Kintsugi Hearts

I always thought the day I finally made it to Japan would be the best day of my life.

But I just feel gross.

Which makes sense, I guess, since I’ve been travelling for 25 hours after that awful layover in LA.

I’m just ready to get where I’m going and…

“Ouch!”

My arm jerks back when my bag snags, and it’s the last straw of what I can take on this day that just won’t end.

To my horror, my eyes well up, tears falling without my permission.

This is so far from how I imagined this moment. But… It’s okay. It’s okay to cry, and I’ll never see any of these people again.

Everything is overwhelming. Tokyo is louder and quieter than I expected, and everything has a scent and a feel and a brightness that is both beautiful and unfamiliar. It’s all just… a lot.

Even as the words leave my mouth, I don’t know why I’m acting like this. It’s so unlike me, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

My backpack, slung over just one shoulder, falls forward as I shift to right myself and he extends an arm to steady me. I feel the touch like it burns me as he flips over my luggage tag, reading quickly.

I’m nodding curtly, ignoring his outstretched hand and ready to turn away when he reaches for my suitcase.

Even as I walk away, I know I’ll regret the way I handled this… But honestly, I think I’m just glad I’m handling anything at all right now.

When I make it to the top of the steps and find myself standing in Shibuya Crossing, I’ve already forgotten everything.

Bright lights are enchanting and overwhelming, assaulting my senses with neons that are so vivid they barely feel real.

People move, in huge masses, with a quiet focus I’ve ever seen. I watch them without really seeing them, trying to take in the larger-than-life intensity of being in Japan, standing in this place I’ve only dreamt of.

There is so much sound, and so many people… but it’s nothing like I’m used to. Instead of a restless cacophony of car horns and hold ups, this is the hustle of a city coordinated with efficiency and beauty. The neon lights seamlessly blend into the sharp architecture of tall buildings, and the fluid shift and pace of a tailored crowd... Everything with its place and a purpose.

The scent of fresh food, rich broth and a heady sharp undertone of… something… catches my attention as a door opens to my right, and it snaps me out of the awe I feel at being here.

I can’t believe this is happening.

It’s everything I hoped for and I just hope I can be everything I hoped for, too.

After a couple hours sleep and a shower in my adorable AirBNB, the bright and busy streets of Tokyo feel more magical than they did when I arrived…

The insistent buzz of possibility that charges the air makes me feel more alive, more… I don’t even know the word for it.

I just know that it’s reminding me I’m alive too. Something I’d forgotten over the last months and years as I let my job consume me.

A wave of melancholy washes over me, my body suddenly feeling heavy as I slow my steps and remember what brought me here.

Losing my career was hard enough, but realising that somewhere along the way, I’ve tied everything I am into my work until it’s all a tangled mess… that’s really where the heaviness is.

Because until getting off the subway today, I don’t think I’d been present enough in my own life to recognise overwhelm… much less cry about it…

Except of course, for the last time I got overwhelmed and cried. Which is exactly how I ended up here.

The streets around me are beginning to empty as I turn a corner onto a smaller, but still neon-blurred side street.

All the signs are in Japanese here, the English advertisements having disappeared somewhere along the way as I was lost in thought.

It’s a bit quieter here, more mellow and pensive, and the cool night air is rich with the scents of restaurant doors propped open along the pavement.

My body seems to notice the familiarity of the scents, and my stomach reminds me that even though it’s the middle of the night in Japan, I’ve hardly eaten.

And the distinct scent of ramen broth calls to me like a siren song, so I follow my nose to the source, a small door, lit with neons of beer brands I recognise but have never tried.

A sense of comfort wraps around me like a hug as I take in the space: leather bar stools and lacquer wood counters, the tap of glasses as drinks are set down and the laughter of strangers stopping in and looking for connection.

I’ve never been to this exact place before, but the sign on the door tells me it’s an izakaya, and the sense of familiarity of a pub makes me feel right at home.

A man near the kitchen offers me a friendly smile and gestures to the small space with a nod, so I choose a seat near the bar that looks out onto the street.

The server joins me, menu in hand.

I smile at him, briefly wondering what gave me away as not speaking any Japanese, and turn to the menu. It’s in Japanese, but- a-ha! There, near the bottom, is an option for English and a QR code. I pull out my phone and scan it gratefully.

Everything looks so good, it’s hard to choose.

But tonight, I decide that I’ll try something familiar in a new place. Half comfort, half adventure…

The sounds and scents of a pub, even so far from home, dull the edges of my restlessness, and I find myself relaxing as I people-watch and wait for my ramen.

My attention catches at the sound of someone else speaking English, a rich voice that carries across the small izakaya like a melody.

I turn toward the voice, feeling drawn to someone else speaking English in this tiny quiet corner pub somewhere in Tokyo.

It’s… the bartender, and when he sets drinks down in front of the table to my right, he catches me watching him and offers a small smile before heading my way.

Well, yes, to both. I just got in today. I couldn’t sleep, and this place looks so inviting.

Yes, thanks to this. A QR code is a great idea, you must get a lot of tourists.

Oh, thank you.. Um, duomo?

I’m charmed by his hospitality, and caught between the urge to overshare and to keep to myself as he smiles at me and turns to walk away.

He bows lightly and makes his way across the small space until he disappears into the kitchen. As he goes, I note a sense of soft pride settling in my chest.

I did it. I ordered my first meal, spoke to my first stranger on this adventure. And I did it just for me. It’s been so long since I did anything just for me. It feels… good.

And as I look out toward the neon dream streets of Tokyo, awaiting the first solo meal I’ve ordered in years, I can’t help but smile.

I’m here, really here, and even if I’m tired and unsure, and yes, a little bit scared… I’m here, and this is real, and it’s mine to decide what happens next.

The steam from the soup rises, obscuring the lights reflecting through the window and I find comfort in the warm glow and the rich scents as I let myself get lost in what’s to come.

Tomorrow, I promise myself, is a new day.

Two days in Tokyo went by faster than I imagined. Well, after that first night at the ramen bar at least.

But that night was the turning point for me. Getting out of my own way, trying something new… and I don’t just mean the ramen. Before this trip, I’d never been brave enough to take up space in the world for the sake of myself.

I know it was just a small thing, but the kindness of the bartender felt like approval, like I was arriving in my life for the first time. It gave me something… a spark of an idea that I hope will continue to blossom if I nurture it.

Which is why I’ve started this daily journaling practice.

It helps that there was this incredible little stationery store under my AirBNB and I’d found this gorgeous journal, and bought a new pen to prove to myself that I’m committed to this, and I’m worth the effort it takes. It’s small, but it’s something, and everyone’s got to start somewhere.

As the train begins to move, I watch out the window, marvelling as we pick up speed and the scenery of urban Tokyo begins to fly past, blurring like my thoughts. It’s remarkably quiet in the train car, and even though it’s a little weird, I’m grateful for it as I begin to write about whatever comes to mind.

This trip already feels like a dream. It’s exactly what I was hoping for when I left home, hoping that being brave and saying yes to new adventures might give me back the pieces of myself I lost over the last three years.

I keep thinking about that first night, first in the train station- the way I acted with that handsome stranger was so unlike me, and even now it makes my cheeks heat with shame. Then, outside the ramen shop… standing in a bustling city and being reminded of how lost I’ve become, and all the ways my life felt empty… it was stark in a way I’ve never felt before.

I’d worked hard for 8 years to get to the height of my career, and somewhere along the way, I forgot what I was working for. I’d become a shell of myself, a data point on a spreadsheet, lost in the pages of a story that didn’t belong to me. Yet I was opening myself up, pouring every ounce of creative and productive energy into the soulless machine of a corporation that would just as soon dispose of me when some higher-up’s son needed a new job after college.

There’s probably a truth that’s hiding somewhere in the depths of my subconscious to remind me that I’m more than my job. There must be, since I decided to take this trip... But I don’t know where to look for it anymore.  I’ve long since stopped looking for the version of me that felt present enough to know what she wanted, and brave enough to go after it.

That thought hits me square in the chest, because writing it is really the first time I become aware of it, and it’s a bit too much to process.

Lucky for me, the view is an incredible distraction as the world flies by outside the train windows. The scenery has turned from the blur of urban busy-ness to rolling hills and soft serenity at high speed.

It makes me sad to realise how much of myself I let disappear for the sake of someone else’s dream. The little girl who dreamed of a job in a big city wearing fancy suits with her name on an office door wouldn’t even recognise the woman I am now. Yeah, I achieved her dreams, but at what cost?

But I’m making it up to her now. Making it up to me, because I’m here. I’m taking chances and making my dreams come true. Like the Japanese art of kintsugi. I spent months reading about the ancient art of taking something broken and repairing it with gold so that the flaws became something beautiful. So I’m choosing to believe that even though something’s been broken, it can always be made beautiful once more. The gilded threads of possibility in all the kintsugi pieces I’ve seen made me believe that perhaps, those same possibilities could be waiting for me in my own life if I could learn to look for them.

The train begins to slow, and it’s only then that I notice my thoughts have slowed too. After that journaling session, I’m feeling almost… relaxed.

Something about this train journey, and the time it gave me to pour my heart onto the page of my journal, has given me the chance to breathe a sigh of relief.

And as I step off the train, the last tendrils of Tokyo’s neon dreams drift away, into the cool, clear skies and sakura-scented breeze outside Kyoto Station. And I’m feeling almost hopeful.

When I booked this ryokan, it felt like an indulgence and I worried I might regret it.. But since I arrived an hour ago, the only regret I’ve had is that I can’t stay here longer.

Everything about this resort is stunning, tucked away in the Japanese countryside and it feels as if I’ve stepped out of reality and into something straight from my daydreams.

The room is… Unbelievable, really. All natural textures and soft linens that make me feel like I’m being wrapped up in the gentleness of the peaceful surroundings. It feels like a hug from the space, and I can feel my body relaxing and my thoughts lulling into a peaceful murmur as the open-air bath on my private balcony begins to fill.

It’s breathtaking inside and even more out so here, where nature and privacy create a perfect retreat. Everything is so calm, and this moment is exactly what I hoped for. I watch the steam rise from the water that pours from a wide bamboo tap.

I sink into the steamy water, lotus blooms floating around me as I relax immediately. The pre-bath shower felt nice, but this.. This is everything.

Being immersed in nature like this feels like a sensory massage, and I haven’t been this aware of myself like this in so long.

The sights and scents of nature surrounding me are so soothing. The peaked mountains and dense trees on the horizon calm my mind, and the heated natural spring water is the perfect temperature to heat my skin and soothe my muscles at once. It’s a delicious combination of awareness and absolute calm.

“Mmm, god, this is magic.”

As I relax into the moment and focus on being here and nowhere else, I’m beginning to notice how it feels to be exposed like this.

It’s vulnerable and empowering, freeing and grounding… it’s everything.

I close my eyes and let the calm wash over me as I focus my attention on my body. On the tips of my toes, tucked into the edge of the tub, and my legs, stretched out in the water.

My hips and rear anchoring me into this position, my back curved along the tall stone edge to where my head is tipped back, neck resting in the curved arch of the deep tub’s edge.

It’s comforting and sensual, asking for nothing except for me to notice.

As I coax one of the lotus blossoms toward me, the waves rock against my skin, rippling at the peak of my breast as I lightly trace the edges of the bloom.

I trace the petals, their soft and almost satiny dense edges furled in toward the centre of the bloom, and the way it feels reminds me of the way it feels to touch myself with this much reverence.

It’s been forever since I’ve thought about my own body as something to be touched and treated delicately, but now… in this place, it feels like a reminder.

I shift my hips beneath the water.

It feels good to notice my own body and the way that it feels to exist in my skin.

My hands move beneath the water until my fingertips skim along the tops of my thighs, and a spark of heat races down my spine and pools in my belly.

It’s been months since the last time I touched myself. Even longer since the last time anyone else did… And probably years since anyone else has cared about my needs.

My body has been little more than a machine, one I’ve cared for by moving and stretching, feeding and sleeping and ticking all the boxes… at least, I thought I had.

I guess I forgot about one box entirely. Pleasure just didn’t register on my endless to-do list. But now…

I part my thighs, taking up space in the warm water as I let the freedom of nature and the privacy of this open-air bath, and doing so makes me very aware of the way the water moves against my breasts. It feels… incredible, actually.

As I trace the inside of my thighs just like I traced the petals of the lotus, I let my inhibitions fall away with every gentle caress.

My fingers find their way to the apex of my thighs, and my back arches at the slow delight of my own intimate caress.

Every stroke and circle stokes the spark of desire, lighting up my body from the inside out. The frisson of awareness flares across my skin, my toes curling and the tips of my breasts tightening in anticipation.

I take my time, fingers moving slowly and delicately over my folds as I feel myself grow slick in a way that has nothing to do with this bath.

Just the warm water, a soft breeze, and the gentle pressure of my fingers reminding me what it feels like to let myself feel good. To make myself feel good.

One finger swirls gently around my entrance, teasing my sensitive skin.

It feels so good to be gentle with myself, to be curious and explore—

“Ohh, mmm.”

To explore my own pleasure… just because I can.

Because it feels so good.

It feels so, so good to just feel.

There is no fantasy here, nothing I need to imagine…

Just being here, chasing my own pleasure like this… just because it feels good…. Mmm… that’s enough.

It’s everything I need, and I add another finger to increase the intensity of my own touch, relishing in the sensation.

Right now, like this, it’s nothing fancy. Just me, my hands, my own touch, and this Incredible feeling of freedom.

It’s everything I need. It’s so, so good, especially when I hit that spot inside that always makes me feel so good, and my back arches, my breasts cresting the surface of the water so the hard tips of them are exposed to the cool breeze and

“Ohhh mmmmm.”

Every gasp and moan creates ripples in the water that tickle my breasts and the sensitive skin of my chest, belly, and hips. The unfamiliar sensation of the water’s caress heightens my pleasure.

My thighs fall further apart as I get closer, the pressure and incredible intensity of my own touch feels healing in a way I–

“Mmmm, yes.”

It feels so good, I want to savour this moment and make it last forever, but….

It feels too good to stop, and I want to keep going, to see just how good it can be when I…

“Ohhh, I’m close.”

I could stop, keep it building, but the slick slide of my fingers massaging all the right spots as the water swirls over sensitive skin…

And I know I won’t stop because I want this.

As the heat of my release creeps closer, I open my eyes, letting the wide open potential of this secluded wonderland remind me that I am here, I am mine, and I am…

Oh god, I’m going to come.

As I begin to return to myself, the first thing I notice is the marvel of true relaxation in my body.

I am grounded in my body and weightless from the still-steaming water. The freedom of it feels like release…

Which I guess is exactly what just happened. But it’s more than that, too.

This afterglow is a release of expectations and priorities that didn’t serve me.

I come down from the high of my orgasm, but it stays with me in the lightness of my mood and my movements.

As I pull myself from the water, I take a moment to stand, naked of everything but serenity as I breathe in the fresh air. It’s as if that one act of pleasure, for me and only me, has recalibrated my sense of self.

I love the simplicity of Japanese seating but still haven’t quite figured out how to be graceful as I try to find a comfortable position on the floor of the small studio we’re in for our kintsugi workshop today.

I’d just been writing about kintsugi and my kindred sense of hope on the train here. So when I saw the opportunity to learn more about kintsugi from a local artisan on the daily card delivered with breakfast each morning, it felt a bit like fate.

The group of us is small, only three, but I still have to swallow down the bitter taste of my own anxiety as I look around at the other participants.

I’ve always been introverted and coming to Japan like this was a huge move for me, but somehow this intimate studio and small group of people feels just as daunting as I glance around at the stacked pottery and various supplies decorating the centre of the table we’re all sharing.

But my thoughts screech to a halt as my mouth falls open because there, at the front of this tiny studio in this tucked away retreat in Kyoto… is Aidan. The handsome stranger from the Tokyo subway. The guy I was such a jerk to.

How is this happening? The other participants are greeting him, but I can’t believe this is real so I just… stare.

Aidan is… here. And not just here, in the same place, but teaching the one and only workshop I’d been brave enough to sign up for. Before I can spiral too far, he joins us at the table, taking a seat with a smile.

I fight the urge to laugh as I nod and beam at him like absolutely all of this is normal and, as he continues to speak again, I get lost in the marvel of how unlikely, how absolutely serendipitous, it must be to meet like this once more.

I try to focus on what he’s saying, but despite finding it endlessly interesting, I’m noticing him instead. His gentle movements, his hands, his soft smile and the reverence with which he speaks about this culture that’s clearly not his but he seems to love all the same.

He’s passionate about what he’s saying, but it’s what he’s doing that transfixes me. He’s almost on autopilot with his words, his focus instead transfixed on his actions as his large hands move so delicately, lifting a paint brush and a cracked tea cup, applying the pre-mixed urushi to the ceramic with care.

He smiles softly as he raises the repaired cup with care and shows us the thin gold line now holding together the two halves into a whole, remade with breathtaking precision, and I’m captivated.

Aidan moves around the room slowly as he hands each of us a cup with the same delicate care he’s done everything else with, and I can feel my heart stumble over itself with hope that the idea of what he’s saying just might apply to me too.

My pen hangs over the page as I stare out into the bamboo forest just beyond my balcony, and try to figure out how to word what happened this morning. It takes a minute, stirring my thoughts gently until they begin to unravel.

I set the pen down and glance up just in time to see the wind lift a flurry of cherry blossom petals from the garden below, and as they flutter and dance through the air like confetti, I can feel the same flutter echoing in my chest.

The main path through the gardens trails around the edges of the communal buildings, a shared dining space and tea house, a larger studio where meditation practices are held each day and the smaller studio this morning’s class had been in.

I’ve decided to have a peek at the larger shared onsen today; but I’m taking my time with the walk to enjoy the gorgeous gardens. I tighten the belt of my borrowed resort yukata around my waist as I make my way around them, not quite lost in thought but trying to be. The yukata itself is a soft cotton version of a kimono, but the belt is traditional silk and intricately embroidered. I twirl it around my fingers as I walk, not lost in thought, but trying to be.

I perk up like a puppy when I hear Aidan’s voice in the distance. He’s still at the little studio, and I quietly thank the serendipitous powers-that-be that he was exactly where I’d seen him last.

Not that I walked this way just to find him but, it definitely didn’t NOT occur to me.

I’ve moved close enough to the little studio that as he says his farewells to whomever is inside and as he turns toward the door to exit, he nearly runs into me this time.

I’m sorry about that… jet lag and…well, jet lag mostly. But that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.

But I’m so good at worrying. Like, all the time actually. That’s why I was out here. Walking and worrying. Well, and trying to find you, but mostly the walking thing.

Oh my god I’m babbling. My mouth has a mind of its own and words keep falling out of it so I quickly clap my hand over it to stifle the flow of nonconsensual thoughts.

Of all the times for my anxiety to put on sequins and make a spectacle of itself… get it together, Cass.

By some miracle, I manage to hold my eager tongue and just nod.

Yes for… Well, for today and the class. But for something you said, too. The whole thing about beauty in broken things really resonated for me and… It’s been a hard year, and it was nice to feel like I’m on the right path. I’ve been lost and I forgot how to be brave, or that I could do things that scared me. I thought I was broken and that’s all I’d ever be. It was… A nice reminder, I think. That I’m more than that. So, thank you.

He’s quiet for so long I worry he didn’t hear me, and it’s only in this lingering silence that I notice how far from the main resort we’ve walked. The path is thinner here, the garden now closing in on forest and we’re secluded in the privacy of dense trees and rich spring scents.

“When I do a workshop, I take the pairing of art form and people very seriously. It feels like the best way to give back to the culture that’s given me so much by respecting the art forms I share and the people who trust me to help them learn about it. Do you know why I chose that cup for you?”

“Why?”

“It felt like you needed a reminder that art doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to make you feel something. And that particular cup is the first piece of art I bought when I moved to Kyoto. Over the years it’s become chipped and worn, but it’s still my favourite.”

“Aidan, that’s beautiful.”

He’s so close I can feel the weight of his words in the space between us, and I’m not sure when we stopped walking or what to say next but my body is on high alert, every sense paying attention to the gentle invitation in his gaze.

“Aidan…”

“Nothing has to happen, I just thought you should know.”

“But what if I want something to happen?”

I’m so focused on his words, the weight of his gaze on me, that I jump when I feel his fingertips graze my wrist.

“This okay?”

His fingers thread through mine, and I nod. Another beat passes, and his gaze drops to my lips. His mouth parts, head moving closer to mine.

“Is this okay?”

And I think he’s asking to kiss me but instead of answering, I choose to be brave.

Kissing Aidan feels like the first time I tried creme brulee, and the first touch of his lips is the crack on the seal of my self-containment. As he licks into my mouth, this feeling is soft and silky, so sweet and decadent I don’t think I could ever get enough.

The warmth of wanting him has me melting into his arms, fisting his shirt, kissing him like I’m desperate. I am desperate.

“That was…”

“More.”

“You want more?”

“Yes, but not… here.”

“Why not here?”

“We could get caught!”

“Or we could… Not. We’re far out from the main resort, and this path’s been overgrown for a long time. Even the signs for it have grown over now. No one will find us…”

I hesitate, looking from his fresh kissed lips to his steady, sparkling eyes. I want to be brave, but I’m not sure I know how.

“Can I convince you to be brave with me? Do you want more?”

And more than anything, I do want more. I want to be brave with him.

This kiss grows hot and desperate so quickly that I’m breathless with it as his hands find their way over my hips to pull me flush against him.

His body against mine is hard and sure, warm and gentle even as our kiss deepens and I arch into him, pressing my breasts into his chest just to be closer. My hands dance along his chest and skim his sides until I’m hooking my fingertips in his belt, just lightly as I nip his lips and rock my hips, showing him what I want without saying a word.

I close my eyes and tip my head back, shutting out the world so all I have to think about is his lips on my neck, slow kisses and quick razes of his teeth over my skin. It makes me shiver. It reminds me to be here, in my body, especially when his hot breath fans over my collarbone and his hands bracket my hips, pulling our bodies together. The heat of him invades my space and when I don’t feel his lips again, I notice he’s gone still and open my eyes to meet his.

“Do you want this? Here? With me?”

“Yes, but we’re…”

“Can you trust me with this? With you?”

And maybe I shouldn’t but the swoop in my tummy isn’t just arousal now, it’s also adventure and I want to say yes. So I do.

“Yes.”

He pulls the sash from my resort yukata, and lifts the intricate silk for me to see.

“I don’t want you to think now, love. Just feel. Let me help you.”

And as his head dips to meet my lips, his hands rise to wrap the silken tie around my eyes, taking away my sight so my only option is to focus on what I can feel and… I love what I feel.

All my remaining senses are heightened and as he nudges my thin tank top off my shoulder, exposing my body until his hot mouth and the rasp of his beard graze my breast, my awareness of everything else falls away.

“Oh, yes.”

His big hands steady me, holding my hips as he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of my panties and he begins to tug them down. Each tug timed with a suck or a nip at my sensitive nipple that reminds me how connected pleasure is, and he keeps it building until the last of my clothes fall, and I’m naked except for the blindfold and his praise.

“So responsive.”

“You’re beautiful, love. I knew you’d be art.”

I cant my hips, back arching into the sweet heat of his mouth and the warmth of his body as the cool breeze curls around my back. I feel every hair on my body, every brush of his skin like each cell is a microcosm of possibility and I can’t get enough of the places our bodies meet. It’s so good, but it’s not enough.

“More.”

“As you wish.”

He presses a hand between my thighs, against my center where I’m already hot and wet, already aching for him. I reach for him, seeking heat and contact, and I find the smooth thin cotton of his t-shirt, and the rough denim of his jeans.. He’s… still dressed but I can feel the hard ridge of his arousal and it flushes me with desire.

As he kisses me everywhere — my lips, my neck — and his hands tease the peaks of my breasts, he slips one finger between my lips, and he pinches my clit lightly.

“SO wet, love. Does it feel good like this?”

“So good, so good.”

I’m rocking into his touch, his hands and mouth everywhere, so much and still not enough… god, it’ll never be enough when it feels like this.

The rhythm of his fingers working me everywhere I need him while his lips trail secret fireworks across my skin, it’s never been like this before. I feel the pressure of his fingers, every whorl in the pad of his calloused hands as he works me, and the pressure’s just right when he rocks his hand forward, bumping my clit and flicking a nipple in time with a kiss that feels like nirvana as my whole body seems to light up with pleasure in his arms.

“You’re so good, so perfect. Let it feel good.”

His words add to the intensity, sound joining touch joining feel in the symphony of sensation that’s lighting up my body but it’s still, still not enough.

I bring my hand up again — when did it fall? — and find the fly of his jeans as he rocks his palm against me, giving me pressure where I want it while I try to focus on getting what I really need.

“Need you. Please, more.”

“Love hearing you ask for what you need.”

His hand finds mine and guides me to him and–

“You’re so hard.”

“So hard, just for you. All for you.”

I shift my hips as I stroke his length, my core pulsing with desperation to feel the thick heat of him filling me up. He feels like satin and steel, silky soft and hot, throbbing as I slide my hand delicately across his skin and—

“Oh.”

My fingertips meet the tip, pearly wet liquid coating my fingers in a thrill I didn’t expect as I twist my wrist and—

“Less of that, love, or I’ll embarrass myself right here.”

The idea that he might cum just from my touch sends a flood of need through me and my body flushes with the raw power of being wanted like this. The primal, vulnerable strength of being naked like this, just for him, exposed and asking for everything I need is intoxicating and it makes me bold.

“Spread your legs.”

And I do, the cool breeze on my overheated skin sending a rush of sensation through me briefly before he closes the space, one hand at the back of my thigh encouraging me to lift it, to hook my leg around his waist so he can…

Slot himself against me. The thick, hot tip of him presses into the soft, slick heat of me, and I can’t help but rock my hips once, twice..

Grinding myself on him, using his body for my pleasure as he holds me up and lets me… and I think I might cum like this but I want to feel him, really feel him.

“So beautiful. Take what you need.”

And what I need is him, so I reach between us and line him up, moving smoothly as I rock my hips and sink him into me in one, smooth roll and shift of our bodies.

“Oh, god. Yes.”

He stretches me, the full heat a new sensation to add to the kaleidoscope of pleasure that dances through me when he begins to move.

“You feel… soo… so, good. Oh, yes.”

As the sensations tumble over me and our bodies find our rhythm, I know this won’t last, but I know I’ll never forget it as he holds me up, one hand cradling my spine as the other finds my breast and continues to tease and toy, helping me chase the release I didn’t know I needed.

“Yes, right there… like that, don’t stop.”

Like a firework, my orgasm rushes up my spine, bursting out of me with almost no warning as I grip his back and ride the release.

He holds my hand as we walk back down the path, but I’m still thinking about the delicate way he helped me dress when we were finished. How he pulled an actual handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned me up, and made the awkward after bits feel just as sensual as the build up before. He’s quiet, and I’m still lost in thought as we round a bend in the garden’s natural edge and an explosion of cherry blossoms come into view.

“The cherry blossoms?”

“Yes, I think these must be the ones I can see from my room but… they never get less magical, you know?”

“I do, I really really do.”

“It’s kind of like art to watch them bloom… to watch anything bloom, really. But especially beautiful things. Like cherry blossoms… and you.”

“That was cheesy.”

“Maybe, but it’s true.”

He’s entirely unphased by my deflection, and he holds my gaze as we stand amidst the cherry blossoms. I want to say something, to take the attention away from the gravity of what he’s saying. But I can’t bring myself to do it because I realise, with a rush of clarity, that he’s right. There’s something like art and poetry in watching beautiful things bloom. In seeing the wonder of the buds as they begin to blossom, and when the full blooms of their glory soak up the magic of the sun as if it was made to shine for them.

“Travel Journal, Day 14 Travelling home. Mood: tired Grateful for: art.”

“Nothing went the way I thought it would, and everything happened exactly as it should.”

“The day I left for Japan, I never could have imagined the version of me that would be returning, but here she sits and I can’t imagine being anyone else after everything I have realised over the last two weeks.”

“They say that travel changes you, and I think that’s true... But what really changes you is the defiant hope that you can change at all. From Tokyo to Kyoto and all the miles in between, I think the lessons that I learned came not from what happened, but from what I chose to believe along the way.”

“And the good orgasms certainly helped me do that with a clear mind.”

“I left home broken hearted, feeling like a broken thing, so lost in what the world wanted from me that I forgot what I was capable of… but in every fallen petal and delicate gilded repair, I found reminders.”

“Art doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to make you feel something.”

“And I think, I finally get that now.”