on my desk. ‘“If you’re after anything in particular, we’ll be more than happy to find it for you, no matter how specialised. Blow-up sheep? Branding irons? A black rubber nun’s habit? You name it, we’ll try to get it for you, fast—the impossible takes a little longer.”’

‘Stop encouraging them,’ I implored him.

‘But we’re offering a boutique service.’

‘Have you seen some of the requests?’ I asked. ‘I mean, apart from the usual stuff, like leftover pubic hair from my shaving sessions . . .’

‘Well, I can help with that,’ offered the affable Tanya. She was already helping sign my freebie letters—luckily she was left-handed too.

‘Yeah.’ Paul laughed. ‘But how would you explain having orange pubes all of a sudden?’ It was true: Tanya was a strawberry blonde.

Paul sipped his coffee contemplatively. ‘But maybe Tanya can help prepare the knickers—like when you’ve got your period.’

‘Well, possibly—it might be the only way we’ll keep up with the panty-sniffers.’

‘Sure, I don’t mind.’ Tanya giggled. ‘I’ll see if we can source the zip-lock bags in bulk.’

‘But there are guys wanting truly weird stuff.’ I grabbed a handful of letters from my file labelled Too Hard Basket and read out some of the requests. ‘What about this? “Can you get some Spanish Fly, as I need some for my dogs to mate?” Or this: “I am interested in a speculum for anal use”.’ I joked that I could ask my gynaecologist at my next check-up. ‘And perhaps he could also help with the guy who wants a picture of the inside of my vagina!’

Yet another one wanted a Hong Kong–made penis massager with a clear tube and pink bulb. Talk about specific—he’d even drawn a picture. One guy wanted the movies Her Majesty’s Foot Slave and Dominant Tutor, but at least had a sense of humour because, at the end of his letter, he’d written: Really madam, I haven’t done anything wrong.

I didn’t want to disappoint all these people, I told Paul. ‘But we just can’t keep up with all this—we have to streamline everything. And meanwhile, they’re all demanding another video.’

‘Well, we’re just too busy at the moment,’ said Paul firmly. ‘Our future is in publishing and sex aids, not videos. You know how this tax has affected us.’

Paul had a point: the new tax was taking its toll on video sales, but he wasn’t listening to my calls for restraint. He was like the proverbial kid in a candy store and continued to order even more sex aids and transvestite apparel, indulging his every whim. Still, I had to admit, he had a nose for what the clients liked.

‘I think we’ve tapped into the transvestite market, too,’ he said proudly. ‘I feel like we’re providing a kind of community service for these guys.’ Indeed, the orders for the TV gear were substantial. I knew from their letters how grateful they were. I’d been corresponding with several, and sometimes they wrote to me when they were all ‘frocked up’. Many were sending photos of themselves as well.

I told Paul about one who’d sent a ‘transformed’ photo of himself. Together we looked at the shot of ‘Cherie’ on her bed with a bad wig, hairy arms and no breasts. ‘Listen to what he’s written,’ I said. ‘“Nikki, do you think I could pass for a woman, or do I require extra work? I’d like to hear your valued opinion. Love Bruce (Cherie).” What am I going to say?’ I turned to Paul, explaining that there was no way he could pass as a woman, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. ‘Maybe you could write to him.’

‘I don’t have time. Just suggest he get some breast prostheses. Actually, I was going to source some from our surgical supplier who sends the enema kits. And he definitely has to wax his arms . . . Or he could just buy a pair of our long Lycra gloves.’

I showed Paul another photo. This guy definitely needed a new hairpiece, but he was asking me what style would enhance his feminine appearance. I didn’t have a clue.

‘Tell him to get something soft and curly,’ said Paul, offhandedly. ‘You know—the Farrah Fawcett look.’

Tanya reminded us about a guy from the previous week. He’d been staying with a mate and his missus; after they’d both gone to work, he put on some of her clothes and rang to speak to me.

‘Yeah, well, luckily I wasn’t here,’ I said. I strongly suspected that his own wife had probably kicked him out.



The controversy over the crippling video tax had put the issue of pornography squarely on the national political agenda. John told us that The Australian was doing a spread on the industry, and asked whether we wanted to be included. We were, after all, becoming a fixture on the Canberra pornographic landscape. I hesitated, but Paul was adamant it would lift our profile.

A journalist and photographer duly arrived, interviewed us and took pictures. The resulting article appeared in the Australian Magazine on the weekend of 6–7 October 1990. Titled ‘Loot for Lust’, it was spread over a whopping seven pages, with numerous glossy photos. There were extensive interviews with Robbie Swan, John Lark and others, who described their operations and how they came into the industry.

The journo mentioned our ‘thriving little enterprise, which may be the most amazing and incredible of all’ and described us as: Nikki, the Horny Housewife (BA, BSc, Dip Ed)—a product of the exclusive Methodist Ladies College—and her bespectacled Dutch husband, Paul, 26, who declares: ‘Between us, we probably have the most photographed genitals in the Southern Hemisphere’.


How I wished he hadn’t said that to the reporter. It was something we’d joked about in private, but it sounded like he was boasting.

‘It’s probably true,’ countered Paul.

‘Maybe,’ I conceded, ‘but what a claim to fame.’

‘Just think about all the zillions of photo shoots we’ve done, including the strip shows and the stuff in Melbourne, and I reckon no-one else would come close—certainly not in Australia.’ He thought that maybe some porn princess in Sweden or the States might rival us, but no-one in the Southern Hemisphere. ‘I don’t think there’s much happening in South America or Africa, or I would have heard about it.’ Paul was mentally counting off all the continents. ‘Actually,’ he concluded, ‘we probably have the most photographed genitals in the world.’

‘Jeez, Paul—enough already.’ This was going to his head.

‘And, by the way, we already have the best-selling porn movies in Australia.’

I thought he was kidding—I had no idea.

‘Yeah, Movie 2 is breaking records,’ Paul gloated.

‘Well, it’s just not something to be proud of. In fact, I feel deeply ashamed, but I manage to forget about it most of the time. Maybe I’m in denial, but it’s my way of coping. It’s not like this was what I had wanted to do when I grew up—I wanted to be an architect, but Egon thought a five-year course was too long and pressured me to accept a teaching studentship . . . Ironic really, because I spent eight years at university anyway.’

‘It’s not too late, you know,’ said Paul, telling me I could still do a course.

‘But I’m thirty-four.’ That was something The Australian got wrong: saying I was 28, plus implying I was a teacher. I had a Diploma of Educational Psychology, not a Diploma of Education.

‘And why did you say all that stuff about married men who like to cross-dress,’ I asked, ‘and the problems they have in getting court shoes that fit?’ It seemed disingenuous. ‘You’re one of them and you should have owned up—rather than pretending to refer to other men.’

Paul didn’t answer and quickly changed the subject. ‘By the way, you look gorgeous and very sexy in the picture.’

The shot was of me in my black torsolette with fishnets and high heels sitting on Paul’s lap while he sat at his computer. ‘I look awful,’ I said. ‘And your desk is so messy. I hadn’t noticed at first, but Bruiser could just be seen sitting under the desk. That’s your second published photo taken with a German shepherd,’ I commented.

‘Yeah, but at least I’m in focus this time—not like in Campaign.’ He laughed. Despite everything, we could still enjoy each other’s company.



The recent success of Flesh and The Fun Club had created a new-found intimacy between Paul and me. I could never forget the ugliness of Paul’s behaviour after Dory’s death, but we did have a working relationship again. He had regained a shred of my respect after I saw his raw talent in action as he put the magazine together. Perhaps Richard Brautigan had been right: no longer a teenage wunderkind, Paul had morphed into a 26-year-old genius.

I still wanted to have another child and I had been thinking long and hard about it. I was financially independent, and the money we were making from the Horny Housewife operations was icing on the cake. Even if I left Paul, I could support Shoshanna and a baby on my own.

When I asked him directly whether he felt up to impregnating me, he sniggered. ‘You just want me for my body.’

It was a sore point for both of us. He knew I no longer found him attractive and I felt guilty. ‘Well, no. Actually, I want you for your sperm.’

That evening, in a rather unromantic and awkward embrace, we had sex. I lay there, wanting it to be over as soon as possible and hoping that the time was right for me to conceive.