Pacific Shores, Calif.–1:27 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:
Can you imagine not making love over the course of this summer? Close your eyes a moment and ponder the question.
I’m willing to wager: Not a man on earth has asked a woman that very same question. Dare I say I’m no ordinary man. And Romance is no ordinary thing–a Summer’s Romance especially.
I’m not going to assume anything; life has taught me to never assume anything as it regards a woman. Even Barack Obama, to this very day, says that Lady Michelle is a mystery to him. I mean, of course, strangers they are not–there may not exist two closer persons in the universe. Still, she’s at least partly a mystery.
He’ll never solve it–her. And therein lies the essence, the beauty of their Romance.
What am I getting at?
Summer’s a mystery to the both of us as of this very moment. If you’re willing to admit it, so too am I: I’m looking forward to a ‘theme,’ a ‘laugh track,’ a ‘soundtrack,’ a ‘romantic mission’ . . .
. . . an mmmm,-it-feels-so-damn-good-in-your-company, a sunsets-to-moonlit-nights retreat resembling something of a rendezvous, a two-and-a-half-month getaway, an I’m-coming-your-way-and-may-just-wanna-stay-(forever after) dalliance, an in-my-arms-you’ll-stay-and-tropical-beach-play summer romance the likes of which neither of us has experienced to date.
The only work I intend to do this summer is elevate my romantic literature and establish new creative heights in the written-word art form.
But, I swear, I need a theme. A soundtrack. A laugh track. I need a subject about which to write; on whom to breathe; in whom I can confide some of my most erotic eccentricities and naughtiest proclivities.
Someone–not just anyone, but that distinctly special one–whose mystery I can attempt to decode for the fun of it.
I can’t imagine not making love this summer?
You? What do you say we engage the mystery that is you and I?
As you read this letter, you should have noticed the box in which it arrived. In addition to the plump, nature-sweet fruits of the season, I trust you also received the sundresses, the mood ring, the train and concert tickets, and the self-addressed, stamped postcard on which to mark and return to me your reply.
Oh, and the second envelope, as marked, should remain unopened for the time being. Until the end of summer, which I hope takes its sweet time.
Yeah, woman, I’m so ready to start my summer–with you. If not this very moment, then by this evening’s sunset. Why?
It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.
I await your reply.
Pamper the woman . . . like a summer rendezvous. -Rg2
© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®