Free Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn by Seka, Kery Zukus Page B

sexuality.
    The people who walked in the store were amusing. There were a lot of soldiers, but also a lot of dirty old men. They were the lecherous kind you saw in Playboy and Hustler cartoons. My counter was the farthest away from the door and it sat up about three to four feet higher than the rest of the store so the customers couldn’t grab at me or reach into the register. I could see down the aisle in the back and notice if any of the films broke in the twenty-five cent booths. We changed the movies once a week and everybody knew what day the movies changed. On that day the customers were always primed. “Did you change them yet? Did you change them yet?” Surprisingly, a lot of them were good-looking guys who, nonetheless, came into the store to beat off.
    None of this action bothered me because it had nothing to do with me; I was merely the clerk — a voyeur. Also, I was making good money, I didn’t work particularly hard, and it wasn’t boring. I heard everybody else talking about how dull their jobs were, but I never knew from one minute to the next who would walk in the door and what stupid crap they would do.
    There was a guy around ninety who came in one day with a raincoat on. He suddenly opened the coat and flashed me. I said, “Oh, you ridiculous jackass!” He immediately got a boner — exactly the reaction he wanted. He came in the same exact time the next week and exposed himself again. Ditto week three. By the fourth time, I was ready for him.
    When he came in that day, I looked at my watch and nonchalantly said, “You’re late; come on in.” He looked like he was going to cry because he didn’t get the same shocked reaction from me. He never came back again.
    Occasionally, women came in with their husbands or partners, but most seemed pretty timid. On the day the films changed, there were fifteen or twenty people in the back cruising each other and I’d say, “Okay boys, down with the quarters and up with the pants.” I knew what was going on, but I wasn’t in the mood to get that close to it for fear of being pulled into it. Gang rape was not on my bucket list.
    In the beginning it seemed surreal to me, like a Salvador Dali painting. There was an older guy who cleaned the place up. Part of his job was to mop up the cum in the booths, which was where most of the action — solo or otherwise — was going on. It was the seventies, a liberal time, and I didn’t care what anyone else did as long as it didn’t involve me against my wishes.
    Some of the customers did hit on me, but all in all they were respectful. Feeling burned by my marriage, the last thing on my mind was dating one of those guys or being intimate with anyone. I just wanted to keep to myself and get a paycheck.
    Meanwhile, Frank and I continued to argue over my job for a couple of weeks. We had been married maybe eight or nine months and I was already looking for a place of my own. I found a little farm house outside of town in the country. It was away from everyone and I liked it, especially the garden. The owner said the rent was around $250 a month for three bedrooms and one bath. At eighteen, it seemed like a mansion to me, but it was just a little old farmhouse and nothing more.
    I knew I had one foot out the door, although Frank was clueless and in denial. Since the massage parlor incident, I’d totally withdrawn from him and he hardly even noticed. I suppose he expected we’d just go on like that forever, which might have been fine with him, but not with me. I didn’t love him anymore and I didn’t believe he loved me in the way I felt I deserved to be loved. We had yet another argument over my job. I finally had enough and told him about the place I found and that I was going to move out. We were in the kitchen standing next to the refrigerator and there was a long window. The fight grew more heated and he grabbed me by my arms and was shaking me pretty good. My back hit the window and it shattered. That