Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (36 page)

We all laughed hysterically. It certainly made a welcome change from the usual ‘You’re so hot, I wanna fuck your brains out’ type of letter.

Paul was working furiously on issue 3. It was now 40 pages, four of which were full colour. This allowed for a centrefold (a still from Movie 3) and an accompanying horny story titled ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’, in which I allegedly get seduced by two bisexual women at a swinger’s party.

For the first time,
Flesh
was sold in adult bookstores around the country—with a cover price of just under five dollars. It now had 169 contact ads, with accompanying raunchy photos making up the vast bulk of the magazine. All our advertisers were genuine, unlike some publications that placed fake ads in order to collect the reply money. We would still be giving it away free to Fun Club members so, apart from the reply money—five dollars for one reply or ten dollars for as many as they liked—we were reliant on video and merchandise sales to make it break even. Paul redrew many of the diagrams for the sex toys and transvestite wear, and was offering a range of new bedroom goodies. Paul’s blurb for a hospital-grade enema kit had me in stitches:
It won’t leak—ideal
for picnics
.

As part of the expanded ‘Latex Lovers’ range, Paul sourced a wide variety of blow-up dolls, including a transsexual doll—never before released in Australia—and a ‘Wonder Wanda’ doll— looking like Wonder Woman, complete with funky headband. He excelled himself with his humorous blurbs:
If the missus has a
headache, whip out your inflatable date and never know the difference.
(Sorry—that’s degrading to women. There is a difference: dolls can’t
cook.)
Likewise, his male doll copywriting made me cackle:
Bring a
man into your life with Big John. He doesn’t snore, he doesn’t dribble
and he doesn’t expect you to wash his dirty underwear. He has two
orifices and a constantly erect eight-and-a-half-inch vibrating penis.
The perfect lover.

We were being deluged with responses to Paul’s call for people to star in porn movies. With numerous hopefuls—all men—on file already, he sought to dampen the response:
Unless you’re extremely
well hung, exceptionally good-looking, black, or a pre-op transsexual,
don’t bother writing in—please.
He did note, however, that we were interested in buying any amateur Aussie action footage, but put in a caveat:
Please don’t send us footage of a single bloke masturbating
(we’ve received enough of that already)
.

Meanwhile, I was still concerned that we weren’t keeping up with things. I told Paul we needed a new in-tray, for fetish requests. There were clients wanting us to source stuff on everything from nipples and breastfeeding to tickling and foot fetishes. We’d had a client with a hairy-arm fetish and another who liked only longhaired ladies; others wanted stuff on panty wetting and, incredibly, navels. I showed him a recent letter requesting
Tied and Tickled
magazine, plus tapes entitled
Dungeon of Sir Michael, Spanked TV
in Training
and
Milady’s Toilet Slave
. ‘Just stop encouraging them,’ I urged.

But Paul saw it as proof that the clients trusted us. ‘Besides, it keeps them reading
Flesh
.’

Some Australian navy guys deployed in the Gulf War sent us HMAS
Darwin
T-shirts; presumably it was in appreciation for all the porn I’d sent them. I’d been writing to a few: apparently, there were plenty of blue movies on board, but they were wearing out from overuse. They’d written about how lonely they were, but they also sent me a photo of themselves on their gun mount; next to each neatly labelled name was the corresponding penis size—obviously for my benefit.

Paul later added a special section in
Flesh
titled ‘Hello Sailor’, while I continued to correspond with my Persian Gulf penpals.

Paul was still awash with ideas. He was organising Australia-wide swingers’ parties with a party hotline, working on a movie treatment entitled
Shooting Porn for Fun and Profit: A step by step
guide
and writing new scripts for the 0055 Housewife Hotline, which I subsequently recorded. We also used the 8-track recorder to tape Paul’s script for what he humorously called ‘Home Grown Moans’. This was a 32-minute audio cassette of a male-female-male threesome story, complete with sound effects and a soft sell for our Housewife products. Duplicated en masse in John’s plant, Paul promoted it as ‘a raunchy recording—perfect for your car or Walkman’. I was having trouble keeping up with his boundless energy and creative genius.

Paul also commissioned the manufacture of what was effectively a cattle prod: a battery-operated dual-control masturbation aid he called ‘The Pulsator’. Bongo, our friendly Australia Post employee, and Paul designed the gadget with separate controls for pulse rate and frequency of electrical current. Bongo was a dab hand at electronics and carved out a profitable sideline supplying these portable pulsed-signal generators. Paul described it this way in
Flesh: by taping one electrode to the base of the penis and the other
behind the balls, the current flows through the prostate gland with
an ‘unworldly’ effect, causing powerful hard-ons
. Apparently it had a similar effect to electric devices used by stock breeders to arouse a reluctant bull’s interest in sex. Paul then warned consumers that it was a novelty only and ‘should never be used above the waist or by persons fitted with pacemakers’.

Meanwhile, Paul took time out to purchase some items for our new office. He returned from a shopping spree.

‘Guess what? I’ve bought a safe.’ We could finally store all our negs and master tapes without fear of them being stolen. ‘It’s fireproof, too.’

I watched as four burly men unloaded a huge safe from a truck. He’d also bought a bedroom suite.

‘What the hell do we need that for?’ I queried.

‘So the office can double as a location for our next movie,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fully tax deductible—I’ve checked it with Deloittes.’ He explained that the Japanese-themed bed and manchester were very classy and the matching rice-paper shoji screens would hide the cinder-block walls.

‘Great,’ I said sarcastically. ‘We’ll have a porno film set in the corner of the office.’

‘Well, think of it this way—if you get tired, you can have a nap.’

Paul said that, for starters, we needed to redo the polaroid for the knickers: ‘I’ll take a colour slide of you masturbating on the bed, and we’ll use
this
to reproduce it.’ He pulled out a box labelled
Slide
Duplicator
, telling me how it was on special at Fletchers. Apparently, it could spit out multiple polaroids from one transparency. ‘So now you don’t have to pose for individual shots.’

‘So long as I still put on my lipstick kiss and sign them.’

‘Yeah, yeah, don’t worry—we’ll still have the personal touch,’ he continued excitedly. ‘And I’ve ordered a shredder.’ Some salesman at the safe shop had previously worked for ASIO and could get one cheaply. So we’d have the same shredder as ASIO, which appealed to Paul’s sense of humour. He pulled out a sample from a plastic bag in his shirt pocket.

‘Here, have a look at this,’ he said, rubbing the fine fibres between his forefingers. ‘It spits out shreddings one millimetre wide.’ But I felt it was overkill—I didn’t think anyone was going through our rubbish.

‘We owe it to our clients to protect their privacy,’ Paul argued, ‘plus it’ll be perfect as pulp for your papermaking hobby.’ He had an uncanny ability to justify anything when it came to spending money, and always systematically overcame every objection I could raise.

He then decided to lease himself a late-model BMW, ignoring my protestations that we could make do. ‘Besides, I don’t feel right about driving around in a BMW,’ I said, explaining that they’d used slave labour during the war and manufactured engines for the Luftwaffe. If he wanted to get a second car, I thought it should be another Volvo. ‘The Swedes have an excellent war record.’

‘Yeah, well, the Israelis buy Mercedes tanks from the Germans, and they were the official car of the SS . . . so I think we can buy a Beamer,’ said Paul persuasively.

‘Yeah, yeah, you have an answer for everything.’ The fact was we couldn’t afford it.

‘Well, if it makes you happy, I’ll buy a Volvo for the office staff.’

So we acquired two cars, neither of which we could afford, in the space of two weeks. Paul proudly showed off his shiny red BMW, driving around with the sunroof open.

As if never satisfied, he also ordered a slate-base pool table with a professional pool cue. After discussing this purchase at length with Danny from Deloittes, he told me how it could be a legitimate tax deduction: it would come under props for movies—so long as we shot some footage actually on top of it.

However hectic Paul’s schedule was, he always found time to visit his confidante, Dr Roland. I accompanied him on one such visit, to confirm what I suspected: my second pregnancy.

I was overjoyed at this turn of events and, predictably, Paul was ecstatic.

‘Well, maybe we can do some pregnant porn.’ He chuckled. ‘I hear there’s quite a market for that.’

22

The New South Wales Adoption Information Act came into force in April 1991, making original or amended birth certificates available to adoptees and birth and adoptive parents in that state. Immediately, I lodged my application and received information detailing my birth in Sydney’s Crown Street Hospital, once pejoratively dubbed the Baby Factory. Most significant to me was the fact that my mother
didn’t
die in childbirth. Furthermore, the social workers I spoke to assured me that Dory and Egon would have known this.

Amazed at the depth of the deception, I could only assume that they were duped into believing it was in my best interests. I also learnt that Gertrude had been in a single mothers’ home in Bondi, but that her usual place of residence was Ayr in northern Queensland. The social worker records categorised her as Catholic and I began to contact a number of institutions—churches, convents and courthouses—in a vain attempt to gather clues.

As my pregnancy progressed, Paul became ever more considerate, pampering me in his protective manner. The Japanese bed suite did indeed become a useful addition to the office and I catnapped there on occasion.

He insisted we buy a house before the baby’s arrival. He secured a bank loan and entered discussions with Deloittes on how to maximise our tax advantage. He found his dream house, a split-level home in the southern suburb of Fadden with breathtaking views of the Snowy Mountains. Most importantly for me, it had two master bedrooms with ensuites.

Apparently, if we put the house in the company’s name, we could tax deduct the repayments. But I wanted it in our names: it was my money from my trust that was providing the deposit. Paul pressured me relentlessly and, before I knew it, I’d signed over my substantial trust savings.

Meanwhile, to meet the demand for new
Horny Housewife
movies, Paul started editing the fourth in our series. I had stuck to my guns about not shooting new footage. Despite Paul pushing for pregnant porn, fuelled by the numerous requests we received, I refused to succumb to his pressure. Consequently Movie 4 was another collage of old footage, starting with lesbian action of me and Lexie with Paul joining in for a threesome. A B& D scenario followed, with me dressed in leather suspenders, corset and full-length gloves; I was immobilised, with my hands manacled to my slave collar and my feet fettered to the bondage horse (which had never been quite the same since Donald’s attempted escape). The climax featured a sandwich scene with Paul and a balaclava-wearing client. Lastly was the first double penetration I’d ever done with Paul and Tim. Although not as varied as the other movies, it still met with rave reviews by our faithful clients.