Let the viewing begin! Enjoy!
It was a difficult hunting for, watching, and choosing hot, sexy kiss scenes from movies, but somebody had to do it, and I thought, why not me. As I scoured through various movies, I wondered what made one kissing scene better than another. Most of the scenes below have a few things in common: anticipation and intensity. There's nothing better than to watch a relationship grow steadily between two characters and then to finally have them meet in a passionate interlude. These movies, especially the first five, have characters that had to deny their feelings for the other and their lust coupled with the frustration of having to wait, made their kissing scene incredibly intense. Take a look at my top ten and let me know if you agree with any or all my choices. If you have some you'd like to share, I would love to hear them.
Let the viewing begin! Enjoy!
#10 French Kiss
#9 The Holiday
#8 Pride and Prejudice
#7 Cold Mountain
#6 P. S. I Love You
#5 Bridget Jones' Diary
#4 Leap Year
#3 The Wedding Date
#2 Last of the Mohicans
#1 The Notebook
Dracula Untold. Mark you calendars vampire fans!
Every morning at six, we walked to the commissary, passed the marketplace in the center of our quarter, passed the muddy fields pocked with shoeprints, and passed the young girl who waited for us, with hair as brown as the mucky field. Our group consisted of one hundred citizens, male and female, ranging in age from twelve to twenty-one.
In lock step, heads down, we arrived, famished, ready for our morning rations.
The Immortalis waited at the commissary door, standing like bookends on either side of the entrance. They towered over citizens—all citizens. This was a fact, a simple variant between species, and citizens did not envy such distinctions. Most of my family and friends didn’t notice the Immortalis, not their size, hair color, sound of their voices, nor dress. Staring at them was forbidden; therefore, any glance I stole needed to be fleeting and hopefully unobserved.
The large guards unlocked and opened the doors. We filed inside, orderly and calmly, leaving the dry, bitter air behind, welcoming the commissary’s heated interior.
Once indoors, the crowd dispersed, moving toward particular stations, depending upon the type of ration tickets they had. I had the female, adolescent voucher. It allowed me to eat slightly more protein and dairy than those who had adult voucher cards. Females over seventeen received the minimum rations, not including children under twelve. Males over twenty-one qualified for the second least.
The adolescent ration station was at the front of the enormous room. Its line lengthened, rapidly. Already in front of me were thirty teenagers, all girls. I took my place at the back of the line, behind a girl wearing brown pants, soiled at the knees, a cream wool sweater two sizes too big, and a standard issue orange, winter coat indicating she belonged to Stratum Lûteus. I belonged to Stratum Flâvus; my jacket was yellow.
Today, was Thursday, which meant they would serve fish, kale, apples, and a grainy roll at morning meal. I hated kale.
I shuffled to my right and took the metal tray when a worker set it on the counter in front of me. At the end of the counter, another worker waited for us to flash our voucher cards confirming we were in the correct line.
Ethel, her nametag displayed on her shirt collar, was the voucher inspector. She looked down at my plastic card and then back to my face. One nod meant you could go eat because your card was correct. A headshake sent you to the council; no one I knew had ever gotten a headshake.
I exhaled and slouched, heading for my usual table where I hoped to find Jacquard.
The metal chairs at our table, Jacquard’s and mine, were empty. I sat, put down my tray, and bit into the fish. It was a white fish, probably trout, not bad. The kale, on the other hand, gagged me, but I had to eat it. As I swallowed the last spoonful of the bitter vegetable, Jacquard pulled a chair out, straddled it, and plopped down.
“Hey, Vee,” Jacquard said, using my nickname instead of my given name, Verity. “Sup?”
“Nothing, Jay,” I answered, poking at the roll with my finger. “How’s your mother?”
He shrugged and ate the two fish in about four bites, considering the roll on his tray next.
“Did she talk with the medic?” I examined my roll. It was hard, but surprisingly tasty.
“Yep.” Jay studied his roll, turning it over, as if he might find a hidden treasure somewhere on it. I suppose he could be looking for mold. Sometimes they gave us moldy bread in order to get rid of it, as they weren’t permitted to throw anything out, unless it was meat and spoiled. I don’t know why. It’s just how it is.
“Yep? That’s all you’re going to give me?” Polishing off the roll, I glanced at the wall clock. We had twenty more minutes before the exit doors would open and everyone would need to leave. I didn’t know why he was being so secretive about his mom. She’d been sick for over a year now.
“What’s there to say? She saw the medic; she’s still sick.”
I waited, but he never continued. Guess that is all I was going to get.
“Will they put her to work?” I pushed my tray away.
Jay looked at me with squinty, gray eyes and a hard-set mouth. One shake of his head was the only answer given. He finished his roll, all of the fish, and even ate the kale with gusto. Then, he pushed his tray back, folded his arms over that strong chest of his, and stared at me.
“What?” I wiped at my mouth and then beneath my nose. “Do I have something on my face?”
He gave me a slow smile, saying, “No.”
“Well, why are you looking at me like that?”
Jay was a year older than my sixteen years, which meant this was his last year in the adolescent group. Then, the Immortalis would move him to one of the young adult circles.
I’d known him most of my life. Our houses are not far apart, and we went to school together, but weren’t in the same classes.
At ex-hour—short for exercise hour—we’d stand next to each other as the instructor counted out the group’s jumping jacks. Sometimes, Jay walked me home. But every weekend he and I would hang out.
Our favorite place to go was the little stream near the mud fields. We would throw rocks into the water, hunt for crayfish beneath the stones, and on warm days, which were rare, we waded barefoot in the water.
I’ve always thought of him as a friend, like a brother, but nicer. Until one weekend, during the summer, we were at our favorite spot by the stream lying on our backs, gazing at the sky, when he rolled to his side and kissed me. On my mouth.
I pulled back, wiped my lips, and ran away. I was only thirteen. He was fourteen. But ever since that day, we’ve remained guarded around each other, as if a fence stood between us, allowing us to see each other but not get too close.
“No reason, Vee. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
7 pm Monday, September 29
My head throbbed. God it hurt.
Darkness surrounded me and then I blinked, focusing straight ahead, on the two headlights of my rental car, which were shining on the bark of a tree.
I squinted and groaned, my body aching, as if bruises covered me from head to toe.
When a sharp breeze dragged across my face, I realized the driver’s side window was down. I hadn’t rolled it down. Had I?
As I reached for the seatbelt, intending to unbuckle it, a knife-like pain ripped down my neck, and I sucked air in through clenched teeth. The pain dulled and settled at the base of my skull, thudding in time with my racing pulse.
The car’s engine hummed.
Where was I? Something seemed wrong.
I considered shaking my head to clear the fog of confusion warping my brain, except the thought of moving any part of my body seemed like a bad idea.
A crack of thunder exploded and that’s when I noticed wetness on top of my head. It was frigid, flowing in through the open driver’s side window.
The beat in my ear deafened me, overpowering all other sounds.
I needed to get out of the car… to figure out what had happened, where I was, and find help.
I reached across my body for the seatbelt again, grunting when the pain shot through me, but ignoring it, I unbuckled.
The front windshield was splintered like a jagged spider’s web, beads of water sliding around it, creating a Picasso effect on anything viewed through it. And now that I noticed the front windshield, I realized the driver’s side window was shattered, too.
I pushed the white, shriveled thing coming out of the steering wheel aside and put my shoulder into the door, while lifting the handle. It opened, and my legs tumbled out into the cold water. Wherever the water touched, explosions of pain popped, as if a million tacks pierced my skin.
I was out of the car, on my side, lying on the ground, inching away from the little VW, grunting through the pain in my back. When I was far enough away that I could turn over and see the whole scene, I lifted onto my elbows, and eyed the gray hunk of metal before me.
The hood looked like an accordion. The roof bowed in, in the middle. Two of the four tires that I could see, were flat.
Another snap of thunder sent adrenaline coursing through my veins, and the memories fell together forming a clearer picture of my situation.
I’d had an accident.
I was in Romania…in the forest…at night—alone.
With that awareness, my eyes closed, and I saw only darkness once again.
12 pm Monday, September 29
It was twelve noon when I landed in Cluj-Napoca, Romania. I’d left Maryland at three o’clock on Sunday and arrived in Romania Monday afternoon. The modern world and its technology amazed me.
Two weeks ago, my boss came to me informing me I had to take my vacation time, or lose the accrued days. Apparently, the office needed a supervisor, or manager, without fail, and since all the other supervisors and managers had already either taken or scheduled their vacations, that left yours truly.
Thus began my search for cheap, simple, and interesting destinations. The simple part meant I was going to ask the travel agent to arrange most of it. The cheap part bit the dust the moment I decided to call the travel agent.
Oh well, it’s only money, right?
But how I ended up in Romania, well, that came out of left field.
My ex-boyfriend called me, asking me to go out. We’d rehashed why I wouldn’t go out with him, which boiled down to he thought a once a month booty call made for a good relationship, and I did not. After three years being at his beck and call, I’d had enough. I was twenty-nine years old, with no prospective husband, and no children—not that I was in a hurry to get pregnant—this only fueled my mother’s belief that my eggs were going to dry up on my thirtieth birthday.
Anyways, during the call with my ex, the vampire thing came up.
“Well, we were going to go to Transylvania,” he’d said. “We still could. Combine our resources, save some money.”
“Pete, I am not traveling with you. What the hell? We never went on vacation when we were dating so why go on vacation now?”
“I don’t know, Kendra, we used to have fun. Thought we could take some time and, I don’t know, see if we could start something again.”
“Christ, Pete.” I held my head. “You know, most guys just shut themselves in the bathroom and jack-off when they get horny.”
“What? No, that’s not—“
“Look let’s not do this. We were talking about my vacation and somehow we got onto dating again.”“Fine!” His voice turned hard and cold. “Why don’t you just hop a plane to Transylvania and see if you can find fucking prince charming there because a cold, dead guy is about the only one that could stomach you.” He hung up. Just as well, because after that rant, I’d have hung up on his ass.
So, I said, screw it, and called my travel agent asking her to book me a trip to Transylvania. Yeah, I planned my vacation based on defiance and spite. Stupid, but here I was.
Stepping off the airplane and onto stairs that led to the tarmac, I got on a bus, which took us to the airport terminal.
Everything looked so…normal.
I don’t know what I expected—dark, moody clouds, with a bit of mysterious fog hovering inches above the ground? Graveyards on every corner? That’s not what I got.
The bus dropped all the passengers in front of the airport. It looked like any undersized terminal. It was small and modern, even had one screen in English.
I wandered with my mouth hanging open, as if I’d never seen an airport before, until someone asked me something— in what I presumed to be either Hungarian or Romanian.
And when I stared, dumbfounded at him, he smiled and asked, “You speak English?”
My eyes widened. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m looking for the rental cars.”
The older man, dressed in khakis, a shirt, and jacket, held up his index finger and pointed as he gave me directions. His bushy, salt and pepper brows rose and lowered as he spoke. I thanked him and lugged my backpack in the direction he’d indicated.
I found the rental company and leased a VW Up for two hundred U.S. dollars for nine days. Signing my life away, I paid the sales clerk and she handed me the key.
I put my bag in the backseat and slid behind the wheel of the tiny, gray car. It felt no bigger than one of those Smart cars.
Good thing I packed light, I thought, staring at the compact interior.
Taking a few moments to acclimate myself to the car’s dials and knobs, I found the lights, turn signal, etcetera, pulled my portable GPS out of my bag, and turned it on. It took a moment to come to life, but then searched for its new position.
Giddy, I typed in the Pension Villa’s address, hit go, and watched the technology point the way. The familiar electronic female voice directed me left out of the parking lot, and I drove east on Strada Traian.
The first thing I noticed was the roads. They were smaller than I was used to and in worse shape than those in the states. The speed limit of fifty kilometers an hour shocked the hell out of me. That was about thirty-five miles per hour. Well, I decided, I would get nowhere fast in Romania.
The two-lane road, E81, was a country road that meandered through small towns and farms. At least to me it was. I don’t know what the Romanians considered it, but it sure as hell wasn’t the D.C. beltway. However, when the first car passed me, driving faster than fifty kilometers, I rethought my initial impression of Romania as slow.
As I left Cluj, an eclectic mix of ancient with modern buildings shrunk in my rearview mirror. Two-story, plain houses, some in disrepair, others newer and tidy, hugged the narrow streets. Cars parked on the curbs kept two tires on the road, while the other two rested on pseudo sidewalks or small patches of sketchy grass.
Did they not have garages here? I wondered.
The colors of the houses and shops carried a more whimsical flavor than I was used to. Shades of bright yellow adorned one church I passed in Cluj. The cheery yellow and spring green paint on the Chamber of Commerce and Industry building seemed to contradict its architectural style. With serious Gothic elements mixed with a sophisticated splash of Art Nouveau, the frivolous colors softened its otherwise stern character.
There wasn’t a distinct separation between the residential and urban areas here. One moment, tiny, one-story homes sporting turquoise paint surrounded me, the next, Cathedrals and shopping centers filled my view.
My head twisted left and then right, the sights changing. Homes, quaint but dilapidated, wore crumbling plaster that exposed the more durable stone beneath the outer walls. And backed against the old residences a modern cafe with neon signs proclaimed its presence. The scenery shifted in the blink of an eye.
The GPS screen noted it would take me four and half hours to get to Pension Villa. That seemed optimistic at a mere thirty-five miles an hour.
Regardless, I would need to stop and eat.
Alba Lulia was halfway to the pension, I thought.
In my little VW Up, I took the exit and searched for a restaurant.
The streets were hard to navigate; between the language barrier, unfamiliar terrain, and many one-way streets, I was lost.
I pulled over and parked near what looked like a shopping plaza. The buildings were away from the street, and a sidewalk framed the commercial district with bricks. Many newer shops were in this square where pedestrians and shoppers were protected from motorists.
I followed the brick path, passed by two women carrying shopping bags—a good sign, I thought.
But after walking for another fifteen minutes and finding no restaurant, my stomach growled.
Where in the hell was I going to eat?
These streets and buildings were too new for my GPS, so I couldn’t rely on it for help. I walked another few blocks, but I gave up, and spotted a woman bent down wiping off her daughter’s mouth.
I broke out my phrase book.
“Scuză -mă, restaurant?” I asked in horrible Romanian.
She smiled up at me, shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun and then stood to answer my question, in English.
If I walked another block and turned right, she said I’d find a nice Italian cafe. I thanked her profusely, “Mulţumesc….”
She waved and took her daughter’s hand continuing down the brick walkway.
Antik Pizza was in a Mall. Inside the mall, it was bright, white, and crowded.
I found the Pizza place and then realized I’d have to order in Romanian.
The smell of warm tomato sauce and baking crust made my mouth water, and I flipped through my little book to find the translation for pizza. Go figure, it was…pizza.
“Două felii de pizza?” I asked for two slices of pizza and when the man behind the counter rattled off, what I presumed to be choices for toppings on my pizza, I simply shook my head.
Hell, if I got sauce with no cheese, at this point, I didn’t care.
Just give me some food.
I shifted to my right and paid at the register with my credit card, as I hadn’t gone to an ATM yet. Probably should do that before I left the city.
The man who’d offered me topping choices handed me a plate with two slices of cheese pizza. He smiled broadly, flashing white teeth, and sparkling brown eyes. He nodded once, and as I grabbed the plate, he held fast. I frowned and tilted my head. I let go, thinking I’d forgotten to do something.
Mr. Smiley came out from behind the counter holding my plate of pizza. He walked toward a table, grinning, and set the plate down. As he pulled out a chair, he motioned for me to sit.
Is this how cooks treated patrons here?
I lowered myself into the wooden chair and murmured, “Mulţumesc.”
He sat down across from me. Nodding toward the pizza, he said something in Romanian. The pizza looked delicious and my stomach growled again urging me to dig in.
I took a bite and then Mr. Smiley asked in broken English, “You American?”
With a mouthful of cheesy pizza, I nodded.
“I holidayed in Florida. You know, Florida?”
Nodding, I finished chewing, and squeaked out, “Yep.”
“You like România?”
“It’s nice so far. I just got here a few hours ago.” I took two more bites.
“Where you going?” He watched the pizza as I set it down on my plate.
“Um,” I began, as I chewed and covered my mouth before I continued, “South, toward Zărnesti.”
“No, I do not know that. Are you going to Castelul Bran?”
I wasn’t sure why he was talking to me, but he was cute, with a cool accent, and seemed harmless enough.
“Um, is Castle Bran, Dracula’s Castle?” I hadn’t planned on it. It seemed too touristy for me. I wanted a historical and nature centered vacation.
“No, that not Dracul’s castle.”
I paused with the pizza in front of my lips. “Not Vlad Tepes’ castle?”
“No. Castelul Bran was never owned by the Prince of Wallachia. Although, he was…how you say…kept in jail in the basement for a few months.”
The cashier hollered at Mr. Smiley. A customer waited to order. He stood and gave me a quick nod saying, “Have good holiday. What is your name?”
“I’m Kendra. What’s yours?”
“I am Sebastian. Nice to see you.”
“Yes. Good pizza.” I held up the half-eaten slice. And Mr. Smiley…smiled.
Well, that was interesting.
I finished my lunch, tempted to peruse the mall, but got back in my tiny VW Up instead.
Another two hours and I’d be in the Carpathian Mountains. ...