Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn (34 page)

I didn’t hear from Sam after that. I guess it was too big a blow to his ego.

The Sam Kinison roller coaster was too scary for me to ride. I genuinely loved Sam and cared for him. It was fun, it was exciting, and an experience most people will never have in their life. Plus, I got a lot of publicity out of it.

When I heard Sam died, I was truly sad. I tried to reach Elliot to find out what had happened but couldn’t get in touch with anyone. Basically I knew what the public knew. I heard he had cleaned up his act, which made it even more tragic.

He was one of the greats, right up there with Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor. And an unforgettable part of my life.

With my boyfriend of the time, Sam Kinison, hosting
SNL
3-15-86.

Classic Sam.

Lolling around Cat Cay in a boat with Sam Kinison, in between “rocktails.”

36.
Patrick

Patrick was a very talented blues harmonica player who also fancied himself a photographer. He was about five foot seven with long, red, wavy hair that went down to the middle of his back, which he always wore in a French braid. He was very Irish looking with a fair complexion, freckles, and really, really pretty soft milky brown eyes. I was an inch or two taller than him, but the height difference never bothered me. For whatever reason, I usually dated men who were shorter than me.

We met at Kingston Mines, a blues club in Chicago. It was a jam session. He knew who I was, but I had never seen him before. I thought he was really cool because he played harmonica, had that long braid, a great laugh, and was very popular. It seemed that everybody in the club knew him. What was there not to like?

We started hanging out, partying, and soon enough, dating. It was the same old sex, drugs, and rock and roll, only with a steadier partner. I thought he was a serious artist because he kept saying he had an album deal coming soon. He envisioned himself a Bruce Hornsby type.

I had to go to L.A. for a photo shoot and he wanted to come along. He had some friends there and also had golfing on his brain. While I was working he golfed and socialized. And out of nowhere one night he asked me to marry him. And he kept asking. He was in love.

In a drug induced haze, I said, “Sure, why not?” It seemed like a well thought out decision at the time. Besides, I just wanted to go to sleep and shut him up.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was at the photo shoot, he arranged for a minister, a marriage license, the whole nine yards. I have a friend who still lives in L.A., and Patrick asked if we could have the wedding in his backyard.

I got back from the shoot and he told me, “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

Now, I liked him well enough. But was I in love with him? Not quite.

I woke up in a stupor, barely realizing I was about to be married again. With all the partying, I’d had maybe five hours’ sleep in three or four days. I stood in front of the minister in a fog. When he asked, “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I didn’t even absorb it. I felt several people poke me, abruptly jolting me back to reality. It was then I uttered the incredibly romantic words, “Yeah, I guess so.”

That should have given me a clue right there.

After the “I guess so’s” were pronounced, we had what you might call a reception, with lunch served to the eight or nine people present, including my make-up artist, hairdresser, and a couple of other friends. As they ate, I went into the bedroom and slept through the whole darn thing.

When I woke up hours later, most everyone was gone. A dream wedding this wasn’t.

I had a couple of other things to do in L.A., so Patrick headed back to Chicago, where he said he’d move his things in while I was out of town. When I got back to Chicago, I was horrified to find my whole house rearranged. There were all kinds of shady-looking people in and out of there at all hours of day and night. It didn’t take me long to figure out my musician/photographer husband was actually a drug dealer. That’s why everybody in that club knew him. Was I ever pissed he was dealing from my house! I was terrified of losing my home. Despite rumors, I’d only been married once before, and Frank sold pot, so here I was again, reliving the worst parts of my life on an endless loop.

When Patrick referred to it as “our house,” I corrected him, firmly. Things went downhill awfully fast. I wasn’t too polite to anyone who walked through the door, which was not doing his business much good. Ultimately, I would get disgusted and pick myself up and leave my own place.

One day, I looked at him and simply said, “I want a divorce.”

I went to my lawyer and told him what I’d done and he said, “Oh my God, what’s wrong with you?”

I replied, “I’m crazy; what do you want from me?”

Patrick truly thought he was in love and told me he’d contest the divorce. He was using a lot and was in just as bad a condition as I was, for my partying had gotten way out of control, although I never had a desire to deal. Too dangerous. Soon after, Patrick was summoned to my lawyer’s office, where I had all the papers ready to be signed. But he said, “I’m not signing them.”

I lost it. I angrily stormed over to him, picked him up, and literally threw him against the wall. When I’m angry, it gives me crazy strength.

“Sign the papers or I’m going to break your fucking legs!”

He said, “You’re threatening me. You’re threatening me and we’re in front of lawyers.”

“They’re my lawyers, dumb ass, and I’m paying them. Do you think they’re going to squeal on me?”

So he signed.

And just like that the marriage was over. The whole thing lasted six weeks and we were in each other’s company for about three.

It was one of the things that made me realize I needed to get straight, and fast. The next time I saw him, we bumped into each other on the street and he had grown a beard, gained about fifty pounds, and just looked terrible. I barely recognized my ex-husband.

37.
Careful… They May Screw You

I’d left XXX films, I did the stripping thing for a while, I still did the
Club
magazine work and the mail order business, but funds were dwindling. My opulent lifestyle was eating up all my cash, but I didn’t want to give it up without a fight.

The film business never stopped calling me. My videos were still the rage. Other, younger stars had come along, but my name continued to bring in audiences and sales. Instead of just saying no, I kept up my game of asking for far too much money, as well as so many other conditions, in order to make them hang up the phone. But while AIDS lingered as a concern, other factors kept teasing me to come back. Sure, money was number one, but other things, such as creative control, played in my head. So long as they still knew I could make them money, the industry seemed willing to give me a wide berth if I ever wanted back in.

I decided to make my own movie. It was a challenge. It was almost like giving birth.

In that era, I can’t remember any woman but Gail Palmer raising money, writing, directing, editing, and getting a distribution deal before the first inch of film was shot. But it was something I needed to — and somehow knew I
could
do.

I started writing
Careful, He May Be Watching
while I was traveling quite a bit with Barbara. She knew the lawyers to go to in order to draw up the agreements, and the people we needed to raise money from.

I wrote it out in longhand on a legal pad, as I didn’t really know how to put it into script format. For that, I hired Richard Pacheco, whose real name is Howie Gordon. He was an actor I had worked with and I really liked him a lot and still do. He was one of the few guys in the business I felt was extremely sensitive. Even though he got paid to get a hard-on on demand, he personally wasn’t a hard-on. I was even friendly with his wife and kids. He always had a tablet with him and would be writing something, so I knew he was the right man for the job.

I gave the plot a little twist — something I had not seen or heard before in XXX. I played both leading ladies: a blonde named Jane Smith, and a redhead named Molly Flame. Jane was an ordinary housewife and Molly a porn star. And they both liked to watch adult films. It turned on Jane’s husband, an airline pilot, whose favorite porn star was Molly. What he didn’t know was that Molly was actually his wife, because I wore a red wig and dyed my pubes red to match the red hair. As was my philosophy, the carpet always has to match the drapes. In the scenes with Jane, my pubes were blonde. Come to think of it, that may have been the first and last time that’s ever happened in any movie, period. Hell, today’s adult stars barely even have pubes at all, except for maybe a little landing strip.

After a few years off, I worried about my looks. Mainstream actresses battle aging, but can rely on lots more tricks than we ladies who go naked all the time. Nudity is unforgiving.

One of the things that set us apart back in my day from the adult films of today was our natural bodies. When you saw someone like me or Kay Parker, really busty gals, we were all real. No implants, please! No ass implants, no big collagen blowjob lips, no nothing. And people could tell, especially after the passage of time when our films are compared to more modern fare. Most of the implant girls never even try to look real and natural. That’s when we really get appreciated by the guys who considered themselves porn connoisseurs. Still, as we age… lemma tell ya, big boobs follow the laws of gravity. They drop like wages in a recession. I also have to compensate when I step on a scale. I carry around forty pounds of boobage.

I was never a purist, per se. I will not rip on girls for getting work done. But I had a different challenge. People had certain expectations about my body. My body was my signature. My pride was that I didn’t want to have anything done where fans would say, “Oh look, she had her boobs done. They’re larger now and they’re up around her neck.” If I was to have anything done, it would be for maintenance sake only. If a doctor couldn’t make me look the same as I always looked, I wasn’t interested.

Some girls go in with the best of intentions, but the doctors screw up and they come out looking like Outer Space Barbie. I shopped around and shopped around. I knew I needed help — my knockers were speeding toward my knees.

I had my babies lifted — not enlarged, just lifted. A few years later, I had to do it again. Finally, on round three (long after
Careful
), I got them raised again (I treat them like a draw bridge), along with a face lift and a tummy tuck. I go to doctors today and they’re amazed at how good a job my surgeons did. They have to search all over me to find even the slightest hint of a scar anywhere. As natural-looking as can be. My breasts still hang down as large natural breasts tend to do. When I lie on my back, they splay out toward my armpits rather than reaching for the ceiling like they have magnets in the nipples. Again, if I never told anyone, no one would ever know, which is the whole idea… until now.