9/11 Is Tired of Your Tears:
9/11 is weary. 9/11 woke up tired this morning, staring at the clouds and rain, wishing she could just go back to bed. But 9/11 knows she doesn't get a break. Sure, sure, the other dates told her that after a while she would fade into memory, half-forgotten except for ceremonies that would drag her out of the house, but the reassurances of 12/7, 11/22, and 4/19 have proven to be wrong. It would be one thing to just have to get up on her namesake anniversary. But, no, 9/11 has to be out all the time, the favorite whore of politicians and pundits.

9/11 doesn't know who's gonna call on her. Every day, it seems, yes, that someone else rings her up and tells her to meet them at a speech or after an appearance. She knows the routine. She knows her job. 9/11 dresses in her mourning duds, the ones that look like she's paying respects to the dead, but with enough of a slit up the leg to let whoever her suitor is that night know that she is always available for them.

She's got her regulars, Giuliani and Bush and Cheney. They're the ones who like her on top, humping away, so they can stare at her used beauty, the Twin Towers of her breasts, the Pentagon of her mouth, the field in Pennsylvania above her pussy, and, god, how Giuliani squeezes her nipples, says his cock is a passenger jet before he plunges it into her. How Cheney can't get off unless he burns her with cigarettes. How Bush cries with gratitude whenever she's grinding away. "Without you, I'm nothing," he weeps. She knows that, but she always wishes she were elsewhere.

The worst is the campaign season. How she has to show up at the Republican debates to fellate each candidate. How she has to be under the desks at Fox hand-jobbing the O'Reillies and Hannities, fingering the Coulters and Malkins. How Joe Lieberman has done things to her so disgusting she wants to burn them out of her mind. She wanted to be a high-price escort, but she knows that, even though everyone thinks she's so good at what she does and says how much they respect her, she's no different than a Lower East Side Suicide Girl-wannabe trick.

9/11 wants just to be loved. She wants someone to take care of her and tell her she doesn't have to do this anymore. She doesn't wanna be the American alpha and omega. She just wants flowers, a nice ritual or two, and then a simple thoughtful note every now and then.

But, no. That's not 9/11's lot in this world. She's resigned to this life of abuse, her legs spread, her mouth open, ready to go to the next call. She doesn't exist in and of herself, only as an accessory. She has become the roughly nailed hot lover, the one anyone can point to and say, "See that piece of ass? I fucked her. And then I turned her over and fucked her again."

And, sadly, 9/11 believes that's all she'll ever be.