by Nikki Stern
With trepidation, I phoned a few. My nervousness was unfounded, as all were polite and seemingly normal. Invariably, they were happy to have us visit them at home or in a hotel room, and I filled our diary with appointments.
In fact, the clients were usually more nervous than I was— something I found endearing. To put them at ease, I’d begin the session alone while Paul waited elsewhere. Dressed in a business suit, I started with a gentle striptease down to my lingerie. I used two vibrators—one vaginally, the other anally—to tantalise them. More often than not, Paul would join the proceedings at this stage.
Starting with oral sex, we progressed through a variety of positions as we moaned and groaned our way to orgasm. As we climaxed, Paul would withdraw his penis, coming on my back or breasts. Sometimes the clients managed to time things so that the three of us experienced a simultaneous orgasm. Paul coined the term ‘Watch & Wanks’ to describe our activities.
Before long, we were getting repeat business. Typically, we arrived at our location with a large suitcase containing all manner of equipment. I called it the Suitcase of Sex. Paul insisted on buying several more torsolettes and see-through teddies, plus an array of suspenders, stockings and high heels—in all conceivable colours and styles. There was also an assortment of bondage gear, including manacles, spreader bars, whips and nipple clamps.
Paul was again spending more than we were making. We needed to save—even a little. ‘How many more vibrators do we need?’ I asked plaintively.
When he claimed it was for the clients, I got angry. ‘No, it’s you who loves all these “toys”.’ I knew they’d be happy just to see me naked, using my fingers. ‘Look at all these vibrators: black, gold, silver, pink, purple, fluoro, flesh-coloured—single-pronged, double-pronged, anal, glow in the dark, underwater. This is crazy!’
‘But it gives them the choice.’
‘You’re going overboard,’ I said. ‘Stop buying this shit.’
Paul couldn’t help himself. What was concerning was that he was using some of the vibrators anally on himself as well. He also bought himself a plethora of butt plugs and other anal gadgets, plus a variety of gels, creams and lubricants. He had stopped cross-dressing but he was becoming anally fixated, once even shoving a tampon into his anus.
He complained because our personal sex life was still in remission. ‘You only ever fuck me when there’s a client around. All our clients assume we have a rip-roaring sex life, but we don’t.’
I just didn’t feel like sex any more—with anyone. ‘I used to enjoy it, but it’s been spoiled for me. You’ve done that,’ I said. ‘You’ve cheapened the whole act, and now I can’t see it as an expression of intimacy or love.’
‘Well, if I’d known that . . .’
‘What? You wouldn’t have coerced me into this whole thing? That’s bullshit. You’re into the money. It’s like I’m a commodity you’re marketing—and you’re very good at it. And, yes, it’s an easy way to make a lot of money—but that doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.’
‘But I love you,’ Paul protested.
‘Yeah, right.’
I just didn’t think I could respect him any more. I didn’t think I could respect myself either. For some stupid reason, which I didn’t quite understand, I wanted to please him. I couldn’t say no and he’d managed to talk me into crazy things that, years ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. I was shocked by how quickly my morals had evaporated. ‘You’ve changed me—corrupted me.’
‘Hang on—you were quite willing.’
‘Well, I wasn’t to start with.’ I hadn’t bargained for this kind of life . . . but we were in too deep now. Of course I liked the money, however, I’d much rather Paul was studying or had a steady job.
He wanted me to get a job as a psychologist. ‘You’re the one with the two degrees and the post-grad diploma in educational psychology.’
Sadly, I knew my science degree was useless without another two years’ study. I also knew that Paul couldn’t—or wouldn’t— support me while I studied. I’d applied for numerous jobs—even volunteer counselling for Lifeline—although without further study, I couldn’t practise. Unfortunately, my eye condition prevented me making a living as a glass artist.
Certainly short-term we were embroiled in this lifestyle we’d carved out for ourselves. The prospect of a straight job became just a distant dream as we ventured further into the adult industry. The fact was we’d tapped into a niche market and our professionalism was paying off. Clients were frequently surprised to learn that other than Paul’s pot smoking we weren’t on hard drugs.
In fact, we were a good team. Paul’s marketing and coaching skills, combined with my ‘whatever it was’, attracted clients and meant the phone rang non-stop. At times, clients saw themselves as friends, although I discouraged this, always struggling to maintain the client/sex-worker dichotomy.
A call one evening when Ken had joined us for a meal proved disconcerting. It was one of our regulars, Wayne the Wanker, who always assumed we shared his enthusiasm for the bizarre. I apologised that I couldn’t talk because we’d just sat down to dinner.
‘But I’m calling from my hospital bed. I’m on a drip.’
‘You’re in hospital. Oh, no . . . What happened?’
‘You’ll never believe it—my nurse friend and I were mucking around. You know how we can get carried away . . . like the time I sewed up her vagina.’
I cringed as I remembered the time he’d explained in graphic detail how he stitched his friend closed with surgical sutures ‘for fun’.
‘Well, we went to a B& D branding and then we did some piercing. She put six rings in my penis. It looked amazing.’
‘Hang on, you mean a branding of human flesh? And six rings . . . in your penis!’
‘Yeah,’ said Wayne matter-of-factly.
I was remembering that Wayne was short in stature and not particularly well endowed—the thought of multiple rings in his penis did not sit well with me.
‘What—six all in a row? Or six in a circle?’
Hearing only my side of the conversation, Paul and Ken were in hysterics. They had stopped eating and were now listening intently, muffling their laughter. I was genuinely concerned for Wayne, so I motioned for them to be quiet.
I asked Wayne what had happened.
‘My friend has this little chihuahua and she thought it would be a good idea if we trained it to suck me off.’
‘Yeah, they’re supposed to be easy to train,’ I said, stifling my disgust.
‘Well, the dog got excited and I got excited and, before I knew it, its teeth got tangled in the rings.’
‘Oww . . . that would have hurt,’ I said, commiserating with Wayne.
‘Yeah, but as you know, I get off on pain, so it was kind of fun. But, anyway, then my penis got infected. And my balls. They swelled up and turned blue. I thought I was going to lose them . . . and maybe my dick, too. I had septicaemia, and now I’m on an antibiotic drip.’
‘You poor thing.’ Despite my genuine sympathy, I was having trouble keeping a straight face as Paul and Ken rolled on the floor laughing.
‘I should be out soon. I have to be hale and hearty for the Hookers and Deviates ball next month. I’d like you to come as my guest.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ I said nervously.
‘Please, I’d like to be your slave. I’m going to get a Prince Albert ring especially for you.’
‘A what?’
Wayne always spoke as if I was as well informed as he. ‘You know, a ring through the eye of the penis exiting just below the helmet . . . like Prince Albert supposedly had. You can lead me around on a leash.’
‘Please, Wayne, don’t get any more piercings, especially not for me. You’re gonna get seriously ill.’
‘I have to go—the doctor’s doing his rounds.’
And with that, he abruptly terminated the conversation. I was left with the receiver in my hand, not knowing whether to join in Paul and Ken’s laugh
ter or sympathise with Wayne’s self-inflicted plight.
Unexpectedly, we got a call from ACM’s publisher, Peter Torney. He’d noticed the volume of replies we were getting and wanted us to pose for his magazine. We agreed, and he shot a cover and centrefold for a forthcoming issue. He also offered Paul an office job typing up the contact ads.
With Paul working sporadically for the magazine, our spirits lifted. Almost immediately, he gained a new-found confidence: he believed he could set up a similar contact magazine. ‘I’ve seen how it’s done—it’s easy. All you’d need is a computer and one program to run it.’
‘Yeah, and what about the printing costs? How about you just concentrate on keeping this job,’ I said.
‘But you should see how much money they’re making. I know I could do this.’
The ads in ACM, combined with me on the cover and centrefold, resulted in a financial boom the likes of which we’d not seen before. Paul convinced me to buy a mobile phone, a technology still in its infancy, so we could take bookings on the road. He calculated it would take only a few months before the investment paid for itself with extra appointments. So, with an outlay of many thousands of dollars, he secured a phone, paying extra for a number ending in ‘69’.
Reluctantly, I agreed to this major purchase and we soon owned the most up-to-date version of a mobile phone—it was the size of a couple of house bricks and was so heavy I could barely lift it. Paul would carry it over his shoulder, proudly parading it around and enjoying the stares that inevitably followed the appearance on the streets of such a novelty. Despite the fact that I felt it drew unwanted attention to us, it nevertheless allowed increased efficiency in our time management.
Soon afterwards, Paul noticed an article in The Warrandyte Diary, our local paper. It was in their ‘Out & About’ section and it described a woman talking on her phone while supermarket shopping. He showed me the article and giggled as he read it out to me.
A person of much attention, guarding her trolley with one hand and dialling the world on the other, the piece said. Obviously it referred to me, because no-one else around Warrandyte had a mobile phone. The writer then implied I was from somewhere trendy and had accidentally taken a wrong turn. Indeed, Warrandyte had the reputation of being a sleepy hamlet, away from the rat-race. We were both in stitches as Paul kept reading. ‘“But what on earth was she gabbling about?”’
I remembered that day . . . and the call. I had been dressed to the nines, because we’d come from an appointment. I had been carrying the phone itself in the front of my trolley while arranging a Watch & Wank with a journo from The Age who’d mischievously used the pseudonym ‘Bob Woodward’—the reporter who’d uncovered the Watergate scandal and brought down President Nixon, thanks to his mysterious source, codenamed ‘Deep Throat’. It was a nice touch. We reckoned that our client probably figured we wouldn’t get the reference. In fact, I’d just bought a copy of The Age and was thinking how funny it was that I didn’t know my caller’s real name—he could have been any male journalist on the paper.
‘I hate it when people make assumptions about us,’ complained Paul as he read out The Warrandyte Diary item to me. ‘And look at the last line in this story, where it says that you were probably discussing your tennis court lights.’
‘I think it’s hilarious,’ I said. ‘If only they knew who I was talking to and what I was actually chatting about.’
Indeed, it wasn’t the first time our appearance belied our true occupation. On one occasion, we were driving between Watch & Wank appointments in St Kilda and pulled up at the traffic lights next to some punks. In our business suits and white Volvo station wagon, we looked a picture of establishment success. They scowled at us disdainfully. We laughed as we realised they’d judged us superficially—yet our boot contained the Suitcase of Sex and our lifestyle was anything but conventional.
We had a narrow escape with one of our regulars, nicknamed Frank the Wanker, when his wife came home unexpectedly and we were forced to hide in his bedroom wardrobe. Luckily, she left soon after, but the episode gave us a nasty jolt.
With business booming, we decided to trial renting a motel room in nearby Ringwood. Paul negotiated a favourable weekday rate for the honeymoon suite with the manager, who turned a blind eye to our activities. It certainly meant a lot less driving around and the clients could feel secure in their anonymity. This was the nearest thing yet to ‘normal’ hours, and our mobile phone proved an invaluable asset for cramming in appointments.
Then, unexpectedly, Saskia announced another visit. Resigned to the fact that Paul was back with me, she wanted to get to know her granddaughter. We ceased work and put her up in the motel—hoping no clients would come knocking—even though it was slightly beneath the standard to which she was accustomed.
As had always been the case, Paul’s relationship with his mother was troubled. He was angry and upset that she constantly cried poor, and yet she showed up with a recent edition of a classy Dutch interior-decoration magazine, Eigen Huis & Interieur. It featured her house in a glossy six-page spread, complete with sumptuous photos of her opulent abode. Its recently added second storey housed a glass showroom, complete with display cabinets.
‘That fucking bitch,’ said Paul. ‘She turns up here with no money, saying she’s forgotten her credit card. It’s an obvious lie.’
He was convinced she was only visiting because all her frequent flyer points were about to expire—he cautioned me not to believe ‘her bullshit’ about wanting to get to know Shoshanna. ‘And then she has the gall to give me a magazine featuring her palatial home.’
‘Yeah, she’s got chutzpah,’ I said.
He gave me the article to read and I could make out most of the Dutch. Apparently, she and Vlad had secured the distribution rights to some Czech crystal from the Moser glass factory—it was a huge coup. ‘That’s why they’ve turned their house into a fucking glass gallery,’ he said. ‘And all their fancy paintings, sculptures and designer Italian furniture—it makes me sick.’
Being confronted with pictorial evidence of their lavish lifestyle hurt Paul to the core. Here we were, immersed in the seedy side of sex, while she was a lady of leisure in her glass castle.
‘Speaking of mothers,’ I said, ‘I’ve recently put myself on a contact register for adoptees.’ I had to put down everything I knew. Sadly, all I could write was that my mother died in childbirth and I was in an orphanage for many months.
Paul was convinced that eventually the laws would change and I’d gain access to my records. ‘Just be patient—you’ll find your birth mother one day.’
How I desperately wanted to believe him. I’d always felt that being adopted might explain why I sometimes felt so disengaged from people and situations . . . and why I could do the Watch & Wanks.
10
Since we’d first taken out our ads, we had been showered by offers to do photography and videos. Many clients were sick of slick American porn and wanted to see home-grown Aussie talent. I resisted the idea after the wrangle we’d had with Greg over copyright, but naturally Paul was gung-ho. However, I was seriously concerned that we would be breaking the law.
Paul came home after a long lunch meeting with Lloyd. I asked eagerly what he’d said. ‘First of all, it’s technically illegal,’ Paul said. ‘But he reckons nobody’s ever been busted for it and, while he’s not advocating breaking the law, it would be a calculated risk.’ It all came down to what was obscene and the old sexist joke: What’s the legal definition of pornography? That which gives the judge an erection.
Lloyd had said that although the Police Offences Act talked about ‘obscene and indecent publications’ or articles that tend to ‘deprave and corrupt’, it was all a grey area that revolved around prevailing community standards. Given that one could walk into any sex shop or corner video shop and buy X-rated tapes ‘under the counter’, he reckoned it was obvious that the police weren’t too concerned about it: they had bigger fish to fry. And it was all to
tally legal in Canberra.
‘So I reckon we should go for it,’ Paul concluded confidently, assuring me that, even if we got busted, the penalties weren’t much more than a speeding ticket.
I replied I wasn’t comfortable with it, but he asked me to call Lloyd if I didn’t believe him.
‘Listen, why don’t we do it for a bit,’ said Paul. ‘Test the market. We’re not hurting anybody. If we start selling videos, we can stop with the Watch & Wanks.’
I called Lloyd, who confirmed what Paul had told me, and, as usual, I allowed Paul to persuade me. I was never entirely clear on my motivation for yielding to Paul—all I knew was that, in the interests of harmonious relations, I was the one who compromised. On the other hand, to be fair, there was a part of me that seemed to enjoy being outrageous—a reaction perhaps to my serious upbringing.
Paul espoused the financial benefits of his new initiative, and I eventually agreed to try a few sessions. He coached me in what to say to clients. ‘Tell them that, besides wanking, they can also take photos. Hell, if they want, they can take video footage—but we’ll charge more for that.’
I told Paul I’d only do it if we kept the copyright on absolutely everything—I didn’t want people making money off my image. We agreed that we would insist that all photos and videos were for personal use only, not for commercial sale. In the case of photography, we would retain the negatives and give clients a set of prints. With videos, we’d keep the original footage, and only give them a first-generation copy. This way, I was still in control and they would have no model release form. ‘If they do publish anything, you’ll sue their arse off ’cos you can prove you never relinquished ownership,’ Paul asserted belligerently.
He had everything neatly figured out. The only thing that remained was to settle on a price. I had no idea, but Paul had a certain marketing intuition. He reckoned we could charge a base rate of one hundred dollars a session, plus get them to pay for film stock, processing and printing. He even proposed adding a small mark-up. ‘And don’t forget to offer them an unemployed or pensioner discount. Make it two hundred dollars for a video.’
