Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (32 page)

‘Jeez, that would be a packaging nightmare,’ said Tanya, who usually took care of such things.

‘Is that legal to send through Australia Post?’ I queried. I figured there was probably some obscure postal regulation about ‘noxious substances’ or ‘hazardous waste’. ‘I’m curious now.’ I giggled.

‘I’ll look into it, if you like,’ offered the always-helpful Tanya.

‘Well, there’s no way I’m gonna break the law,’ I said emphatically. ‘Imagine being busted for that—not that I’m contemplating doing it . . . But imagine the headlines: “Pissed Panties Posted to Port Pirie”!’

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘he’d rather see me in person, because he said something about wanting to guzzle my pee while it was dripping out of my cunt, which he would then lick clean and dry.’

‘God, these guys have vivid imaginations,’ said Tanya, who was still unaccustomed to the candour of some of my correspondents.

‘Yeah, but you get used to all this,’ I explained apologetically. ‘After a while, your idea of what’s normal shifts.’

I called out to Paul, who was sitting at his corner desk, eavesdropping on our exchange with bemusement. ‘Hey, remember that guy who wanted me to send him “Pissy Knickers”—what did he say exactly?’

Unlike me, Paul could remember conversations or text verbatim. ‘He said, “Could you make them wet—just a few drops of urine and brown from your arse—thanks. I would be your slave, obey your every command, suck your toes or whatever pleased you. You could use me as your toilet”.’

We all laughed. ‘It must be my marketing,’ said Paul cockily. ‘Calling the knickers a Scratch ’n’ Sniff set on the order form—it makes them laugh.’

The volume of mail was such that it no longer fitted into the large post-office box in Fyshwick. Instead, the local postie—nicknamed ‘Bongo’—would deposit an Australia Post sack of mail in our office each day. We bought a motorised letter opener to cope with the daily deluge of mail. Feedback from the clients was supremely encouraging: they raved about the wall-to-wall action and the fact that there were no formulaic dialogue scenes to fast-forward through; and they loved how everyone, except for Paul, had Australian accents. Many hailed it as the horniest porn they’d ever seen. Paul had sensed correctly that the market for American-style fake plots had run its course; indeed, much of my fan mail demanded to see another video.

Paul and I set to work on Movie 2, employing only old material. We used some bi-girl footage with Lexie, the beautifully buxom woman with a hint of Asian blood, which Paul edited into the major segment. She was a natural at porn, and Paul proclaimed that our shower scene, where we shaved each other’s pubic hair, was the sexiest footage he’d ever seen. After sampling a series of vibrators and douches, including a phallic stainless-steel shower attachment, we adjourned to the bedroom. Numerous toys were road-tested amid the standard lesbian fare. After she’d fucked me anally with several vibrators, I fucked her doggy style with a large strap-on dildo. While my orgasms were faked, I always wondered if hers weren’t real.

A second segment was edited from the unused portion of the Pavilion hotel footage. Several ring-ins, one wearing a mask to preserve his anonymity, completed my four-guy gang bang. Naturally, our meagre budget didn’t allow for ‘fluffers’, but somehow I managed to keep all erections up.

A splendid touch of authenticity occurred when the phone rang unexpectedly. As it happened, it was the Watch & Wank client who’d paid for the room. He’d thoughtfully called to see how the shoot was progressing, not realising that the camera was rolling and I was mid-fuck while conversing with him. After the usual anal sandwich, we captured that most elusive of all shots: the cum shot, where several of the guys came on my buttocks and breasts.

Paul was adamant that we include a B& D scenario to add variety to the otherwise straight and bi mix in the rest of the movie. So we used a kinky champagne-enema scene in the kitchen of a client—a senior tax office accountant—that we’d shot soon after arriving in Canberra. Besides my high heels, I wore all black rubber—stockings, gloves and dildo panties, the thick black cock of which was inserted in my cunt; Paul wore just a rubber jockstrap. Thoroughly immobilised, with my manacled hands clipped to a neck collar, I got on all fours on the cold kitchen floor as Paul assembled the three-piece enema kit he’d bought at the pharmacy. Suspending the enema bladder, with attached hose and rectal nozzle, from a hook above my head, he filled the gravity-feed pouch with champagne—pink, for visibility purposes. He then inserted the rectal tip and turned on the tiny tap so the cold bubbly filled my bowels; the double penetration of large black cock and enema completed the fantasy. Later, I fellated Paul before he fucked my cleansed rectum, coming on my backside.

Back in the Shoe Box, we filmed the talking-head intro, outro and bridging segments, emphasising the fact that our movie was 100 per cent Australian made. Paul’s sense of humour got the better of him as he scripted my assessment of the gang-bang scene with me proclaiming: ‘Well, that was great, but I couldn’t walk for a week.’

In truth, I had been sore. I never enjoyed anal sex with its associated cleansing enema and fervently hoped my grimaces were interpreted as extreme ecstasy rather than the torture it was. It had taken all of my limited acting ability to persuade those around me that I was a sex-craved bisexual who loved being gang-banged. If not for the anaesthetic cream I used, I don’t think I could have borne the pain.

Paul edited the movie using John’s facilities and again I called on my friend Mitch in the Attorney-General’s Department to expedite the classification process. We also sorted out more photo sets to offer for sale. The
Six-Way Lesbian
set proved very popular, as did the new
School Girl Bondage
with Paul’s florid copy stating:
Hand-cuffed wrist and ankles, I get fucked in every hole while wearing
my old MLC uniform
. A new catalogue was being despatched soon and Paul was determined that the Movie 2 release date should coincide with this. The cover was identical to that of Movie 1 except for the numeral ‘2’, and was photocopied on pastel blue rather than pink paper.

In addition, John’s operation had a multitude of 0055 numbers they were using for advertising. Telecom had finally relaxed its stringent restrictions—as we’d suspected they would—and we were able to record and advertise messages without fear of disconnection. Clients were calling our Housewife Hotline in droves, where they would hear my message delivered in a sultry sotto voce. Starting with a brief description of myself, I would progress to outlining the videos and photos that were on offer, directing clients to our post-office box or phone number.

The sense of isolation I had been feeling since Dory’s death had not abated, but I was being distracted by all this business activity. The irony of promoting myself as a Horny Housewife had not escaped either Paul or me, but true to my word, I remained resolutely celibate.

19

The political climate in Canberra was in a state of flux. Having been granted self-government in 1988, its first local elections were held the following year. There was much opposition to these changes and a local firebrand called Dennis Stevenson managed to get elected for the Abolish Self-Government Party. However, it turned out that his main obsession was banning pornography; using emotive rhetoric, he invoked the right of citizens to live in a ‘sane society’.

Back in February of 1990, ‘Dennis the Menace’, as I called him, had read out in the Legislative Assembly a long letter from the star of
Deep Throat,
Linda Lovelace, who in her retirement had become a born-again Christian. Apparently, she had sent him an open letter to the people of Australia, effectively begging them to stop the porn trade. She implied that if a person cared for their family and humanity, they would be anti-porn.

I felt that that was absurd. Of course, it was terrible that she’d been exploited during her life as a porn star, but I couldn’t understand why people didn’t realise that legalising it was the best way to prevent exploitation.

I couldn’t believe we’d moved to Canberra just when porn might become illegal there but Paul told me to stop worrying, assuring me it wouldn’t be banned. ‘The worst that’ll happen is that the ACT government will tax it,’ he said.

More recently, Stevenson had pulled a stunt where he’d put a poor thirteen-year-old girl up to mail ordering an X-rated movie; the package was opened in front of the media to reveal a video entitled
Dungeon of Pain
. I definitely didn’t think kids should be able to buy that kind of stuff, and the article raised the concern that Stevenson himself might have committed an offence by placing this child at risk. Both Paul and I thought he was just trying to get his name in the paper.

One morning, as he was reading
The Canberra Times
, Paul looked up and said, ‘Check this out: Dennis the Menace has tabled a private member’s bill to ban X-rated videos. The House of Assembly is voting on it tonight.’ That evening, we joined a large crowd outside the Legislative Assembly. There were both supporters and opponents of the adult-video industry present. In my radical days at Monash University, I had been a regular at political demonstrations and felt quite at home chanting in the cold night air. Dennis Stevenson was heckled with cries of ‘fascist’ by us pro-porn supporters, after which things became so heated that the police forcibly separated the two factions. Not surprisingly, the anti-pornography campaigners were outnumbered by about three to one.

After hours of debate, the private member’s bill was narrowly defeated nine votes to eight. Given a conscience vote by their political parties, members hadn’t necessarily voted along party lines. The following day
The Canberra Times
carried the front-page banner:
STEVENSON’S BILL FAILS
.

‘Listen to this,’ said Paul, snickering as he read from the paper. ‘Some guy from Youth with a Mission said a prayer for the souls of the X-rated video supporters. He asked God to “deliver them from hell”.’

‘Well, I don’t think there’s much hope for us any more,’ I said. ‘We’ll be facing eternal damnation.’

‘Yeah, and what about all our clients?’ added Paul, reminding me that there was an estimated 300,000 plus on adult mailing lists. That was much larger than the entire population of Canberra—I’d heard that only
Reader’s Digest
had a bigger list. Apparently, our city had earned itself the sobriquet ‘Pornberra’.

But I feared it was just a temporary reprieve. After all, Stevenson’s bill had only lost by one vote. I was sure he hadn’t given up the fight; he’d said as much himself.

‘Ah, you worry too much,’ retorted Paul, as he began doodling again with his sketch pad and bottle of Indian ink. He had an idea for a new cartoon series: inspired by recent events, he drew some brilliant and salacious caricatures of Mr Stevenson.

Later we spoke to Robbie Swan about how he’d interpreted the vote. He regularly lobbied the ACT Assembly members and was familiar with their voting intentions and alliances. Indeed, all the members of AVIA, including us, were making additional financial contributions to fund the campaign to keep porn legal. If there was anybody who could turn the tide on the encroaching conservatism of the ACT’s fledgling government, it was he.

As I expected, Robbie was pessimistic about the future of porn in the nation’s capital. Both the ACT and the Northern Territory were the last bastions of the legal porn trade in the country; he reckoned that, if Canberra fell, there was only Darwin left. He was certain there’d be other bills which would succeed in bringing about a ‘porn tax’.

It wasn’t often we took time off, but on Anzac Day Paul and I wanted to spend time with Shoshanna. We could hear the melodious drones of the pipe bands marching up Anzac Parade to the Australian War Memorial. The parade passed right outside our house and we joined the crowds on the flanks of the veterans— several of whom I recognised from my time at Touch of Class.

Strangely, my relationship with Paul had steadied during the last few months. Even though it was a sexless marriage, a certain closeness had been renewed. Whether it was the common goal of defeating Canberra conservatism, the fact that I respected Paul most when he was drawing, or the dwindling of anti-Dory tirades, I wasn’t sure. Most likely, all factors were at play.