Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn

by Seka

  We got a small allowance every week for our efforts. It was about a quarter. They had a little cantina on Saturdays where we’d get sodas and candy. Other than that we didn’t get any of that kind of stuff. The home was pretty restrictive because we did have some problem children. There was always someone running away. The only reason they put us together was because they didn’t have juvenile halls at the time in that area. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t a good idea, because if you had a kid who was stealing and drinking, it wasn’t a positive influence on children like me who were there because of unfortunate circumstances.

  What struck me as odd was no matter where you were on the grounds, there were no odors at all. I had come from a family that cooked all the time, but you didn’t have that at Wytheville because we were nowhere near the kitchen. In an odd way, this made it very lonely because without the smell of food there was no sense of family. It was like floating in an emotional vacuum. Even when they’d cut the grass it wasn’t the same because it wasn’t your uncle or cousin or neighbor doing it. There was no history to it. At home, you’d sit and do your homework and you’d smell the cooking and know you would have supper soon. But here you’d get up and leave one building to go to another to eat. It was very disorienting.

  There was a little playground in the back, and games and toys and bicycles. The staff had a background in social work and each dorm had a master or mistress running it. The woman who ran our dorm was very nice, very grandmotherly. Although she was a caring lady, it still never felt like a real home. The girls stayed in that dormitory until we hit eleven or twelve, basically until you started developing. Once they had to throw a bra on you or you had your period, they tossed you into the big dorm. I don’t know what they thought that would do to the little girls, but once you started to get some hair under your arms, you were out of there.

  I remember sitting by the hearth of a fireplace watching TV when President Kennedy was shot. In the big girls’ dorm we had to watch the news every day, sweep the floors, make our bed, get showered, and go to school. School was off-premises and we had a bus that picked us up. The kids in the regular school treated us like lepers. We were teased, bullied, and pointed at. It wasn’t bad enough your family had deserted you. And of course our clothes weren’t as nice as the other kids’. Each year we’d get clothes donated and the staff would see what fit you. But I’d recognize clothes from the school kids who wore them the previous year.

  I was not a very happy person.

  Sometimes we were given long weekends with family, or had two-week sponsored vacations. Strangers would take a kid to Myrtle Beach or some place as their “community service.” It really made the kids feel like charity cases. I’d refuse to go with anyone but my own family.

  The only time I felt really happy was when my dad came to visit. We’d have visitors every second Sunday. He couldn’t take me to live with him though, because back in those days they wouldn’t give fathers parental rights. No matter how irresponsible and eccentric my mother was, I wasn’t allowed to live with my real father.

  When I was with my dad, he was always apologizing for my situation. He constantly sent money so I’d have extra cash for snacks. I also got lots of postcards because he traveled so much. They came from places like Iceland, Greenland, and Canada. He was an excellent mechanic and one of the airlines hired him. He could take something apart in no time and make it better than it was before. He had a bit of a drinking problem, though. When Dad was younger he’d make home brew — moonshine — which was the nastiest smelling stuff I’d ever seen in my life. Even he’d make the most awful face when he tasted it. I think he just enjoyed making it. He even used ‘shine as gas when he raced cars.

  Dad never remarried. He was dating a woman in Canada and thinking of marrying her. I never met the woman, but felt like I had known her from all the stories he’d told about her. But one day she suddenly was killed. Lightning struck a tree and it was about to fall. She ran and pushed a kid out of the way and the tree crushed her. After it happened, Dad was never the same. He carried her picture with him to the day he died.

  My aunts and uncles and grandparents would visit, too. My grandfather didn’t care what the rules were regarding what they could and could not bring us as gifts. He’d bring a big watermelon or fruit — apples, peaches, grapes. They had all that stuff in their backyard. He’d always bring enough for everybody.

  The mistress of the dorm would tell each kid if he or she was going to get a visitor. I remember out of nowhere her informing me my mother and stepfather were coming. I was in absolute shock. My sister wasn’t there anymore because she wanted to be with my brother in Tennessee. I have a picture of that day with me in a dress at a picnic table — and I hated being in a dress. I was sitting at one end of the picnic table. My stepfather was standing with one foot on the bench smoking a cigarette and grinning about something — I can’t imagine what. And my mother wore a suit and high heels and she was sitting all the way across from me. I had no desire to be near her. My smile was upside down. I was not happy. It had been probably a year since I had seen them. When she first saw me, she held her arms out like I’d be running through a field of daisies to hug her. Instead, I just slowly walked up to her and gave her a little peck on the cheek. That was about it. They didn’t bring a present, didn’t apologize about anything, and didn’t have the guts to talk about any of it. All I thought was, “When are they leaving?” I was angry and wanted to go back and play and I didn’t appreciate any of it. I didn’t want her to visit me again. I felt the same way about Terry. He could have said, “What about Dot?” He abandoned me, too. With the three kids out of their hair, they had moved to Florida.

  The home would have outings and field trips. They would take us swimming in a man-made lake because we didn’t have a pool. That was where I got really sick. I contracted spinal meningitis from contaminated water. When I went to bed, I was fine. I was tired because I had been in the sun and swimming all day. But when I tried to get out of bed the next morning, the only thing that could move were my eyes and mouth. Everybody was up getting dressed for school. The lady who was head of the house, Ms. Booker, stuck her head in the door and said, “Get up; you’re going to be late.”

  I said, “I can’t move. Really, I can’t move.” I was scared to death. I was wondering what the hell was going on. She grabbed one of the other girls and they tried to help me up. I was rushed to a local hospital.

  They put me in isolation and it frightened the hell out of me. Everybody wore hats, masks, gowns, and goggles. Even their shoes were covered. There was a door they would go through and a sanitary area where they’d put on their gowns. When my grandparents visited there was a chute and they actually had to throw their clothes down it to incinerate them. I felt like I was going to die.

  As I lay in bed, I kept thinking of my dad, who always loved to travel. He was always on a plane or a Greyhound bus. I dreamed of going to some of the places he told me about: France, England, the Nordic countries. He had a thing for blonde women. Maybe subconsciously, that’s why I became a blonde.

  One day a team of doctors came into the room and told me what I had. They actually said, “Four out of five people usually die from this.” Pretty blunt. Then they threw in that if someone survives, they’re usually brain-damaged, which could explain certain things about me. Ha! They told me they had to tap my spine to make me better. I had to lie on my stomach. They swabbed me down with alcohol and a horrible-smelling orange substance, and they brought in a huge tray. The needle on the tray looked ninety feet long. It was almost cartoonish. They said I could not move. I had to remain on my stomach for a really long time. I don’t remember it hurting, though. Maybe they gave me a painkiller, or maybe the fear squelched the pain. If things weren’t bad enough, the fluid kept re-contaminating itself and they had to do it two more times.

  My father would visit and stay all day in a mask and gown. He’d sleep in the chair next to my bed and it would be a comfort to me when I�
��d wake up in the morning and he’d still be there.

  When I finally got better, they told me I could never give blood because the virus remains dormant and can wake back up and be passed onto someone else. It’s a shame because I like to help people if I can, but I’ve never been able to donate.

  I was terrified the whole three weeks I was hospitalized. Yet, it wasn’t like I had a home to look forward to returning to.

  My Aunt Shirley, who took me in. I love her so much. That’s me on the right, photobombing her.

  My Uncle Hardy, who took in my sister and brother, standing next to my mother.

  Me, my sister, and my brother in 1966 in the orphan’s facility in Wytheville.

  3. Free

  Having my spine tapped repeatedly was like seeing the Grim Reaper three times. My reward for surviving was being sent back to Wytheville for several more numbing years. My only reprieve from the monotony was when family members would take me away for a bit of a vacation.

  My mother’s sister Anita, who we called Aunt Sis, was one of my favorite relatives. She was a spunky old broad, a hard-working grocery clerk. She had dark black hair with brown eyes and always had a cigarette hanging from her mouth. When she hummed, she just hummed; it was never an actual song. It was kind of weird because she never realized she was doing it. My Uncle John was also wonderful. He was a tollbooth attendant for the Virginia Department of Highways. Tall with broad shoulders, he had big blue eyes. He was bald and what little hair he had left was white. He had been a flaming redhead in his days of glory. John was just a very jovial, gregarious kind of guy. Very handy. He also loved to cook and was really good at it, making the best corn bread and scalded lettuce on earth. He used to sit at the end of the kitchen table with a cigarette and a Ballantine. My uncle gave me the nickname Peanut, because I was shaped like one.

  It was the mid-sixties and they had three children of their own, but they were grown and out of the house. Wytheville allowed us a two-week summer vacation each year, so when I was middle-school age I wrote them, asking to visit. They lived in Hopewell, Virginia, which was about four and a half hours away. In spite of the distance, I’d seen them more than most of my other relatives and I loved them dearly for it.

  We drove back to their house and my vacation with them was the most fun I had in a real long time. Their granddaughter Diane and I were about the same age — thirteen — so we’d do things together. There was a lake we would go to. Needless to say, after contracting spinal meningitis I wasn’t that big on swimming in it. Hanging out with all the neighborhood kids, I stood by the lake and watched as Diane and her friends from school had a grand old time. Even though I was too scared to swim, it sure was nice to be around new people and away from Wytheville. Since I didn’t know anybody, she introduced me around.

  Uncle John worked the midnight shift and was free during the day. He would tinker on his old Rambler, working on the spark plugs and such. He always had his beer while fixing his car. He said, “You’re going to be a young woman soon, so if you’re ever stuck in a car in an emergency you’ll need to learn this stuff.” Uncle John would put me on his lap and I’d steer the car so I could learn to drive. He made me promise not to tell Aunt Sis because she would have killed us both.

  My aunt would give me a list of chores to do and John would look at me and raise his eyebrows like, “Here we go again.” Sis was a neat freak. When I was younger, I’d actually see her lug everything out of the house, and I mean everything. The curtains, the furniture, everything. Outside in the street, she’d furiously scrub it all down, and then bring it back in the house. It was a pain. Between my mom and her, I’d gone from one extreme to the other.

  There weren’t any special events those two weeks, like going to Disneyland or anything like that. But it was special to me because I was spending time with my family and away from that home.

  Nobody but I knew at the time that I had no plans of going back to Wytheville. I’d had enough of the children’s home. I was done. And I had a plan. I didn’t care if I ever got my belongings back. I didn’t care if they gave away everything I owned. I was planning my escape.

  As the two weeks were coming to a close, I was getting pretty nervous. We were in my bedroom one evening after Sis had gotten out of work. Just as I intended, my tears started pouring. They were real, though, and came from deep inside of me. They were the only weapon in my arsenal as I begged her to let me stay with her for good. But she said, “You can’t stay. You have to go back. I’m sorry. I don’t have the authority to keep you.”

  So much for my plan.

  I knew in her heart of hearts Aunt Sis loved and wanted me. She just didn’t know how to make it happen. She figured they’d come after her if I didn’t go back, and she had no idea how to get state funding to support me.

  I got desperate. And defiant.

  I told her if she didn’t keep me I was going to run away and be one of those children they never found again. They would never know if I was dead or alive. Uncle John was walking by and overheard the commotion.

  He stepped into the room and said, “Let her stay, Nita. Just call them and say she’s not coming back. We’ll figure out how to take care of it.” After several years of living in a place that never once felt like my own, my “escape” had been that simple. I caught my uncle out of the corner of my eye and he gave me a wink, like he was saying, “Don’t worry, Peanut; we got it covered.”

  The next thing I knew they were unpacking my clothes. It may have been the happiest moment of my life. It was hard for it to sink in, but this young girl finally had a home.

  4. Blonde

  I knew my aunt and uncle would be good to me. What a wonderful feeling to be in a loving environment! There were even the familiar smells of food throughout the house. The next thing I knew I was being enrolled in school, so it all started to feel real. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of belonging. I knew I was going to be okay. My uncle let me do anything I wanted, but my aunt made sure my grades were good or I’d be threatened with losing certain privileges. Making it through eighth grade unscathed, I was just happy to be a normal kid. I had a new life and it was a happy time for me — even when I had to go to church on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. But I figured, what the heck? It was a small price to pay. Actually, it gave me some sense of structure. To this day, I’m not an atheist. I don’t think, “Boom, we’re here.” I think there’s a supreme being of some sort. There has to be some rhyme or reason to everything. The world’s a pretty spectacular place.

  Then came high school.

  I went to Hopewell High. A lot of the students’ parents worked in the factories. There was a Firestone plant in the area, the Reynolds Aluminum Company, and a factory called Hercules. It wasn’t a rich town by any stretch. There may have been a ritzy part of town, but it certainly wasn’t Beverly Hills. The kids were pretty normal. As the new kid on the block, I started to make friends.

  I did well academically — usually a B average, which for somebody who didn’t work that hard was pretty good. I was actually having too much fun to study because I had this whole new life. We had elective classes and I was told I had to take Home Economics, which was kind of boring to me. I really wanted to take Shop. I loved tools. To this day, I get excited when I go to a Lowes or Home Depot. When I walk in, I don’t go to the curtains or anything like that. The first place I go is the tool department. That probably comes from my dad and Uncle John.

  I was still a tomboy. I wasn’t interested in being a cheerleader. Instead of discovering boys, I found sports. My cousin Diane was on the basketball and softball teams, so I tried out for both. I made first string on both teams. I was a softball pitcher and the center on the basketball team. I ended up getting my cousin demoted to second string, but there was no friction between us. She still played, but she was much more involved with church and choir anyway. We were junior varsity in both sports in the ninth grade, ending up top five in the district. I also played field hockey. I l
oved those contact sports.

  That year was probably one of the happiest in my life. I had a new home, a safe place to live. And although I didn’t really hang out with my teammates, we had camaraderie. My aunt expected me home to do my chores and homework. She didn’t allow me to date. At the time, I wasn’t interested in boys anyway. Sports were more important to me. I hadn’t had any urges yet. When she kept bringing up dating, I was like, “What is this about? Whatever.”

  At the end of ninth grade, I found out I could skip tenth grade if I went to summer school. I had enough credits to be classified as a junior. So I did. Summer was pretty uneventful except for my passing with flying colors.

  I was suddenly a junior, a true high schooler with dances and parties and a real social life. The sports were still there, but I had to try out again because it was a different grade. I made all the teams. We were division champs in basketball, which was very exciting because we traveled to different schools throughout the region.

  And then came the beauty pageant.

  There was a girl on the basketball team named Debbie, a very pretty Greek girl. Mind you, there weren’t a lot of “ethnic types” where I went to school. Just black kids and white kids. She had green eyes and beautiful long, thick, straight blonde hair down to her waist. She looked at me one day and said, “What do you think of this beauty pageant?”

  I didn’t know a thing about it. Once she filled me in, I said, “I think it sounds stupid.”

  She kept after me, saying, “We should do this, just for shits and grins. If we don’t win, we can’t shave our legs or armpits for a month. If we win or place, we can shave.”