Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (7 page)

‘I know, but it’s no use. I’ve tried reasoning with him and he just spins me bullshit. We have two days to be out.’

Paul was visibly shaken by this cruel blow. He felt cheated and lied to; his ambivalence towards his father vacillated between love and anger. So we relocated to Paul’s maternal family, who were warm and welcoming.

Days were spent trying to enrol Paul in an art course, but he’d missed the deadlines and his Dutch high school certificate was not a recognised qualification. So we wandered around Montreal, seeing the sights and soaking up the atmosphere.

Later I said to him, ‘Don’t laugh, but I want to see the ICAO building.’ I explained that ICAO is the International Civil Aviation Organisation and my father, Egon, had spent a lot of time there as the Australian delegate for the Department of Civil Aviation. Dory once told me they’d put up a memorial plaque to him there after he died because he practically designed a revolutionary new aircraft landing system—well, it was his baby and it ultimately became a joint venture with CSIRO in Australia and was adopted worldwide. He had always joked he’d named it after me—it was called Interscan, the Microwave Landing System—or just MLS. They’re my initials—Nikki is just short for Monica and Lesley is my middle name—so we went there, but couldn’t find the plaque.

When I told Paul about all this, he couldn’t understand why we weren’t filthy rich. I had to explain to him it was because Egon had worked for the public service. Anyway, he wasn’t interested in money, although he enjoyed the kudos. It was enough for him that he was highly regarded in his field. He received an Order of Australia—I described that as being like an Australian knighthood—and a telegram from the prime minister, Malcolm Fraser. But when the Australian government sold to the States the technology his team had developed and Australia missed out on a lot of revenue, he had been very distressed.

I’d been thinking about my father often lately and how I really missed him. He had been a very modest man, but actually he was a brilliant engineer. He and the chairman of CSIRO had often travelled together overseas—working from the Australian embassies in London, Washington, Ottawa, Paris or wherever, and meeting with dignitaries, giving papers at conferences and so on.

‘Wow,’ said Paul. ‘I had no idea you were so well connected.’

Egon had known many influential people—federal ministers, the head of the ABC, just to name a few. His address book was like a mini
Who’s Who
, the reference book of notable Australians. He was in
Who’s Who
too, of course, and I was listed there as his ‘one daughter’.

I don’t know why I’d never told Paul all this before. It just hadn’t seemed relevant until we were in Montreal and I remembered how much my father had loved that city. Egon was perhaps a little authoritarian, although he had doted on me. He always pushed me academically and it was his idea that I study science—I think I needed his approval, so I agreed. He could be extremely forceful, but he meant well. He had been very angry when I told him I was going to art college.

On our way out of Canada we had to transit through JFK airport. When the customs officer stamped my passport there, he noticed I was Australian. It was late September 1983; he told me we’d just won the America’s Cup. How amazing, I thought, imagining that it would be a big deal back home.

Nothing prepared me for the shock that awaited me on my arrival back in Amsterdam. Because I’d previously been in Holland for over 90 days, the immigration officials wouldn’t let me back in. Now I needed a guarantor.

So Paul called his mother and stepfather and begged them for this favour. Reluctantly, they agreed. I think that by then they’d resigned themselves to the fact that we were together. Luckily, Saskia didn’t see the engagement ring that Paul had bought me—for 29 cents from the Toyworld Fairview store in Montreal, but remarkably realistic nonetheless.

Back in ‘the cell’, as Paul called his room, we were able to have some privacy again at last. We spent the next few days in bed, surfacing only to eat and feed Chaimie.

Paul emerged one day from the shower pointing to his groin:

‘Look, I’ve shaved my balls. It feels great—really sensitive.’

‘It’s going to grow back prickly,’ I warned him.

‘I might even shave off the whole thing—it looks a bit like a Hitler moustache at the moment.’

Indeed, it looked bizarre.

‘Why don’t we shave you?’ he suggested. ‘I reckon you’d love it and it would really turn me on.’

‘Well, I like my pubes, and besides, they’ll itch when they regrow.’

‘No, just keep it shaved. Trust me—you’ll love it.’

I had never heard of any women doing this, but was prepared to give it a go. So, with lashings of lather cream, we shaved each other’s pubic hair. I had to admit it enhanced the pleasure of our lovemaking.

Next, Paul decided he wanted to give me a master class in how to give head: ‘I mean,
really
give head. Not that you aren’t great, but I know what feels best and I’ve done it myself, so I know.’

I had always tried to put Paul’s gay experience out of my mind. ‘Years ago, I had a lover who could suck himself off . . . not that I ever saw it, but he did have a particularly flexible torso. It’s a pity you can’t do that!’

But Paul was serious. ‘You’ve got to tease me more. Too many women just go straight for it, and sometimes it can even hurt. Just play with my balls and run your tongue up and down the shaft, and then deep throat me.’

I loved to please him and set about following his instructions.

Paul lay on the bed, his head propped up by a pillow as he wanted to watch what was happening. I began by running my long red fingernails all over his torso, skirting around his groin. My tantalising touch elicited an immediate erection—bold and proud as his perfectly formed penis inflated to bursting point. Only then did I gently take him in my grasp—twisting, turning and teasing.

Paul moaned with pleasure and I could feel myself getting wet with desire in response. I reached down to my cunt. Spreading my lips, I dipped in my fingers to coat them with my fluids. Placing my fingers in his mouth, I let him suck my juice from them.

His groans goaded me on as I kissed his balls—cupping them in one hand, lightly caressing them with the other. I began flicking my tongue around his shaft, and then licking the head before taking it into my mouth. I kept alternating between head and shaft, head and shaft, until I’d consumed his entire cock.

I felt Paul writhe as I continued to bob my head up and down, occasionally licking his length while grasping him firmly with one hand. The deeper I went, the louder he moaned as he panted:

‘Take it all—to the hilt!’ I opened my gullet so as not to gag and, as I relaxed my throat, I could feel him deep within as his hot semen spurted into me.

Apparently, I was a good pupil, because Paul told me it was the best blow job he’d ever had.

We were still frequenting the Milky Way and Paul had found a leaflet with a timetable of events for a forthcoming poetry festival.

‘Why don’t we check this out,’ he said. ‘It’s called the One World poetry festival and they have readings and book signings.’

I looked at the flyer. ‘Look,’ I said excitedly, ‘there’s that writer I told you about—Richard Brautigan, my
second
favourite author. He’s not exactly a household name, but he’s up there with Kerouac and Ginsberg. A beat poet of the 1970s. I’ve gotta go see him.’

So one evening, we took the half-hour bus ride downtown and seated ourselves in the large Milky Way theatre. There he was, tall and lanky with thinning blond hair, looking exactly as he did on the cover of his books. I sat enthralled as he recited poems and passages from some of his many works.

At the conclusion of his reading, I told Paul I wanted to meet him. Paul could see I was shy and immediately took the initiative: Richard was talking to some fans at the front of the stage and Paul walked up to him.

‘Hi, I’m Paul Van Eyk and this is my fiancée Nikki Stern. She’s a big fan of yours and has read all your books.’

‘Well, I’m glad someone in Amsterdam has heard of me,’ Richard said sardonically. Admittedly, there had been a very small crowd at his reading.

Realising that Paul was a local, he complimented him on his excellent English. ‘Hey, how about we go get a drink and you can explain Holland to me,’ Richard suggested.

At the bar, Richard ordered double vodkas, insisting that it was Paul’s job to keep his glass full. I was not used to so much alcohol, but the two of them were bantering unself-consciously and obviously hit it off. I was astounded at the quantity of spirits Richard was imbibing: his speech, barely slurred, was remarkably coherent. I listened to his stream of anecdotes and watched as his trademark moustache constantly dripped with drink.

‘Listen,’ Richard said, ‘I’d really like to get laid tonight. Why don’t you see if you can get me one of these Dutch girls?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Paul, ‘but don’t hold your breath. They’re pretty picky. I’ll tell them you’re a world-renowned poet, novelist and counter-culture hero—that might help.’

I was feeling somewhat uncomfortable as Paul made the rounds of the room, trying to procure someone for Richard. Eventually, he returned to us at the bar, looking slightly abashed: ‘Sorry, mate. No luck.’

Apparently Paul had asked anyone he thought was a likely starter: ‘How would you like to sleep with a world-famous beat poet?’ Some of them were interested—but in Paul, not Richard. He apologised for his failure, but then became brutally frank: ‘I mean, be realistic. You’re what, fifty-something? And they’re all twenty-something.’

Since we had already been drinking with him for several hours, Paul offered to take Richard to the red-light district.

‘Okay. I’d really like a Japanese hooker,’ he drawled. ‘You can be my minder and interpreter—my guardian angel. I like you. I can’t believe you’re only nineteen—you’re a very bright boy with a big future.’

‘Thanks,’ said Paul. ‘How about we all pose for a photo—I’m sure Nikki would love one of the three of us.’

It took some fast talking by Paul to persuade Richard, as he was obviously not comfortable with being photographed. Finally, the three of us sat on the first-floor stairs with Richard in the middle while Paul called in a favour from one of the Milky Way staff. I could hardly wait to get the film developed.

The walk to the red-light district was difficult in my high heels. I’d not anticipated such a lengthy promenade, but Richard was steadfast in his determination to find himself a Japanese prostitute. Richard had a thing about them and lived part-time in Japan. By the early hours of the morning, he was running out of luck and I was getting blisters on my feet from hours of walking. Many of the red lights were already off, but Paul would ask at each brothel whether there were any women of Asian appearance. Finally, after hobbling along the now-empty cobblestone streets, we found Richard a half-Chinese hooker.

‘That’s as good as you’re gonna get at four in the morning, I’m afraid,’ said Paul. ‘I’m gonna leave you here and we’re going home.’

‘Give me your number,’ said Richard, as we left him at the entrance. ‘We’ll do something tomorrow.’

It had been a most unusual evening: I not only met my hero, Richard Brautigan, but went out whoring with him. His charm and wit were undeniable, but he seemed a broken man. I sensed I was not seeing him at his best.

Sure enough, he called the next day and asked Paul to come to his hotel. They were going out for a ‘night on the town’, as Richard described it. I elected to stay home. I didn’t want a repeat of the previous night, and I had some letters I needed to write. I would have to tell my mother about how I’d met Richard, although omitting the whoring episode. Egon had admired his books and I knew that Dory would be familiar with his work.

Much later, Paul returned after his evening out: ‘Jeez, that was an experience. He put out a contract on me—back in the States—in case he went missing.’ They’d gone to all the classy brothels downtown, still looking for Japanese women.

Apparently, they drank a lot—it seemed like Richard was a chronic alcoholic. Paul told me: ‘He had vodka dripping off his moustache again. Not a pretty sight. And he kept calling me a nineteen-year-old genius—he’s really taken a shine to me.’

I said I’d been totally put off his books. I didn’t know if I could ever read any of them again after meeting him. He was an incredible womaniser. ‘I don’t think he likes me much,’ I concluded.

‘But he told me he did,’ said Paul. ‘It’s just that he knows he can’t fuck you, so he doesn’t try too hard . . . I’d like to invite him to our wedding.’ I really wasn’t sure that I’d want him there.

Richard had actually given Paul one of his latest books,
The
Tokyo-Montana Express
, as a galley proof, which he’d autographed. And he’d written him a poem, which he seemed to just make up on the spot. ‘We were sitting at a bar and he asked the bartender for some paper. Then he dictated this poem to me—I wrote it down and then the barman’s name as a witness, and I dated it:
25 October 1983
. Then, on another sheet, he drew these child-like drawings: very primitive stuff, almost stick figures—two fish and what I think is a self-portrait: him on a horse with a cowboy hat. He’s signed that too.’