Not Your Ordinary Housewife

12





With anything sexual, Paul had a sixth sense. When he heard that the Dutch telephone carrier was allowing time-charged erotic calls, he began to enquire about what Telecom Australia was planning. We learnt that a premium-rate service—double 0, double 5—was to be launched in August 1988. With that in mind, he was determined to be one of the first operators.

He recalled how one particular company in the Netherlands had ‘cleaned up’. They had the busiest numbers in Holland—probably in all of Europe. ‘We could stop doing all that other crap and become respectable.’

I was interested; we were both tired of carting our gear around, like a travelling sideshow. Excitedly Paul itemised what we’d need. ‘We’ll buy a shelf company and register a business name . . . and get business cards and another line for a fax and . . .’

I reminded Paul that we weren’t even sure what was involved, or if we could get a licence; and neither of us knew the first thing about business.

As was typical of Paul, his creative brain raced way ahead of the detail. He said we’d worry about trivialities later—for now we needed to be in on the ground floor of this enterprise. ‘This is our lucky break.’

He set up a meeting with Telecom, but what they told him was very disheartening. Not only were they licensing a limited number of 0055 services, but the cost of these licences was far beyond our means.

But it was their contract with service providers that caused Paul the most concern. ‘Look at this bullshit,’ he scoffed after studying the complex document. Telecom was obviously determined not to allow sex calls of any sort. ‘It actually itemises the words that are prohibited—can you believe this in a government contract? It says one can’t say: f*ck, cunt, dick, blah blah blah. F*cking wowsers!’

‘Relax,’ I said. ‘This is Australia. Things aren’t quite as progressive as in Holland.’


Paul thought the Dutch were a lot smarter. ‘They just tax everything. Like with dope and prostitution—legalise it, then tax it.’ He theorised that the only 0055 numbers that would make any money would be erotic calls.

At this stage we saw little hope of getting involved in such an amazing new opportunity.



We had been searching for a studio for some time and were lucky enough to negotiate an informal arrangement with the owners of a nearby cottage. They gave us the keys to the place, but insisted on occasionally visiting for gardening maintenance. Paul explained we were artists and wanted to set up a studio; but, under cover of darkness, we moved in a bed and the bondage horse. Here, we were able to arrange meetings with our clients and so save them—and us—costly motel expenses.

One evening, after a particularly tiring day of sessions, we must have left the curtains gaping slightly, so that the horse and one of our large vibrators were visible. Presumably the owners looked in and realised what we were up to, because they terminated our arrangement immediately. It was then that Paul decided a trip to Sydney might be a fruitful exercise; we had large numbers of clients living there, due to our ads in the sex paper Searchlight, and they had long been begging me to visit.

I called my all-time favourite client, Julian Durie, a high-profile barrister with chambers in prestigious Phillip Street. He had been an early respondent to our modelling ads, and was a photographer of some skill and sensitivity. He and I had developed an instant rapport and he occasionally visited us in Melbourne, whenever his hectic schedule allowed. During his visits, he sometimes invited us to social events at which his wife would have been present, but he told us if asked to say that we knew him from his days at the Trade Practices Commission. I always felt uneasy at the prospect of lying like that, so we had never taken him up on his invitations. When he heard that we were venturing north, however, he immediately arranged a serviced apartment on Sydney Harbour and, as usual, insisted on taking us out to dinner.

This was to be our first family holiday. Although we needed to make the trip a financial success, we took the opportunity to spend quality time with Shoshanna. She would be babysat while we met the obligations of our diary, which I had solidly booked with appointments. A few clients were keen to do outdoor shots, with the Harbour Bridge and Opera House as a backdrop, all of which provided welcome additions to our photographic files.

I had been looking forward to the dinner with Julian. Embarrassingly, Paul brought the 0055 contract along and wanted to discuss ways of circumventing its ‘keep it clean’ clauses. Eventually I insisted Paul put it away, because Julian was stimulating company and had a wonderful sense of humour.

On returning to our apartment for coffee Paul intimated he wouldn’t be averse to a threesome, and suggested I take Julian to the bedroom. This was one occasion where I needed little persuasion and Julian turned out to be a passionate lover. We connected on a profound level and I think we both knew that, had circumstances been different, we could have fallen deeply in love.

After fifteen minutes or so Paul became impatient and called out to see if everything was okay. So, reluctantly, I let Paul enter the room, although it was obvious that neither of us wanted him there. It was at times like this that I caught glimpses of how my life could have been if I’d made other choices: I could have been Mrs Corporate Barrister—attending cocktail parties at the bar association, discussing the latest chief justice appointment or perhaps accompanying my husband to a conference in the Cayman Islands. Instead, I was about as far from that as anyone could be. Not that I was bitter—but I knew I didn’t really fit into the sex and sleaze world either.



Paul arranged for us to go to a swingers’ party near Bondi Beach the next night. A number of clients were coming specially to meet me; I was dreading going, and we argued.

‘Listen, can’t you just go alone and say I’ve got a headache?’ I really hated playing the sex-crazed swinger.

‘You know that single men aren’t allowed. Besides, it’ll be good for business,’ argued Paul, who of course never took no for an answer.

‘Money—that’s all you ever think about. Well, I’m not swinging with anyone.’ My night of passion with Julian was still fresh in my mind and I was starting to wonder if I hadn’t fallen a tiny bit in love with him.

‘You seemed happy enough to f*ck Julian last night. Maybe a bit too happy,’ Paul persisted.

‘Yeah, right—you pressure me relentlessly to swing and then, when I finally find someone I actually like, you get jealous. You can’t have it both ways. This is not a normal marriage.’

Paul paused. ‘It’s your lawyer thing,’ he sneered.

Undeniably, I had had a penchant for legal professionals since my university days, when I’d fallen for a radical student from the Socialist Lawyers Society. He’d seduced me with his idealistic notions of fighting for Fretilin in East Timor.

‘No,’ I countered. ‘It’s my decent person thing—I can respect him.’

‘Ha, he’s cheating on his wife—and you respect that?’

‘At least he’s not pimping her,’ I snapped.

Nevertheless, Paul had made a valid point. I was troubled by the fact that Julian’s wife apparently didn’t know of his secret sex life and I wondered if I should feel guilty, even though I’d never encouraged him.

So we attended the party. Although it may have been bad for my reputation not to f*ck anybody, the thought of swinging sickened me. I was virtually the only one with their clothes on by the end of the evening, when we beat a hasty retreat. I chuckled to myself as I realised how well observed Eating Raoul’s swingers’ scene was.

We returned to Melbourne with our pockets full of cash, plus rolls of new negatives and footage. We were unprepared, however, for the shock of having been burgled. While most things were replaceable, some were not: my treasured set of 72 Derwent pencils in their cardboard box; a hand trolley I had made at art school—I was immensely proud of my welding—and the 29-cent engagement ring from the Montreal Toyworld. I would have the last laugh if they ever got it valued.



Paul’s persistence with 0055 finally paid off. Using his charm, he negotiated a deal with one of the licensed service providers so as to become a sub-service provider on a fifty-fifty basis. We would pay all advertising costs, but would effectively net one-quarter of the gross revenue. However, he was still frustrated by the fact that the contract forbade explicit sexual content.

One evening, he was smoking a joint in the garden while studying the contract. Paul called out to me excitedly. ‘Eureka, I’ve got it!’ He said he’d found a loophole that even Julian hadn’t seen.

‘Here’s what we do. I’ll write a series of scripts and stick to their puritanical rules: I won’t use any profanity . . . but I’ll write it so that the listener thinks that, at any moment, they’ll be getting to the “good bit”.’ The first one would be called the Fantasy Line and we’d advertise in Truth newspaper.

I laughed. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’

‘Of course,’ he said, pointing out that there was nothing in the contract to say he couldn’t do it. I hoped he was right. ‘It’s just a shame I can’t give the wankers what they want. I know I can write great horny stories, but Telecom won’t let me, because of their f*cked-up antiquated morals.’




A new fervour gripped Paul. Within days, he organised a shelf company with both of us as directors. He designed the business logo—a graphic of a phone handset incorporating the buzz word ‘infomarketing’—and printed up business cards and letterheads. We registered over twenty business names, many using the word fantasy: Fantasy Line, Call-a-Fantasy, Ring-a-Fantasy, Phone-a-Fantasy and Dial-a-Fantasy, plus others such as the Pornography and Wife-Swapping lines.

Through our friendly bank manager—a regular client—we traded in the Volvo and leased back a new one. Paul insisted on spending thousands on a fax machine. He rationalised that since only large companies owned them, the fax machine, in conjunction with the mobile phone number, would give the impression that we were corporate high-flyers. In addition, he bought a second-hand 8-track recorder out of the Trading Post and a supply of blank audiocassette tapes. I watched in amazement as he started writing scripts.

Paul arrived home one afternoon from the ABC sound effects library. ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got,’ he said, holding up a cassette for me to see. ‘I chatted up this very helpful gay guy. He’s given me all these samples to use in our scripts, like what they use when they broadcast radio plays.’

I looked at the labelled case, reading aloud: ‘Airport noises, surf crashing, Hawaiian music, musical bridge . . .’ It was a pretty eclectic list and I was curious as to what kind of story he would write. Paul assured me it would be brilliant.

And so Paul wrote his Fantasy Line script one morning and I recorded it that afternoon. I put on my sexiest, sultriest voice and began: ‘Hi, I’m Sharon, and I’m about to tell you my favourite fantasy. Please don’t think I’m a deviate or anything, just because I have fantasies . . .’ The script continued with a description of Sharon, a housewife who fantasises, while doing the ironing, about a trip to Hawaii. On board the plane, she meets Scott. ‘I could see he was the athletic type from the way he filled out his designer jeans and polo-shirt. A talented young man . . .’ She continued: ‘He reached over and a thrill ran down my spine as his strong, capable hands fastened the belt around my waist . . .’

I could barely contain my laughter as the script ebbed and flowed; the action perpetually promised, but never delivered. A brief mention of joining the mile-high club was followed by the line: ‘Scott invited me to stay at his apartment and insisted on giving me a traditional Hawaiian welcome—a pineapple cocktail and a lei.’ But the denouement was unfulfilled and it unravelled: the smouldering smell from the cooked eggs in Sharon’s fantasy brought her back to reality with: ‘It was burning cotton. Suddenly, I’m back in my lounge room. I’m still wearing an apron, doing the ironing. And I’ve just burnt a hole in a king-size sheet (sigh). Thank you for calling the Fantasy Line.’

I needed several attempts at reading this ten-minute script before I was able to finish it without getting the giggles. Paul added the sound effects, fading them in and out where appropriate and concluding with some soporific Hawaiian pedal steel-guitar music. He was right—it was brilliant. It was a masterful tease, in which absolutely nothing happened.

Meanwhile, I wrote the script for the Wife-Swapping Line—a serious essay written from a psychological perspective which I researched meticulously at the local library. Paul designed some big, bold display ads to be placed in Truth. I was worried about the exorbitant cost, but Paul mocked me, telling me that I worried about money too much. I retorted that he didn’t worry enough.

Paul’s marketing talent paid off. The Fantasy Line soon became the biggest earner of any of the 0055 numbers, with the Wife-Swapping Line not far behind, especially after Truth ran an article on it. We were faxed daily figures, which gave us the average amount of time callers stayed on the line. Our holding times were the longest in the business and that, together with the huge numbers of callers, translated into a comfortable profit for us.

In response, several of the large service providers began to venture into the sexual arena themselves; they realised they were losing mountains of money on many of their other services. Under the guise of providing clinical information, they created lines with titles such as ‘Anal Intercourse’ and ‘Semen’; they posed questions such as ‘Is oral sex normal?’ But Paul upped the ante by changing the graphics on the Fantasy Line ad—it now showed a topless me, albeit with my breasts hidden, lying on my stomach. He also reserved a new number ending in ‘69’ and booked ads in People magazine.

Paul was on a creative binge. He was churning out scripts faster than I could record them. He came up with new titles that had maximum impact: ‘Ginger and Lyn’ (a play on the porn star, Ginger Lynn), ‘Dial Debbie’ (reminiscent of the classic porno, Debbie Does Dallas) and ‘Linda’s Log’ (referencing the star of Deep Throat). We were hiring other women to do voice-overs, such as for the ‘Sue and Helen’ series—weekly episodes narrated by two bored housewives. Unfortunately, the formula was always the same—nothing happened—but Paul was convinced that, once Telecom realised that the only lines making money were sex-related, they would relax their draconian restrictions.

We began working frantically on a Secret Confessions series. There were to be separate phone numbers for Porn Star, Call Girl and Stripper. I wrote the interview-style questions and answers, and we hired several women to record the tapes with Paul—they were little more than fictional descriptions of how ‘she’ had first entered the various occupations. To prepare this material, I immersed myself in the library; I also wrote numerous non-fictional essays, including the Nudist and Pornography lines. But then, without warning, Telecom pulled the plug on all our lines, some even before they’d gone to air. People phoning our lines were met with a gruff recorded message stating that these services were no longer available.

We were in shock. We had actually stuck to the contract. Furthermore, we had bookings we couldn’t cancel for thousands of dollars of advertising in several papers.

The curt explanation for Telecom’s dramatic intervention came via our service provider. Apparently, advertising in the back section of Truth brought the 0055 service into disrepute. Furthermore, Telecom was unhappy with the word ‘fantasy’—it was allegedly too sexually suggestive—and they did not approve of the graphic of me.

After long negotiations, we were told that we could continue the service if we changed its name to Dial-a-Dream, if we advertised in the front section of the paper and removed any suggestive images.

‘This is such bullshit,’ exclaimed Paul. ‘Who ever heard of not being able to say the word fantasy? And who’s gonna call a number called Dial-a-Dream? What is wrong with these people?’ Indeed, one of the other service providers had a clinical information line entitled Sexual Fantasies, which was permitted to stay on air.

We decided we’d just have to re-record and do some new ads.

‘It won’t make as much as before but it’ll still do okay,’ I said.

‘I suppose you’re right. I’m just so pissed off—bloody Telecom think they can do anything.’ It was true: they were government-owned and accountable to nobody.

‘That’s what happens when you have a monopoly,’ I commiserated.


Hedging our bets, we began work on an adult introduction service to be called the Contact Line. According to what we had been told, placing the ads in People magazine—with its alleged readership of some 730,000 people nationwide—was still permitted by Telecom. We re-recorded the Fantasy Line script, identical in every way to the original except for the intro and outro sentences, which now read: ‘Thank you for calling Dial-a-Dream’. Paul re-designed the ad—it was text only, and it would be placed in the front section of Truth.

To our utter amazement, Telecom cancelled the amended version. Even the text-only Dial-a-Dream and Contact Line ads in People were pulled, despite the fact that some of our competitors continued to advertise there.

Again, the vague explanation came via our service provider: apparently, Truth and People were deemed to be inappropriate advertising media. But we had tried in vain to get Telecom’s bureaucrats to give us clear guidelines in writing as to where we could and couldn’t advertise; however, they had refused to commit themselves.

Paul vacillated between despondency and anger. ‘I’ve had enough—I’m starting to take this very personally.’ He was sure Telecom was trying to put us out of business, and that they were in cahoots with some of the other service providers.

It certainly looked that way. There were still companies who were advertising in Truth phone lines with names like Masturbation and Premature Ejaculation.

Telecom just kept shifting the goal posts; it had all become a financial fiasco. ‘The cunts’—as Paul called them—‘just keep disconnecting our phone lines.’ He thought we should go to the Trade Practices Commission—they dealt with this sort of thing. He wanted me to call Julian in Sydney; he had worked for them and was well versed in competition law.

Much as I wanted to speak to Julian, I didn’t want to appear to be using him for free legal advice. But Paul called him anyway, without my knowledge, and discussed our case.

We also made an appointment with one of the Trade Practices Commission lawyers. He said that it was against competition law to form a cartel and to exclude us from our rightful share in the marketplace. We were advised to document all dealings with Telecom so that a dossier could be built up.

Paul was determined to catch the Telecom staff lying; to do this, he purchased a primitive telephone-recording device from an electronics shop. Although I had concerns about the legalities of this, Paul allayed my fears by assuring me that he would simply use whatever information he gathered to jog his memory for his Trade Practices submission. He then called one of the 0055 bureaucrats and asked him to clarify Telecom’s policies and guidelines for advertising. The hapless employee was no match for Paul’s sharp mind.

Paul believed he had exposed Telecom’s inconsistencies and was very pleased with his recording. This tape was to form the basis of the David and Goliath battle we were about to embark upon.