Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (31 page)

It didn’t take long before Paul was back to his old habits. He was again drinking—or rather, ‘enemising’—and cross-dressing. He frequently overstepped the mark. One Saturday morning, he emerged from his room clad only in a towelling dressing gown and his super-sized, black-patent-leather stilettos. He had shaved his legs. Shoshanna was in the lounge room watching television; giggling, she pointed at his high heels and asked him innocently what he was wearing. Without hesitation, he responded that they were ‘Daddy’s slippers’.

I was constantly worried that Paul’s aberrant behaviour would impact on our beloved child, and often chastised him for leaving around evidence of his activities that would be almost impossible to explain to a naturally curious five-year-old. Dismissing my pleas as ‘Jewish over-protection’, he ridiculed me, and said I was mollycoddling our daughter.

I tormented myself endlessly: despite taking responsibility for deciding to stay with her father, was it the best decision for Shoshanna? Was any father better than no father? Were our loveless marriage and his unusual sexual proclivities doing her more harm than good? What if he suicided? While I found these questions impossible to answer, I could not ignore the fact that, despite everything, his relationship with Shoshanna was exceptionally loving; it would break both their hearts to be apart. For the present, I was making the best decision that I could, with Shoshanna’s interests of paramount concern.

But things hit their nadir when I found a pair of Dory’s pantyhose in Paul’s den—he had cut a hole in the crotch so he could masturbate. I could barely contain my anger: they were covered in red wine and faecal stains from the enema.

I confronted him. ‘How could you do this to me . . . to Dory? It’s so disrespectful. Have you no shame?’

‘Well, you won’t fuck me, so what choice do I have?’ he snickered viciously.

I reminded him of our deal. ‘If you don’t like it, you can bugger off back to Holland.’ I was irate. ‘Anyway, how could I fuck you? I can’t respect someone like you . . . and letting Shoshanna see you with your size-seventeen stilettos and shaven legs.’ He was obviously so hungover he’d forgotten what he was wearing. I implored him to get professional help. ‘Go see Dr Rowland—you have a good rapport with him. He’ll understand,’ I said. ‘Please, I’m begging you—for Shoshanna’s sake, can’t you just be normal?’

But Paul couldn’t be normal and he refused to seek professional help. I just hoped Shoshanna was not permanently scarred by the spectre of her father in his custom-made high heels.

After making repeated requests, the State Trustees eventually contacted me regarding the contents of Dory’s safety deposit box held at her bank. I long suspected it would contain my Order of Adoption and I guessed, correctly, that my trust officer was hesitant to send it in case I was not aware of my adoptee status. Annoyed at this paternalism, I instructed him to mail it post-haste.

When we had been awaiting the court hearing in Melbourne, Dory’s desertion of me had sparked a new determination to find my biological mother. At that time I had placed my name on every contact register in the country and one day I had received a call from a staff member. He’d noticed that I’d put on the form that my mother died in childbirth, and he quizzed me as to how I knew.

‘My adoptive parents told me. I’ve always known . . . just like I’ve always known I was adopted.’

Then he asked me if I was generally healthy and whether I had any children. I replied that I was in perfect health—with one child. ‘Why?’

‘Because then it seems unlikely she’s dead.’

I was absolutely amazed. ‘You mean she could still be alive?’

He told me how he seriously doubted that she was dead. He said he’d heard this story so often, and there just weren’t that many childbirth fatalities in 1956. Apparently, it was the cover story that social workers at that time instructed adoptive parents to tell their new baby.

‘So you think she didn’t die in childbirth, and my adoptive parents would have known this wasn’t true?’

‘Presumably, but they were told it was in your best interests—so you wouldn’t search for a mother who’d already rejected you once.’

He explained that all records were sealed and no-one ever contemplated that the laws might change. He recommended that I apply for my ‘non-identifying information’: I would get my birth mother’s first name and a few broad facts. Her privacy was still protected and I wouldn’t be able to trace her, but these crumbs would be better than nothing. Apparently, the laws in New South Wales were going to change soon, so then I could apply for my original birth certificate, which would identify her by name.

I had been dumbfounded at the time and angry that I’d been deceived, but I’d chosen not to confront Dory with the information I had thus received.

But on the very day that Dory died, and when we were in the middle of organising our flight from Canberra to Melbourne, our phone had rung. Expecting it to be another sympathy call, I was astounded to find myself talking to a counsellor from the Department of Family and Community Services: my birth mother’s non-identifying information had just arrived and he wanted to fax it to me. At any other time, I would have been filled with excitement, but this was a case of unbelievably bad timing. I read the fax: her first name was Gertrude; she was 30 years old and single when she bore me; and she had been born in Queensland. I had stared at the sheet briefly before filing it. I knew that all this would have to wait a while.

So when at last I had in my hands the yellowing document I’d been sent by my trust officer, my fingers trembled. I was now ready to process the information I knew it would contain: my birth mother’s full name. I stared in disbelief as I read the name in capitals:
SMITH, GERTRUDE ELLEN
. I stared at the seal of the Supreme Court of New South Wales.
Smith
? How utterly frustrating. How would I ever be able to find her? In the documentation I was repeatedly referred to as the child, Unnamed Smith, to be henceforth known as Monica Lesley Stern. Apparently my birth mother hadn’t named me and, not unexpectedly, my father’s name was left blank. It dawned on me that, most likely, my birth parents weren’t Jewish after all. In one fell swoop, my childish fantasies of an interesting lineage were seemingly shattered.

Armed with a name, I now immediately applied to Births, Deaths and Marriages for whatever records I could find. All my searches drew a blank. I worried that, even when the adoption laws changed and I had more information and could locate my mother, she might not want to acknowledge me.

In the meantime, I’d have to content myself with monthly visits to the Adoption Triangle support group. This organisation attempted to link the three parties to adoption—adoptee, birth parents and adoptive parents—via a voluntary contact register.

I had joined some five years earlier, but unfortunately no match for my birth date had been found. However, it was at these gatherings that I was able to escape the world of Paul and porn, and be a real housewife. I used my official name, Monica, rather than Nikki, fearing that someone may recognise me. I was becoming well known in porn circles and Canberra was rife with cross-connections.

Through Adoption Triangle, I had been able to speak candidly for the first time about my experience of growing up adopted. Their meetings gave me a first-hand insight into the trauma suffered by relinquishing mothers, and my heart bled for them and their stories of substance abuse and suicide attempts. Most painful was their anger at the social workers who’d lied that the adoption was final, while deliberately omitting mention of the cooling-off period. I wondered about my own mother’s experience. Did she have regrets? Did she know about the six-week period during which she could have revoked consent? Would she have wanted to reclaim me?

I longed to know Gertrude’s circumstances, yet, paradoxically, learning her identity only served to accentuate my acute pangs of grief over Dory’s death.

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 fucking 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 ‘pussy 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.