Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn

by Seka

  At one point I was the “den mother” for the Kevin Matthews Show. He’d say, “Let’s call the Den Mother,” and I’d come into the studio. You never knew what he was going to do because he’d fly by the seat of his pants.

  He would do fundraisers for a Catholic orphanage he was fond of. Believe it or not, he called his charity barbecue contest Beat Kev’s Meat. There were some pretty good cooks out there and he’d have celebrity judges. One summer, he asked me to come out and help the event draw better, along with celebrity hunter and fisherman Babe Winkelman. He was sort of like the Brawny Paper Towel guy. They’d have an auction with things like a guitar from Mötley Crüe or a painting from a gallery. Dinner was served under a huge tent. Kev would ask me and Dave to take this big fish bowl around asking for donations for the orphanage but we were toasted, having been drinking all afternoon. The priest was pretty drunk, too. It made for an interesting day of fund-raising — the porn star, the priest, and the outdoorsman teaming up.

  Kevin kept remarking I had a good voice for radio. I finally said to him, “Make it happen.” And he did.

  It was Saturday nights from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. and it was called “Let’s Talk about Sex.” At first I was like, “How do you fill up four hours of time?” I dreaded dead air. The first night I thought, “This is going to be the longest night of my life.” But I was absolutely wrong. The phones just lit up. I also had guests like the gay women who wrote Diamonds Are a Girls’ Best Friend, a book about women’s softball. Johnson and Johnson had actual doctors on who specialized in sexuality. They could ask any of us questions. I remember one question in particular. A caller wanted to know, “Where was the strangest place you ever had sex?” My immediate thought was the famous Newlywed Show segment, so I said, “In the butt.” We all cracked up.

  Although it did get wild at times and we had an awful lot of fun, we didn’t think of the show or treat it like a shock jock gig. A lot of the questions were from people with legitimate problems. Women worried about keeping things interesting and fresh, while men were more worried about whether they were cumming too soon. It was very satisfying because we actually helped people with good, solid advice from folks qualified to give it. We covered a lot of ground. We made them feel open and at ease. We didn’t have licenses on the wall. The intimidation factor was taken away. There was no judgment on our end.

  We welcomed just about anybody who wanted to come to the studio. We had dominatrixes with their slaves. We’d spank people. Restaurant owners would bring foods that served as aphrodisiacs. Of course, everybody who worked at the station wanted to watch the show because we always had naked people there, sort of like Howard Stern.

  We even had a big pajama party one New Year’s Eve. Some people came in trench coats naked underneath, because that’s how they slept. Marilyn Miglin, who sells the fragrance “Pheromone” and all kinds of perfumes and creams for body care, brought gifts for us to give to various callers. She’d talk about how important it was for both men and women to take care of their skin to look their best. Another gentleman owned a chocolate company and he’d do giveaways as well. There were all kinds of business people who had giveaways to offer, which helped build the audience because everyone liked something for free.

  One time The Rolling Stones were in Chicago prior to heading out to Berlin, Germany. My co-host Stan Lawrence handed me an envelope and I opened it on the air. There were tickets for me and another person to cover the Stones in Germany for the Loop. I was so excited I could have died.

  In Berlin, it was balmy with a light breeze blowing. It felt very upbeat. But as soon as we walked into the stadium, there was no air moving. It was like being in a mausoleum. It was eerie.

  A big security guy took us around. I walked out on this platform — a big concrete slab. There were oceans of people before me. The security guy said, “You’re standing right where Hitler stood for the Olympics.” A chill went down my spine. It was a frightening feeling, like he was in that stadium. I said, “Move me now. Get me out of here.” I was visibly shaking.

  I knew one of the Stones’ crew guys and they used to have these light and sound towers. My friend Janet and I were watching the show from up there. The lighting guys were always interesting. They had these gargantuan boards and buttons. I couldn’t imagine how they knew what to do, when to do it, and do it as smoothly as they do. The one fellow was sitting there doing the lights and was rolling a joint. He motioned for Janet and me to come up. They took our hands and put their hands over ours and showed us how to do the lights. He was very coy about this as he slid out of the chair and I automatically slid into it. There were about 90,000 people in the stadium and I was mesmerized by the whole thing. Suddenly, I realized the two guys were gone. They were five or six feet behind us getting stoned and they were laughing their asses off at how freaked out we were.

  I knew the Stones’ music and I told my friend, “The end of this song is in about ten seconds.” I knew that would call for some dramatic lighting. I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.

  About a second and a half before the end of the song, these two guys swooped in and took control of the board to finish. I think it was the biggest rush I’d ever had.

  Honey West and Alex were men who lived as women — they had all their boy parts. Alex really looked like a woman, but Honey looked like a big man in drag. The flamboyant duo were doing a play in Chicago called “Vampire Lesbians of Sodom.” We’d do theater ticket giveaways on air and it was always an experience having them on, since they’d say the most outrageous things. The producer/ director of the play asked if I would consider being Honey’s stand-in as the dreaded Succubus. Hence my stage debut came out of doing radio as well. That was difficult for me because standing on stage having to deliver lines with thirty other cast members wasn’t my forte. But I was a trouper and did my best, and got a nice response from the audience. I would do two shows Friday and Saturday, and then run in and do a four-hour radio show.

  The checks from the play were bouncing, though. Finally, I got tired of working my ass off and not getting paid so I quit. However, it was a great experience.

  It was an exciting time for me. Although the pay wasn’t particularly good, it did help my career to be on the air for three years. I hadn’t made movies for quite a while and it did boost my exposure. This helped my mail order business and such. It also meant a lot to me that I was publicly perceived as someone with talents beyond just making adult films.

  Although we were on only once a week from 1994 to 1996, our numbers were bigger than guys like Danny Bonaduce, who was on every day and syndicated. But since we were about sex, they never would syndicate us. I also think because I had been in pornography, the combination of Seka and sex wasn’t what they were looking to promote. Different businesses would want to advertise with us, but the station was concerned some of their customers could potentially complain about being on a “sex show,” so it was always a struggle.

  My co-host was African-American, and I was the token female. To this day I think they had us on just to cover their asses with affirmative action. There was never real support or promotion for the show. It had no room to grow. I got tired of being told “No” when I wanted to do promotions like Kevin, or even when I wanted to do charity work for The Rainbow House, which is a safe house for battered women.

  One day there was a pink slip in my mailbox saying they didn’t think the show was enough of a success. I was asked to clean out my locker. Thus ended my radio career.

  To this day I get emails from people telling me they used to listen to me on The Loop and that they wished it had never gone off. And I miss it myself. It was one of the most interesting and rewarding things I’ve ever done.

  I loved the Cubs and the Cubs loved me.

  In the first home I owned all by myself, Chicago, 1986.

  On the radio. Literally.

  I smoke. Don’t hate me.

  Chicago nights with my hairdresser Ronnie Webber.

  45. “It
’s Your Wife…”

  I met my next serious beau, who I’ll call Jim, back when I was stripping in Chicago. Little did I know we’d have an on-again, off-again turbulent relationship for over a decade.

  He owned an adult bookstore and one night he asked me to go to dinner. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Maybe an inch shorter than me, he had dark hair and eyes. A quiet man, I couldn’t help but notice he rarely smiled. Jim was impeccably dressed, though. I don’t think I ever saw him without custom made suits, shoes, and shirts — he definitely dressed to the nines. He always took me to great places to eat and was quite intelligent. All in all we had a good enough time.

  I started to like him, although nothing physical happened for quite a while. He was the perfect gentleman. Eventually, we did sleep together and the relationship got more serious.

  On Valentine’s Day, I was sitting in my bathtub getting ready to go out to dinner with him when the phone rang. There was this girl on the other end going wacko crazy. She shrieked that she was Jim’s girlfriend. I told her that if she were his girlfriend, he’d probably be going out with her instead. I didn’t think anything of it and didn’t even ask him about her. I just figured it was some crazy chick he’d been seeing and she was pissed off because he wasn’t seeing her anymore.

  When we went out that evening he gave me a beautiful pair of gold and diamond earrings. We had a really nice time, came back to my place, had sex, laid around, talked for a while, and he left. Everything seemed right in the world. I should have known better.

  We continued to see each other and all of a sudden I didn’t hear from him. He just dropped off the face of the earth. I had no clue what was going on. None of his friends would tell me where he was, so I figured he didn’t want to see me anymore and didn’t know how to say it. I liked him a whole lot, but it wasn’t like I was madly in love. It didn’t crush me, but I was hurt by the way the whole thing had been handled.

  I decided I needed to go about my business and my life. Since we didn’t hang out in the same circles and I wasn’t close with any of his friends, it became almost out of sight, out of mind.

  Two years passed and while bartending at The Crazy Horse, out of nowhere he walked into the club. He didn’t make the least bit of effort to explain his disappearing act.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I demanded.

  “I had a lot on my mind and couldn’t be distracted.” End of story.

  He handed me an envelope saying, “This is for you,” and walked out just like that. I was stunned from the whole scenario. Later that evening when I was home alone, I opened the envelope and found a shitload of cash. I thought, holy crap, what’s this for? Guilt money? Being naïve once again, I didn’t question anything and even let him back into my life.

  Things got a lot more heated up in the romance department and he decided he didn’t want me working as a bartender. “No girl of mine should have to work,” he told me. He announced he would “take care of everything” if I quit. Hey, sounded good to me. I figured if I could lie by the pool and go shopping, that was a lifestyle I could grow accustomed to. I was tired of schlepping drinks and busting my ass to make a living. I left my job and he did exactly what he said.

  At the start, it was wonderful. I was always dressed sharp, and shopping became my new job. But it was hard reaching the man. Also, if I went out of the house and did something with my friends, he would act crazy. “Where have you been? Who have you been with?” I didn’t go out with any other guys, but he never believed me.

  Generally after a date, we’d end up at my place. After all the festivities were done, he’d inevitably say, “I have to go.”

  Finally, I questioned him. “Why do you always have to leave?”

  He confessed he had to check in at a halfway house every night. He said he had been to jail — for what I didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. This was one of the reasons he had been AWOL from our relationship all that time.

  I accepted that. But then we’d take trips to places like Vegas and Florida. If he was on parole, how did he pull that off? I never stopped to consider that, nor did I feel he was lying to me… until that same girl called one night and asked, “Is my husband there?”

  I handed him the phone and said, “It’s your wife.”

  He turned ten shades of white.

  He walked into the other room and I could hear the heated conversation. When he came back out I said, “Maybe you should go.”

  I was more disgusted with myself than my lying lover. From that night on I didn’t see him for several months. When I did finally hear from him, he said it really wasn’t his wife; that it was some girl who had wanted to marry him but he refused. Stupid me believed him, or at least wanted to believe him. I honestly think part of the reason was I liked the lifestyle he provided me.

  We started going out again, which proves you don’t always get wiser as you get older.

  A disco we liked was always jam-packed so we had the same table reserved every night. But one evening he was acting very strange. Suddenly he spilled his guts that he was, in fact, married, and the divorce was coming and she was collecting evidence for the case. “Don’t be surprised if pictures of us turn up,” he said. He glanced at some shadowy figures across the room as if they were spying on us. Just great. It all started to feel very cloak and dagger.

  When it was good it was good, and when it was bad, it was really bad. I realized I wasn’t dating the most reliable guy in the world and even though he didn’t like me to work, I started to look for another job. Although I had become an experienced bartender, I was coming up empty as far as job offers. I truly believe he put the word out that I was his girl and he didn’t want anyone hiring me.

  His wife ultimately did leave him during one of our vacations and cleaned out his bank accounts. But all I thought was, “Yay, he’s not married anymore!”

  In addition to not wanting me to work, period, he didn’t want me to have anything to do with the XXX business, even though he made a living off people like me with his own bookstores. With me not working and him being in a fight to the death with his ex-wife, money started to get tight. Our lifestyle started to get cheaper and cheaper. Checks were bouncing. I continued putting on weight since all I could do was wait around the house for him to show up.

  Things started to disintegrate. Our sex life was dying because I had gotten disgusted with everything that had gone down — the lies, being made to feel like a caged bird, my own feelings about my weight and my looks.

  I went to his home one day and we got in an argument over the bills. He snarled at me, “Why don’t you get out of my house, you fat-ass cunt?”

  Very nice. I said “Fine, that’s the way it’ll be.”

  And just like that, I ripped his key off of my ring, flung it into the middle of his yard, got in my car, and drove off. From dancing to bartending to hot dog vending to radio — nearly fourteen years of my life — all wasted on one lousy man who wasn’t even available most of the time.

  I haven’t seen him since.

  46. Daddy’s Gone

  My dad was still living in Virginia. With a frugal lifestyle, a pension from the Army, and Social Security, Dad was pretty set financially. But he was still a heavy drinker and smoker. When I would visit him, he’d walk out, buy a bottle, sit in the park, and come back drunk.

  He had a one-bedroom apartment on the ground level. Some of the kids in the complex would take advantage of him when he was sauced. They’d steal from him and even beat him up and knock him out. So he decided to live with his friends, a lovely couple named, believe it or not, Bud and Lou. The lady, Lou, was tall, thin, and striking with a chiseled jaw line and face. She had the most pleasant disposition. Bud, her husband, was this short, round, good ol’ country boy who didn’t have a whole lot to say.

  At Bud and Lou’s house, my father’s mini-strokes started. He no longer had the use of his left arm or left leg. Falling out of bed, he’d often hurt himself, but I knew his friends loved him
and for the most part he was being very well taken care of. If Dad needed something, Bud would literally carry him. But when he kept having these strokes one after another, they just couldn’t keep taking care of him because they were old and also not in the best of health.

  Dad asked me to put him in assisted care living. He actually liked the place we found for him. At least he wouldn’t be hurt, beaten, or have his things stolen. He was a resident for a couple of years. He stopped his smoking and drinking there, and I pushed him around in his wheelchair, enjoying our time together. But gangrene set in on his foot, and I knew he didn’t have long. He was also riddled with cancer — lung cancer and bone cancer. I wanted to stay to help more, but I had to go back to Chicago. I remember the last thing he said to me. “Whatever happens, do not let them amputate.”

  I said, “Okay, Dad, I won’t.”

  My father was prepared to die. He had made peace with that. He started taking care of his arrangements a long time in advance to insure that his children would not have to bear that burden. Dad made me promise we wouldn’t pay any more for the funeral than what he provided.

  Soon after, I got a call from the nursing home. The brief conversation turned into one I’d never forget.

  “We need to amputate part of your father’s leg.”

  “That is not his wishes,” I argued.