Foreign Tattoo Quotes

Eh? How 'bout that?" Bill nudged her. "Did I promise to show you love or did I promise to show you love?" "Sure,they seem like they're in love." Luce shrugged. "But-" "But what?Do you have any idea how painful that is? Look at that guy. He makes getting inked look like being caressed by a soft breeze." Luce squirmed on the branch. "Is that the lesson here? Pain equals love?" "You tell me," Bill said. "It may surprise you to hear this,but the ladies aren't exactly banging down Bill's door." "I mean,if I tattooed Daniel's same on my body would that mean I loved him more than I already do?" "It's a symbol,Luce." Bill let out a raspy sigh. "You're being too literal. Think about it this way: Daniel is the first good-looking boy LuLu has ever seen. Until he washed ashore a few months ago, this girl's whole world was her father and a few fat natives." "She's Miranda," Luce said, remembering the love story from The Tempest, which she'd read in her tenth-grade Shakespeare seminar. "How very civilized of you!" Bill pursed his lips with approval. "They are liek Ferdinand and Miranda: The handsome foreigner shipwrecks on her shores-" "So,of course it was love at first sight for LuLu," Luce murmured. This was what she was afraid of: the same thoughtless,automatic love that had bothered her in Helston. "Right," Bill said. "She didn't have a choice but to fall for him.But what's interesting here is Daniel. You see, he didn't have to teach her to craft a woven sail, or gain her father's trust by producing a season's worth of fish to cure,or exhibit C"-Bill pointed at the lovers on the beach-"agree to tattoo his whole body according to her local custom.It would have been enough if Daniel had just shown up.LuLu would have loved him anyway." "He's doing it because-" Luce thought aloud. "Because he wants to earn her love.Because otherwise,he would just be taking advantage of their curse. Because no matter what kind of cycle they're bound to,his love for her is...true.

He went into the hall bathroom that separated the two bedrooms and lifted the lid. He yawned. He scratched his head and felt foreign objects in his hair. While he continued to aim the stream into the commode, he leaned to the left to look in the small mirror over the sink and almost had heart failure. He actually might have jumped and briefly missed the pot. Sean had little-girl “things” in his short hair—clips, bows, ponytail bands, jeweled bobby pins. And there was something else—he scraped off some Scotch Tape. His hair was too short so some of that stuff was taped on! But that was the least of it—he had a bright red Angelina Jolie mouth that went way out of the lines. Blue eyelids and pink cheeks. He looked like a clown. He zipped his pants. Then he wet a finger under the faucet and rubbed it over his eyelid. Nothing changed, except that he saw his fingernails were bright green. He washed his hands vigorously. Oh, God—he’d been tattooed in his sleep! He took the bar of soap to his lips; no amount of scrubbing helped. “Frannnnn-ciiiii!” he yelled. A moment later she tapped at the door and he jerked it open. She was casually drying her hands on a dish towel while he was scowling. “Magic marker, I think,” she said, before he could ask the question. “Why?” he asked desperately, totally stunned. Franci shrugged. “She’s not allowed to touch my makeup. And she thinks you look wonderful.” Then she grinned. He stiffened and pursed his lips. “I’m pretty sure I’m out of uniform.” She chuckled. “We’ll think of something. Are you staying for dinner?” “I can’t go out like this!” “Okay, let’s try some fingernail polish remover on your green nails, have some dinner, and then I’ll see what I can do about your, ah, makeup. Really, Sean, rule number one—never close your eyes on a three-year-old.” *

How good would Flynn be in bed – a real bed, with crisp, clean sheets? She’d seen and handled enough of his body to create a solid mental picture of him naked. Very solid. Honed, strong, with a dusting of blond hair on his tanned chest and maybe a few tattoos. Long muscular legs, a sculpted butt, a narrow waist sliding into a broad back that would undulate under her fingers as he moved against her.

after the Meiji Period, which lasted from 1869 to 1912, these persecuted artists led lives of bare subsistence in slums and narrow alleys. Struggling to elude the vigilant eyes of the government, which had outlawed tattooing, they kept their skills alive by creating works of art that could never be shown in public. The names that spring to mind are Horiuno I and II, followed by Horikane, Horikin, Horigoro, Horiyasu, and a couple of others. “Of course, no list of post-Meiji tattoo artists would be complete without the renowned Honcho the First. As you may know, he created a nationwide scandal in Japan in 1900 by committing ‘love suicide’ with a woman who was not his wife. Horicho had already left his mark on posterity, not just in Japan but overseas as well, by tattooing highly publicized dragons on the forearms of the English Duke of York, who became King George V, and the czarevitch of Russia, later Czar Nicholas II. At the time, Horicho’s was the only legal tattoo parlor left open in Yokohama. It was there—attracted, no doubt, by a sign that read ‘For Foreigners Only’—that both George and Nicholas got their dragons.

He comes up to me, every inch—and I mean ev-er-ry inch—on display. I take in those glowing amber tattoos that are so foreign and beautiful. My eyes move to his massive shoulders and his tapering torso; my gaze dips lower, to his abs, then to … Maybe it’s just sitting next to the fire, but suddenly, the urge to fan myself is overwhelming.

I ate a coconut crisp and the whole thing shriveled in my mouth, evaporating into nothing but pure taste. I held another up to the golden light as someone sat down across from me. "I can't figure out this cooking technique. Do you think it's a meringue?" I asked. "Actually, I believe it's freeze-dried." My gaze leaped from the coconut crisp to the source of the foreign-sounding voice, smoother and younger than Michael Saltz's agitated lisp. Pascal Fox. His black hair was slightly matted and spiked, hair that was- amazingly- a bit like mine, thick and straight in places, wispy and fine in others. He wore a cobalt-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his tattoos. In the semi-dark, I made out a mural of forks and knives, cows and pigs, carrots and eggplants and squashes and melons, like a super-hot, toned supermarket. He seemed to be showing off the whole mural to me. "Oh, hi!" I said. "I remember you. You came to my restaurant about three weeks ago, right?" "Wow," I said. "You have a good memory." I couldn't stop blushing and I regretted eating all that food. It was hard to feel pretty when I felt nine months pregnant. "I don't remember everyone. Just the special people." He nudged his body an inch toward mine and my breath caught in my throat. Up close, I noticed he had a slightly crooked smile and somewhat stained teeth. I liked that he wasn't the perfect model he appeared to be in all the magazines. He was almost a regular person.