Monthly Archives: March 2013

Rated Rg2: Romance Confidential, Extremely Private
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My Love,

Someone’s got to have integrity.

There was an unexpected knock at my door last night. I didn’t bother peering through the peephole nor asking for her name within earshot.

I kept her faceless, nameless. She was uninvited. How’d I know it was a woman? The decibel of the knock–uninquisitive, unurgent, provocative.

I stood there momentarily, silently. I imagine she did, too. I heard no walk-away shoesteps. I could feel, I could interpret her intentions. Even separated by the locked door, her longings were palpable.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t open the door. Just stared at the deadbolt.

Someone’s got to have integrity.

One more wrap on my door and I turned my back to it. Stood there and fought my vulnerability, stood toe-to-toe with my anatomical on-the-verges–heart throbs rapid, pulse quickened, mind racing to the quixotic fantasy standing, waiting, lustfully at my doorstep.

A man is weak, so most women swear by. A bachelor even weaker, no?

“Don’t turn down money; Don’t turn down a woman”–the unwritten but to-the-death ascribed man-code. The Player’s Manifesto? I know each clause, each stipulation, each line like my times tables. Hell, I’m a co-author.

But I stood there. Wordless. Actionless. I imagine she did, too . . . for awhile. I heard no walk-away footsteps. We stood the door down. Perhaps she was daring me to open. Perhaps I was daring her to knuckletap once more.

And she did.

But I didn’t.

Why? Because.

Because, as utterly enticing, as tantalizingly provocative, as daringly, lusciously sweet as the low-hanging fruit waiting outside the door–her fragrance somehow wafting sneakily and entrancingly and batingly through the seams of the jambs; her wantings and longings and take-me-as-you-want-me’s seemingly haunting me through the door’s minute pores–as mesmerizingly tempting as the uninvited guest was outside my entryway . . .

. . . she wasn’t you.

You know where my mind escaped to in that very moment?

The lake.

You and I on the lake to usher in spring. Homemade hand-carved, honey-glazed turkey breast sandwiches; spring-mix, fruit-infused salad; Woodbridge, Calif.-sourced almond champagne; and (your idea) custom-baked red velvet/cream cheese cupcakes.

Yeah, I didn’t answer the door.

I’m going to the lake instead. With you.

On Pamper-Her-Friday.

***

Romance lives. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

© Igor Pavloff

“Don’t wait to show her.” -The Pamperer
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Spring Kiss, Calif.–12:36 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

By all means, do it today.

Better yet, do it now.

Tomorrow’s kiss isn’t promised to any of us.

Give her one.

No, two or three. More even.

After all, it’s Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .

***

A kiss that is never tasted,
is forever and ever wasted. -Billie Holiday

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Pacific Isle, Calif.–Sunset, Pamper-Her-Friday:

“American women are the least pampered species on Earth.” -The Pamperer
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His checklist:

Romantic cave-ambient lighting? Check.

Freshly laundered towels? Check.

Hot spring, soft-element, skin-massaging bubble water? Check.

Hint-scented, organic candles? Check.

A rapt listener to the happenings of your week? Check.

Foot massage while you’re submerged in the hot pond? Check.

My taking requests from you as to how you want me to pamper
you during Spring Break? Check.

Poetry serenade during foot massage? Check.

Bird of Paradise drinks with vodka hints? Check.

Your legs wrapped around me to keep me from water-drifting away? Check.

As the oxygen bubbles ascend the water’s surface, you find your way to my chest, head relaxed mid-pecs? Check.

A tangerine sunset aglow in the distance? Check.

Your eyes drift to a euphoric close, serenity overcomes you while I breathe on you? Check.

Life, as you now know it, in this very moment, is so damn good? Check.

***

Pamper-Her-Friday? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check . . . ! -Rg2

Just because, Love.

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

© bridgette duplantis

The Pamperer’s Lair, Calif.–7:17 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:
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“A woman hasn’t lived until she has experienced a luxurious milkbath.” -The Pamperer
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Babygirl, I’ve been in the marketing side of business long enough to master its trickery, its gimmicks. Its illusions.

Marketing–successful marketing–at its core is a play on the emotions, part fantasy, part theatre, part sleight-of-hand.

Many a suspicious woman has considered the storied milk bath just that: Marketing at its finest.

But it’s usually those who haven’t been fortunate to engage its wonders. Especially at the hands of a ‘pamperer’ with whom she’s in love.

I say we dispel any notion of a ‘milk-bath myth’ right here, right now. I suggest you follow my directives:

Tie up your hair . . . bun, hive, Japanese twist–doesn’t matter. Just sweep it from your neck.

Let me help you with the shoes–no, wait. Let’s make those the final destination.

The capri pants are cute, but they’re begging for a rest. Let me help you. Have a seat . . . raise up (hips elevated slightly, capris released).

This wasn’t part of my research but bear with me–forefoot kiss, ankle kiss, shin kiss, calf massage, hind-knees massaged while kneecaps kiss-pampered . . . thighs become jealous at the lower-leg attention. No need for envy. Let’s welcome those, too.

(Her head sinks into the recliner’s headrest, her noggin partially overhanging the chair’s upper lip. Her eyes become peaceful, their lids fall helplessly to the ambiance of the methodical disrobing.)

The brazier’s been holding its end of the bargain all day long and is craving a respite. How dare it work overtime. It escapes.

And the thong.

By gosh, the laggard, the late arrival which, truth be told, never wanted to come to the party to begin with. It feels used and manipulated–as if all it’s wanted for is adornment. No other purpose.

Well, let’s honor its wishes and toss it awry. Who needs you anyway?

Where’re we going, you ask? A soothing shower lather rinse first to wash away the week’s debris, both mental and physical. As the last of the water circles the drain, the milk bath awaits.

Let’s pat you dry . . . well, let’s not bother with formalities. Come, the bath is eager.

Easy. No need for a splash. The warm milk is just as tender as you, Love. Here, lay your head on the puffy towel.

How’s that? You like? Oh, you love? Good.

Now, how about a glass of bubbly? I’ll join you. That good? Great. Glad you like.

Now relax and tell me how your day transpired. By all means, take your time, sweetheart. We’ve got the night.

All night.

The entire weekend in fact.

What’s that? You’ve been thinking about me all week, you say?

Hmm, what a coincidence.

Thank God it’s Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .

***

Pamper the Goddess . . . . -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

It was all a dream!
I used to read Fortune magazine
From rusted-out clunker to presidential limousine
But what’s it all mean without a Nubiana Queen? -Rg2

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My Sweet Love,

I needed an ally; a protector. I needed a secret agent with a potent mind-gun. A public agent, I wanted, to help me navigate this thing called life, negotiate this thing regarded by many as love.

Prior to meeting you, the other women I’d dated all described me as aloof, emotionally distant, unwilling to come ashore from the far-away ocean drift they saw my life as. 

And then I met you–anchors aweigh no more.

How was it that you were safe harbor, woman? Have we defied the odds? Some would say as much. Others say odds have nothing to do with . . . destiny. We both were acting on instinct. Impulse. But your emotional intelligence was spot on, no?

And mine wasn’t too shabby either.

I guess at some point a ship adrift must eventually come ashore. You made certain my anchor reached the ocean floor, as only you could. 

I reached safe harbor. I thank you for providing the perfect dock.

And I’d like to express my appreciation this evening in commemoration. 

The Service will escort you tonight to the vessel I had commissioned by a group of veteran shipbuilders. I thought of the ideal name: The Queen Michelle. We’ll christen it just before a private dinner featuring your favorite jazz quartet. 

Moonlight gazing aboardship awaits us. And a PHF surprise that I’ll let go unhinted for the time being.

A private celebration of safe harbor. 

The occasion? 

Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

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***
Pamper the woman and forever is her Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Image: © Mrs. O.