Tag Archive | Travel

Romantic Japan

Lovely ladies posing under a sakura (cherry blossom) tree.

 

Charmed by this darling woman’s sakura tattoo. 😉

It was my first time in Tokyo. Stereotypes of a crowded, bustling city of sardine-packed commuter trains and smog-polluted air were crushed the instant I laid eyes on her beauty. It was in her distinctly Japanese culture where I discovered her hidden treasure. Her radiant smile, her genuine charm and courtesy, her gentle demeanor, her graciousness in all things truly captured my heart. She stood before me like a giant city, but in her simple, orderly ways, her green trees, sunshine, and deep blue skies, she held a serene beauty unmatched anywhere on earth.

Was there a romantic story hidden within her alluring heart? Absolutely. To you, I will return, to draw out your delightful wealth, to uncover the mystery of what is purely you, purely exquisite, a story that will capture others’ hearts and charm them as you have charmed me.

The Futility of Resisting Love

3-2

Romantic short story:

Sometimes love swoops in like a summer breeze, catching you off guard in the most amiable way possible, stirring your heart like the warmth of sunlight. Other times, like today, I discovered that sometimes love comes in a relentless rain storm, thundering in the obstinate heart to get its attention and wrestling it into submission until the heart has no choice but to recognize love at its very door. Such was the case with my colleague Petunia Canterbury, the darker side of the moon compared to me, the ardent journalist who had all the answers when I was fresh out, the firestorm who eventually stole my heart.

For years we’d been working together as foreign correspondents, sometimes in over our heads in dangerous locales that we couldn’t even mention to homeland security upon our return for fear that we would be stuck in a detention center for days getting “debriefed.” To say our relationship was combative from the start would not be exaggerating. We were always at each other’s throats about decisions to cover stories, whom to interview, or how to write up a story. But the Associated Press called us, so we had no choice but to continue to work together or lose our jobs.

Our last assignment was the last straw, the argument to end all arguments. I had had enough and left with the intention of never seeing her again. That was over a year ago. But time passed and I found myself peculiarly missing her. I took homeland assignments to keep myself in journalism, but became restless and asked to be assigned to another foreign gig.

Now as I walk along the mud-caked road on a backwater somewhere in southern Laos, I allow the pouring rain to soak every inch of me. Thunder rolls in distant stereo as storm winds whip the fronds of palm trees along the side of the road. The humidity had already soiled my shirt with sweat, so the rain showers actually feel somewhat soothing as I traipse through ankle deep slosh and spit out rain water that has poured off my head onto my face. My saturated clothes feel like cellophane wrap plastered to every muscle on my body.

As I make my way to the local village where I have an interview with a farmer who is using a new method of crop irrigation, I find myself thinking of her – Petunia – the last person on earth I would ever want to see again. But here, on the other side of the world, I imagine the times we had, her whimsical blonde hair, her fierce lips that I always wondered what they would be like to kiss, and her saucy attitude that I strangely cannot get out of my heart.

Shaking me from my thoughts is the sound of a whirring motorbike riding through the mud, coming up behind me on the road I am traveling. A Laotian man is riding it with flip-flops and a tank top, completely oblivious to the fact that not only is he getting just as soaked as I am, but also that the rain storm is forcing his motorbike to go slower than a jogger’s pace. I wave as he passes, see his kind smile, and nod before he rides on. Sitting behind him on his bike is a woman clinging to his waist, maybe his wife, I assume.

As they disappear through the rain up ahead, I watch as the red brake light comes on and the bike stops. Thinking that he’s going to offer me a ride, I hustle to catch up to him, but then watch the woman hop off the bike and run toward me, too. She turns quickly, waves the driver away, and the bike disappears into the rain.

A wide smile forms on my face as I realize who it is.

“Petunia?!” I yell in the rain. A peal of thunder cracks overhead. I didn’t recognize her all wet, her blonde hair flattened and darker.

“I don’t believe this!” she yells back. “I thought it was you! What the hell are you doing all the way out here? Thought I left you chained to that domestic desk.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” I reply. The sound of thunder rips all around us. “I try to leave the memory of you behind me by chasing a story to the far reaches of the earth, and who do I end up running into?”

She is silent for almost a minute, appraising me with a slight grin, uncaring of the rain showering over us. “You missed me,” she says in a softer tone.

My heart is beating at a mile a minute and to act on my impulses would be foolish for both of our sakes, but foolish is all I have to go on. I walk right up to her and while the rain drenches both of us, I plant a kiss firmly on her lips, my hand behind her head, holding her soaked hair.

I sense her resistance immediately, not that I wasn’t expecting it, and she moves back, wiggling away from me. Then she shoves me away, but I’ve seen her shove people before, and this was no shove. More like a jostle. A stubborn yet flirtatious effort.

I move in again, my arm around her waist, feeling the peak of her hard nipples through her wet shirt against my chest. I kiss her again, both of our mouths wet with rain water. This time, she opens her mouth slightly and my tongue slips in for a few seconds. Enough to feel like lightning has coursed between us.

Then she resists again, shoving me back harder. I pause, wondering if she’s serious. Waiting. But I see it in her eyes. Something animalistic that burns in my heart, too. Finally, she moves into my space and clutches my face with both hands, pressing her tongue to mine in savage vengeance.

For as long as it takes, while the rain showers over us, while the thunder serenades us with its soothing rumble, we kiss like lascivious lovers, knowing that from this moment on, a new partnership has been formed, and love has replaced animosity.

A Dip in the Ocean of Love

Artist Paul Rader

Artist Paul Rader; photo: pinterest

Romantic Flash Fiction:

Love was moonlight over a calm tropical ocean, the waves lifting and lowering in rhythmic timing, rolling up onto the beach in soft whispers. Leaving my bathing suit on the shore, I waded out into the bath water of the docile sea that soon enveloped my body from the waist down. The tropical cerulean water glowed turquoise from the light of the moon and even at night, I could see clear to the bottom. My feet glided buoyantly over the soft sand below as I drifted out into deeper water. When the level had cleared my waist, I dove under and let the warmth of the salt water enfold every part of my naked form.

When I broke through the surface again, I turned back and smiled when I saw my love. Danica had followed suit and stripped off her bikini, wading into the water after me. The moonlight on her body took my breath away, casting a beautiful image in light and shadow, all at once brilliant and lovely, every sexy curve, every delightful line. My eyes feasted upon her beauty and my heart leaped like a calf bounding on eastern hills.

I treaded water as I waited for her to come to me. With dazzling eyes, she beheld me with love for the one she had given her heart to, and then she dove under with a graceful tuck. I watched as her smooth rear cheeks surfaced momentarily and dipped back under. Then she was up through the surface just in front of me, slicking her hair back and grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re crazy,” she said with a laugh. She had never known me to take such risks before, skinny-dipping under the moonlight at a secluded beach cove far off the beaten path. Sometimes the people closest to us can surprise us the most.

“Crazy about you, Danica,” I said, my hands finding her ribs under the water, sliding down to her curvy hips, drawing her to myself.

When our bodies met, she belted out an orgasmic gasp that turned into a flirtatious moan. “Don’t give me passion,” she whispered close to my mouth, ready to devour it. “Give me romance. Give me all of you. Tonight. Whatever you’re willing to give. I’ll take it.”

The Object of His Desire

Artist Morgan Kane; photo: pinterest.com

Artist Morgan Kane; photo: pinterest.com

Romantic Flash Fiction 17:

As a warm tropical breeze drifts over the island paradise, ocean waves pucker up and kiss the golden sand. Palm trees dance in intoxicated joy and revel in the sensation that love, thick and corpulent, is descending upon the beach like morning mist.

Wading up to the beach with his surfboard tucked under his arm, Davey smiles as he sees Amelia at the water’s edge, a perfect vision of divine beauty, watching him. Waves wash over her as the water saturates her violaceous bikini bottoms and emerald blouse, which now appears sheer, and a smoldering desire burns within him at the sight.

His heart leaps when their eyes meet. He knows now that she is everything his heart could ever want in a woman. The way her eyes sparkle in the sunlight. The way her coal black hair tosses in the breeze. The way her breasts rise and fall with her breath. She has become the perfect object of his deepest desire.

As he approaches her on the beach, he tosses his surfboard to the sand a short distance away, and sliding to his knees, he melts into her. Amelia slips her arms around his broad chest, pulling him in, as her legs wrap around his hips. Easily and naturally, Davey’s lips find hers and their wet tongues caress in a burst of fiery passion. As a moan escapes Amelia’s mouth, she lightly nibbles at his upper lip and lingers a while, allowing their sensual fever to rise with the morning sun.

When their lips separate, Davey smiles and whispers close. “You came back.”

Her eyes appear hurt, somber but hopeful. “I had to, Davey. How could I ever leave this place? The work that I do here. These people are my home. They depend on me.”

A sparkle of love and admiration shines brightly in Davey’s eyes. “I knew you’d never give up.”

A tiny tear trickles down Amelia’s cheek. “Thank you for believing in me. But more than anything else,” she begins, the words fighting their way past her timidity. “… I came back for you.”

He is speechless, melting in the gesture, sliding his fingers through her hair and bringing his lips to hers once again.

“I love you,” she whispers between kisses. Finally, with two hands holding his cheeks, she peers at him through deep, revealing eyes. “How could I ever leave the object of my desire?”