SUBSCRIBE TO OUR FREE NEWSLETTER
Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
5
#000000
#FFFFFF
To donate by check, phone, or other method, see our More Ways to Give page.
Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
ELIZABETH, N.J.--I am drinking coffee and eating doughnuts in the backroom of a church in Elizabeth, N.J., with Gloria Blount, who has been in and out of Union County Jail over the years, Irene Pabey, who spent about four months there, and Alveda Torrado, who was behind its walls for 18 months. The women, part of a prison support group I help run, are talking about the "bowl phone."
Union County Jail is a 13-story facility with about 800 prisoners in the center of the depressed city of Elizabeth. Female prisoners are housed on the top floor, men on the floors below.
The prisoners usually are forced to spend 23 hours a day in their cells. There isn't much structured activity and there are no educational classes. Prisoners who have good disciplinary records--they are referred to as trusties and wear green as opposed to khaki uniforms--are allowed to work in the kitchen or clean the jail but they are not paid.
Life behind bars in Union County jail and some other American penal institutions revolves around an improvised system of cell-to-cell communication through the plumbing. Known as the "bowl phone," it crudely replicates the speaking tubes in ships that sailors once shouted through. Drained metal toilets are used as megaphones to build friendships, carry out courtship, fall in love--although the lovers may never meet--have phone sex, pray and carry out religious conversion, pass news about court cases and families and exchange gossip.
The bowl phone is a window into the tiny, often unnoticed rebellions of the oppressed. In jails and prisons across the country, filled mostly with poor people of color, behind the backs of the guards, out of sight from the wider society, lies an unseen, subterranean network that sustains the embers of defiance.
"You have to plunge the phone," explains Pabey, a 30-year-old Latina who has black, short curly hair with raspberry streaks.
"You take a piece of cloth," says Blount, a small, wispy African-American in her 40s. "You take the water out [of the bowl]. You keep pumpin' the water out until it get lower. Then you take the little cup or somethin'. You take a little sock or a little cloth or somethin'. You pump it out with the cloth, the water out. And as you're doin' that it's the water's going out. It's goin', it's goin'. It don't take but like about a minute."
"But like three seconds," Pabey says.
"Yeah, it don't take that long," Blount says. "You scoop the rest of the water."
"With [empty toilet paper] rolls you make a mic," Pabey says. Some prisoners prefer to curl up the book of jail regulations and stuff that into the drained toilet.
To send or receive a call, a male prisoner one or two floors below must similarly prepare a bowl phone. It is difficult for the parties to hear each other if they are separated by more than two floors.
To keep the lines of communication open, bowl phones are seldom used as toilets and rarely are flushed. Cells designated by prisoners become, in essence, public phone booths, known by their cell numbers.
Pabey says that to start a conversation, "You do the knock." With her knuckles she raps out on the table a distinct series of taps that in the jail identified her to other prisoners. "Everybody has a different page," she says. "It's called a pager. Like, it's, the knock is the page."
"It's like a code," Blount says.
Two of the women spontaneously imitate the start of a bowl phone conversation. "Heyyy, baby!" Pabey and Torrado say in unison.
"I be like, 'Papi, you there?' " says Torrado, Pabey's aunt, a Latina in her 40s who has long, streaked blond hair pulled back behind her head and is wearing a low-cut emerald blouse. " 'Yeah, baby, I'm there, baby,' " she goes on. " 'Hi, baby,' I go. 'Hi, Papi, I miss you.' "
"We be talkin' like that all night," Torrado says. "So then when I see it's daylight, 'Baby, I'm going to bed.' 'Me, too, baby. I'll see you in the morning.' "
I am sitting next to Todd Clayton, a student at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. I ask the women how Clayton, if he were a new prisoner in the jail, would get hooked into the bowl phone system.
"They be like, 'Fresh meat in the building,' " Pabey says.
"So you'll be like, 'OK. Hold on. We got a girl in such and such room that's lookin' for a guy,' " she explains. "Everybody ends up hookin' up."
"Girls come and be like, 'You talkin' to my man on the bowl?' " Torrado says. "I be like, 'Girl, that ain't your man! Next time I hear you talkin' to my man it's gonna be a problem.' "
"Eventually a woman literally sticks to the person that she's dealin' with," Pabey says.
"That's where the complications come from," Blount says. " 'Cause you fall in love with that person."
"I did it over there," Torrado says. "I met my boyfriend through the toilet bowl. We been together nine years."
"Toilet bowl love," Blount mutters.
"This one girl used to be loud, but I done used to let her talk for a long time," Blount says. "She was a bowl ho 'cause she stayed up--I mean day and night--and be, 'Hey, blah blah blah' 'cause you be on, yeah, you be talkin' to different people you a whore. You a ho, on the bowl."
Pabey offers an example of jailhouse romance: "[Say] I'm datin' Todd. We're on the mic. I'm like, 'Hey, baby, whatchu doin',' you know what I mean? 'How was your day?' Whatever. And then, without knowing, Todd gets released."
Blount lets out a gasp of empathy.
"That hurts," Blount says. "That can [be] heartbreaking. I seen a girl cry. She like, 'I know he goin' come to the window. They used to pray and stuff before they go to sleep. And he all of a sudden he got released. So she was at the window waiting for him to come by the window and say hi or whatever. She say, 'I know my baby comin' to the window.' I know she came to the window looking for him. She be cryin'. I said, 'You ain't think that man really goin' come to the window? He goin' home.' "
"Ah, he goin' get him some pussy," Pabey says. " 'Scuse my language, but it's the truth. He goin' go get him some pootang."
"He went out," Blount says. "He was gone. You know what I'm sayin'? She was cryin', her heart breaking. People get hurt. People fight."
I ask what most of the prisoners like to talk about.
"Sex," Pabey and Blount answer at once.
Most "bowl sex" takes place at night when, as Pabey says, "the freaks comes out."
"Now, mind you, if it's my aunt and her dude talkin' on the bowl, you've got to let the other female know," Pabey says. "Courtesy. So it's you and your dude on his bowl, and he's tellin' his roommate, 'Yo, you gotta go.' You feel me? So you have to give that person courtesy. And, you get it in."
"He be like, 'Baby, how big is your boobs?' " Torrado says. " 'How big is your butt?' '32.' 'Wow, baby. Keep telling, keep talkin'."
"And they be like, 'Baby,' they be like, 'Open up, baby, talk nasty to me,' " she says. " 'Baby, what do you want me to say?' 'Anything, baby, say anything, to--.' 'OK, baby, come here, baby. Let's do this.' "
"Imagine me lickin' on your ... ," Pabey offers.
"He be like, 'Oh, baby, I'm startin' feelin' hot already down here, baby,' " Blount says.
"They be like, 'Hold up, I'm about to bust a nut off-a this fool,' " Pabey says.
"I be on my bed readin' a book," Pabey adds.
"Me too!" Blount says. "I be laughin'."
"And I'll be like, 'Yo, this bitch is crazy,' " Pabey says. "She's like, 'Baby, yeah, stroke it harder, stroke it harder. And I be like, 'What the fuck?'And he's like, 'Baby, I'm about to bust. I'm about to come.' "
She mimics the moans of an orgasm.
"And I be like, 'Ah, shit,' " she says. "And then we'll bust out laughin'. 'Oh, you're two minute. Uhhh.' She be like, 'Leave my baby alone. Leave my boo alone.' "
"A girl could be sittin' there talkin' to a guy through the toilet bowl but still gettin' her coochie licked by another girl," Pabey throws in.
"I've seen like the guy tell the girl, 'Oh, baby, climb on top of the bowl and smack your coochie," Pabey says. "Literally sit there and be smackin'... so the guy can hear it."
The only opportunity to see a bowl phone partner occurs when both put in requests to go to the medical department on the same day. Male and female inmates are not permitted to speak to each other there, but some bowl phone lovers manage to communicate through surreptitious hand signals in the medical waiting area.
The bowl phone is prohibited by the jail, but the punishment for those caught using it is mild, most often a one- or two-day loss of his or her hour of recreational time outside the cell.
"Whoopidee-freakin'-doo," Pabey says. "You're already locked down 23 [hours], and one so what the fuck? Like, 'scuse my language, but you can't do shit. That's the only excitement you get. You still be in the bowl, 'Baaah. Oh well, you punish me for how long?' 'Two hours.' 'I'll go on the bowl.' "
Arguments can be terminated with a flush.
"And they be stressin', bangin' the wall," Torrado says in describing male partners' reaction to a flush.
"Yeah, that's the flush, that's it," Blount says.
"They be bangin'," Pabey says as she knocks furiously on the table. "They'll send another guy to another bowl and be like, 'Yo, tell my fuckin' girl that she better get on the phone!' "
She bangs again on the table.
" 'I want her right now,' " Torrado says. "And then you be in the bowl, 'What, baby? Baby, I didn't mean to hurt you, baby. I'm sorry, baby.' "
Click here for the full transcript and audio of the interview on which this column is based.
Donald Trump’s attacks on democracy, justice, and a free press are escalating — putting everything we stand for at risk. We believe a better world is possible, but we can’t get there without your support. Common Dreams stands apart. We answer only to you — our readers, activists, and changemakers — not to billionaires or corporations. Our independence allows us to cover the vital stories that others won’t, spotlighting movements for peace, equality, and human rights. Right now, our work faces unprecedented challenges. Misinformation is spreading, journalists are under attack, and financial pressures are mounting. As a reader-supported, nonprofit newsroom, your support is crucial to keep this journalism alive. Whatever you can give — $10, $25, or $100 — helps us stay strong and responsive when the world needs us most. Together, we’ll continue to build the independent, courageous journalism our movement relies on. Thank you for being part of this community. |
ELIZABETH, N.J.--I am drinking coffee and eating doughnuts in the backroom of a church in Elizabeth, N.J., with Gloria Blount, who has been in and out of Union County Jail over the years, Irene Pabey, who spent about four months there, and Alveda Torrado, who was behind its walls for 18 months. The women, part of a prison support group I help run, are talking about the "bowl phone."
Union County Jail is a 13-story facility with about 800 prisoners in the center of the depressed city of Elizabeth. Female prisoners are housed on the top floor, men on the floors below.
The prisoners usually are forced to spend 23 hours a day in their cells. There isn't much structured activity and there are no educational classes. Prisoners who have good disciplinary records--they are referred to as trusties and wear green as opposed to khaki uniforms--are allowed to work in the kitchen or clean the jail but they are not paid.
Life behind bars in Union County jail and some other American penal institutions revolves around an improvised system of cell-to-cell communication through the plumbing. Known as the "bowl phone," it crudely replicates the speaking tubes in ships that sailors once shouted through. Drained metal toilets are used as megaphones to build friendships, carry out courtship, fall in love--although the lovers may never meet--have phone sex, pray and carry out religious conversion, pass news about court cases and families and exchange gossip.
The bowl phone is a window into the tiny, often unnoticed rebellions of the oppressed. In jails and prisons across the country, filled mostly with poor people of color, behind the backs of the guards, out of sight from the wider society, lies an unseen, subterranean network that sustains the embers of defiance.
"You have to plunge the phone," explains Pabey, a 30-year-old Latina who has black, short curly hair with raspberry streaks.
"You take a piece of cloth," says Blount, a small, wispy African-American in her 40s. "You take the water out [of the bowl]. You keep pumpin' the water out until it get lower. Then you take the little cup or somethin'. You take a little sock or a little cloth or somethin'. You pump it out with the cloth, the water out. And as you're doin' that it's the water's going out. It's goin', it's goin'. It don't take but like about a minute."
"But like three seconds," Pabey says.
"Yeah, it don't take that long," Blount says. "You scoop the rest of the water."
"With [empty toilet paper] rolls you make a mic," Pabey says. Some prisoners prefer to curl up the book of jail regulations and stuff that into the drained toilet.
To send or receive a call, a male prisoner one or two floors below must similarly prepare a bowl phone. It is difficult for the parties to hear each other if they are separated by more than two floors.
To keep the lines of communication open, bowl phones are seldom used as toilets and rarely are flushed. Cells designated by prisoners become, in essence, public phone booths, known by their cell numbers.
Pabey says that to start a conversation, "You do the knock." With her knuckles she raps out on the table a distinct series of taps that in the jail identified her to other prisoners. "Everybody has a different page," she says. "It's called a pager. Like, it's, the knock is the page."
"It's like a code," Blount says.
Two of the women spontaneously imitate the start of a bowl phone conversation. "Heyyy, baby!" Pabey and Torrado say in unison.
"I be like, 'Papi, you there?' " says Torrado, Pabey's aunt, a Latina in her 40s who has long, streaked blond hair pulled back behind her head and is wearing a low-cut emerald blouse. " 'Yeah, baby, I'm there, baby,' " she goes on. " 'Hi, baby,' I go. 'Hi, Papi, I miss you.' "
"We be talkin' like that all night," Torrado says. "So then when I see it's daylight, 'Baby, I'm going to bed.' 'Me, too, baby. I'll see you in the morning.' "
I am sitting next to Todd Clayton, a student at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. I ask the women how Clayton, if he were a new prisoner in the jail, would get hooked into the bowl phone system.
"They be like, 'Fresh meat in the building,' " Pabey says.
"So you'll be like, 'OK. Hold on. We got a girl in such and such room that's lookin' for a guy,' " she explains. "Everybody ends up hookin' up."
"Girls come and be like, 'You talkin' to my man on the bowl?' " Torrado says. "I be like, 'Girl, that ain't your man! Next time I hear you talkin' to my man it's gonna be a problem.' "
"Eventually a woman literally sticks to the person that she's dealin' with," Pabey says.
"That's where the complications come from," Blount says. " 'Cause you fall in love with that person."
"I did it over there," Torrado says. "I met my boyfriend through the toilet bowl. We been together nine years."
"Toilet bowl love," Blount mutters.
"This one girl used to be loud, but I done used to let her talk for a long time," Blount says. "She was a bowl ho 'cause she stayed up--I mean day and night--and be, 'Hey, blah blah blah' 'cause you be on, yeah, you be talkin' to different people you a whore. You a ho, on the bowl."
Pabey offers an example of jailhouse romance: "[Say] I'm datin' Todd. We're on the mic. I'm like, 'Hey, baby, whatchu doin',' you know what I mean? 'How was your day?' Whatever. And then, without knowing, Todd gets released."
Blount lets out a gasp of empathy.
"That hurts," Blount says. "That can [be] heartbreaking. I seen a girl cry. She like, 'I know he goin' come to the window. They used to pray and stuff before they go to sleep. And he all of a sudden he got released. So she was at the window waiting for him to come by the window and say hi or whatever. She say, 'I know my baby comin' to the window.' I know she came to the window looking for him. She be cryin'. I said, 'You ain't think that man really goin' come to the window? He goin' home.' "
"Ah, he goin' get him some pussy," Pabey says. " 'Scuse my language, but it's the truth. He goin' go get him some pootang."
"He went out," Blount says. "He was gone. You know what I'm sayin'? She was cryin', her heart breaking. People get hurt. People fight."
I ask what most of the prisoners like to talk about.
"Sex," Pabey and Blount answer at once.
Most "bowl sex" takes place at night when, as Pabey says, "the freaks comes out."
"Now, mind you, if it's my aunt and her dude talkin' on the bowl, you've got to let the other female know," Pabey says. "Courtesy. So it's you and your dude on his bowl, and he's tellin' his roommate, 'Yo, you gotta go.' You feel me? So you have to give that person courtesy. And, you get it in."
"He be like, 'Baby, how big is your boobs?' " Torrado says. " 'How big is your butt?' '32.' 'Wow, baby. Keep telling, keep talkin'."
"And they be like, 'Baby,' they be like, 'Open up, baby, talk nasty to me,' " she says. " 'Baby, what do you want me to say?' 'Anything, baby, say anything, to--.' 'OK, baby, come here, baby. Let's do this.' "
"Imagine me lickin' on your ... ," Pabey offers.
"He be like, 'Oh, baby, I'm startin' feelin' hot already down here, baby,' " Blount says.
"They be like, 'Hold up, I'm about to bust a nut off-a this fool,' " Pabey says.
"I be on my bed readin' a book," Pabey adds.
"Me too!" Blount says. "I be laughin'."
"And I'll be like, 'Yo, this bitch is crazy,' " Pabey says. "She's like, 'Baby, yeah, stroke it harder, stroke it harder. And I be like, 'What the fuck?'And he's like, 'Baby, I'm about to bust. I'm about to come.' "
She mimics the moans of an orgasm.
"And I be like, 'Ah, shit,' " she says. "And then we'll bust out laughin'. 'Oh, you're two minute. Uhhh.' She be like, 'Leave my baby alone. Leave my boo alone.' "
"A girl could be sittin' there talkin' to a guy through the toilet bowl but still gettin' her coochie licked by another girl," Pabey throws in.
"I've seen like the guy tell the girl, 'Oh, baby, climb on top of the bowl and smack your coochie," Pabey says. "Literally sit there and be smackin'... so the guy can hear it."
The only opportunity to see a bowl phone partner occurs when both put in requests to go to the medical department on the same day. Male and female inmates are not permitted to speak to each other there, but some bowl phone lovers manage to communicate through surreptitious hand signals in the medical waiting area.
The bowl phone is prohibited by the jail, but the punishment for those caught using it is mild, most often a one- or two-day loss of his or her hour of recreational time outside the cell.
"Whoopidee-freakin'-doo," Pabey says. "You're already locked down 23 [hours], and one so what the fuck? Like, 'scuse my language, but you can't do shit. That's the only excitement you get. You still be in the bowl, 'Baaah. Oh well, you punish me for how long?' 'Two hours.' 'I'll go on the bowl.' "
Arguments can be terminated with a flush.
"And they be stressin', bangin' the wall," Torrado says in describing male partners' reaction to a flush.
"Yeah, that's the flush, that's it," Blount says.
"They be bangin'," Pabey says as she knocks furiously on the table. "They'll send another guy to another bowl and be like, 'Yo, tell my fuckin' girl that she better get on the phone!' "
She bangs again on the table.
" 'I want her right now,' " Torrado says. "And then you be in the bowl, 'What, baby? Baby, I didn't mean to hurt you, baby. I'm sorry, baby.' "
Click here for the full transcript and audio of the interview on which this column is based.
ELIZABETH, N.J.--I am drinking coffee and eating doughnuts in the backroom of a church in Elizabeth, N.J., with Gloria Blount, who has been in and out of Union County Jail over the years, Irene Pabey, who spent about four months there, and Alveda Torrado, who was behind its walls for 18 months. The women, part of a prison support group I help run, are talking about the "bowl phone."
Union County Jail is a 13-story facility with about 800 prisoners in the center of the depressed city of Elizabeth. Female prisoners are housed on the top floor, men on the floors below.
The prisoners usually are forced to spend 23 hours a day in their cells. There isn't much structured activity and there are no educational classes. Prisoners who have good disciplinary records--they are referred to as trusties and wear green as opposed to khaki uniforms--are allowed to work in the kitchen or clean the jail but they are not paid.
Life behind bars in Union County jail and some other American penal institutions revolves around an improvised system of cell-to-cell communication through the plumbing. Known as the "bowl phone," it crudely replicates the speaking tubes in ships that sailors once shouted through. Drained metal toilets are used as megaphones to build friendships, carry out courtship, fall in love--although the lovers may never meet--have phone sex, pray and carry out religious conversion, pass news about court cases and families and exchange gossip.
The bowl phone is a window into the tiny, often unnoticed rebellions of the oppressed. In jails and prisons across the country, filled mostly with poor people of color, behind the backs of the guards, out of sight from the wider society, lies an unseen, subterranean network that sustains the embers of defiance.
"You have to plunge the phone," explains Pabey, a 30-year-old Latina who has black, short curly hair with raspberry streaks.
"You take a piece of cloth," says Blount, a small, wispy African-American in her 40s. "You take the water out [of the bowl]. You keep pumpin' the water out until it get lower. Then you take the little cup or somethin'. You take a little sock or a little cloth or somethin'. You pump it out with the cloth, the water out. And as you're doin' that it's the water's going out. It's goin', it's goin'. It don't take but like about a minute."
"But like three seconds," Pabey says.
"Yeah, it don't take that long," Blount says. "You scoop the rest of the water."
"With [empty toilet paper] rolls you make a mic," Pabey says. Some prisoners prefer to curl up the book of jail regulations and stuff that into the drained toilet.
To send or receive a call, a male prisoner one or two floors below must similarly prepare a bowl phone. It is difficult for the parties to hear each other if they are separated by more than two floors.
To keep the lines of communication open, bowl phones are seldom used as toilets and rarely are flushed. Cells designated by prisoners become, in essence, public phone booths, known by their cell numbers.
Pabey says that to start a conversation, "You do the knock." With her knuckles she raps out on the table a distinct series of taps that in the jail identified her to other prisoners. "Everybody has a different page," she says. "It's called a pager. Like, it's, the knock is the page."
"It's like a code," Blount says.
Two of the women spontaneously imitate the start of a bowl phone conversation. "Heyyy, baby!" Pabey and Torrado say in unison.
"I be like, 'Papi, you there?' " says Torrado, Pabey's aunt, a Latina in her 40s who has long, streaked blond hair pulled back behind her head and is wearing a low-cut emerald blouse. " 'Yeah, baby, I'm there, baby,' " she goes on. " 'Hi, baby,' I go. 'Hi, Papi, I miss you.' "
"We be talkin' like that all night," Torrado says. "So then when I see it's daylight, 'Baby, I'm going to bed.' 'Me, too, baby. I'll see you in the morning.' "
I am sitting next to Todd Clayton, a student at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. I ask the women how Clayton, if he were a new prisoner in the jail, would get hooked into the bowl phone system.
"They be like, 'Fresh meat in the building,' " Pabey says.
"So you'll be like, 'OK. Hold on. We got a girl in such and such room that's lookin' for a guy,' " she explains. "Everybody ends up hookin' up."
"Girls come and be like, 'You talkin' to my man on the bowl?' " Torrado says. "I be like, 'Girl, that ain't your man! Next time I hear you talkin' to my man it's gonna be a problem.' "
"Eventually a woman literally sticks to the person that she's dealin' with," Pabey says.
"That's where the complications come from," Blount says. " 'Cause you fall in love with that person."
"I did it over there," Torrado says. "I met my boyfriend through the toilet bowl. We been together nine years."
"Toilet bowl love," Blount mutters.
"This one girl used to be loud, but I done used to let her talk for a long time," Blount says. "She was a bowl ho 'cause she stayed up--I mean day and night--and be, 'Hey, blah blah blah' 'cause you be on, yeah, you be talkin' to different people you a whore. You a ho, on the bowl."
Pabey offers an example of jailhouse romance: "[Say] I'm datin' Todd. We're on the mic. I'm like, 'Hey, baby, whatchu doin',' you know what I mean? 'How was your day?' Whatever. And then, without knowing, Todd gets released."
Blount lets out a gasp of empathy.
"That hurts," Blount says. "That can [be] heartbreaking. I seen a girl cry. She like, 'I know he goin' come to the window. They used to pray and stuff before they go to sleep. And he all of a sudden he got released. So she was at the window waiting for him to come by the window and say hi or whatever. She say, 'I know my baby comin' to the window.' I know she came to the window looking for him. She be cryin'. I said, 'You ain't think that man really goin' come to the window? He goin' home.' "
"Ah, he goin' get him some pussy," Pabey says. " 'Scuse my language, but it's the truth. He goin' go get him some pootang."
"He went out," Blount says. "He was gone. You know what I'm sayin'? She was cryin', her heart breaking. People get hurt. People fight."
I ask what most of the prisoners like to talk about.
"Sex," Pabey and Blount answer at once.
Most "bowl sex" takes place at night when, as Pabey says, "the freaks comes out."
"Now, mind you, if it's my aunt and her dude talkin' on the bowl, you've got to let the other female know," Pabey says. "Courtesy. So it's you and your dude on his bowl, and he's tellin' his roommate, 'Yo, you gotta go.' You feel me? So you have to give that person courtesy. And, you get it in."
"He be like, 'Baby, how big is your boobs?' " Torrado says. " 'How big is your butt?' '32.' 'Wow, baby. Keep telling, keep talkin'."
"And they be like, 'Baby,' they be like, 'Open up, baby, talk nasty to me,' " she says. " 'Baby, what do you want me to say?' 'Anything, baby, say anything, to--.' 'OK, baby, come here, baby. Let's do this.' "
"Imagine me lickin' on your ... ," Pabey offers.
"He be like, 'Oh, baby, I'm startin' feelin' hot already down here, baby,' " Blount says.
"They be like, 'Hold up, I'm about to bust a nut off-a this fool,' " Pabey says.
"I be on my bed readin' a book," Pabey adds.
"Me too!" Blount says. "I be laughin'."
"And I'll be like, 'Yo, this bitch is crazy,' " Pabey says. "She's like, 'Baby, yeah, stroke it harder, stroke it harder. And I be like, 'What the fuck?'And he's like, 'Baby, I'm about to bust. I'm about to come.' "
She mimics the moans of an orgasm.
"And I be like, 'Ah, shit,' " she says. "And then we'll bust out laughin'. 'Oh, you're two minute. Uhhh.' She be like, 'Leave my baby alone. Leave my boo alone.' "
"A girl could be sittin' there talkin' to a guy through the toilet bowl but still gettin' her coochie licked by another girl," Pabey throws in.
"I've seen like the guy tell the girl, 'Oh, baby, climb on top of the bowl and smack your coochie," Pabey says. "Literally sit there and be smackin'... so the guy can hear it."
The only opportunity to see a bowl phone partner occurs when both put in requests to go to the medical department on the same day. Male and female inmates are not permitted to speak to each other there, but some bowl phone lovers manage to communicate through surreptitious hand signals in the medical waiting area.
The bowl phone is prohibited by the jail, but the punishment for those caught using it is mild, most often a one- or two-day loss of his or her hour of recreational time outside the cell.
"Whoopidee-freakin'-doo," Pabey says. "You're already locked down 23 [hours], and one so what the fuck? Like, 'scuse my language, but you can't do shit. That's the only excitement you get. You still be in the bowl, 'Baaah. Oh well, you punish me for how long?' 'Two hours.' 'I'll go on the bowl.' "
Arguments can be terminated with a flush.
"And they be stressin', bangin' the wall," Torrado says in describing male partners' reaction to a flush.
"Yeah, that's the flush, that's it," Blount says.
"They be bangin'," Pabey says as she knocks furiously on the table. "They'll send another guy to another bowl and be like, 'Yo, tell my fuckin' girl that she better get on the phone!' "
She bangs again on the table.
" 'I want her right now,' " Torrado says. "And then you be in the bowl, 'What, baby? Baby, I didn't mean to hurt you, baby. I'm sorry, baby.' "
Click here for the full transcript and audio of the interview on which this column is based.
Rep. Greg Casar accused Trump and his Republican allies of "trying to pull off the most corrupt bargain I've ever seen."
Progressives rallied across the country on Saturday to protest against US President Donald Trump's attempts to get Republican-run state legislatures to redraw their maps to benefit GOP candidates in the 2026 midterm elections.
The anchor rally for the nationwide "Fight the Trump Takeover" protests was held in Austin, Texas, where Republicans in the state are poised to become the first in the nation to redraw their maps at the president's behest.
Progressives in the Lone Star State capital rallied against Trump and Texas Gov. Greg Abbott for breaking with historical precedent by carrying out congressional redistricting in the middle of the decade. Independent experts have estimated that the Texas gerrymandering alone could yield the GOP five additional seats in the US House of Representatives.
Speaking before a boisterous crowd of thousands of people, Rep. Lloyd Doggett (D-Texas) charged that the Texas GOP was drawing up "districts set up to elect a Trump minion" in next year's midterms. However, Doggett also said that progressives should still try to compete in these districts, whose residents voted for Trump in the 2024 election but who also have histories of supporting Democratic candidates.
"Next year, [Trump is] not going to be on the ballot to draw the MAGA vote," said Doggett. "Is there anyone here who believes that we ought to abandon any of these redrawn districts and surrender them to Trump?"
Leonard Aguilar, the secretary-treasurer of Texas AFL-CIO, attacked Abbott for doing the president's bidding even as people in central Texas are still struggling in the aftermath of the deadly floods last month that killed at least 136 people.
"It's time for Gov. Abbott to cut the bullshit," he said. "We need help now but he's working at the behest of the president, on behalf of Trump... He's letting Trump take over Texas!"
Aguilar also speculated that Trump is fixated on having Texas redraw its maps because he "knows he's in trouble and he wants to change the rules midstream."
Rep. Greg Casar (D-Texas) went through a litany of grievances against Trump and the Republican Party, ranging from the Texas redistricting plan, to hardline immigration policies, to the massive GOP budget package passed last month that is projected to kick 17 million Americans off of Medicaid.
However, Casar also said that he felt hope watching how people in Austin were fighting back against Trump and his policies.
"I'm proud that our city is fighting," he said. "I'm proud of the grit that we have even when the odds are stacked against us. The only answer to oligarchy is organization."
Casar went on to accuse Trump and Republicans or "trying to pull off the most corrupt bargain I've ever seen," and then added that "as they try to kick us off our healthcare, as they try to rig this election, we're not going to let them!"
Saturday's protests are being done in partnership with several prominent progressive groups, including Indivisible, MoveOn, Human Rights Campaign, Public Citizen, and the Communication Workers of America. Some Texas-specific groups—including Texas Freedom Network, Texas AFL-CIO, and Texas for All—are also partners in the protest.
Judge Rossie Alston Jr. ruled the plaintiffs had failed to prove the groups provided "ongoing, continuous, systematic, and material support for Hamas and its affiliates."
A federal judge appointed in 2019 by US President Donald Trump has dismissed a lawsuit filed against pro-Palestinian organizations that alleged they were fronts for the terrorist organization Hamas.
In a ruling issued on Friday, Judge Rossie Alston Jr. of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia found that the plaintiffs who filed the case against the pro-Palestine groups had not sufficiently demonstrated a clear link between the groups and Hamas' attack on Israel on October 7, 2023.
The plaintiffs in the case—consisting of seven Americans and two Israelis—were all victims of the Hamas attack that killed an estimated 1,200 people, including more than 700 Israeli civilians.
They alleged that the pro-Palestinian groups—including National Students for Justice in Palestine, WESPAC Foundation, and Americans for Justice in Palestine Educational Foundation—provided material support to Hamas that directly led to injuries they suffered as a result of the October 7 attack.
This alleged support for Hamas, the plaintiffs argued, violated both the Anti-Terrorism Act and the Alien Tort Statute.
However, after examining all the evidence presented by the plaintiffs, Alston found they had not proven their claim that the organizations in question provide "ongoing, continuous, systematic, and material support for Hamas and its affiliates."
Specifically, Alston said that the claims made by the plaintiffs "are all very general and conclusory and do not specifically relate to the injuries" that they suffered in the Hamas attack.
"Although plaintiffs conclude that defendants have aided and abetted Hamas by providing it with 'material support despite knowledge of Hamas' terrorist activity both before, during, and after its October 7 terrorist attack,' plaintiffs do not allege that any planning, preparation, funding, or execution of the October 7, 2023 attack or any violations of international law by Hamas occurred in the United States," Alston emphasized. "None of the direct attackers are alleged to be citizens of the United States."
Alston was unconvinced by the plaintiffs' claims that the pro-Palestinian organizations "act as Hamas' public relations division, recruiting domestic foot soldiers to disseminate Hamas’s propaganda," and he similarly dismissed them as "vague and conclusory."
He then said that the plaintiffs did not establish that these "public relations" activities purportedly done on behalf of Hamas had "aided and abetted Hamas in carrying out the specific October 7, 2023 attack (or subsequent or continuing Hamas violations) that caused the Israeli Plaintiffs' injuries."
Alston concluded by dismissing the plaintiffs' case without prejudice, meaning they are free to file an amended lawsuit against the plaintiffs within 30 days of the judge's ruling.
"Putin got one hell of a photo op out of Trump," wrote one critic.
US President Donald Trump on Saturday morning tried to put his best spin on a Friday summit with Russian President Vladimir Putin that yielded neither a cease-fire agreement nor a comprehensive peace deal to end the war in Ukraine.
Writing on his Truth Social page, the president took a victory lap over the summit despite coming home completely empty-handed when he flew back from Alaska on Friday night.
"A great and very successful day in Alaska!" Trump began. "The meeting with President Vladimir Putin of Russia went very well, as did a late night phone call with President Zelenskyy of Ukraine, and various European Leaders, including the highly respected Secretary General of NATO."
Trump then pivoted to saying that he was fine with not obtaining a cease-fire agreement, even though he said just days before that he'd impose "severe consequences" on Russia if it did not agree to one.
"It was determined by all that the best way to end the horrific war between Russia and Ukraine is to go directly to a Peace Agreement, which would end the war, and not a mere Cease-fire Agreement, which often times do not hold up," Trump said. "President Zelenskyy will be coming to DC, the Oval Office, on Monday afternoon. If all works out, we will then schedule a meeting with President Putin. Potentially, millions of people's lives will be saved."
While Trump did his best to put a happy face on the summit, many critics contended it was nothing short of a debacle for the US president.
Writing in The New Yorker, Susan Glasser argued that the entire summit with Putin was a "self-own of embarrassing proportions," given that he literally rolled out the red carpet for his Russian counterpart and did not achieve any success in bringing the war to a close.
"Putin got one hell of a photo op out of Trump, and still more time on the clock to prosecute his war against the 'brotherly' Ukrainian people, as he had the chutzpah to call them during his remarks in Alaska," she wrote. "The most enduring images from Anchorage, it seems, will be its grotesque displays of bonhomie between the dictator and his longtime American admirer."
She also noted that Trump appeared to shift the entire burden of ending the war onto Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, and he even said after the Putin summit that "it's really up to President Zelenskyy to get it done."
This led Glasser to comment that "if there's one unwavering Law of Trump, this is it: Whatever happens, it is never, ever, his fault."
Glasser wasn't the only critic to offer a scathing assessment of the summit. The Economist blasted Trump in an editorial about the meeting, which it labeled a "gift" to Putin. The magazine also contrasted the way that Trump treated Putin during his visit to American soil with the way that he treated Zelenskyy during an Oval Office meeting earlier this year.
"The honors for Mr. Putin were in sharp contrast to the public humiliation that Mr. Trump and his advisers inflicted on Mr. Zelenskyy during his first visit to the White House earlier this year," they wrote. "Since then relations with Ukraine have improved, but Mr. Trump has often been quick to blame it for being invaded; and he has proved strangely indulgent with Mr. Putin."
Michael McFaul, an American ambassador to Russia under former President Barack Obama, was struck by just how much effort went into holding a summit that accomplished nothing.
"Summits usually have deliverables," he told The Atlantic. "This meeting had none... I hope that they made some progress towards next steps in the peace process. But there is no evidence of that yet."