Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (19 page)

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 fucking, 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 clit!’, ‘Harder, faster!’, ‘Fuck 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 pussy!’ 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 fuck 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.