by Seka
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.”
He had to go back to work and invited us to dinner. I figured, “Here we go again… .”
The dinner was more of the same. I was practically ready to ask the guy what he really wanted from me, just to get it over with and save me time, but he remained a perfect gentleman. I went back to my room and was waiting for his heavy-breathing phone call. But nothing. No hits. No runs. No errors. Nothing.
The next day he did, in fact, call. He told me what a pleasure it was to meet us. But there was no come-on. No kink. Nothing except a genuinely nice, lovely human being. A salt of the earth person. Just a joy to know.
And twenty-five years later, he’s never approached me in a rude or sexual fashion. We’ve seen plays and movies together and that’s all it’s ever been. It may be one of the best friendships I’ve ever had with anyone. I guess there truly are some nice guys left in the world. Even in Hollywood.
25. Behind the Scenes
Running adult bookstores, I was used to seeing gigantic cocks on porn men. It was part of the whole enchilada. Did it excite me? Yes, in the same hormonal way men feel about big boobs. I can’t explain it; they can’t explain it, but big boobs make them hard and big cocks make me moist. I may have fantasized about what sex would be like with one of those one-eyed monsters, but it wasn’t like I was holding out for one in real life and I wasn’t obsessed with the thought.
Once I got into porn, of course, I actually did get to play with them right off the bat. How was it? Pretty cool overall, but it never jaded me or made me a “size queen.” The first time I saw one live and in person I was still shocked. Seeing the magazines and loops at the store, I wasn’t sure if there were camera tricks or something that made every guy look so huge, so seeing my first big one was surprising — a pleasant surprise, I might add. But it never stopped me from going back to normal-sized ones and enjoying myself. It’s not all about the dick; it’s about whether the person attached to it is a dick or not.
Something I got to see that the public never did was the transformation. Everyone knows there are “showers” and there are “growers.” Some guys are well hung all the time and when they get excited they get just a little bit longer, but mostl
y just harder. Other guys may end up just as long when they’re erect, but they start off pretty darn small. In real life, it’s all good. I mean, who cares how it starts out; it’s how it ends that matters. But in porn, you never see a small, limp penis. It is always either hard, or it is flaccid yet still enormous. Are all the porn guys “showers?”
No.
I got to see a lot of these famous woodsmen with tiny little limp dicks when they weren’t filming. It brought a breath of realism to the experience, although this realism was never shared with the general public.
Perhaps it should have been. It may have made men in the audience feel less inadequate.
Of course, every “grower” does not sprout up to porn star size, so seeing the transformation of these guys from literally nothing to their version of “full bloom” blew my mind. Honestly, I might have paid to see that if I was never in the business. Actors would go off into the bathroom or into a corner and start jerking off so they’d have at least a semi by the time the cameras rolled. Or else they’d start off limp and the cameras wouldn’t roll until they were almost there. Either way, the audience’s illusion was maintained.
I had assumed the rigid size itself was an illusion, but it wasn’t. These guys were all big once they were hard. The women at that time could get away with breasts of any size — although most all of them today are ridiculously stacked and full of silicon or saline. But the men all had to be very, very well hung, and that continues today.
Speaking of erections, I get asked a lot about “fluffers.” Fluffers are these girls who are allegedly hired to blow guys to get them hard for a scene. They’re supposedly girls who want to work in porn but aren’t considered pretty enough, so they just use them off-camera to do their thing.
I never saw one. I’m not saying they don’t exist, but I never needed one. Not to brag, but if a guy couldn’t get hard when he saw me, there was something seriously wrong. Even if he needed a little encouragement, that’s all it took — a little encouragement. Maybe that’s why I became so popular with the fellas. Lots of guys from that era would say in interviews I was their favorite co-star. I was nice to them, I was professional, but lots of other girls were, too. But I got them hard and got them off, which was what we were paid to do, as I saw it. For me, that was where the illusion became the reality. Some girls, no matter how beautiful they looked, were really bad lays. They didn’t care. Their minds were elsewhere. When I was in a scene, I meant it. The sex was true. It didn’t mean I loved the guy; porn scenes are rarely about love. They were about lust and about cumming and that’s what I was about. If a guy needed a fluffer, I tended to blame it on the girl.
Herschel Savage tells a great story about me when he’s interviewed. Apparently one day, a director was busting my chops about dialogue. According to Herschel, I replied, “Look, I came here to get laid, so let’s do it!” I don’t remember it, but it sounds like something I’d say and do, so I’ll second Herschel’s motion. I knew what the people paid to see and I gave it to them, and if that meant the sex had to look real, I made it look real because for me, it was real. I got into it.
On the other hand, there were “stunt cocks.” If a guy was having a hard day (no pun intended), people were fighting on set, or they wanted him to film too many scenes in too short a time and no girl could get him up, they would switch in some other guy who was the same basic body type and cut the shots. The main guy would still get into position and make “porn faces,” like he was cumming or about to cum, but the actual “gynecological shots” were with some other guy. It’s no different than when they use body doubles in mainstream movies for action scenes or dancing scenes. It’s all done with camera tricks — cheap camera tricks, not CGI. Hell, we had no budgets to speak of, but we could afford to shoot from a few angles and edit things together. Anybody could.
Something about the low budgets: it made our movies downright funny at times. They sometimes remind me of that Johnny Depp film Ed Wood, about the world’s worst filmmaker. He’d use body doubles that looked nothing like the original actor, or he’d have boom mics or shadows of crew members in shots and wouldn’t fix it. We were often the same way and it put us up for the same level of ridicule. Comedian Dave Attell created a TV series on Showtime called Dave’s Old Porn exactly about this. Dave could run that show forever if he wanted to; there’s so much of that crazy stuff to see if you look for it.
I’d have some skinny guy with hardly any body hair on top of me. Suddenly we’re doing it and there’s this husky, swarthy guy inside me. Audiences would think it was a threesome and wonder how and when a second guy came into the room, but it was all supposed to be the one guy. Crazy.
Speaking of stunt cocks, I would be remiss in not mentioning the biggest stunt cock of all: Long Dong Silver. Yes, the guy made famous from the Anita Hill/Clarence Thomas hearings. To the best of my knowledge, I am the only woman to co-star with the real Long Dong Silver in a feature length movie, entitled Beauty and the Beast.
So what does this have to do with stunt cocks?
Long Dong was a black British guy who allegedly made John Holmes look like a teeny weeny peeny. And he did. But it was all fake.
I’ve kept my trap shut about this for years now because I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings and I certainly don’t like to hurt their careers, but since he’s no longer making films and since other sources have already publicized this, I’ll concur that Long Dong was just a normal guy wearing a plastic penis — a prosthetic. It was just like the thing they slapped on Mark Wahlberg at the end of Boogie Nights, only longer.
Long Dong had been making loops for years, but someone came up with the bright idea of pairing us in a feature. I guess since I’d done so much work with John Holmes, I was being positioned in the marketplace as “the girl who could handle anything,” or something like that. Again, not that I was a size queen in real life, but yes, I did work well with John and I believe it showed on screen. So since this guy dwarfed John… hoo boy! I mean, that plastic thing hung down to his knees!
The film itself was softcore. Not only was his dick trick, but almost all the sex was simulated. He was a really quiet guy; hardly spoke at all. But in the end, I never really had sex with him — none of us did — if the definition of sex is having penetration or oral with a real live penis. So John Holmes remains the largest man I ever had sex with. You’re still The King, buddy!
Long Dong was also black, as I mentioned. Today, black guys with white women is almost mandatory in porn. Apparently there’s this whole fantasy about BBC: Big Black Cocks. It’s a spin-off of that mainstream Hollywood movie Mandingo, which starred my poor, sweet, real-life friend, boxer Kenny Norton — a genuine gentleman.
Back in my day, the BBC/white girl thing was not as popular; don’t ask me why. For that reason, I don’t recall ever having done a real hard-core scene with a black guy, the Long Dong scene having been fake. I have nothing against black guys. Some of my best friends are… well, you get the picture. I did, though, have my choice of casting, and I turned down certain guys of all colors and ethnicities. I was an equal-opportunity picky woman.
Johnny Keyes was one of the few really active black woodsmen back in my era. I never really liked him. I didn’t find him attractive and I didn’t like his personality. I did not form this opinion out of prejudice, which means “to pre-judge.” I met him, I knew him, and we worked on films together. When I didn’t do scenes with him, he started in on me that I was racist, which he harped on because I was a Southern girl (I had more of an accent back in the day). That pissed me off. He kept on it and on it and finally I snapped, “Johnny, I don’t care if you’re black, white, or green. I think you’re ugly on the outside and ugly on the inside, and that’s why I don’t want to fuck you.” That put an end to that.
Getting back to our filmmaking magic… in our film production, there was looping. They’d take a six-minute scene and stretch it for eighteen minutes or so. How? Just keep cutting and splicing and making copies of variou
s camera shots. Watch our movies and look for it. I don’t care who you are, you can’t manage to make the exact same facial expression and turn your head in exactly the same way over and over and over again, with a passage of time in between. But they’d shoot a girl making her “cum face,” then do some other shots, then come back to her and she’s making the same damn face, at the same angle, with the same lighting. It’s the same shot! The same went for the humping and pumping shots. Guys didn’t always last that long, so they’d keep looping the guy plowing away over and over and over again, like he’s the Energizer Bunny. They could make the guy go on forever. But it was an illusion; it was fake. But it served its purpose. People wanted scenes to last a certain amount of time and they weren’t interested in guys with premature ejaculation.
The looping was also done with the sound. Again, the same thing happens in mainstream films. Actors go in later and overdub their voices in sections where the sound guy didn’t pick up what they were saying loudly and clearly enough. They do it in a fancy recording studio with the film playing on a screen so the actor can match his or her voice perfectly to the movement of their lips.
Us? After we’d shoot a scene, the sound guy would pull us to the side and say, “Groan for me,” or “Give me some dirty talk.” We did it right then and there, two feet from where we’d just been filming. There was no video playback. It was all generic. Worse, it was so inauthentic. Sure, we’d be directed to make fuck sounds while we were humping away, but at least there was still a chance we’d lose ourselves in the moment and there’d be some realism to it. But imagine standing in a bathrobe with a sound guy and saying, “Ooo, yeah. That’s it. Give it to me baby!” It was more sterile than phone sex. You had no one and nothing to play off of.
I was never around when they edited these things, but some of the people who did that job must have been stoned off their asses. John Holmes would be buried deep down my throat and I’d still be talking. What was I, a ventriloquist?! It was preposterous — and hilarious. But people watching porn must not have cared, or else they accepted that we were the only game in town. If someone came along and did things with a higher budget, they might have put a ton of companies out of business, but there was too much money to be made doing it on the cheap.
