“You make me feel like Emma Goldman with all of your ratiocinations! Dialectical materialism never felt so good, and I don’t even understand it, but it’s time, it’s time!” she purred.
"That's OK, he said with the copyrighted voice of authority, "I don't either, and neither do any of the readers out there." Their radical studies sessions had gone on for months and months and it was becoming clear that a very hot, sweaty, wet, and prolonged Hegelian synthesis was inevitable. Their vent worm ancestors smiled.
He grabbed her by her long, flowing hair, stroked her swan-like neck, and caressed her fulsome breasts: “Look—woman—Marxist-Leninist forced production never made for a worker’s paradise! What difference is there between Taylorist assembly-lines in the West and the moldering Taylorist factories of the former Soviet Union?” She looked up at him with her saucer-eyes and their daffodil-eyelashes, all coy and childlike, and could have been the French symbol for Liberty.
It could have been the very first time a woman gazed at a lover in adoration, and he returned it with the very same passion. Her gaze was so innocent--but focused--with constructive intent rather than the predictable power play found in human social groupings. She grabbed him and held him in the palm of her hand like all good comrades do. His excitement rose and he thought his heart would rip out of his chest and his face went flush. Beads of perspiration instantaneously formed on his brow. Revolution never felt so good, at least not since 1968 when the fluids were flying over the barricades.
“Women’s lives have been circumscribed by confining gender-roles and have only been truly able to join the fight in recent times, the last one hundred years. But women have been and embody an even greater dialectical potential for constructive subversion of hierarchy.” He smiled at that, and moved his hand towards her venus mounds, gently caressing her and stroking her back at the same time. She shivered and giggled, purred again.
“Give it up for Bakunin baby, give it up for Marx, haw-haw-haw!” chortled the thirty-something leftist to his radical studies partner. It all began with books, but like the rest of life, it ended in fucking.
“Now give it to me like a fucking man!” she screamed, and they dropped all their books for a time, all the bound-essays, and returned to the Garden, like children, like glorious children. Could this be? Could a relationship without an alpha, without a leader, a peaceful coexistence, compete in a market driven world? The revolution had begun, under cover of night, and things would never be the same.