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From: "La Amadora" <amadora@hotmail.com>
Subject: New Story: "Comrades and Lovers" (a short vignette, really, FF, rom)

This, like most of my stories, is inspired by actual events. All 
comments appreciated and welcomed to amadora@hotmail.com or 
kollontai@hotmail.com . Thanks!!

love,
kollontai

	

     They lie together in the fading light, twined together, woven in an 
intricate pattern of swirling, brilliant color. An arm drapes across a 
stomach. Eyes gaze into each other and at nothing. There is contentment. 
There is also tranquillity. An oppressive seething calm lays upon the 
city tonight. The humid air swirls in through the open
window, laying upon them as would a blanket. One cradles the other, 
holds the warm body close despite the heat. Skin curls against skin. The 
streetlight shining through the bedroom window casts faint shadows upon 
them.

	The mobilization took place earlier that afternoon. They had vanished 
into the crowd and the mass of placards and banners and newspapers.  The 
speakers took to the platform, one after the other. She spoke of 
anti-racism, fighting oppression, freedom, unity in struggle, labor, the 
working class, industrial workers joining with African Americans, united 
front for progress, freedom, liberation. Comrades below distributed her 
paper and some stood at tables, conducting small informational programs 
of their own to accumulated masses of unorganized demonstrators and 
assorted sympathizers. The other spoke later. She carried greetings from 
other organizations and famous figures who expressed their solidarity. 
The struggle continues. Like Meridel LeSueur's organizer,"Every day, 
every night and tonight is part of the struggle." Carry it on.

	It had been at a meeting that they'd first come into contact. A 
planning meeting for this mass mobilization in particular. She had sworn 
years before that her lover was her movement, that her one true love was 
the revolution, that the people, the masses were her loved ones. All 
else was distraction from the task at hand, to organize, to struggle. 
All her resources must go to the next meeting, the next demonstration, 
the next discussion, the next tabling, the next event. Her organization 
held fast in its place in her heart, strong
solid to the core. In a second, she knew that she was the same, her 
heart enclosed, embraced, imprisoned by the shining future of the 
struggle. Yet here they are, clasping and holding each other, clinging 
and longing in the dense heat of the blossoming summer
and struggle, each needing, each loving as if the other were the 
revolution itself. They are covered in their fluids and in sweat, 
nipples still hard and glistening with saliva,
cunts still drippling, where fingers, mouths and tongues, bodies had 
joined and explored in a relentless revolutionary ecstatic pursuit.
	
	The clasped hands and embracing arms of comrades and lovers. In the 
dark of the night, wherein lies the difference?



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