Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn (47 page)

Although fetish films are something I’d never thought of doing, this wasn’t a bad gig. In fact, it was probably the oddest, but easiest job I’ve ever done in my career. Now when I hear people getting all horny talking about cream pies (the other kind), all I do is laugh.

53.
Along Came Carl

Toward the end of my relationship with my boyfriend, Jim, we went to Florida. We settled in the first day. But, as expected, he was gone first thing the next morning. Ditto the following. I didn’t know where he went every day and I didn’t want to know what he was doing. All I cared was that I was in Florida in a swanky hotel and could do what I wanted. I loved the sun and lay by the pool all the time. The pool boy fixed my lounge chair and brought me mimosas.

I like being a princess.

I was there just under a week when I saw the most stunning man I’d ever seen. I loved the way he carried himself, commanding the space he was in. He owned it; you knew he was there. I could see his crisp green eyes across the pool. Obviously Italian, he had dark hair combed straight back. He was oiled up and tanned as could be. He glistened in the sun; it was like it bounced off him.

About five foot ten, he had broad shoulders. Although not extremely muscular, in his yellow swimming trunks with his slender legs and glowing tan, the whole package made one amazing man. I had to check that my tongue wasn’t hanging out of my mouth because I didn’t want to look like an idiot.

It was August and in Florida it gets hot very quickly. I walked down to the shallow end of the pool and it wasn’t just the sun that was making me warm.

By happenstance, at the end of the pool there stood the object of my fantasy. He took a few steps toward me and just stared before finally blurting out, “Hi, my name is Carl.” He kept looking at me for what felt like the longest time. “You know, you remind me of someone.”

“That’s okay,” I responded.

“You remind me of Seka.”

I just smiled at him and said, “Hello, nice to meet you.”

Turns out I met him before at the radio station in Chicago because the company he worked for had done a lot of advertising. The station was always having cigar parties and different events and would invite all the advertisers to their functions. They had a show with Tom Jones at Grant Park. It turns out I was backstage and Carl was with one of his ex-wives when he came up to me and wanted a picture together. He tells me we had spoken for a good forty minutes. Oddly enough, I didn’t recall it at all. Nor did I remember several other functions where he claimed we had chatted. But when I saw him at the pool this time, he was etched in my memory forever.

Carl was with a couple guys at a local trade show where he’d do his job in the morning and then come out to the pool. Each and every day we’d talk. And boy could we talk. It went on for hours. But nothing romantic happened. We shared cocktails, lunch, and conversation and that was it. Plus, I doubted my being sixty pounds overweight would turn him on. Nonetheless, I couldn’t wait to see this wonderful man each day.

When he told me his marriage wasn’t going to last, I wished we were both available. But he didn’t even ask for my number. Nor did I ask for his. I was just thankful for the short amount of time we had together.

When he left a day earlier than I did, I had this empty feeling like vacation was over and someone I had truly connected with had just walked out of my life. When I got home I was still thinking about him.

It was about six months later when I got an e-mail from Carl through my website. A rush of excitement shot through me. I immediately e-mailed him back, “You old dog, you. Here’s my number. Call me.” And when he did I was simply thrilled.

He had just left his wife and by this point I had left Jim as well. With another trade show for him to hit not that far from me, I invited Carl to sleep on my sofa. But he opted for renting a room instead.

I went over to the Marriott to pick him up and he was sitting at the bar. I had lost those pesky sixty pounds. When I tapped him on the shoulder he looked at me and just went, “Oh, shit.”

He kind of expected it would be a very expensive evening and that I was — as Billy Joel put it — an “uptown girl,” demanding champagne and caviar. Instead, I took him to this little Italian restaurant that was great and reasonable. I said, “Why don’t we split an entree?” That shocked him.

We had a great time. The conversation flowed effortlessly from where we had left half a year earlier. We talked about anything and everything. I said, “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

I took him to a little pizza place where a bunch of my friends were hanging out. They all liked him a lot. Except for my best friend, Agnes, because he was competition for her, I suppose.

I didn’t want the night to end. I asked if he wanted to hear a little music and he said, “Sure, why not?” I took him to a place where a friend of mine, Nan Mason, was singing. It was a beautiful mansion and she was a torch singer. She’s a great lady with tremendous talent who should have made it bigger than she has. We had some delectable desserts while listening to her perform and it couldn’t have been any more romantic. Plus, we were pretty well tanked.

We got in a cab and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I kissed him. It was electric. I said, “Do you want to go back to the hotel or my place?” We ended up back at mine. He never saw that hotel room at night the rest of the trip. And so the great romance of my life began.

54.
Sweet Home Chicago

Carl and I dated for three years. It was wonderful. He didn’t have children; I didn’t have children. We liked the same things like lying out in the sun, drinking wine, and going window shopping. He was the right age — not some young punk. Even better, he was employed.

When he explained to me why his marriages didn’t work out, I accepted his answers. Frankly, it was refreshing to know he’d
had
marriages and wasn’t still married to someone who might be calling me in the middle of the night. But Carl, like many men I’d known, would say things like, “I’m no John Holmes.”

To which I’d reply, “I certainly hope not. I want a normal person.” A cock like John’s could kill a woman if she wasn’t careful.

I was still in Chicago, he was out in the suburbs, and it was about an hour each way. He’d stay with me on weekends and I’d go out to see him as well. But it was a pain in the butt. Inevitably, one of us would forget something like toiletries. Yet I never thought of moving out of Chicago. And since he’d already had two wives in his home, I didn’t want to be number three and not feel like it was my own place.

As in love as I was with this man, I had some real concerns. He had been married several times and was used to living with someone. Me, I didn’t know how to play well with others. For example, I never liked when my kitchen utensils were out of place. Little things like that would make me crazy if someone moved them.

As things got more and more serious, I wondered if this would work. But I loved the guy to death.

One day, I just decided we should be living together. With both of us being burned so many times, I actually had us draw up a kind of prenuptial agreement where if it didn’t work out, we’d both leave the relationship with what we brought in. We also drew up living wills at the same time. I was included in his and he was included in mine. It encompassed things like his pension going to me if he passed away. He didn’t have much family. I had things of value like a website, which could bring in a decent dollar if something happened to me. I also had jewelry, art, and a condo.

I only had 1,200 square feet of space. We couldn’t fall down and hit the floor because it was so packed. He needed office space as did I, so we eliminated the dining room and turned it into a work space.

It was a little trying, to say the least.

So we started looking around for a home. I loved the idea of being in a house as opposed to a condo because there was more space. I loved to garden. One day, he invited me on a business trip to Kansas City. He had lived there before and was interested in us moving there. It was cheaper, and a peaceful place to live.

I also figured the best way for our relationship to stand a chance was to not be in Chicago. There, it would be too easy to just say, “Screw it; I don’t want to deal with this anymore,” if we ever had a fight. In Kansas City, I’d have to work on this relationship. I knew I really needed a change anyway. It was time to take a large step in my life. A leap of faith if you will. So I said OK to KC.

A real estate agent showed us thirteen different houses that day. I guess thirteen isn’t unlucky because I found one I really liked. It wasn’t a palace, but it was spacious enough and at the same time, “homey.” We decided right then and there we wanted it.

My friends decided to throw me a combination fifty-first birthday and going-away party. It was exciting and kind of sad at the same time because I knew I was leaving my very best friends. I had been in Chicago literally a quarter century and these people had been there for me through thick and thin.

I called everybody I knew. Ron Rapoport is a sports writer for the
Chicago Sun-Times.
I had been friends with him for years. He’s an absolutely delightful person to be around. Then there were all my buddies I had gone boating with out on Lake Michigan, like “Boat Bob,” and “The Two Ricks — No Waiting.” One was a fireman and the other a cop and both are gorgeous. We used to joke that if you couldn’t have one you could have the other, although in reality it was all just platonic. There were plenty of firemen and police there like Dave and yet another Rick. Frank Rita and the whole Topo Gigio restaurant clan showed up. I had worked for Cheryl at the Crazy Horse gentleman’s club and she was just a great person. A tiny little Jewish girl, she was with her husband Mickey, who towered over her. I was happy my friend Debbie Ippolito was there. Although I only knew her a decade or so, she had changed my life by pushing me hard to start my website. My close friends Steve and Harriet and the whole pool crowd from our Sandburg Village condo were there, as well as Jack and Charlotte Brandenburg and Jerry and Julie Ranalli, both wonderful couples. And then there was the ever-colorful Ronnie Webber. He’s a gay man who always lights up a room. He’s very well built and handsome. I’ve never seen him wear a shirt where you couldn’t see his ripped muscles. The life of the party. Interestingly enough, he’s always with a beautiful girl. He’s a hairdresser who just plain likes pretty women.

The party was at a lovely Italian restaurant named Tutto Orsi, where I was bartending at the time. Our party was at the jam-packed bar where we were squeezed in like sardines. There had to be fifty or sixty people in attendance.

And then there was Agnes, my best friend.

In spite of any differences we may have had, leaving her was almost like losing someone to death or illness. We wouldn’t see each other as much and even though we could talk on the phone, it wouldn’t be the same as seeing her all the time. We were both very sad.

At one point the owner of the restaurant, Louie, came over and said that Ronnie and his girl had to calm down. Although he was gay, they were dancing so seductively it was scandalous. She was exposing her breasts and he was having fun with the whole thing and had his hand up her skirt and would bend her over the bar like he was humping her. But that was just Ronnie.

Bobby Salone was playing piano and different people would go to the mike and either sing a song or make a toast in my honor. One by one they told me they didn’t want to see me go, but that they were happy I found someone to share my life with and that we were moving forward. There was toast after toast, all heartfelt. These were my true friends and it was overwhelming hearing them tell me how much love and respect they had. We were always there for one another.

I would go to Topo Gigio for dinner or drinks and if someone needed an autographed picture or some piece of memorabilia, I’d never take money for it. Or if there was a charity event, I’d always volunteer my services as a celebrity bartender. If there was ever an emergency, they could call me at 3 a.m. and I’d be there or vice-versa. There was never a question on either side about the other party’s devotion.

I was so very sad leaving these wonderful people, yet I knew I hadn’t lost them. And I was excited about starting this new chapter in my life. Nonetheless, I was crying like a baby throughout the evening.

Most people in the world can count their true friends on less than one hand. I felt very blessed and fortunate because I was like that Indian goddess with all those hands. That’s how many I’d need to count my friends.

A few days later it was really time to go. My apartment was empty and a moving company had everything ready. My maintenance men Steve and Reggie, who I’d become good friends with living in that building for twenty-five years, were sitting with Carl and I, and everyone was crying. I felt like I was leaving my family.

Getting in the car, they were literally following it as we pulled out of the driveway, waving and crying. I looked back at them and I was crying so hard I was having trouble driving. Turning the comer, I could no longer see them. Suddenly, it felt like there was this void. An emptiness.

But I was about to go on a whole new adventure. I wasn’t going to allow myself to be scared. As the old blues song goes, “Kansas City, Kansas City, here I come…”