Anna Black

“Union! Union! ”

Monica Lewis lifted her sign and chanted along with the rest of the workers who marched outside the hotel. It was a hot, sweltering day. Probably the hottest day she had experienced since arriving in Tucson four months ago.

The locals had warned her about the heat but she had brushed off their warnings. She’d experienced enough summers in D.C. to feel confident she could handle one in Tucson.

But D.C. heat was nothing like this.

In a desperate attempt to feel cooler Monica had smoothed her dreads back into a ponytail. She also wore her union baseball cap to keep the sun off her face.

“Union! Union! ”

Monica looked over and smiled. Mrs. Juanita Whitecloud, her plump, brown face glistening with sweat, stood near the curb, waving her sign at the passing cars. Her cardinal-red and navy-blue University of Arizona T-shirt was covered with union buttons, as was the large straw hat she wore.

Most of the cars, their windows rolled up in order to sustain their air-conditioned interiors, zipped past. But one car, its windows down, Spanish-style rap music pulsating out of its mega-speakers, slowed down for the light.

Monica moved closer to Mrs. Whitecloud.

The older woman shoved her sign at the car. “Union! Union! ”

The car was full of young men. One of those in the backseat pushed his lean, handsome face out the window.

“Hey! Abuella! Why don’t you go home and bake some coyotas? ”

“If I do, ” Mrs. Whitecould taunted, “will you and your fine-looking hijos come over and eat them? ”

The boy grinned. “I don’t know. You kinda old for me. You got maybe a granddaughter I can hang with.”

“No grandbabies yet. But I got a daughter.”

“She fine as you? ”

Mrs. Whitecloud laughed, her full bosom jiggling. “Yeah, but she’s too good for you.”

Before the boy could respond, the light changed and the car sped off.

Silas, who worked at the hotel as a custodian, shook his gray-haired head at Mrs. Whitecloud. “You ought to stop pimping Chenoa like that.”

“I’m not pimping her. It’s true what I said. I got no grandbabies yet. Chenoa’s my only child. If she don’t give me any, how I’m going to get any? ” She looked over at Monica. “Ain’t that right? ”

Monica smiled. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage Mrs. Whitecloud in her campaign to get her daughter, Chenoa, married. Especially since from the moment Monica had met Chenoa, she’d been unable to stop thinking about her.

The union members marched up and down the street, waving their signs and chanting. Monica smiled. From day one she had been fighting an uphill battle to convince the hotel workers they needed a union.

Mrs. Whitecloud had been her first convert, and she had enthusiastically thrown herself into the fray, helping Monica strategize ways to organize the workers. As a result of spending so much time with her, Monica had met Chenoa, who was home for the summer from grad school back East.

Even now, standing in the hot, blazing sun, Monica felt that deliciously cool quiver deep down in her belly whenever she thought of Mrs. Whitecloud’s beautiful daughter.

Chenoa. Of the black licorice hair, the smooth butterscotch skin, the succulent caramel-rich eyes.

Monica winced. Damn it. She couldn’t help it if she thought about Chenoa in candy-coated images. She wanted to eat the woman alive.

Carnally speaking, of course.

“Chenoa! ” Mrs. Whitecloud’s voice cut through the chants of the workers. Monica quickly whirled around, bumping into Silas who was walking behind her.

He took a step back and grinned. “Watch it, girl.”

“Sorry.”

He slyly winked. “Keep that up and you might get me wondering if you got a thing for me.”

Monica vaguely returned his smile. He’d been hitting on her since day one.

She looked over to where Mrs. Whitecloud stood next to Chenoa. What was she doing here? Chenoa had made it quite clear what she thought of her mother’s union activities.

She did not approve of them.

From where Monica stood it looked as if that was the subject of their conversation, for Mrs. Whitecloud was stubbornly shaking her head. Chenoa’s lovely face was set in an equally obstinate frown.

Monica went over to them. “Is something wrong? ”

“No, Monica, ” Mrs. Whitecloud said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

Chenoa crossed her arms underneath her breasts. Monica couldn’t help noticing how firm and enticing they looked under Chenoa’s butter-yellow cotton T-shirt. She wore jean shorts that hugged her deliciously round ass and from which her long, bare legs extended enticingly.

“No, Mother. There most certainly is something wrong.”

“Chenoa, don’t…”

Chenoa ignored her and looked over at Monica. “Do you have any idea what the temperature is? ”

Monica opened her mouth but Chenoa beat her to the punch. “A hundred ten degrees. A hundred ten! And you’ve got my mother out here…”

Mrs. Whitecloud moved in front of Monica and planted herself squarely in front of her daughter. “No, Chenoa. That is not fair. Monica does not control the weather.”

“But apparently she controls you, ” Chenoa retorted.

“No! No one controls me! I am here because I believe in the union.” She pointed to one of the bouquets of buttons on her shirt. “What does that say? ”

Chenoa looked at the button and frowned. “Bread and roses. So? ”

“And do you know what that means?

Chenoa shook her head.

Mrs. Whitecloud smiled and turned to the other marchers who had stopped to watch the row.

“She got one degree and is getting another, but she don’t know everything.” She looked over at Monica. “Tell Miss Smarty-Pants what it means.”

Monica looked over into Chenoa’s large, dark eyes and that delicious shiver had moved even lower, fluttering like the tips of fingers over her soft, inner folds.

Then, realizing with a start she’d been staring into Chenoa’s eyes a hairsbreadth longer than was probably appropriate, Monica quickly looked away and at her watch. It was near the end of the time they’d been given permission to stage their protest.

Monica waved her arms. “It’s almost time for us to go. Make sure you pack up any garbage.”

Mrs. Whitecloud touched Monica’s arm. “Ain’t you going to tell her what ‘bread and roses’ mean? ”

“Sure. But she’s right; we need to get you out of this heat.”

Mrs. Whitecloud snorted. “Such a fuss.”

But she joined the others who were loading their union signs into Silas’ van.

Monica looked at Chenoa. “We’re going to stop and have a beer.” She swallowed and forced herself to go on. “Want to join us? ”

Mrs. Whitecloud shouted from within the van. “Yes, she can join us. Or maybe she’s gotten too fancy to drink beer.”

A corner of Chenoa’s lush mouth curled up. “No, Mother. I’ll never get that fancy.” She glanced at Monica. “You buying? ”

“Sure.”

Chenoa shrugged her slender shoulders. “Then I’m in.”

After the bright, blistering heat, the dark, air-conditioned bar enveloped Monica like a refreshing dip into an icy pool. The union members surged around her, washing up against the bar like waves against rocks. Waving their arms, they shouted for soda, water, beers or wine coolers. The bartender, a twenty-something white boy with spiked blond hair, rushed to fill their orders.

Chenoa, her hand firmly on her mother’s arm, led her to an empty table near the bar. Torn between her desire to stay as close to Chenoa as possible, yet her wish not to appear so obvious, Monica hesitated.

Mrs. Whitecloud waved her over. “Come and sit with us.”

Monica went over to the table. There were three chairs. Monica sat in the one next to Mrs. Whitecloud. Chenoa was still standing.

“So, what do you want, Mother? ”

“A beer, ” Mrs. Whitecloud promptly responded.

Chenoa rolled her eyes. “I’ll bring you water first. You need to get some fluid in your body. Beer will only dehydrate you.”

She went over to the bar. Monica congratulated herself for resisting the urge to watch Chenoa walk away.

Mrs. Whitecloud waited until her daughter was out of earshot. “You would think that I am the child and that she is the mother.”

Monica smiled. “She’s very caring. You’re lucky to have her.”

“Caring.” Mrs. Whitecloud huffed. “More like Miss Busy-Body, Know-It-All.” Then she sighed. “But you are right. She is a good daughter. It has only been me and her since her father died.”

A wistful look fell over Mrs. Whitecloud’s face. “It is from him Chenoa gets her looks. My family did not want me to marry him. Because he was an Indian.” Mrs. Whitecloud snorted. “As if we were descended unmixed from the Spanish hildagos or something. But I did not care. I loved him. I loved him so much it hurt.”

Mrs. Whitecloud looked keenly over at Monica. “You ever love anybody that much? ”

Monica was about to answer but Chenoa had returned. She had a glass full of ice, a bottle of water and two beers. She slid one beer in front of Monica as she sat down.

“I thought I was paying? ” Monica said.

Chenoa shrugged, her long dark hair moving across her shoulders. “You can get the next round.” She opened the bottled water, poured the water into the ice-filled glass and handed it to her mother.

“Drink.”

Mrs. Whitecloud frowned but drank the water. The glass was half-full when she finished.

“All of it, Mother.”

“All right, all right.” Mrs. Whitecloud finished the water. Then she stood up.

“Where are you going? ” Chenoa asked.

“If it is alright with you, Miss Nosy-Nell, I am going to empty my bladder.”

Mrs. Whitecloud moved her rotund body through the obstacle course of tables and chairs toward the back of the bar.

Chenoa sighed, making the exact same sound her mother had earlier. Then she looked over at Monica. “Your mother anything like her? ”

“My mother died when I was fifteen.”

Chenoa’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Monica took a swig of her beer. It was cold and bitter and slid past the tight knot in her chest that always appeared when she thought of her mother.

“Don’t be, ” she said. “I mean, I appreciate the sentiment and all but it happened a long time ago.”

Chenoa’s eyes narrowed. “Not so long ago it doesn’t still hurt.”

Monica said nothing. She didn’t like talking about her mother. She didn’t like talking about anything personal. But, at the same time, she wanted to make a connection with Chenoa.

“Your mother.” Monica jerked her chin to where Mrs. Whitecloud was now emerging from the bathroom. “I like her.”

Chenoa looked over at her mother. Instead of returning to their table, she edged her way in among the other union members gathered at the bar.

Chenoa shook her head. “She’s stubborn.”

Then she looked over at Monica and graced her with such a dazzling smile that it tore at Monica’s heart. “But I love her, too. And, well, I wanted you to know that despite how I must have come across, I’m glad you got her involved in the union.”

“You are? ”

Chenoa took a drink from her beer and nodded. “When I left for grad school, I was afraid she would just go to that awful job at the hotel, get off work and then sit at home worrying about me.”

She laughed. “And that’s exactly what she did. Ran her phone bill up, calling me every day. But then she got involved in the union. Oh, she still worries about me but it isn’t a twenty-four-seven kind of thing, you know? She has something else to occupy her mind. To make her feel important. Needed.”

“It’s empowering, ” Monica ventured.

Chenoa screwed up her face. “Yeah, I suppose so. Although I hate that word. Sounds so…yuppyish.”

Monica laughed. Chenoa took another drink of her beer and Monica admired how her long, smooth throat worked as she drank. Soon the table between them was littered with beer and with the labels Monica had torn off the bottles as her state of inebriation and subsequent horniness had increased. She hadn’t meant to drink so much but the more she and Chenoa had talked, the more relaxed she had felt and the more beer she had ordered.

Chenoa, however, had stopped after one beer and switched over to club soda.

Mrs. Whitecloud came over to the table. “Silas is taking me home. Are you going to stay here, Monica? ”

Monica shook her head and wished she hadn’t. “I need to get back to my hotel room. I’ve got a meeting in the morning with management.” Monica stood up and swayed. She’d driven over to the bar in her rental car but she knew she was in no state to drive back to the hotel. “I’ll call a taxi.”

“No, Chenoa can drive you, ” Mrs. Whitecloud offered. “You can get your car tomorrow.”

Monica looked over at Chenoa, who shrugged. “Sure, I can take you.”

She rose from her chair and Monica, after making sure she wasn’t going to pitch face forward onto the floor, followed her outside.

Monica slid her key card through the reader on the door. She opened the door and stepped inside. Chenoa walked in behind her. Then, when Monica saw the state of her room, she wished she had not invited Chenoa in.

Clothing, underwear, books, computer discs and an assortment of half-opened bags of cereal bars and potato chips were strewn across her bed. The desk near the window was in no better shape, covered as it was with her laptop, stacks of flyers, newsletters and boxes of union buttons.

She looked over at Chenoa and gave her an embarrassed smile. “Excuse the mess.”

Chenoa shrugged. “No problem.”

She went over to the bed and, surprising Monica, swept everything on it onto the floor. Then she jumped on the bed, leaned back against the pillows and looked over at her. She patted the empty space next to her.

“Well, come on.”

Monica stared at her. Was this some kind of alcohol-induced hallucination?

Chenoa laughed. “Don’t tell me a big-time union organizer like you is bashful.”

“I’m not…” Monica stopped and drew in what she hoped was a head-clearing breath of air. “…a big-time union organizer.” She pinched her fingers together. “I’m more like a flea on the humped, bristly back of the union.”

“Really? ” Chenoa smiled wickedly. “I thought you were going to insist you weren’t shy.”

Chenoa sat up and pulled off her T-shirt. She was braless. Her breasts were round and full with dusky-brown areolas.

Monica walked over to the bed and sat next to her. “What I am is confused.”

Chenoa reached over and caressed the line of Monica’s jaw, her cheek, the side of her face. Her voice was a low whisper. “Confused about what? ”

“About…” Monica stopped. She gestured to where Chenoa lay on her bed. “About this.”

“What? This? ”

Chenoa gently pulled Monica’s face toward hers and kissed her. It was a soft kiss, a wet kiss, a kiss that burrowed straight down to Monica’s cunt.

Chenoa pulled away, her dark eyes sultry. “What’s so confusing about me wanting you as much as you want me? ”

Monica’s throat tightened. She cupped Chenoa’s breasts and stroked them. “Nothing. There’s nothing confusing about it at all.”

She tenderly twisted Chenoa’s nipples. They hardened, becoming long and firm. Monica lowered her head and wrapped her mouth around Chenoa’s breast. She slowly, attentively sucked it.

Chenoa moaned. She pulled off Monica’s baseball cap and tossed it onto the floor. Then she undid the tie Monica had put around her dreads and pushed her hands through them.

“I love your hair, ” she whispered. “It’s so beautiful. Like you.”

She leaned back against the pillows, and Monica followed her, her mouth still wrapped around Chenoa’s succulent breast. She moved her hand down to the curve of Chenoa’s waist, just above the top of her shorts.

Moving her hands past Monica’s, Chenoa took her shorts off and tossed them to the floor.

Monica stroked Chenoa’s long, smooth thighs. She leaned over, her face mere inches from Chenoa’s panties. She parted her lips, her breath coming short as much from her state of drunkenness as from the tantalizing aroma of Chenoa’s cunt. The dark bush of it underneath the sheer lilac bikini-cut panties plumped the already damp material.

Monica pressed her lips onto the roundness of Chenoa’s stomach. She kissed her, over and over, reveling in the quivering of her belly. She moved downward and pressed her nose onto Chenoa’s panty-covered cunt. Slowly she breathed in the scent of her. Then gently, yet thoroughly, she slid her tongue over the front of her panties, tasting Chenoa as she did so.

Chenoa moaned, long and slow.

Unable to stand it any longer, Monica slipped her fingers beneath Chenoa’s panties and pulled them off her body.

She looked down at Chenoa’s cunt, a wave of dizziness flowing through her.

“I’m still drunk, ” Monica murmured. “But that’s okay.”

She lowered her head and brushed her nose and lips over Chenoa’s mound, breathing in, over and over, the smell of her; sweat and musk and soap.

Monica licked and sucked the tender lips of Chenoa’s cunt. Then she wrapped her lips around her clitoris and gently sucked. Chenoa writhed beneath her, her thighs quivering. She feverishly whispered words in Spanish, her fingers digging through Chenoa’s dreads.

Monica moved her wet, eager tongue deeper into Chenoa’s juicy cunt. And she did as she had fantasized since first meeting Chenoa. Making low, hard sounds deep in her chest, Monica thoroughly ate that sweet, succulent, candy-coated pussy out.

Crying out, Chenoa violently shuddered and a flood of wetness gushed from her and onto Monica’s tongue and lips. Monica kept on eagerly sucking and licking her slick cunt.

Chenoa climaxed again, her body trembling, her breasts jiggling wildly as she thrashed on the bed.

Once she had quieted, Monica pushed herself up until she lay next to Chenoa. Her caramel-colored eyes were glazed, her full, lush lips still trembling.

“Where…” she gasped, drew a breath, laughed and shook her head. “Where’d you learn to eat pussy like that? ”

Monica shrugged. “More than a couple of bottles of beer and a few months of being horny as hell were instrumental.”

Chenoa laughed. She pulled Monica’s face down to hers and kissed her, thoroughly, deeply, wetly. She tasted of beer and mint and her own female musk.

Monica pulled away and took off her shirt. Unlike Chenoa, she wore a bra. Reaching around, Chenoa quickly unhooked it. Once Monica’s breasts were free, Chenoa lifted her head and sucked first one, then the other nipple, her agile tongue licking them into a sweet, tart hardness, her full lips sucking earnestly.

Some of that Tucson heat must have still been smoldering inside Monica because, despite the air-conditioned hotel room, she started sweating as if she were still outside.

“Oh, baby, ” she moaned. “That’s it. Suck ’em. Suck my titties.”

Chenoa readily obliged her. Then she pushed one of her hands down the front of Monica’s jeans, slid her fingers under her panties and, as she continued to suck and lick Monica’s breasts, finger-fucked her to not one, not two, but three blistering orgasms.

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.