The Communist and I met under circumstances you might call “different”. (You can read about it here.) I didn’t much expect to see the Communist again after that first night, but we kept in touch with a text message or two every few days. The first night he invited me over, we sat on his couch talking for hours while he decided if and how and when he should kiss me. I got tired of it, and kissed him instead.
The Communist kisses me hard, mashing his mouth against mine and biting my lower lip a little harder than a nibble. He leaves tiny toothy bruises on the tops of my collarbones; he grins to himself when his kissing my neck makes me catch my breath and whimper. He waits for me, always, to start the undressing, and sometimes I am only half finished with the buttons on his shirt before he pulls my top off over my head and unsnaps my bra. The Communist’s skin is remarkably soft and smooth, and I am amazed over and over again at how good he feels under my hands or pressed against me.
He plays me music every time I visit, and tells me things about the bands, the songs, the genres, that he thinks I ought to know. It’s Billie Holiday, Young MC, Mozart, the Pogues. I have to remind him at least once during each of these educations about our age difference. “This was a great drinking song in the late eighties,” he says, tipping his glass toward my beer bottle. “Mmm,” I say, dropping my icy hand on his forearm over the big red and black tattoo splashed with the words JUSTICE and EQUALITY. “I was eight when the eighties ended.” He wraps his fingers around mine. “Come here and kiss me,” I tell him, and instead of moving, he just gives me a cheshire grin. I crook my finger at him. “Come here,” I say, and he meets me in the middle.
Three cats live with the Communist, and they are fancy breeds, exotic and strange in comparison to my own Maine coon mix. They have exotic and strange names, but I have been calling them something else. One is a Devon Rex, with wiry curly fur … so I called her Curly. Of course the others are now Larry and Moe. The Communist is a bit peeved at my reactions to their strange faces. I don’t exactly find them beautiful, but I am constantly intrigued by their unusual looks. “Most people,” he says pointedly, “would just adjust to their majesty.” I look up at him from underneath my eyelashes. “Their majesty,” I repeat. He listens to me with a skeptical look on his face. He is, half the time, inscrutable, with uncanny self-possession. “What are you thinking?” I’ll ask. His response is almost always to raise his eyebrows at me and half grin.
He tells me stories of his days in the world of comics, his time at boarding school as a kid, his days of “working with the party”. He shakes his head slowly if I mention politics, and I usually distract him quickly, sliding my fingers underneath his. The Communist makes an art of hand-holding, somehow, and it is one my favorite things. He is careful, still, calm and self-possessed even when turned on. He has whispered to me during sex exactly one time, even though I talk to him. I give him his name, occasionally, and his response is to kiss me. “You have a wonderful tongue,” I tell him. He gives his wry smile. “The Democrats didn’t think so,” he says. I laugh, and throw one arm across his chest while he starts again to play the notes of tonight’s Beethoven against my back.