Nothing, she says, absolutely nothing
makes her hornier than America. The
long, stiff form of the Washington
Monument excites her, makes her want
to slip nude into the reflecting pool where
she can writhe under it in ecstasy.
She plays The Battle Hymn of the
Republic when she wants to get
freaky (though, to be fair, you could read
erotic subtext into its first line) and the
conductor of the local symphony was
startled last Independence Day when
her moist panties were thrown onstage
during the Sousa medley.
The tattoo on the small of her back
reads The British are coming!
below an image of Paul Revere’s
midnight ride, but you will only get
to see that if you can recite the entire
Gettysburg Address or explain the
importance of Marbury v. Madison.
At the pinnacle of her orgasm, she will
weep softly while humming the national
anthem through clenched teeth before
collapsing on top of you, a tired, huddled
mass who has just been set free.