Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn (21 page)

Jamie Gillis could play anything. He may have been the best actor of all, which meant he was never out of work. Randy West, though, played Randy West — the John Wayne of erotica. And like John Wayne, he did it so convincingly you’d be crazy to try to make him play the fool or the wimp. Maybe he could, but who would pay to see it? Richard Pacheco was a really, really nice guy, so that’s what he always played on film.

I feel about the old gang the way most people feel about their high school graduating class. It’s good when we have reunions every now and then. Some I’ve kept up with and some I haven’t. Some I loved and some I didn’t care for. Many have passed on, which is sad and makes the living among us feel all the more mortal. But I suspect as long as a few of us are still breathing, we’ll still get together once in a while and reminisce about the good/bad old days.

24.
Casting Couch Minus One

There was a big buzz around Hollywood that a major director was going to put adult stars in a new film and there was going to be a casting call. At the time, Bill Margold was booking me and I got a call from him that John Frankenheimer wanted to see me. I was very nervous. I didn’t know what to expect or what he wanted. Why me? There were quite a few good-looking women who had been around longer than I had, and others who were younger and fresher. I guess I was naïve and thought I was special or something.

Ken and I were given directions to his office. John was a tall, distinguished-looking man with full, wavy hair. He was built nicely and casually dressed with a presence about him. I imagined his Hollywood office would be more elaborate. The furnishings were nice but modest. It wasn’t that large, maybe eleven by sixteen.

He had his secretary get us something to drink. He started telling us about
52 Pick-Up,
which eventually starred Ann-Margret and Roy Scheider, and I was so mesmerized I didn’t hear a word he was saying except for him mentioning a pool scene orgy in which I would be prominently featured.

“What do you mean, ‘There’s an orgy?’” I asked.

He hesitatingly answered, “Or you could play the hostess of a swingers’ party.”

Well, was it an orgy or a swinger’s party? I said, “Excuse me, what are you talking about?”

That’s when he went in for the kill.

“You wouldn’t have to do anything. I really just want to take pictures of me fucking you. We could do it right now. I have a camera here.”

My ever-gallant boyfriend jumped right in and said, “Okay, we’re ready.”

“Ken, are you out of your mind?” I blurted out.

I turned back to Frankenheimer. “You want me on your casting couch so I can play a character in a
movie
having sex, when I already
have
sex on camera? I’m not doing this. I wouldn’t fuck you even if you paid me. You’re a rude, ignorant man.”

I got out of my chair and glared at him. He looked pretty pissed off. Ken was still desperately trying to convince me to reconsider as I walked out.

I was proud of my sticking to my guns. A lot of my peers in the industry thought I was insane not to jump at the opportunity, and virtually all the chicks from the adult industry did end up in the film. He even got Ronnie, Herschel, Randy, and Jamie, although I doubt the boys had to fuck Frankenheimer to get their parts.

And it did absolutely nothing for any of their careers.

One of Frankenheimer’s peers at the time was a major studio head known to be a womanizer. All I heard was he had a huge-budget blockbuster — not
52 Pick-Up,
but another film — and he wanted to see me. He was going to be in New York and offered to fly us there and put us up at the incredibly ritzy and exclusive Carlyle Hotel.

We got there and checked in and I was, of course, extremely impressed. I said to myself, “Damn, this little country girl just stepped out of the woods and into high society.” Meanwhile, our famous host was conveniently situated in the suite next to ours and he invited us over.

I thought, “I hope this isn’t another Frankenheimer moment.” There was so much caviar and lobster and Cristal champagne I couldn’t help but be impressed. I feasted my eyes on chandeliers, antiques, and gorgeous, gorgeous furniture. I just hoped my mouth wasn’t wide open like Ellie Mae’s.

I was handed a script. It was a period piece set in the thirties, which interested me because I like that time period. But he didn’t ask me to read. Another fellow came in and started to play the piano to give me an idea of the music of that era. I said, “This is cool. I like the music.”

“We’re all going out to dinner this evening. Would you like to go?” he offered.

Believe it or not, I wasn’t with Ken this trip, but with my gay makeup man, Fred, because after the Frankenheimer incident I didn’t want to be alone with these “respectable movie” people. Fred, of course, said yes.

Everybody practically tripped over themselves to get us a table. We were out with a nice enough group of people and it was a mellow evening with good conversation. The mogul asked us to meet him the next morning around 10 a.m. for breakfast. Since it was fairly early, Fred and I decided to hit the town. We went to almost every gay bar in New York, like The Anvil, Hell’s Kitchen, and The Eagle. We danced, we drank, and the boys treated me like a queen. I was a tall, big-titted blonde and back then there weren’t as many gay porn films. They love boobs — I don’t know why, but they love boobs. But nothing sexual happened, obviously. It was just a fun night out in the Big Apple. Back in those days I could roll into bed at 4 a.m. and still look cute in the morning.

The breakfast itself was uneventful and mundane. It dragged on into the early afternoon and I thought it was going on forever. Nothing had been said about the part, the pay, the shooting schedule, or anything else. I wasn’t a total idiot. I knew some of this stuff had to be covered, so I was getting kind of leery.

We broke after lunch and I said, “I’m going to have a little nap.”

Suddenly he said, “I’d like to have dinner with you alone.”

Here it comes, I thought. I was scared. Not that he would hurt or rape me, but that I wouldn’t know how to handle the situation with the decorum I thought this person deserved should something happen. Strange as it may sound, I just didn’t want to be rude to him.

Fred said, “Don’t worry, she’ll be ready.”

He tried to reassure me it would be okay, but something told me it wouldn’t. I was really nervous.

There was a knock on the door as Fred was doing my make-up. A gentleman was at the door with a box. Inside was a man’s tailored shirt that had been made for me. It was an absolutely gorgeous shirt with Mr. Mogul’s name on the back and a note that said, “It’s going to be a casual evening. Please wear jeans and this shirt.”

It fit nicely, but I thought it was really strange. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and when I went to meet him, he couldn’t stop complimenting me on the shirt.

Odd.

We went to a really nice steakhouse. There were linen tablecloths and napkins, and the service was quite good, but it wasn’t over the top with guys with white gloves or anything like that. There was a lot of heavy Mahogany wood, which kind of reminded me of those private New York men’s clubs you see in the movies. It was a place for real meat lovers. I was suitably impressed. God knows Ken didn’t take me to places like this. My nerves settled a bit and he informed me he was expecting some guests to join us.

Woody Allen and Mia Farrow.

At first, I thought it was wonderful, but they were actually quite dull. Woody looked disheveled and unkempt. His hair was messed up and his clothes were wrinkled. I never suspected he actually walked around like that on his own time.

Mia was very quiet and had the most gorgeous alabaster skin. She was very proper and a bit mousy for my tastes. I never thought of her as an extremely pretty woman, but she was quite elegant.

My host introduced me as Seka. All I got was a “Nice to meet you.” I think they were both oblivious to who I was. This has always been a double-edged sword for me. People generally watch my movies to get horny or get off. What does this say about them? What does it say about the people who
don’t
watch my movies? I’ve never come up with an answer to either question.

I assumed we were having dinner together, but they just joined us for cocktails. They excused themselves and that was that. We had a nice enough meal with pleasant conversation, but something still struck me as odd about my host.

Stepping out of the restaurant, he motioned for a limousine to pick us up. He asked if I wanted to have a drink with him in his room. I said, “Okay,” because so far everything had been all right. He hadn’t been forward and hadn’t made any advances. I also knew Fred was in the next room if anything got out of hand. If he got a little handsy, I’d just leave.

When we opened the room there was flowers everywhere. It smelled great. Suddenly, out walked a beautiful girl with olive complexion who looked like a runway model. She was wearing the same shirt I had on.

I asked, “Just what are you doing?”

He looked at me like I was nuts. “I thought you wanted a nightcap. Isn’t she beautiful?”

She certainly was. And she was also clearly a “woman of the evening.” I told him, “I’ll sit on this chair. You sit over there. And you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I just want some pictures of you two together.”

It was harmless enough. I’d been paid to pose for pictures before. But this was disingenuous. When I did modeling gigs, I knew I was there for modeling before I even woke up that morning. Furthermore, I was getting paid and I knew what the pay was. Tonight, I’d been wined and dined and it must have cost a pretty penny, but that made it barter, not a gig. I decided I wasn’t going to do it.

Meanwhile, I spotted plenty of pictures lying around of the two of them in various states of undress. However, nothing sexual was going on.

He looked at me and said in a disappointed tone, “You mean you won’t take any pictures with the two shirts?”

What the hell was with these fucking shirts?!

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, let me come clean with you.”

This is going to be good. “Thrill me, chill me, shock me, amaze me, but just tell me.”

“Let me tell you what I want from you.”

“And what would that be?”

I noticed him glancing at a lovely glass coffee table. It was huge. I mean, two to three inches of heavy glass. You could have a party on it or underneath it, it was so big.

“I loved your ass from the first time I saw you. I would love to see you sitting bare-bottomed on top of the coffee table while I’m underneath so it can be as if you’re shitting on my face.”

Lovely. And here I was, thinking it was going to be something weird.

Without blinking an eye, missing a beat, just very matter-of-factly, he made that statement sound like something you’d hear in everyday conversation. I didn’t say anything for a couple of moments. The man had shocked me speechless.

We stared at each other for what felt like the longest time. He just asked a woman he didn’t know the grossest request I had ever heard, and I’d heard a lot. For some reason, out of nowhere, I just started laughing. I could not contain myself. I was so stunned I was laughing my ass off, cackling like a hen.

He said, “Well, are you going to answer me or not?”

I managed to say, “Not,” through the laughter.

Once I’d collected myself, I stood up and said, “With all due respect, you set a very nice stage.” I looked at the girl who stood there silently throughout. I picked up two bottles of Cristal and said, “I’m going to bed,” and left the room.

Clearly, I never got a part in that movie. But I did get to keep the shirt.

Another time I got word that Tommy Lasorda wanted to meet me. I love baseball so I figured “What the hell?” It was a casual restaurant on Sunset. Nice food in an open area with brick walls where you could see out onto the Boulevard and people-watch. Tommy was very flamboyant but it was just basic B.S. chatter with Tommy talking about himself, which is what most people do. In the middle of the conversation he told me about a friend of his named Sy Sussman, who worked for the William Morris Agency. I had no idea at the time what that was so it didn’t mean a whole lot to me, but Fred seemed impressed by it. We took Sy’s number and gave him a call.

It turned out he was the third agent from the top at the number-one entertainment agency in the world and he wanted to meet me.

I had no idea what Sy looked like, nor did I know much about him. But I figured after the other two Hollywood bigwigs, the third would be more of the same.

The Morris office complex was huge. It was like three city blocks with screening rooms and everything else. We went to the front desk and asked for Mr. Sussman. I don’t know what I was expecting, but he wasn’t it. He was rather short, gracious, older than I thought, and a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn.

He took me around the office and introduced me to everyone. Sy would talk about different things — not just the agency or himself. He seemed sincerely interested in everything I had to say. But I caught myself. “Don’t fall for this,” I thought. “You’re slipping.”