Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (17 page)

Paul had decided: we would place an ad in
ACM
with a picture from Ken’s photo shoot of Paul fucking me doggy style. My expression was ecstatic and the text described us as a horny couple seeking a male for fun times and possible threesomes. We procured a post-office box which, not too surprisingly, was soon overwhelmed with mail.

‘Jeez, look at all these letters,’ said Paul, sifting through the mountains of correspondence. ‘Most of the guys have sent photos, too.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘of their dicks.’

It was true: there were numerous polaroid photos taken from above the owner’s penis. Paul asked if any appealed to me, but I was emphatic: ‘I can’t just fancy a penis. It’s got to have a person attached.’

He encouraged me to check them out anyway, so I riffled through the array of photos. Admittedly, they weren’t all of penises: some men had sent passport photos or family snaps. One even sent a wedding photo.

‘No, I’m sorry, but I just don’t fancy them. You should be pleased—I only want you.’

‘Well, read the letters—they can’t all be perverts,’ persisted Paul. I reluctantly agreed to have a look, telling him not to hold his breath.

I inspected the pile: I was fascinated by the variety of handwriting styles and amused by the number of correspondents whose writing deteriorated as they masturbated. There certainly seemed to be a vast cross-section of men replying to the ad. Some had attached their curriculum vitae, while others, barely literate, gave little more than a phone number.

All the letters had several things in common: without exception, the writers loved my photo and wanted to meet me. Many also raised the possibility of watching me masturbate or having sex, offering large sums of money. Still more wanted to photograph and video me. I hadn’t realised how deeply entrenched voyeurism was in the male psyche. I was also struck by how many seemed to be married.

‘Listen to this,’ I said, laughing. ‘This guy says to call between 0500 and 0530, any weekday except Tuesdays.’

‘Yeah—like you’re gonna get up to call him then!’

‘Alternatively, he says I can call between 1900 and 2100 hours— that’s what? seven and nine p.m.—on a Monday.’ I’d always had trouble with 24-hour time.

Paul joked that we’d have to draw up a roster. For this correspondent, my instructions were specific: I had to ask for Angus and say it was about the Army Reserves . . . But if a woman answered, I was to hang up. Presumably, he didn’t want his wife to find out. ‘She probably has netball practice on those nights,’ Paul conjectured.

‘So, are you going to call anyone? What about this guy . . . Ewan?’ Paul picked up a neatly written letter. ‘He says he owns a neon factory, so you can call during business hours. He’s not offering to pay, but his picture looks great.’

It was certainly by far the best we’d received. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

Paul pestered me, as I knew he would. Despite my good intentions to try and enjoy marital relations again, it hadn’t happened. Because we were on a sexual hiatus, I thought that maybe this was what we needed to spice up our love-life, so I called Ewan to set up a meeting at the Warrandyte pub. He turned out to be very sweet, and after a drink together I decided to proceed with The Deed by bringing him back to our house.

I hadn’t slept with anyone except Paul for years, and felt awkward and nervous. I wanted Paul to understand that I was doing this for him—as a last-ditch attempt to resurrect our marriage.

The three of us sat awkwardly on the mattress which we had dragged into our lounge room. I undressed the two of them as they did me, sucking one then the other. I was watching for signs that Paul was turned on by Ewan, but nothing sexual seemed to pass between them. Ewan proved to be a considerate lover but, although I liked him a lot as a person, it felt wrong to be fucking him. Paul suggested I lie back while the two of them pleasured me. Fingers, tongues, vibrators all worked overtime, but I was having trouble relaxing. And when Paul pushed for a ‘sandwich’ I baulked, finishing him off quickly with a hand job instead.

Later, I was left with an aching hollowness. Paul had plainly enjoyed the experience, but I felt alienated and disconnected—from both of them.

‘Don’t ask me to have another threesome,’ I said angrily after Ewan had gone home.

‘Okay, okay, but I think you should reply to some of these guys offering us money. Shoshanna’s in creche two days a week and all we have to do is fuck.’ Admittedly, Paul could always maintain an erection, so he wasn’t likely to get stage fright. In fact, he instructed me to call up and say I was happy for them to watch while I masturbated, even though I knew that that would feel very bizarre. I still wasn’t comfortable with such public exhibitionism of private acts. ‘If you tell them they’re welcome to wank, it won’t feel so strange,’ Paul reassured me.

He pointed out that most of them would be married, so theoretically they were still being faithful. Plus, it was ‘safe sex’—they wouldn’t get AIDS from watching. He told me to explain to them that he would be available to join in if they liked.

With trepidation, I phoned a few. My nervousness was unfounded, as all were polite and seemingly normal. Invariably, they were happy to have us visit them at home or in a hotel room, and I filled our diary with appointments.

In fact, the clients were usually more nervous than I was— something I found endearing. To put them at ease, I’d begin the session alone while Paul waited elsewhere. Dressed in a business suit, I started with a gentle striptease down to my lingerie. I used two vibrators—one vaginally, the other anally—to tantalise them. More often than not, Paul would join the proceedings at this stage.

Starting with oral sex, we progressed through a variety of positions as we moaned and groaned our way to orgasm. As we climaxed, Paul would withdraw his penis, coming on my back or breasts. Sometimes the clients managed to time things so that the three of us experienced a simultaneous orgasm. Paul coined the term ‘Watch & Wanks’ to describe our activities.

Before long, we were getting repeat business. Typically, we arrived at our location with a large suitcase containing all manner of equipment. I called it the Suitcase of Sex. Paul insisted on buying several more torsolettes and see-through teddies, plus an array of suspenders, stockings and high heels—in all conceivable colours and styles. There was also an assortment of bondage gear, including manacles, spreader bars, whips and nipple clamps.

Paul was again spending more than we were making. We needed to save—even a little. ‘How many more vibrators do we need?’ I asked plaintively.

When he claimed it was for the clients, I got angry. ‘No, it’s you who loves all these “toys”.’ I knew they’d be happy just to see me naked, using my fingers. ‘Look at all these vibrators: black, gold, silver, pink, purple, fluoro, flesh-coloured—single-pronged, double-pronged, anal, glow in the dark, underwater. This is crazy!’

‘But it gives them the choice.’

‘You’re going overboard,’ I said. ‘Stop buying this shit.’

Paul couldn’t help himself. What was concerning was that he was using some of the vibrators anally on himself as well. He also bought himself a plethora of butt plugs and other anal gadgets, plus a variety of gels, creams and lubricants. He had stopped cross-dressing but he was becoming anally fixated, once even shoving a tampon into his anus.

He complained because our personal sex life was still in remission. ‘You only ever fuck me when there’s a client around. All our clients assume we have a rip-roaring sex life, but we don’t.’

I just didn’t feel like sex any more—with anyone. ‘I used to enjoy it, but it’s been spoiled for me. You’ve done that,’ I said. ‘You’ve cheapened the whole act, and now I can’t see it as an expression of intimacy or love.’

‘Well, if I’d known that . . .’

‘What? You wouldn’t have coerced me into this whole thing? That’s bullshit. You’re into the money. It’s like I’m a commodity you’re marketing—and you’re very good at it. And, yes, it’s an easy way to make a lot of money—but that doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.’

‘But I love you,’ Paul protested.

‘Yeah, right.’

I just didn’t think I could respect him any more. I didn’t think I could respect myself either. For some stupid reason, which I didn’t quite understand, I wanted to please him. I couldn’t say no and he’d managed to talk me into crazy things that, years ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. I was shocked by how quickly my morals had evaporated. ‘You’ve changed me—corrupted me.’

‘Hang on—you were quite willing.’

‘Well, I wasn’t to start with.’ I hadn’t bargained for this kind of life . . . but we were in too deep now. Of course I liked the money, however, I’d much rather Paul was studying or had a steady job.

He wanted me to get a job as a psychologist. ‘You’re the one with the two degrees and the post-grad diploma in educational psychology.’

Sadly, I knew my science degree was useless without another two years’ study. I also knew that Paul couldn’t—or wouldn’t— support me while I studied. I’d applied for numerous jobs—even volunteer counselling for Lifeline—although without further study, I couldn’t practise. Unfortunately, my eye condition prevented me making a living as a glass artist.

Certainly short-term we were embroiled in this lifestyle we’d carved out for ourselves. The prospect of a straight job became just a distant dream as we ventured further into the adult industry. The fact was we’d tapped into a niche market and our professionalism was paying off. Clients were frequently surprised to learn that other than Paul’s pot smoking we weren’t on hard drugs.

In fact, we were a good team. Paul’s marketing and coaching skills, combined with my ‘whatever it was’, attracted clients and meant the phone rang non-stop. At times, clients saw themselves as friends, although I discouraged this, always struggling to maintain the client/sex-worker dichotomy.

A call one evening when Ken had joined us for a meal proved disconcerting. It was one of our regulars, Wayne the Wanker, who always assumed we shared his enthusiasm for the bizarre. I apologised that I couldn’t talk because we’d just sat down to dinner.

‘But I’m calling from my hospital bed. I’m on a drip.’

‘You’re in hospital. Oh, no . . . What happened?’

‘You’ll never believe it—my nurse friend and I were mucking around. You know how we can get carried away . . . like the time I sewed up her vagina.’

I cringed as I remembered the time he’d explained in graphic detail how he stitched his friend closed with surgical sutures ‘for fun’.

‘Well, we went to a B& D branding and then we did some piercing. She put six rings in my penis. It looked amazing.’

‘Hang on, you mean a branding of human flesh? And six rings . . . in your penis!’

‘Yeah,’ said Wayne matter-of-factly.

I was remembering that Wayne was short in stature and not particularly well endowed—the thought of multiple rings in his penis did not sit well with me.

‘What—six all in a row? Or six in a circle?’

Hearing only my side of the conversation, Paul and Ken were in hysterics. They had stopped eating and were now listening intently, muffling their laughter. I was genuinely concerned for Wayne, so I motioned for them to be quiet.

I asked Wayne what had happened.

‘My friend has this little chihuahua and she thought it would be a good idea if we trained it to suck me off.’

‘Yeah, they’re supposed to be easy to train,’ I said, stifling my disgust.

‘Well, the dog got excited and I got excited and, before I knew it, its teeth got tangled in the rings.’

‘Oww . . . that would have hurt,’ I said, commiserating with Wayne.

‘Yeah, but as you know, I get off on pain, so it was kind of fun. But, anyway, then my penis got infected. And my balls. They swelled up and turned blue. I thought I was going to lose them . . . and maybe my dick, too. I had septicaemia, and now I’m on an antibiotic drip.’

‘You poor thing.’ Despite my genuine sympathy, I was having trouble keeping a straight face as Paul and Ken rolled on the floor laughing.

‘I should be out soon. I have to be hale and hearty for the Hookers and Deviates ball next month. I’d like you to come as my guest.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ I said nervously.

‘Please, I’d like to be your slave. I’m going to get a Prince Albert ring especially for you.’

‘A what?’

Wayne always spoke as if I was as well informed as he. ‘You know, a ring through the eye of the penis exiting just below the helmet . . . like Prince Albert supposedly had. You can lead me around on a leash.’

‘Please, Wayne, don’t get any more piercings, especially not for me. You’re gonna get seriously ill.’

‘I have to go—the doctor’s doing his rounds.’

And with that, he abruptly terminated the conversation. I was left with the receiver in my hand, not knowing whether to join in Paul and Ken’s laughter or sympathise with Wayne’s self-inflicted plight.

Unexpectedly, we got a call from
ACM
’s publisher, Peter Torney. He’d noticed the volume of replies we were getting and wanted us to pose for his magazine. We agreed, and he shot a cover and centrefold for a forthcoming issue. He also offered Paul an office job typing up the contact ads.