Jesus sets free,
reads roadside signage
supplemented
with a pair of hands
chained at the wrists—
Bondage imagery backfiring
as likeminded commuters
circulate on singles night,
raising countless cups
in the name of the Father
but mostly to show off
their ligature marks.
it happens against my will, but never at a good time.
the signs of its affliction are always the same:
the front of my pants pulls,
underwear ride up,
the pressure from all the blood rushing to the tip
makes the whole thing pulse, throb.
right now my boss is standing in my cubicle, talking to me
about shit i do not give a single fuck about.
all thats on my mind is if his eyes
for some reason crawl their way
towards my crotch,
he’ll see the bulge in my pants.
its embarrassing to still get random erections.
i’m an adult still struggling with
the same issues I had when I was ten and
i don’t know if i should accept the random boners,
live to bust, and stop asking questions or dissect every
little vein on the shaft until I have a PhD in
blood and jizz interconnectivity studies
and when i say it happens at the worst times,
i mean the worst times.
and it doesn’t go away until its pleased.
i’ve succumbed to its demands in places you wouldn’t believe.
grocery store family bathrooms, my cum all over the floors beneath the diaper station.
the basement bathroom at work, semen splattered on the walls and handicap shower chair.
the driver seat of my parents’ truck during Christmas when i was twelve, me frantically scraping off dried splooge from cloth seats while everybody else was inside opening presents.
It doesn’t waste time on the basics like milf, big naturals, or anything that has missionary involved.
no, no, no.
it wants to watch a cute boy suck some dick and i’m not even gay.
it wants me to aim it so the cum shoots into my mouth
while it watches either girls piss their pants in public or
femboys with a little tail plugged into their ass.
my boss is talking and talking and talking and there’s no end in sight.
it throbs stronger, angrier.
it shows me visions of what it wants:
hentai, pegging, scat, armpit, bush, public.
it needs at least a dozen screens at once to satisfy every desire it has.
my hand slides towards my crotch like it’s receiving orders from my dick through a secret communication frequency.
my boss’s eyebrows scrunch and voice dies as a small moan escapes me
while my hand gently rubs the top of my pants.
So, you’re the guy, huh?
I am ‘the guy’, yes. And you are …?
I mean, you are the … what I mean is, you are the guy I have been in contact with about this thing?
I believe that’s correct. And you are …?
You can call me ‘Jeffrey’. You’re the one—
Oh, Jeffrey’, huh? So you are like, the ‘Jeffrey’ that the phone spammers always ask for, is that it? Won’t you step inside please, ‘Jeffrey’?
Un-uh. No, out here is good for now.
Step inside. Now. Nothing gets done out here.
Holy shit. Well, just call me ‘Jeffrey’, okay? So this thing is doable, right?
I’d say that the project you mentioned when you contacted me was ‘doable’, yes.
So, this thing I contacted you about … are you the, um, the actual … I mean, when it gets done, you will be the actual, um, facilitator, am I right?
“Facilitator” … I like that. Like I work at a facility that does this kind of work, right?
This is making me nervous for obvious reasons. Can we just …
No kidding. You should be nervous. Tell you what, let’s take care of a couple of things. Thing One: give me your phone.
Bullshit! What? Why?
Oh, I dunno, call me suspicious. Ever since phones became cameras and recording devices, I only trust them if I know where they are at all times. Your phone. Give it to me.
I don’t know about this.
Well, here’s what I know about this: I get your phone, or I will do no ‘facilitating’ for you. Capisce?
Here. Here’s my phone. And where’s your phone, may I ask?
Oh, very good! ‘Jeffrey’ is suspicious, too. As well you should be. Okay, here is my phone, and for the rest of our meeting, I am going to put both of them in the microwave and close the door, alright? But I promise I won’t press POPCORN, okay?
I guess that’s a good idea.
Okay. Thing Two: I will need to have the agreed amount placed in my hand.
Yeah, I want to talk about that. Now –
You want to talk about the money? Why do you want to talk about the money? I was pretty clear about what my expectations were when we first discussed this matter, right? Is there something else about the money you would like to discuss? Like, perhaps that you don’t have that money to give me right now?
No, no, not what I meant. No. It’s just that, see, before I give you the money, I need to ask about how this is going to be done.
The ‘done’ part is the only part you need to know about. Right? The ‘done’ part gets your problem taken care of. The ‘how’ part is up to me as your ‘facilitator’. Now, payment up front is how we proceed to the next step in this matter.
If I’m paying the fiddler, I get to call the tune, right?
Tell you what; you do an internet search and see if you can find a fiddle player who will do this thing that you want to have done.
Take it easy, holy Christ! Here. Here’s the money. You can count it. But I need to know what happens if, you know ….
What is it that I know? Are you asking what happens if the work doesn’t get done for some reason?
Well, yeah.
Well, that would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it? You would have placed your trust in the hands of someone who does this kind of work, and not gotten your money’s worth. Is there a trust issue here?
I just wanna know what happens if, say, you get there and like, she’s not there, or they’re not there ….
Whoa, whoa, whoa, ‘Jeffrey’. ‘She’ is one person; ‘they’ indicates more than one, maybe several persons. Do I understand you correctly that I may find myself having to ‘facilitate’ multiple persons?
Just … I don’t know, I’m just saying that he could be there, too. That is, when you get there.
And then I get there and do what, ‘Jeffrey’? Do I ask him to step out of the room while I ‘facilitate’? Or perhaps you were thinking that I would maybe give you a two-for-one deal? Because the money you just put in my hand is not nearly enough to accomplish that. I’m sure you understand.
No, he won’t be there. I’ll take care of that. He’s going to be busy, I promise.
Very good, I’m glad that you promise. He will be busy in some other place, I take it. Some place far away from where I will expect to find her at the appointed time, right?
Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. But, like, what if she’s not there for some reason? Like, I don’t know, what if something comes up where she doesn’t come right home after the bar closes, or something? Is that a problem?
That would be a problem. Yes, that would be a problem, alright. Because, you see, I have other things to do with my time, and if she wasn’t there when I arrived to conduct my business, well, I would then leave and do the other things that I have to do.
Aw, Jeezuz, man, this is … I don’t know, man, I don’t like the smell of all this. I mean, I’m putting myself in a bad situation here, I’m nervous as hell and you’re … I mean, Christ!
Well, it sounds like you might be having second thoughts about your plan, ‘Jeffrey’. Is that the message I’m getting?
You know what? I don’t think I want to do this. No, this is f*cked up, I’m getting out of here. How about just give me back my money and we forget this?
What money is that?
The money I just gave you! Twenty thousand. It’s right in your pocket!
Now why would you give me twenty thousand dollars?
Look, you sonofabitch, the deal’s off. Gimme my money back and forget the whole goddam thing!
Well, the price of me forgetting the whole goddam thing is forty thousand dollars. The twenty you agreed you would give me tonight, and the twenty thousand you would owe me when your wife was taken care of – so to speak.
What! You can’t be serious! Forget it, I’m not asking you to kill her now, never mind, just gimme back my money!
Well, I will be happy to forego the killing part. But you have already involved me in a crime. Conspiracy to commit murder. Yes, I believe that’s how it is referred to in a court of law. To a judge and jury, it’s like you and I actually killed your wife, even though you have now decided maybe it’s not such a good idea. So, for the legal jeopardy I have allowed myself to be placed in by talking to you about this matter, I will require you to bring me the remaining twenty thousand by Monday. Monday, with the balance of my charge for services, then you and I both can forget this conversation ever happened.
Oh, Christ, you can’t do this! I’m not paying you for not doing anything! Forget it!
Well, it seems I can do this. I will do this. I will be right here at this same place on Monday, to receive the outstanding balance from you. Do you know why I say that this will happen?
Screw it, I’m getting out of here! I’m calling the cops, you bastard!
That’s your plan now, you’re going to call the police? I can’t imagine what you might tell them.
You’re not getting any more money out of me. What are you gonna do if I don’t show up on Monday, are YOU gonna call the cops?
No, I don’t see a role for the police in this problem you and I are having. I recommend you show up here on Monday with the rest of the money. Not with a gun, not with a gang of your buddies. You need to keep in mind what I do for a living. If you do not show up here on Monday with money in hand, things will get pretty dark for you.
What … what do you mean?
Here’s what I mean: Tuesday, if I have not been paid, your wife will receive a call. When she answers, she will hear a recording. She will recognize one of the voices as your own.
How did you record us? Your phone is in the microwave with mine.
One of my phones is in the microwave with yours. This is my other phone. It’s what is called a “burner” phone. Would you like to hear the recorded conversation that your wife will hear? In addition, she will receive instructions as to how to record and use this message to have you arrested for attempted murder. So, it’s real important that when Monday comes, I open my door and find you with money in hand. Then, your wife never gets a phone call. You don’t go to prison. And we all live happily ever after. Capisce?
Good-bye now, see you on Monday. And don’t forget your phone in the microwave.
Norma Jean Almodovar’s life is one of the most thoroughly documented and fiercely contested stories in the history of American sex‑worker rights. Born Norma Jean Wright in 1951 in Binghamton, New York, she grew up in a strict Baptist household and enrolled in Philadelphia College of the Bible with the intention of becoming a missionary — a trajectory she recounts in her memoir From Cop to Call Girl (1988), where she describes the religious pressures that shaped her adolescence and her eventual move to Los Angeles in the early 1970s .
She spent ten years with the Los Angeles Police Department as a civilian traffic officer, a role she has discussed extensively in interviews and in her memoir. Her accounts of witnessing misconduct within the LAPD align with reporting from the era, including investigations into departmental corruption and abuses of power in the late 1970s and early 1980s.
After a disabling on‑duty collision in 1982, she left the department and entered sex work, a transition she has repeatedly framed as both economic necessity and personal awakening.
Her decision to write Cop to Call Girl triggered a retaliatory pandering charge in 1984 — a case widely covered in California newspapers at the time and later analyzed by civil‑liberties scholars. The conviction resulted in prison time, probation, and parole, a sequence she has long argued was designed to suppress her First Amendment rights rather than address any genuine criminal conduct
Today, her papers — more than eighty cubic feet of correspondence, legal documents, media appearances, and activist materials — are housed at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas Special Collections, where they serve as one of the foundational archives for sex‑worker‑rights scholarship in the United States .
What follows is Norma Jean Almodovar speaking for herself — drawn directly from our conversation.
I asked Norma Jean to start at the beginning, and she didn’t hesitate. “I always say my life didn’t begin with a calling,” she told me. “It began with a crash.” She was driving her LAPD black‑and‑white down Hollywood Boulevard when a drunk driver in a stolen car slammed into her.
“When he hit my car, I said, this is going to be the end of my career here. I’m not coming back.”
The impact left her with spinal lesions she still feels decades later. “It was like a sigh of relief, even though it was painful,” she said. “My career on the LAPD was over.”
She went on disability, and then the department gave her an ultimatum: return to duty or lose her benefits.
“I said, well, fine,” she told me. She walked away from the badge and toward a world she had only glimpsed at the margins — the world of Los Angeles call girls, madams, and clients whose desires were often less about sex than about identity.
Her LAPD years had already shown her the rot beneath the uniform.
“I was the only woman in the roll call at nighttime,” she said. “They didn’t try to hide it… they just did their criminal activity.” Supervisors were often involved. Boundaries dissolved. “As I got to know them, I’m going, ‘Whoa, man.’”
She had been raised in a fundamentalist Baptist church, enrolled in Philadelphia College of the Bible, preparing to be a missionary. She married because the elders demanded it after she admitted she had “petted” her future husband.
“You’re going to either have to get married or leave the church,” they told her. That was the world she came from. That was the morality she had been taught. But the LAPD nights cracked that worldview open, and the crash shattered it completely.
She knew a call girl. “I had met this call girl, and she introduced me to the madam she worked for,” she said.
She had already been having casual sex with cops for free. “Cops think making love is like using their gun,” she told me, laughing. “All they have to do is take aim and shoot. Insert, withdraw, repeat if necessary.”
So she thought, why not get paid for something she was already doing?
Sex work didn’t corrupt her — it revealed her. “It wasn’t until I became a call girl… then I discovered that, hey, I’m bisexual,” she said. Clients would request two women at a time, and suddenly she realized she liked women too. “This is cool,” she said. “This is me.”
One of her clients was a well‑known Hollywood producer, a cross‑dresser who paid her $10,000 for a single extended session.
“He fantasized that he was a lesbian call girl,” she said. “Being a call girl makes you very empathetic to people trying to explore their sexuality.” She dressed him, encouraged him, guided him.
“Obviously he was not beautiful,” she said, laughing. “But to be able to tell him with a straight face that he was beautiful and sexy — that was what you wanted to do. For that time, they were who I said they were.”
She connected this to the ancient lineage of the sacred prostitute. “The word ‘whore’ originally meant ‘beloved one,’” she told me. “People have such a hang‑up about their sexuality that they had to make that word ugly. But for most of us, we didn’t care what other people thought. The only thing that really matters is our clients and ourselves.”
The LAPD didn’t arrest her for sex work. They arrested her for speaking. Her friend Penny — “a very big, heavy, overweight, unattractive woman” — told her during lunch that she had always fantasized about being a call girl.
Norma Jean replied, “If I could find someone who would like your type, I’d be happy to let you know.” That single sentence became the pretext for a pandering charge.
What she didn’t know was that Penny had been flipped by the LAPD.
“She was involved in criminal activity that I didn’t know about,” Norma Jean said. “They threatened her that she would get arrested and go to jail if she didn’t help them get me.”
Penny wore a wire. Nothing happened — no sex, no arrangement, no money. Just a conversation.
On the stand, Penny admitted she did it because she wanted to stop Norma Jean from writing her book about the LAPD.
“She wanted to stop me from writing that book,” Norma Jean said. In any other context, that admission would have ended the case. Instead, it became the beginning of her prison sentence.
The first judge recommended probation. The district attorney appealed.
“I actually served three sentences,” she told me. “I served the one before I went to prison, then I was in prison, and then I was on parole.”
Most people facing prison withdraw from public view. Norma Jean did the opposite. “I was on everybody’s show — Geraldo, Donahue, Oprah Winfrey,” she said. Joan Rivers adored her. “She wrote to me in prison,” Norma Jean told me. Rod Stewart wrote to her too. 60 Minutes interviewed her.
This visibility wasn’t vanity. It was survival. “If anything happened to me, there were people outside watching,” she said. She was imprisoned with the Manson Family women — lifers with nothing to lose. “They wouldn’t get any more time in prison if anything happened to me,” she said.
Her husband feared she wouldn’t come out alive. “Those things saved my life,” she told me. “Having that spotlight on me saved my life.”
She ran for Lieutenant Governor of California on the Libertarian ticket. “I believe in individual freedom,” she said. “It’s your body, it’s your life. If you want to have sex for money or for free, who cares?”
She remembers telling students at UC Davis, “Don’t you want to know what it’s like to be a hooker?”
She has donated her archives — letters, documents, media appearances — to the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Her sequel, Pros and Cons: Postcards from Prison, is complete. A docuseries about her life is in development.
“I refused to be erased,” she told me. “And I still refuse.”
Voracious penny stocks work in teams with the jowls of thrashing piranhas.
Accountants fuck like numbers: arch their backs into a 9, slap the thighs with a bashful 3,
thrusting a 7 from murky heavens like a man of growth caught in mustache gardens.
Rolls of water buffalo snot fashioned into snakeskin wallets, a brinkman’s economy
full of hot button pleasers. Squirters and screamers from behind surprise party couches.
Jumping out to meet that tracker, in the scope of his tranquilizer gun. No one speaks
of fair fights anymore, you take on the numbers and bruise with the snapping chain link.
That acapella hum of foxy green electrical boxes charged with fantasizing away
the cumbersome hours. The way the mayor’s wife always spoils her ballots in the bedroom.
Combing out the knots of her hair in a manic wrecking ball fever. Her peach cobbler manners
and that nervous tick that forces her to duck her head at inopportune times.
Like a pawing jab in line for the Cruiserweight strap, 5 rounds into a faulty gameplan
the bucking gym rats can hardly fathom. Money is lost – numbers with consequences.
Garrulous homewreckers pile into cars and filter out along the avenues.
I promise to revisit my Huck Finn as soon as I get home – huck huck huck!
Like that city boy huckster Holden Caulfield, but forever in the bowels
of the Mighty Mississippi.
How bright it was. Like laying nude, on a rooftop, at noon.
But we were inside, at night, with everyone standing. Of all people, only Joey still dressed. Lars’s biggest star.
As Lars and another guy fucked with the lights, I caught Joey’s eye. His half-smile calmed me.
“It’s cold,” I whispered, shivering. He tried not to laugh.
My first time on camera. And with Joey! What a switch: me nude, and him in clothes. Tight jeans and a torn tee that showed his stiff nipples. Soon, all would come off.
With my teeth? I hadn’t checked the script, short as it was. . . .
All I knew was, I wanted this. Me and Joey, one-on-one. Even under blinding lights, with everyone watching. Even for just one scene.
He was gorgeous, with that great body and rock star hair. And sweet. Not what you’d expect in this porn world. “It’s OK, Val,” he said, each time Lars made me cry. Wiping my tears with his finger. He had huge, dark eyes. Like an “old soul.” Eyes that I felt watched over me.
Like he read my mind, Joey smiled again, then looked away.
Did he know? How much I was falling for him?
Wanting to fuck him blind?
Me, and . . .
Who else was in this one?
There were never just two.
I looked around. Same cheap motel, but a different room this time. Packed with equipment and familiar bodies. Sad, I thought, I knew so few by face.
Like Tabitha, who wasn’t here. Good, I thought. Bitch. Out to sneak Lars out from under me.
And Carlos, who was bi. And who was here, primping in front of a mirror.
The rich fuck Lars catered to paid top dollar for guy-on-guy.
Three months I’d been trapped here. But I bet I could leave.
Lars had conned me, then trained me, with his fists, and cock. His insatiable cock, like a Tasmanian devil/parasitic twin that tore up everything it saw. Girls. Guys.
Glory holes.
He made me bleed. In so many ways. “See what you make me do?” he said. “’Cos you can’t follow directions!” And sometimes, “That’s the thanks I get. For bringing you out here. To make you a star!”
Like Linda Lovelace, I thought, bitterly. Back in the ‘70s.
But lately, Lars so busy . . . Between booking, and filming, these customized shoots. Recruiting new “stars.” Exploring newer, and even more bizarre fetishes . . .
He had no clue how I felt about Joey . . .
Or did he?
“Places!” he said, from behind the camera.
Still without looking at it, I tossed the script.
Joey crawled onto the bed. The bright lights made the bedspread look dingier, threadbare. I used to be terrified of bedbugs. But tonight they could eat me alive. That’s how bad I wanted him.
“Action!” But I was already there.
As he lowered his jeans, I crept up his legs. I’d seen his cock so many times, but never this close. Always raging, I could’ve swallowed it whole. He gasped with my first mouthful. Almost lost it.
“Slower!” Lars yelled. ‘Cos he sucked cock the best of anybody.
A slight wink from Joey. Smiling, I slowed down, enjoying this, wishing I could stay down on him forever. He grabbed handfuls of my hair, seemed to be guiding me . . . away! But why? This was “our scene”: me sucking his cock.
“Now!” Lars said, and I finally got it.
Carlos slid right in, taking my place.
As he took Joey in his mouth, my heart sunk. The script! Why hadn’t I read it? I turned away, feeling so exposed, so rejected.
Joey’s moans angered me. Without looking, I knew he liked this. Carlos or me, it didn’t matter. It felt good in anybody’s mouth.
Hey, this was Joey’s job.
As Lars zoomed in for the cum shot, I stared over at the door. The old-fashioned chain lock to keep out thieves, and killers.
“Nice,” Lars whispered. “Nice.” Enjoying it as much as Joey.
***
It got so late, we all stayed in the room for the night. Naked bodies crashing, all over. Lars on the bed, snoring like mad. Across the highway was a cemetery. I pictured the dead sitting up, wondering what that noise was.
“You mad, Mami?” Carlos had asked me, after the shoot. Now he was on the floor, somewhere, dead asleep.
Against the closet door, Joey and me sat, huddled. Dressed, I was still shivering. And yeah, mad. But still wanting to feel close to him. His tee and chest were soaked from the shoot. I smelled sweaty hair, among other stuff. If I were alone, I would’ve cried.
Instead, I shared his cupcakes. The golden kind, with the marshmallow-y swirls. And an orange soda. He let me sip first from the bottle.
“I love chicks,” he said, into my hair. “But sometimes . . . I want cock.”
So did Lars. But I’d stopped loving Lars.
“OK.” I took back the bottle, sipped again.
“Tonight,” he said, even softer. “I wanted it to be just us. Me and you.”
My heart swelled. “It wasn’t in the script.”
As he took the bottle, his fingers brushed mine. “So, let’s write our own.”
Lars was still snoring, but softer now.
As quiet as we were, I hope it haunted his dreams.
the city is an inferno today
no wind no clouds no chance no chance
of rain just a blazing
bonfire sun baking the trees the grasses the cars
melting bird shadows
turning my flat into a furnace.
it wouldn’t be so bad if this place had a/c.
but all I’ve got to cool me is a fan
this bowl of chilled grapes
and a refrigerator full of Helles.
oh well, I guess it could be worse
I could be that man I saw getting his chest pumped
on the S-Bahn platform this morning I could
be the teen who turned up his toes in the Spree
or my Icelandic neighbor hyperventilating
while clutching a pink unicorn.
three days
it’s been like this
three days and barely any sleep
a gluey substance
on my skin my brainpan boiling three days
since it began with an old man passing
under my window wearing nothing but green
underwear and pushing
a shopping cart loaded with insulation foam.
The stars were thick like fog on a window
gossamer to shroud a torch-kissed witch
silicon dust in astral lashes
coy across the cosmos
cum across the porthole.
A nebulous tide
a quasar for the ages
a gas giantess—
rings where the sun don’t shine.
Shore leave on trashy planets
names like Nimbus Nine and
Blue Ball Moon
The aliens have how many breasts?
So what if they have gills?
Exotic pets that could jeopardize the mission
Doggy or missionary?
On all eights, or on your back?
He writes by candlelight,
As the rats emerge,
Floorboards curl,
The wall paper peels,
Tentacles tickle his ankles,
Outside the hound begins
Its nightly howling.
The storm has started.
He dips his pen into the inkwell.
Inspiration or just annoyance,
Sometimes it’s tough to tell.
Horror Sleaze Trash 