Array Seka - Inside Seka

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.