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

sobs. She cries. “Amnon III, now.” He comes. She asks for more. It’s Amnon VIII. She bursts. Does he think about a foun- tain of petrol?
She takes as many stabs, hits, bites, slaps, kicks, and other kind of killings.
She satisfies the Brothers and then the Others.
She is in bits, a black torn land of fire. She implores for her Brothers and then for the Others. She is destroyed beyond recog- nition.
In the end she says, “Now leave me alone.”
Brothers and Others say, “What are you talking about? You are our home.”
She discovers a bit of clean skin, an unbroken bone.
All of them want it. They don’t understand how they gave up a nuclear war.
     
ESCAPE AND EVASION ‌
ANTHONY SWOFFORD
     
PFC BROCKNER
When the recruiter asked the queer questions I had a hard-on. I wanted my dick in his mouth, his militarily chiseled jaw working me like a pro. Do you now or have you ever had homoerotic tenden- cies? Are you now or have you ever been engaged in a homosexual relationship? No, sir. No, sir. But, sir, I thought, but sir, I will gladly take you back to the head, the head as you call it, and show you homosexual fucking, which is not necessarily a relationship and absolutely more than a tendency. He smirked apologetically. Sorry I have to ask, you obviously solid tough sturdy renegade straight young youth, soon to be killer in my U.S. Marine Corps, killer of
     
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gooks and commies and Nazis and ragheads and faggots and all other such scum of the earth shitbag specimens that may currently or someday harbor evil designs against my United States.
Just like the straight recruits, at boot camp I had little time or desire to think about sex. My boyfriend sent me letters under the pseudonym Jackie B. Strong. Jackie be strong, love-letter me like a man. His letters were full of sex, but I couldn’t return the favor. I missed Jack’s chest and pretty face, but I couldn’t think about fucking. I fell asleep every night dreaming of be- ing in his arms, our arms and legs tangled in tenderness, we both with hairy chests and rough faces, his stubble like hickory bark, mine a smudge of charcoal across my queer canvas. In the squad bay, shaving through shower steam, finger squeaks to clear the mirror, asses and dicks in my mirror’s view, I’d pre- tend I was shaving his face. All those men around me, sweating and showering and suffering, calisthenics and punishments and small simple rewards—extra dessert or a bonus minute on the phones Christmas Eve. Yes, the men all naked all around me and on the drill field the rough-sex rhythm of boot black heels into pavement, palms slapping blue rifle metal, but sex was not on my brain, no libido fever for me. I woke up the same as the guys who dreamed of pussy and tits—garbage can lids crash- ing across the deck, boots thrown through windows, recruits being dragged from racks, still attached fetus-like to pillows, Sgt. Barnett screaming, Get up! Get up! Get out of the rack! You have thirty seconds to be battle-dressed and on the road for chow! Get on the road for chow! Our chorus response, Sir, get on the road for chow, sir! I can’t hear you, ladies! Sir, get on the road for chow, sir! Move! Move! Move! If we were in
combat, you fuckers would be dead, all of you faggot mama’s- boy motherfuckers would be dead!
How could I think of cock and ass while drowning in mad- ness and incivility?
     
SERGEANT SAVINE
Three sniper teams from the 7th Marines, mine included, were coming down from a week in Indian territory, the Indians being the Iraqis, their supposed Red or Gold or Unified Front of Elite Fighters within pissing-on range as we observed their movement back and forth across a minefield.
The command thought we were still out in the boonies, snoop- ing and pooping. But we’d extracted ourselves three days early and were spending our time in a Texaco-field-hospital-turned-British- run-whorehouse near Jabal ad Duyud. Every four hours one of us ran to the roof of the hospital and