She burst onto the scene like a blonde bombshell laced with nitroglycerin—blowing up the adult industry, scandalizing the moral crusaders, and rewriting the rules of what it meant to be infamous in America. Her name? Traci Lords. A name that once made studio execs drool and prosecutors sweat. A walking contradiction: the teenager who outfoxed an industry built on fantasy, then flipped the script to become a Hollywood survivor with more chapters than most give her credit for.

But let’s get one thing straight—Traci Lords didn’t just game the system. She exposed it. And in doing so, she became one of the most controversial figures in the entire sleazy, glorious history of porn. This wasn’t just about sex. This was about power, rebellion, and the kind of American hypocrisy that makes SCREW’s typewriter rattle with glee.

Born Nora Louise Kuzma in Steubenville, Ohio (the same God-fearing town that gave us Dean Martin, so make of that what you will), Traci ran from a childhood of dysfunction like a bat out of hell. Broken home. Abusive stepfather. Conservative mother. The whole tragic Americana kit. By 15, she was in California, faking IDs, forging birth certificates, and launching herself into an industry that never stopped to ask for proof—only potential.

And baby, did she have it.

With platinum hair, pouty lips, and a ferocious sex appeal that screamed Old Hollywood wrapped in New Sleaze, she stormed into the world of adult film like a weaponized Marilyn Monroe. The cameras loved her. The audiences worshipped her. The money rolled in. And behind the scenes? The pornographers, the pimps, the pushers—they all wanted a piece. She gave it to them—on her terms.

Now, let’s not get too misty-eyed here. This wasn’t some fairy tale of empowerment. This was the 1980s porn scene—coked-up, cash-hungry, and barely held together with gaffer’s tape and bad lighting. Traci made dozens of films, most famously Traci Takes Tokyo, New Wave Hookers, and Those Young Girls. She was a star, a fantasy, a brand. But she was also underage. And when the truth came out? The entire house of cards fell.

The scandal was pure American gold: the adult industry brought to its knees (pun intended) by the revelation that its reigning queen was technically still in high school. Cue the FBI raids, the pearl-clutching politicians, the Bible Belt bonfires. Larry Flynt himself could’ve lit a Cuban cigar off the firestorm. The government wanted blood. The industry pointed fingers. And the moral crusaders thought they’d finally found their poster child—proof that porn was poison.

But here’s the twist, kids: Traci Lords didn’t crumble. She didn’t slink away in shame. She rebranded.

While the Feds were trying to figure out which tapes to pull off the shelves, Lords took control of her narrative. She sold the rights to her one legal adult film, Traci, I Love You, for a tidy sum. Then she flipped the double bird to porn and walked into Hollywood—where washed-up teen stars usually go to disappear. But not her. Never her.

She hustled. She auditioned. She studied acting. And slowly, stubbornly, she earned her place in the legit world. You saw her in Cry-Baby alongside Johnny Depp, proving she had comedic chops. You saw her in Melrose Place, Profiler, Blade, and even on Roseanne. She wasn’t just a former porn star playing dress-up—she was a performer. A survivor. A woman who told America: “Yeah, I did that. And now I’m doing this. Try to keep up.”

Let’s not pretend she didn’t take flak. The mainstream media always had a hard-on for tearing her down. But Traci Lords gave ‘em nothing. No scandals, no overdoses, no Hollywood clichés. She released an autobiography, Underneath It All, which laid her trauma bare and reminded readers that the sex industry isn’t just fantasy—it’s a machine. And sometimes the parts it chews up learn to chew back.

SCREW respects that. Because we’ve been on the frontlines of the sexual revolution for half a century. We’ve seen saints, sinners, starlets, and scumbags—all tangled up in the same twisted bedsheets. But Traci Lords? She’s something else. She’s the rare case of someone who played the game, got burned, and then rewrote the rulebook. She went from underage pin-up to empowered auteur, and she did it without asking for your approval.

You want to talk about redemption? Traci Lords didn’t ask for yours. She took it.

She even dipped her toes into music—putting out the industrial-dance album 1000 Fires, which, like her life, was half-rage, half-art, and all guts. The single Control was a minor hit, and if the world had been a little less prudish, it might’ve been a club anthem for the broken and bold.

And now? She’s still out there. Still working. Still speaking out. Not everyone from the ’80s porn boom lived to tell the tale, let alone thrive beyond it. But Lords did. Because behind the sex appeal was something stronger: willpower. Brains. Business sense. And the unshakable instinct to survive.

Is she a feminist icon? That depends on who you ask. Is she a cautionary tale? Maybe. But in our eyes—and the eyes of SCREW—Traci Lords is something much more rare: a living contradiction who never let the bastards define her.

She made men rich, then made them sweat. She made mistakes, then made art. She took back her name, her image, and her future—and that, folks, is more punk rock than anything the Reagan-era right-wingers ever understood.

So here’s to Traci Lords—America’s original jailbait queen turned comeback kid. She exposed the flaws in the system and showed that shame doesn’t stick unless you let it. At SCREW, we raise a glass to her. Not for what she did—but for how she did it.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, good. That means you’re paying attention.

—P.

Phil Italiano

Publisher, Visionary, Provocateur

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