After the last mind-blowing climax, Monica moved away from Chenoa and onto the side of the bed, the sweat pooling off her body and onto the sheet.

Chenoa rolled over onto her side and smiled at her. “So, what does it mean?”

Monica was still gasping for breath, her heart slamming. “What…what does what mean?”

“Bread and roses.”

It took a moment for Monica to register the words as she continued to struggle for breath. “Oh, yeah. Well, the phrase…it first appeared in a poem in…1911 but it’s mostly associated with…a textile strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Some say the women carried signs that said, ‘We want bread, but roses, too,’ but it’s never been verified.”

“We want bread but roses, too,” Chenoa repeated softly. “I like that.”

“Now, can I ask you a question?” Monica said.

“Sure.”

“Does your mother know?”

“That I’m gay?”

Monica nodded.

Chenoa sighed. “No. She’s so set on having grandchildren I haven’t had the heart to tell her. And, yes, I know I can still give her grandchildren but I also know she wants me to be happy.”

“And she won’t believe you’ll be happy if you’re a lesbian?”

“Yes.”

Monica stroked her arm. “I can’t say I know your mother better than you do, but I have a feeling she’d be a lot more open than you think.”

“Maybe.” Chenoa moved over Monica, her black-licorice hair falling like a curtain around their entwined bodies. “But for now, I don’t want to think about that. I just want to be with you.”

And, for now, that’s all Monica wanted, too.

Anna Black resides in the Midwest where she enjoys both reading and writing a wide variety of fiction ranging from mysteries to science fiction. She collects tarot cards and enjoys watching her eclectic collection of DVDs. She has erotic fiction published in The MILF Anthology, Cowboy Lover—Erotic Tales of the Wild West, and Zane’s upcoming anthology Asian Spice. She is currently working on an erotic mystery.

My Side of Things

Raquel Moore

H ave you ever had a loose secret? One that dangles inside your mouth so that every time your lips move, you fear it will fall out into your conversation? The kind that won’t stay put but can’t be freed ’cause you know it will change everything? Well, I got one of those and I can’t bear it alone any longer. I wanna tell you everything. Exactly the way it happened…maybe with a little slant toward my side of things…but the truth nonetheless. Just listen, okay? And know that I am telling you the truth. You know, the way you would tell your girlfriend about a tiny little thing that happened a long time ago, before you two were really serious about each other and that really wouldn’t be brought up at all if ol’ girl you did it with wasn’t threatening to make it sound like more than it really was? Yeah, that kind of slant.

It started about six months ago on the elevator, after a long day at the university. I was losing my cell phone connection while talking to ol’ girl who was threatening to tell “everything,” when in steps the most alluring woman I’ve ever met. She was dark like freshly brewed coffee, with full lips and a smile that beamed right into my soul. In one smooth motion I snapped my phone shut and dropped it in my pocket. I would have to deal with ol’ girl later. I made some flippant comment about the unreliability of modern technology.

“It’s not the technology,” the alluring one said with a crisp British accent. “It’s those among us who act surprised every time the phone loses reception in the elevator.” I couldn’t tell if she was flirting, or calling me out. Or both.

“By the way,” she introduced herself with a hint of a smile. “My name is Sabela.” We ended up sitting at the bus stop together, giggling like schoolgirls about the culture of absurdity called MTV and its blackface twin, BET. It was more than an hour later when we realized the parking lot shuttle was unusually delayed. Not ready to separate, we walked across campus to the lot together, our shoulders bumping lightly with each step. We never really separated after that.

From that moment on, I communicated with this woman almost every day. We emailed, IM’ed, texted, had lunch, brunch and sometimes just a quick coffee. Our connection was crazy. All I had to do was think her name and my phone would buzz in my pocket. My friends assumed we were already a thing ’cause usually I claim my territory early in the game. But I decided not to disappoint them. They need me to succeed so that they can maintain hope that their bland, humdrum academic lives might have some passionate flair too one day. Besides, I was working on it.

This is how it really was: Sabela was magnetic. Our thighs, shoulders, hips or hands would find each other like old friends, like they knew they belonged together and didn’t care who saw. Every time she looked at me, it felt like she looked into me and it always sent a charge through me. A jolt that commanded certain parts of me to stand and salute. Every time. The thing is, she would never consent to a date. She agreed to a movie once but canceled. Other times she would say she’d have to check her schedule and get back to me, and each time the answer was “we’ll have to do it another time because blah-blah-blah.” As the kids say: she was stalling me. I was persistent because I thought maybe it was her first lesbian attraction. I’ve bedded enough first-timers and bi-curious types to know that past experience is no measure of present-day willingness.

My girl? Oh, Sabela didn’t know about her then. I knew better than to mention my long distance “situation” up front. Geographically speaking, I was single so why complicate the matter with unnecessary details?

Anyway, for weeks I tried to get to her alone off-campus. Meanwhile the electronic intimacy was nice. It began with a three-hour

discussion about our research and its relationship to our own liberation. She’s from Tanzania. While her parents are progressive Africans in their views about a woman’s role in society, she said they also expect her to maintain their old customs. Their desire for her to be as equally educated as her brothers allowed her to train in London. She left her village to research Natural Resource Management to help enrich the lives of her people. Stuff like clean air, water and natural habitat preservation. I write about gay people who make a healthy space for their sexuality in their spiritual life. Tell me what you think is most important in your everyday routine and I’ll tell you how you define freedom. We ended most weeknights talking for two to three hours at a time. Basically spent every night together without going on one date.

Week twelve, it finally happened. She had just returned from a two-week trip home. She said “yes” for Saturday night, but only if I cooked dinner. She said I should show her what home-cooked American food is supposed to taste like. Shee-it, I couldn’t have planned it better. Just the two of us breaking bread in my house, with nothing to distract us from our desires? Spicy sex was definitely in the stars. So I prepared angel hair pasta with shrimp and crabmeat in a zesty pesto sauce, garnished it with parsley, tossed a spinach salad and topped it off with my momma’s blackberry pie (if that ain’t American, nothing is.)

Tags: Zane Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net