Loni Willison’s Past Is Dead
- AR
- 2 days ago
- 7 min read
In her earlier years, she represented fantasy—wine, women and wonder.
Now, the ex-sex siren represents one of over 18,000 homeless women in Los Angeles.
La La Land.
Where handpicked pawns are wrapped in designer suits and drizzled in diamonds—trained to parade down a red-carpeted assembly line for a ravenous audience to indulge upon.
But cameras cease to flash in favor of the fool when the jester becomes battered from a lifetime of performance. The weathered puppets are then dragged by their strings down the dirty Walk of Fame to sing for the king once more.
The setting sun casts a fiery hue on Loni Willison’s sun-ripened face as she stands on the corner of Alameda Avenue. Though she escaped the spotlight long ago, she lives in a way that is poetically reminiscent of her former life.
The former model wears a pair of limited edition Jordans, thick silver chains draped around her neck and a stained sweater that reads Los Angeles—a nod to a fashion sense shaped by the city she’s been roaming for years. Her signature bleach blonde hair is chopped and jagged, and the delicate features beloved by the camera are now framed by skin tanner than leather. But her most notable accessory is the unwavering lightness she still holds—unscathed by the elements of the streets.
Willison was 19 years old and working in porn when she met Jeremy Jackson, a former child actor on Baywatch. The couple married in 2012 and Willison was able to hoist herself up the Hollywood ladder by branching out to modeling and fitness.
Their union was brought to an end two years later after accusations of domestic violence. Leading up to the divorce, police were called to the couple’s home after Jackson was recorded physically assaulting Willison, leaving her with broken ribs and neck injuries. He was arrested and booked with attempted murder, though nothing resulted from the report as Willison dropped the charges.
Willison wasn’t seen for four years after the separation until a paparazzi found her dumpster diving in Santa Monica. The former fitness model has blamed the relationship for her dissent, claiming she was set up by her ex-husband to be in the position she is now.
Though her situation is a tabloid spectacle, it isn’t uncommon.
Domestic violence is a leading cause of homelessness among women in L.A. County. 44% of unhoused women reported fleeing their homes due to abuse, reported by the Urban Institute in 2023.
On top of that, a large percent of homeless women say that previous trauma from domestic violence can become a barrier to obtaining housing, and since she became homeless in 2014, Willison has willfully rejected county sponsored housing and rehabilitation services, as she claims the housing system is based on control and it is hard to be under control as an adult.
The sunsets glow continues to envelope the city and Willison speaks in riddles that only those fluent in glossolalia could decipher.
“I left jail. People were annoying. Took this with me,” Willison says, referring to the industrial sized metal chain around her neck. Between swigs of bottom shelf vodka, the former model claimed she had fled the L.A. County Jail only a few blocks away and was on her way to the beach, but didn’t care to explain how she left or what the charges were.
The 41-year-old told me she goes by Alicia Coretz. When asked to repeat the moniker, she does so less confidently—turning away and putting her hands behind her back—as if getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Switching gears, she starts to mumble about her stint as a supreme judge and time in the military, willfully dodging any personal questions that came after.
Her deflection and denial isn’t mindless—it’s armor.
The woman who used to grace covers of magazines is coherently rejecting any hint of her former life as a tactic deemed necessary for sidewalk survival.
She uses an untraceable name, looks strikingly different from the cover photos after years of weather from life on the street and even speaks differently than before—her voice has grown hoarse and is tinged with exhaustion.
Gone is the name, face and identity of Loni Willison.
But, still as lean and limber as when plastered on the front of fitness magazines, Willison falls into a knee bend that lay somewhere between a slav squat and the starting position for crow pose while holding the chain out in front of her—such as any pilates girl would have done with a resistance band.
It’s apparent that we aren't conducting a milquetoast interview sponsored by a New York Post per diem.
We’re in the trenches of a gas station parking lot and strategy needs to be adjusted accordingly.
Since she isn't responding to anything other than lighthearted exchange, I adjust my approach and make my degree in banter useful.
Following suit I bend down beside her. Every wrinkle in her face smoothes in relief as I hand her a couple of cigarettes.
“Dude, you don’t get it. I really appreciate these. Thank you,” she said, her lightness shining through the street-hardened shell. And, with a type of gratitude that could seem disingenuous considering my small gesture, she took me in for a hug—breaking down any barrier we had between us.
While fumbling around for a lighter, she shared her golden rule—“be nice to people. You don't have to be a dick.”
“Sometimes it's the people you trust who want to take you down the most out here” I countered, mimicking her ambiguity in hopes to get something other than an ad libbed reply.
“They ain’t gonna win. I’ll fuck ‘em up. I’ve been in school here—it ain’t schoolin’ me though,” she shot back in between sips of rotgut vodka. “Just don’t go over there,” referencing the park near the lot we sat in, then cracked the chain to her side.
Willison cuts the verbal volley game short and pivots back to gratitude.
“I mean it, thank you,” she said with a heavy sincerity, and like a coil she sprung up to grab something out of her blue stroller.
From the clutter filled stroller she pulled out a crocheted pair of tan pants and held them in front of her.
“Here, I knitted these and I’m giving them to you,” she said while pushing the pants into my arms. After attempts to decline the gift, she grew visibly peeved and then snapped, "you can just say thank you, you know. You don't have to be like that.”
Without any more protest, I took her advice—and the pants—before her metal chain could make the decision for me.
Stripped of everything Hollywood handed her, with nothing but a stroller full of clothes and at the mercy of the streets, she was giving me one of her few possessions.
That kind of intense generosity is a testament to her resilience—battered by life but not defeated completely.
In politics, the horseshoe theory suggests that both the far-left and far-right ends of the system will resemble each other, because extremism follows a certain system despite opposing goals.
In tinseltown, the Hollywood horseshoe theory suggests the ultra-famous resemble the ultra-forgotten, despite the deep socio-economic divide.
Both parties prowl the streets of L.A., but one prefers a Maybach over the Metro.
Both parties wear fashion directly influenced by the city, though one buys from the racks of the Beverly Center, the other finds clothing in the gutter behind it.
Having lived on both sides of the spectrum and choosing to reject the upper echelon, Willison is a true anomaly.
She gives me a tour of her latest tattoos in our few last minutes as co-conspirators. Pursed lips on her neck, a thick peace sign near her collarbone and cactus on her chest are etched in different styles and have placements similar to a sticker book.
Feeling lucky, I said she strikes me as a hip tattoo type of girl.
Like a rabbit being pulled out of a magician’s hat, she pulls down her sweatpants just low enough to reveal a long stemmed flower on her left hip.
“You’re gonna need this,” she said while fumbling through the contents of her stroller again, “it goes with your pants.” She pulls out a tan piece of yarn and holds it out infront of her. “It’s the drawstring,” she said as she pushed it into my arms, much like she did with the knit pants.
What seemed like a fleeting gesture was actually another testament to her cognitive clarity. If she has enough wherewithal to survive on the streets this long, to tread carefully around any questions that could come between her and freedom, then she definitely had enough wherewithal to remember the drawstring.
"I ain't dumb," she said, and pulled me in for an embrace, as if she knew that I could see her capability.
“I don’t care who they are I’ll fuck them up” she said while coming up for air in between hugs. “You’re a real sweetheart. stay healthy and stay safe,” there it was again—the unwavering selflessness. She has nothing, yet she is wishing me well.
Though stripped of the platform given, she still has what she came into the industry with—her playfulness, generosity, good heart.
But it’s clear, Hollywood isn’t coming to save her.
Once the toll of the industry causes the pawns to become bruised and battered, they are considered a liability. Unless having achieved a certain level of fame or fortune, the jesters are 86’d out of tinsel town, but are still marveled at from behind the pearly gates—for entertainment purposes only.
In the eyes of the industry, she wasn’t important enough to save, but is tragic enough to use for clickbait.
More than 2,000 unhoused people died on the streets of L.A. County in 2023 according to a report by the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health. The majority of the deaths were caused by drug overdoses, followed by heart disease and traffic related fatalities.
For homeless people who face addiction like Willison, the death rate is not just another statistic, it’s a daily threat. Despite the danger, she still rejects all help offered.
I write my phone number on a piece of paper in an attempt to keep a connection with her, but she declines with the same resilient confidence she used to dodge my inquisitive prompts.
“No, no. I don’t need you to write it down, I’m serious. I already have it here,” she says while pointing to her head.
In our final farewell, the petite blonde leaves me with a kiss on the cheek, a flurry of hugs and an ambush of ‘I love you’s’, before rolling her stroller towards the city of uncertainty—declining a ride to anywhere she needed.
“Where are you going?” I yelled after her.
“To be safe,” she assured me, vanishing into the Cesar Chavez underpass.
