Monthly Archives: May 2013

image: Anantara Kihavah

Pacific Shores, Calif.–1:27 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

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Dear __________,

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.

Rg2

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Pamper the woman . . . like a summer rendezvous. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Angsana Bintan Resort

Marina del Luna, Calif.–3:09 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

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My Angel,

I’m getting ‘summeritis’ and you’re the source of the contagion, woman.

I’m not sure when exactly it set in but it surfaced in full revelation late last night while I slept and wouldn’t let go of me ’til dawn’s break.

Did you put hands on me–vicariously? I rolled over about 2:57 a.m. and found the second pillow, startlingly, eerily, unruffled, untouched, no head impression or crater, no stray strings of locks adorning the case’s surface as evidence of a woman’s company.

Not only was the underside of the pillow cool, its topside was just as. We know a man, a bachelor, can become lonesome, whether by choice or by happenstance. But what about a pillow?

Can a pillow cry out for warmth (selective warmth), for a woman’s fragrance, for the tenderness of her facial skin that makes its comfort-her job worthwhile? A pillow should earn its money, no?

I kid you not: The pillow looked at my still-half-sleep eyes and I looked back at it and, I swear, it seemed to say, “We’re both lonely, man, and summer’s only a few sunrises and sunsets away . . . whatchu gonna do?”

I rubbed my eyes and brushed aside my pre-dawn imagination. I grabbed the pillow and tucked it about midway between my chest and belly . . . and, as only a creative romance writer can–his untamed mind ever spinning–I entertained the craziest notion: What if they stopped manufacturing pillows–worldwide?

What if people have consumed all the pillows ever made and no more components exist to make anymore, like using up a precious resource–fresh water?–and the planet has no more to give?

Damn, what did the cavewomen and cavemen do, pre-pillow manufacturing?

You know what you’d have to resort to? A man’s chest. Um hum, the perfect pillow substitute.

At 3:04 a.m., having lost the desire for sleep, I peered through my window blind slats to take gaze at the last of spring’s morning dew and a striking crescent moon. The ‘-itis’ had me. Summeritis has taken over.

And you? Has summeritis snuck up on you, woman, instigating a blend of restlessness and romance?

Are you sleeping a little less in anticipation? Has the ‘-itis’ permeated you as it has me? Am I the contagion?

My chest? Your head upon . . . .

My torso? Your legs wrapped around . . . .

I’ve got summeritis, Love. It set in early this morning, pre-dawn.

On Pamper-Her-Friday.

You ready?

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***

Pamper the woman . . . like a Summer’s Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

image © Murad Osmann

Rendezvous, Calif.–Pamper-Her-Friday, Opened/Read 8:41 a.m.:

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Say, Love,

There are three types of women in the world: The immovable, the movable, and those that move.

I’ve observed you; you’re a natural-born ‘mover.’

Unfortunately I’m not a follower. Never have been. I chart my own course. I set the tone of the chord music of my own life, whether success or failure. Trial and error is a familiar refrain in my ongoing story. It’s often a lonesome endeavor–not being a follower.

I’d accepted lonesomeness as a frequent visitor.

But then I learned along the way that there can exist something, someone known as a ‘smart follower.’ Ever heard of that?

A smart follower is a listener, a watcher of a woman’s actions. He goes well beyond licking his chops at her outer assets and reads the fine print of her inner sanctum.

I love to read.

Men, by nature, don’t like to follow women. We’re not inclined. And, truth be told, a woman doesn’t care for a man who follows (well, except directions, right?). It’s a fragile walk on a very thin line that a man must navigate: Listen to you, your suggestion(s), your opinion(s), and do what you want–to keep the relationship peace.

Yet, don’t be gullible, don’t be one of the herd. Don’t be a strengthless follower.

You want, you love a ‘leader.’ After all, there can’t be two chiefs to achieve harmony, a semblance of needed balance–someone’s got to be a tribesperson, no?

Am I implying that you are, that you be the tribesperson, the Tonto to my Lone Ranger, the Robin to my Batman, the Pippen to my Jordan?

Of course not, woman. But then, ‘chieftain’ is my natural position. Something’s got to give. At least sometimes. No?

You’re a by-nature, in-the-genes ‘mover.’ As am I.

But it’s Friday. I’ve done my homework on you, some serious study. I like what I’ve discovered.

I’m going to follow you. Smartly.

I’m in your hands, woman. Let’s see what you’re gonna do . . . with me.

I’m your smart follower. Today. Tonight. Why?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

xoxo

***

Lead or follow, but above all . . . pamper the woman. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Dinner on the Rocks

Heart of Eden, Calif.–7:14 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday

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Dear __________,

A man wants to be a woman’s first love. A woman wants to be a man’s last romance.

Oscar Wilde said that. The Irish writer and poet was ahead of the curve, ahead of his time. Brilliance touched him.

But I’ll veer–slightly–from Wilde’s genius: I don’t necessarily have to be your first love. I don’t mind in the least your having given your heart to someone(s) my predecessor. The experience is invaluable after all.

You see, one must navigate the thorns in order to capture and appreciate the ideal rose.

You’ve gotten pricked a few times, I can imagine. But the texture of the petals and the flower’s scent no doubt will heal all wounds, will they not?

When you see me this afternoon, I want you to take a moment to touch me–wherever your pleasure. My hand, my arm, my bared chest. Touch the petals and marvel in the texture . . . luxuriate in my scent, woman.

A rose, after all, is a pampering element. Rg2 said that (he’s no Wilde, but the guy’s got potential). And do you know what is the ideal day to pick the ideal wildrose?

Friday.

Will yesterday’s pricks be a distant thought? I dare say absolutely. The pain has long since dissipated. You’ve entered the garden of Eden, this heart of mine.

No, it’s not a must that I be the first. A woman has to navigate the thorns of life and love. And romance. Her ability to discern, her capacity to differentiate is made all the better for the journey.

No, I need not be the first. Yet, make no mistake: You are my last.

My last romance.

Your journey’s completed. Eden has revealed itself. This heart of mine.

So, touch me tonight. Wherever your pleasure, touch the petals. I will kiss each finger, each tenderpoint where pain once resided. And then, with yours in mine, I will kiss each hand . . . as my predecessor failed to do.

I’ll pay homage to Wilde, a man after my own heart.

Eden will welcome you with open arms. Tonight.

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, my Love.

xoxo

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***

Pamper the woman . . . and light a fire to her soul. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

photo credit: HQRoom.ru

(Rated Rg2: Mature Readers Only)

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My Love,

The country’s trending same sex.

The movement is afoot, momentum in earnest. God bless my gay brothers and sisters. May liberty, equity, and the pursuit of happiness be theirs as God-given as my own.

I will always do unto others . . . .

But, in case you’re the least bit worried or should you harbor an ounce of uneasiness, let me be clear: I am an unquestionably uncloseted, unadulterated, living-fully-in-my-truth, bask-in-the-scent-of-a-woman heterosexual.

There are no curiosities on my part; no wonderings or what-ifs, nor debating the merits of genetics versus environment.

The only thing another man can do for me is write a book(s) explaining how American capitalism works, how the global economy will affect you and me now and in our lifetimes, how politics in this new century will impact my people, and (as a gentle reminder) to make certain to always affix the toilet seat properly before my bathroom exit. (I know you’re smiling on that one; we men always forget, don’t we? LoL)

Yes, the country seems to be trending same sex. God bless us. We all want to be happy, don’t we? Live and let live. Love and let love.

But, to be clear, I’m bucking the trend. I can’t help it–couldn’t help it if I wanted to.
And if you just happen to be a traditionalist, holding onto a set of ‘old-fashioned,’ outdated, left-at-the-train-station values . . .

. . . or if you simply like and appreciate a man who takes pleasure in opening your door; keeps his word; calls you if for no other reason than to say, ‘Hello, Love, I’m thinking of you’; takes out the trash, does home repairs, changes a flat tire, wields a mean wok in the kitchen; consistently balances a check book and makes prudent investments; and wants to especially share Fridays with you . . .

. . . well, I say we pair our traditions for the greater good. The greater good? My life, my romance is greater for the goodness of your presence, woman.

And speaking of Fridays, is this not your day?

What, you think I forgot?

Babygirl, the pamperer never forgets.

Our suite awaits. Beginning with a sunken-tub bath–I the washer, you the washee–we’ll admire the sunset, take in the seabreeze, and then ready ourselves for the dinnershow: Maxwell and Kem crooning by the bay. (I know you’re blushing.)

Yeah, we’ll let the people trend as they want.

But you and I? We’re on for a special evening.

Why?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

Tender are my thoughts,
Rg2

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***
The Art of Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®