Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (26 page)

The Madam thought Paul’s suggestion for a working name, Maxine, was perfect. I was introduced to the ‘girls’ and given a tour of the premises. Each room had a décor theme; my favourite was the Japanese room, with its cherry-blossom sprigs and red velveteen wallpaper. The storeroom housed the brothel essentials: toiletries, tissues and a gigantic box of condoms. Meanwhile, the industrial washing machines and driers groaned under the weight of towels and sheets being constantly laundered.

I was always bemused by those porn stars who claimed their profession was a cut above that of the humble hooker. Who were they kidding? Their work was entirely prostitution and it represented a crossing over the line into a place where sex was currency, exchangeable for tangible financial gain. Indeed, the transition from doing porn to servicing the clients was minimal—I was even able to work daytime hours to fit in with Shoshanna’s schooling.

Given the reputation of the establishment, it had seen more than its fair share of politicians. Most of my clients, however, were senior public servants who wanted some quick relief before heading back to work. I became adept at playing the sexy-vixen role they sought: I would massage their backs, working the oil into their skin while talking dirty to them; then I would flip them over, by which time their invariably bursting erection was ripe for the picking. After a few minutes of ‘safe’ oral sex, there would be a few minutes of humping—and they’d come. It was as predictable as a production line.

There was no doubt I could disengage emotionally: I had to. I told myself it was work; it was what I did and I was good at it—very good. The clients loved me, often asking for me by name. I could have felt proud of myself . . . but I didn’t.

The camaraderie of the women was the glue that bound the brothel workers together. We would sit in the waiting room dressed in our cocktail frocks, waiting for the next john to appear, meanwhile swapping client stories with a sisterly intimacy. Sometimes I would bring in my cross-stitch projects or knitting—to be hidden instantly if a client approached. At other times, we’d simply watch TV—
Oprah
being the perennial favourite. The women I worked with were mostly university students and I began to see several of them socially. It was the first time in years that I had had female companions and I relished these fledgling friendships.

The bond between the women had inspired me to want to write a play. To be called
The Waiting Room
, it would be set in a brothel, centring on the never-ending stream of clients and phone calls that had us sex workers in stitches. The climax was to be a raid by police, something with which I was all too familiar. Although such raids were a thing of the past, Lloyd put us in touch with a friend of his: a partner in Canberra’s leading legal firm. We commissioned him to investigate the precise legalities of porn and prostitution in Canberra and the results confirmed what we already knew: activities that were illegal in Victoria were sanctioned in the ACT.

Paul befriended our GP, Dr Peter Rowland—a gay activist and anti-AIDS campaigner of some note. He ran his own radio program and was the unofficial doctor to the sex industry, issuing the health check certificates that were required by the brothels. Peter had expressed interest in the Amsterdam scene and invited Paul to dinner to discuss the possibility of one of his friends starring in a future movie.

Soon after, Paul registered himself on the books of a number of agencies for gay escort work, but he was rarely called out. I was still troubled by his seeming willingness to align himself with all things gay. I told him I didn’t know why he was still in denial about being bi.

‘Listen, I’d rather be fucking women,’ he retorted hotly. ‘But this is Canberra, not Amsterdam—there’s just not the demand, by men or women, for guys.’

It was true: Canberra was conservative and, unlike Sydney, not known for its gay scene. There was little call for Paul as a rent boy, and so the pressure was on me to pull us out of our financial fiasco.

Meanwhile, Paul and I began rebuilding our porn archive, which had been so decimated by the raids. The Victorian police had retained all of the seized unlawful material, but thankfully handed back family footage of us and Shoshanna. Somehow, we squeezed in some photo and video shoots; then we started casting around for participants. Short-term, however, Paul decided we could both make more money as strippers.

‘It’s great money for only ten minutes’ work and you don’t have to fuck anybody,’ he said, calculating that we could do four or five shows a night on Fridays and Saturdays.

He had a point. I didn’t know how long I could keep up the prostitution. It was taking longer than anticipated even to think about starting an amateur porn business. Canberra was proving too small to support Watch & Wanks, but it was perfect for strippers— the distances were tiny and the traffic minimal.

‘You’ve still got the Bitch Goddess From Hell outfit,’ he enthused. ‘And I could do a kind of leather-clad bikie act.’ He thought we could do ‘his’ and ‘hers’ buck’s and hen’s nights. ‘We’ll clean up.’

Paul always made things sound so simple, but I had reservations: it was very public, and I wasn’t an extrovert like him. But he was convinced he could coach me and reminded me of how he had transformed me into a dominatrix. ‘I know exactly the look to go for.’

‘How do you always know what to do?’ I asked cynically.

‘I just have this nose for anything connected with sex,’ he said, claiming that he knew how to market me and could teach me how to act. ‘It’s easier money than prostitution.’

For once Paul’s pestering made sense, if only I could overcome my performance anxiety. The moment I relented, he put together a ten-minute music tape, placed ads and designed business cards with our name—Action Agency—and its motto: ‘Anything, anytime, anywhere’. Settling on our stage names, Maxine and Bobby—Paul fondly naming himself after his dog—he took some tasteful promotional photos, ordering the best in bulk. Targeting a host of sporting clubs and recreational venues, he mailed them out with a covering letter.

He also coached me in my moves and routines. My childhood immersion in the dance world, through Dory’s friends and my years of classes—classical and contemporary—plus subscriptions to the Australian Ballet, stood me in good stead. I dismissed my inhibitions and determined to give the best performance possible.

We were a hit. Paul proved to be a perfect MC. Wearing a suit and bow tie, he would introduce me, imploring the crowd not to become unruly. Entering to the strains of INXS, I would dance around the space as best I could. Paul would stand back unobtrusively, monitoring the music and collecting the layers of my discarded clothing. Avoiding the groping hands and outstretched legs, I’d work the crowd, paying special attention to the buck or birthday boy. Often, I’d straddle him in simulated sex, licking my nipples and pushing my breasts into his face.

After rubbing my crotch and clitoris, I’d insert my fingers and then lick them, one at a time. Cheers abounded as I’d playfully embarrass the men by feeling for erections. After suggestively licking and sucking my vibrator, I’d insert it vaginally, pulling back my labia to give a clear view. The denouement came as I knelt on the floor with my arse in the air. To gasps of amazement, I’d insert my two vibrators—one vaginally, the other anally—pumping them rhythmically. Timed perfectly, the music would finish as I performed a theatrical orgasm. I exited just as the crowd went wild: it seemed Canberrans had never experienced such raunch before.

Paul’s marketing genius saw him offering a novel service: for an additional fee, he’d photograph the event and send the organiser prints, keeping the negatives. Each photo was stamped on the back with our business name and phone numbers. Often we’d book matching buck’s and hen’s nights, and eventually most of our business was by word of mouth. Paul’s ego peaked when one hen recognised him as ‘Kurt’, confessing she’d pinned his centrefold to her work locker. As if reminded of his love for dogs, Paul then bought Bruiser, a fully grown ex-police German shepherd that would accompany us as our guard dog.

Within a few short months, we had become Canberra’s leading striptease act. With me working days in the brothel and occasional nights doing strip shows, we kept our creditors at bay.

Surprisingly, Saskia offered to pay part of our fines. It was the first time she’d ever sent Paul any financial assistance, and we were both stunned by her gesture.

I was in regular phone contact with Dory, who was concerned about my wellbeing. She asked me how I liked Canberra.

‘To be honest, I’m a bit homesick,’ I said, ‘but we’re in a pretty cool location.’

I described how I could see the new Parliament House and the Australian War Memorial from out the front of our house, plus Inge’s Royal Australian Air Force sculpture from my bedroom window. ‘And,’ I added excitedly, ‘the Vietnam memorial is going to be built right outside our place.’

‘And how’s Shoshanna?’

‘She’s loving school and doing really well.’ I knew Dory wouldn’t enquire about Paul, so I asked her what she’d been doing. She’d had the usual subscriptions: the opera, ballet, theatre and Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, and was keeping busy still working two days a week.

I was hoping Dory wouldn’t grill me about work. Before she could, I changed the subject, reassuring her that everything was fine. I apologised that I hadn’t had time to visit the Frankels yet. ‘I hope I’m not being rude, but tell them I’ll try and ring them soon.’

I enjoyed these regular conversations, but there was an underlying sadness. Neither of us mentioned the events of our
annus
horribilis
and the circumstances that had brought Paul, Shoshanna and me to the ACT. I always allowed myself the indulgence of being momentarily transported back to the innocence of former times and the cultural milieu with which I was so familiar. The reality of life in Canberra was far removed from Dory’s cerebral world of enlightenment and sophistication.

That same week, Paul and I visited the well-known political lobbyist Robbie Swan. Originally training as an Anglican minister, he’d once been the producer of Philip Adams’ Sydney radio program. A fascinating man, his Yarralumla office was festooned with political cartoons and articles. In the mid ’80s, he was editor and co-founder of the satirical
Matilda
magazine, arguably the most sued publication in Australian history. Despite regular contributions from such luminaries as Barry Humphries, Germaine Greer and Michael Leunig, it had folded under the weight of defamation writs. More recently, Robbie was the publisher of
Ecstasy
, a glossy, erotic coffee-table magazine for couples. Being Australia’s first such venture, it sought to push boundaries: its explicit photo shoots often used indigenous models and it had a contributing editor—an Australian Federal Police officer—photographed on the steps of ASIO headquarters.

In 1988 the Hawke government had established the ACT Legislative Assembly. Robbie had long been lobbying both federal and local politicians to keep porn legal in the ACT. Such was the influence and respect he attracted that the Labor Party hired him as its creative director for the ACT’s inaugural elections in 1989. To employ someone who was also working for the porn industry was an audacious move, but it paid off when the ACT Labor Party got enough votes to form a minority government.