Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica Read Online Free PDF Page A

around, I have a published precedent. If shticks were copyright protected, I’d sue and retire to the Bahamas on my settlement.
     
I’m not asking for a lot, but as a taxpayer and an American, I have a couple of requests. You could stop advertising, for one thing. Previous administrations did a much better job of keeping their agenda for world domination on the downlow.
Besides, tops that tout themselves as ruthlessly as you do, especially in the face of bad reviews, always strike me as distastefully insecure. And since it’s doubtful in
     
this era of expanded federal power that you’d consider some measure of self- imposed antitrust policy, how about a subsidy, or federal grant to compensate me for profits lost due to unfair government competition? At last count, your administration was spending $255 million dollars a day in Iraq. That comes out to about $10.6 million dollars per hour, or $177,000 per minute. For the cost of about five minutes of your time in Iraq I could pay off my mortgage and have a nice little nest egg for myself. I’ll get out of the business and leave your number on my voicemail as a referral for my clients.
     
Respectfully yours,
     

     
TAMAR’S PRAYERS ‌
AVITAL GAD - CYKMAN
     
Tamar’s sighs are well known. From her home to the street downstairs, the limits of her neighborhood, and to the country borders, men know it’s time for a prayer.
Every evening, Tamar tries another kind. She invents a new prayer. Whisky helps. She may stand up, sit down, or go down on all four. She does what seems fit, is here to serve her country. She would like to serve herself, her brothers, the others as well, but how, she is not sure.
This evening, Tamar goes down on all four. She prepares to pray for peace, for the safety of her household, for the stop of killing. The war has been declared once, twice, too many times. The new trick, a mutual suicide, is simpler than self-explosion or
     
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kamikaze. Preferences aside, War is so widespread among men, it’s probably popular. Tamar is afraid it may hurt.
She is on all four, reclining by the window, looking at the public downstairs. The soldiers on both sides hang out. Perhaps there is a truce. But the rivalry is old. They pretend they are whores. They expose their bodies: “Here is the flesh you desire,” they tease one another. “This is the heart you’d like to hang as a flag.” She can’t take her eyes from the whores buying and selling their bodies. They are mostly men, naked men with men, but some are naked women, so there are women with other women, and also men with women and women with men. Fresh flesh, young, soft and desired. She isn’t sure who are the Brothers and who are the Others.
Her brothers are a wild species. Brothers are born from many mothers and said to be the sons of one father. The others are said to be bastards. Others are sons of many men and one married woman.
It’s another evening and Tamar’s legs spread. She takes in the sight of the first young man she sees crashing into another. The bodies twist, on fire. Their faces seem hungry. She goes down onto the whisky bottle, opens up to it. She goes up and down, her hands pull at her dress, her cunt meets the bottle’s mouth, naked, she wrings its neck inside her. The glass is hard and wet, and it swings as she twists. The street falls silent or perhaps she becomes loud. Her sighs rise like sobs and become a big shout. She col- lapses onto the floor, whisky all over, and much of it inside her.
It’s day. “Stop it, Tamar. How do you expect any prayers to save the country? Stop praying every night. Go out, have fun, get married. Life goes on. Haven’t you heard about it?”
“Not for me,” she says.
“You sigh so much, sob so much that you break our hearts,” some Brothers tell her.
But Tamar, with the best of intentions, can’t just live on. She sets herself to pray every day. The street under her window is filled with men she needs to save. Who else will, if not