Monthly Archives: January 2013

(Rated Rg2: For Ladies Only)

Panti Petals, Calif.–7:17 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

“Tell your girlfriends to take a raincheck this weekend. If there’s a problem, see me,” his words roll off his lips like a chieftain laying down the law to a second-in-command with no options except acquiescence–glad acceptance. “I want you to myself tonight . . . no distractions, no interruptions.”

Her hands clutched around the beveled frame of the iPad, she projects eagerly into the touchscreen a surrendered grin, oddly submissive to his directive.

“OK.” Her reply brief, simple, and defenseless. Surrender. Deliberate and willful surrender. Communicating with him via the facetime video app, she scans his face in real time, wanting to reach her hand through the tablet and stroke the five o’ clock shadow adorning his lower jaws, cleanly trimmed to match the temple fade of his short, wave-rippled coif that begs her finger-play. Funny, her palms begin to generate an excited moisture as their tele-interplay plays out.

She rotates the tablet from landscape to portrait to landscape again, to allow the condensation from each hand print to evaporate after each pause. This bodily chemical reaction is foreign to her, though not unfathomable. The man in the electronic portrait is a throbber–several degrees hot. And hotter.

“Tilt the pad,” he requests. “Slow, let it scan you methodically. I want a glimpse of what awaits me in a few hours.
“Slowly,” he reiterates.

No resistance offered, aptly engaging his wile, she begins a provocative self-scan of her bare frontal with the handheld e-device, her bodyscape captured mesmerically by the rectangle optical lens, revealing cleavage and ribprints and navel art and the teasing, triangular-formed, chiffon panty covering that disappears at each hip.

Further the lens drifts, at his urging, to her thighs, further still over her entire leg length–each of his requests greeted with each of her gives, his approvals feel-able through the machine.

The flower bouguet arrived in yesterday’s late afternoon to her total wonder and one of the roses, in particular, begged her playful hand. The petals, aromatic and silk-textured, were the perfect body adornment in anticipation of their tele-chat.

They both revel in the provocative e-moment.

“Well, I’d better go,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve got work to do. We’re each other’s tonight, woman.”

They sign off . . . the room now riddled with both pheromone and anticipation. Working from home today, she’s in no rush to start what would otherwise be a hectic day. She showers and begins prepping her hair. Her doorbell surprises her.

Her arrival at the entrance, strangely, is greeted by no one–a prank. Until she notices a black slate at the doorstep. She recognizes it as his tablet, of all things. More curious than startled, she visually scans the walkway and then the driveway. To no avail.

She retrieves the iPad from the welcome mat. Oddly enough, the device is powered up, the blacked-out screen features nothing but a post-it note. “Swipe,” it reads.

At mid-point of her finger stroke, his portrait lights up the screen, bared, chiseled chest, a bouquet of roses clutched by his left palm.

And then . . .

. . . he appears.

In real time. In real life. At the doorstep.

“I took the afternoon off,” he says, his smile and piercing brown eyes greeted by the amazement of hers as she jumps into his arms.

He closes the door behind them as the late morning sun appears jealous it wasn’t invited in.

And Pamper-Her-Friday, a bit earlier than anticipated, begins.

***
The Art of Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

(Rated Rg2: For Mature Readers)

Nature’s Bathfall, Calif.–8:26 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

“Turn off the phone.
“You heard me; turn the phone off–now.”

(The Android icon signs off and her screen goes black.)

“Log off and shut down the tablet.
“Yes, shut it down. Now.”

(The tiles on her Surface disappear and the touchscreen fades to black.)

The antique tub sits provocatively silent save the cloudlike whirls of steam defying gravity as they hover just above the H2O’s surface, ascending into the private room’s atmosphere before evaporating into the warm, organic candle-scented air that oxygenates the bath enclosure.
He approaches her standing, stilled, calm-before-the-quiet-storm body, clothed only by a thickly luxurious terry cloth robe–her back to his front.

Stealth-like, harmlessly predator-like, he bridges the last ray-of-light distance between their bodies, like a door now only slightly ajar, and breathes on the delicate curvatures of her shoulders,
the surface skin area of each clavicle seemingly inviting his warm exhalations as they travel methodically toward her neck, deftly climbing the vertebrae at a snail’s pace until she feels the pulsating warmth near the anterior of her ear.

“Mmmm,” she helplessly sighs.

His hands–those hands–part repairman, part sportsman, part landscapeman, part chiropractor, part masseur . . . all gentle yet confident lover describe the composition of his palms and fingers that envelop her hands, her wrists, her forearms, gliding meticulously along her biceps, the robe sleeves giving way at
each half-inch while the terry’s neckline now rests at her mid-back.

Off comes the cloth, meeting the floor with a barely audible thud while draping her hindfeet. He nudges her forward, his body on hers, his breaths faintly perceptible upon the smooth mass of her upper back.

He kneels, cradles her interior knees and torso with his toned arms, and positions her entire body from vertical to horizontal against his chest, like a hard-bodied crane lifting a tender tree
from effortless ground clearance to weightlessness.

He positions her parallel to the awaiting tub’s flower petal-sprinkled, hot spring water-filled mouth and begins a slow-motion, instant replay-like descending of her tingling-from-head-to-toe body, gently breaking the surface of the hot pond.

The sponge he takes, as if a months-long-trained womanwasher, and begins a symphony violin lathering upon her shoulder, her arm the instrument, his hand the bow.

She closes her eyes, takes in a series of deep breaths and lets each go as if exhaling away all cares, concerns, worries, and burdens at each release.

Every part of her is his–the pamperer’s.

And the only words her mind can conjure in the moment are, “Heaven is upon me.”

It is.

Because it’s Friday.

Pamper-Her-Friday.

***

Romance lives. -Rg2

Southern California–10:59 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

The first semi-annual Pamper-Her-Friday After5 Affair went off like a charm at the Citizens Bank Arena on a storybook, not-quite-wintry evening in Southern California’s Inland Empire.

With rain-cleansed, crisp air and snow-hatted mountains in the backdrop, the inaugural he-reveals-the-creative-ways-he-cares-for-her gathering featured Asian-fusion dinner; almond-flavored California champagne; piano chords-/strings-inspired, slow-pulse dancing; and the night’s highlight: the improvisational show-her show.

The Improvisational Show-Her Show?

An open-mic, open-stage, open-floor, 4-minute-limit-per-man segment of the evening in which he reveals and/or displays to his captivated love interest what Pamper-Her-Friday means to him–what she means to him.

Each man’s vignette ran the creative/artistic gamut: One man recited her favorite–Chaucer–yet completing the final verses of the poem with lines he’d written exclusively for her. Another man broke into song the very ditty her father would sing to her as a little girl to cheer her after she’d come home with boo-boos and hurts–physical and emotional–from a rambunctious school day.

Another–a novice magician–pulled from his top hat the cutest bunny rabbit that, once released, actually hopped to her table with a tiny satchel dangling from its ears, containing a woo note and gift card to the last remaining independent bookstore (she loves books!) in their city.

And yet another man–perhaps the highlight of the evening and its loudest “awww” moment–began communicating via sign language to his soft-eyed date the very vows they had taken at their wedding those many years ago–she’d recently been in a car accident and the head trauma she suffered resulted in a loss of hearing . . . along with a creeping, silent fear he’d end up leaving her because.

He didn’t.

He signed, among his heart-stopping performance, “Yesterday, today, tomorrow . . . we’re forever.” I don’t believe there was a dry eye in the room. Not a one.

My date seemed to clutch my hand a little tighter and pressed her shoulder upon mine to alleviate any inkling of space between us–to the point I could literally feel the blood coursing throughout her arm, her heartbeat in sync with my own.

It wasn’t about big gifts to one-up the other man; wasn’t about showy theatrics that exaggerated a figment caring that doesn’t actually exist when they go home; wasn’t about which man was the most talented or creative or ooh- and ahh-inspiring.

It wasn’t about the best performer of the night.

No, the inaugural Pamper-Her-Friday After5 Affair wasn’t about outdoing, outperforming, outblinging, or outshowing the next man.

It was about simple expression of caring–in his own way.

Simple expressions of pampering as best he knows how, from the heart.

It was a magical Pamper-Her-Friday.

Man, I had fun.

***

Pamper the woman. From the heart. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Her Cottage, Calif.–6:49 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

He recorded a message on her handset, left it at the edge of her bed along with a notecard that reads: “touch play at sunrise.”

She gently rubs her morning eyes, uncocoons her cradled body from beneath the warm down comforter, and commences to follow his handscripted directive with a first-love curiosity.

Upon touching the screen, his voice takes the room like a lone instrument.

“It took everything within me not to remain by your side as the hearth flames subsided last night. As I carried you from the sofa to the warmth of your bed, you clutched my arms right at the release point, instinctively, with a sudden burst of consciousness that took me by surprise because your eyes were closed all the while.

“You had fallen asleep only moments earlier in my arms, almost perfectly in sync with the ending of the novella. I’d never had a woman ask me to read her a bedtime story, let alone as a gift to ring in the new year. I guess the lullaby still has a sacred place in this post-modern world after all. Or are we simply throwbacks to some imaginary time past or that never was?

“Well, it is. It still is. I like it. And I look forward to the next reading at your request.

“I honored your reluctance for physical intimacy. In fact it really wasn’t that difficult–I took the gentleman’s vow a long, long time ago. To all is a season, you know? I respect seasons.

“I do believe, though, you wanted me to stay. No more than I. It took everything within me not to remain by your side till the morning sun. But I felt my temporary exit would be much easier
in the quiet of the night, after you were put away safely and soundly . . . enough to reflect on our time together when morning arrives.

“And to look forward to my return. To pick up the story where the last chapter ended. With you in my arms once again on the very first Pamper-Her-Friday of the new year.

“It’s a new season, Love. It begins tonight. I look forward to seeing you.”

She finger-wades through her ruffled hair and stares at the phone, the instrument having played to its final note–wishing it hadn’t.

She feels, her body feels, her mind feels, her imagination feels like she’s on the verge of something, something . . . something helplessly irresistible, something bewitching and becharming and lullaby-like all at once. Something like the mystery and the enchantment of a new year.

Of a new romance.