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Monthly Archives: March 2017

Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 353: ‘She Unbuttoned My Shirt’: A Love Letter to Roy Sr.

Dedicated to the Loving Memory and Legacy of Roy Greer Sr., the inspiration behind                                     Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2©

 

(Rated Rg2: Romantically Mature Readers Only)

 

“She Unbuttoned My Shirt”

Dear Father,

I miss you, man.

Your exit from the world was so painfully premature. But no worries, I’m taking care of mother. She knows she’s loved. Truth told, I believe she misses you awfully as well. She’ll never admit it. It matters not, for I see it in her eyes when we speak of you. Eyes don’t fib, do they?

It’s true: A woman will never forget how that one man made her feel.

That’s a universal truth. Something happened to me recently that was a gentle reminder.

I was invited to a spoken-word gathering the other night. Open microphone. I hadn’t planned to read; the warmth, vibe, eclecticism and creative milieu of the room was what I looked forward to. Sadness marked some of the readings. Anxiety resonated from many, considering the current political state of the country and the world. Spots of creative anger and humor rose from various voices. Song alongside acoustic guitar emanated from other performers. It was beautiful to be among.

Minutes before mic close, the call went out for a final read. Something within me moved, father. You. Mom. My many-years’ toil in writing like a mad man on the verge of breathlessness. The state of the world as I inhabit it.

My footsteps measured, I cut a path to the stage, phone in hand. Sure, I had poems of mine memorized. But I wanted to let go extemporaneously from my written words—in the raw. I wanted to hear my voice unrehearsed and share it with a listener, any listener.

A feather could’ve been heard in the moment I exhaled into the microphone.

I read the first few words . . . of that opening line. The most important line in all my works. I began something to the effect: “Intimacy is not disrobing a woman’s body. Rather, it’s clothing her naked fears . . . .”

My heart thumped like a man at the edge of a cliff. I dare not look down. But I did. I looked out into the audience after that first line. I swear, I heard a feather somewhere in the room. All eyes, unflickered and unblinked, were trained on this never-before-heard-of romance writer . . . reading with an audacity of love.

I approached each sentence measured, clear, confident, with an understated boldness. They were gonna hear me tonight. Whether they liked truthful romance be damned. I owned that mic for that moment. I laid bare my heart and soul.

I thought about you, father. And mother. I don’t know how many days I have left on this earth. But I’m writing my ass off as if there’s no tomorrow. That audience knew it. They felt it. My audacity. My pain. My hurt. My romance.

I closed my soliloquy with a slowed conclusion for emphasis. Bowed my head did I and thanked them for their time and attention. And left the building. I walked in a mocha kitten. I exited a black panther. Still bereft of his natural literary habitat. But a panther nonetheless.

I approached my vehicle. A soft voice called out to me: “Wait, Rg2.” A young woman with sparkling midnight eyes, a thick, natural, mesmerizing mane Esperanza Spaulding-like in style, a blended countenance of wonder, curiosity and desperation on her soft-featured face. My, father, she was lovely. I hadn’t seen her before.

“Where will you go now?” she let go. Her question was asked as if she had my answer.

“Home.” I replied.

“Can I come?”

Disbelief overcame me . . . before I gathered my stern defensive instinct.

“What?” incredulously I remarked.

“It’s not what you think. I just want to have a moment with you. In your surroundings,” she explained. “I know it sounds utterly crazy. My dad’s a police sergeant and I know you wouldn’t do anything untoward, not a man who writes and reads like what I just heard.” She didn’t take her eyes off me as she spoke.

This is fiction, my mind spoke silently to me, almost jokingly. This couldn’t be happening. But, for some reason, I didn’t detect weakness in her. No more than about 26, I gathered, she reflected nubiana strength of character—a princess’s hand-drawn exterior, yet, a queen’s unfoolish, royal interior.

“Follow me if you want. If you lose me, so be it.”

She trailed my motorcar no more than three vehicle lengths the entire drive. As I navigated, the eerie notion crept into my consciousness that this woman was somehow familiar with me, though we’d never met.

This had to be fiction. A writer’s fiction.

We arrived. Both of us sat in our respective vehicles as if waiting for the other to exit first. I don’t suffer strangers, even beautiful strangers. Was death upon me? Or something wildly, temptingly, erotically, exhilaratingly fun . . . upon me—but still potentially deadly?

I walked to her car and lifted the doorhandle. We both were noticeably nervous, I more than she. Just the same I was curious as to what the hell she wanted from me.

“Leave your vehicle running,” I commanded. She followed without incident. Funny, she hadn’t yet killed the engine even as I’d made my way to her window. We were of the same wavelength. As I approached my door, only a few paces from her park, I actually heard the engine die.

A hard-headed woman, I discerned. Just what I didn’t need.

I unlocked the door and allowed her gentleman’s entry, closed it without locking it.

“I’m gonna have a drink. What would you like?”

“No, thank you,” her eyes scaled the walls, my photos, and then rested on me.

“Coffee?” I offered further.

She hesitated. “No, thank you.”

I poured a country Irish cream into an ice-filled glass and just as I had imbibed a sip, she gently grasped my drink and placed it on the countertop, on which I was easily leaning. Her eyes fixed on mine, then slowly lowered to my chest. We both could hear the other’s breathing.

She set her purse atop the counter, a word still unspoken, and extended her hands to my shirt, and methodically began to unclasp each button, stopping at mid-sternum. Closer she came, as if floating, only oxygen between us.

Father, the woman placed her hand into the warm opening of fabric and found the bare skin at the base of my neck, lowered her flattened palm astride my beating heart and pressed gently, purposefully. I could smell her fragrance; it rendered me speechless, entranced. She was equally enthralled.

With her opposite hand, this riveting stranger, this police sergeant’s stunning daughter grazed her fingers along my lips, as if reading braille in search of some secret code.

“What you did tonight,” she released softly, whispery, “it was so beautiful. I’ve never heard a man read like that, write like that.” I swear, a feather drop and exhalations were audible, father. She paused, stroked and pressed my mid-chest, all five fingers in full skin contact. And released.

She then turned away from my gaze and picked up her purse from the counter. She made her way to the door, held the knob and paused. I stood stationary in the very position she’d cast me upon enter, my eyes shadowing her without words.

She opened the door and disappeared into the starry, crisp, rain-visited, poetic night.

“Alexa, play Sade,” I requested of my personal artificially intelligent assistant. I retrieved my Irish cream which had by then settled into a nice, smooth blend with its ice mates. Still unsure what had just happened, a restless calm came over me. Compelled, I made my way to my computer. That first line, you know, the most important line in an Rg2 creative work, had to get out and see the light . . . before it was lost to mismemory.

I had a listener, father, that night. If only one.

I had apparently pampered a stranger. A beautiful stranger.

On Pamper-Her-Friday.

I love you, father.

Always,
Your son,
Rg2

______________

***
Pamper the woman . . . like from your father’s generation. -Rg2

© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

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Posted by on March 25, 2017 in Pamper-Her-Friday

 

Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 352: ‘Proposal to Vinita’: A One-of-a-Kind Love Letter

 

“Proposal to Vinita”

Dear Vinita:

To cause emotional havoc is not why I’ve asked into your life.

If the door to your heart is only slightly ajar, for fear that I might elicit an unwanted reaction, I suggest you keep the chain leashed. A woman’s life should not be made complicated needlessly. You’ve enough on your professional- and private-life plate than to add a high-calorie helping of dessert as sweet as romance.

I assume.

So I’ll keep a safe distance by writing to you from afar—in the quiet solitude of this Pamper-Her-Friday eve that finds me questioning my thoughts of you. Why thoughts of you?

Blame it on journalism. I love news; the hard stuff; the human-interest story; the occasional revelation about an unfamiliar corner of a region, nation, or continent. But sometimes the manner of delivery can captivate as much as the story. To say nothing of the deliverer. My, can she be captivating.

Enough to inspire a love letter that otherwise has no business being composed by an obscure, faceless scribe penning thousands of miles away. But a writer must write. A journalist must journal. A lover must love. And a pamperer, indeed, must pamper
. . . that distinctive woman . . . and forever live in her soul.

Which brings me to this moment—Pamper-Her-Friday eve. In lieu of roses—this time—and a vintage champagne bottle sent to your ivory table—this time—I’ve a proposal to offer, unconventional as it is: Represent me. Me only. My brand only.

Agents are plentiful in my market. Like any profession, however, there are but a handful who are revered specialists who inspire envy from their peers. I sense that gift in you, Vinita. My instincts tell me you possess the innate skills to market and unleash the nine-figure revenue potential of Pamper-Her-Friday while the originator/creator remains the protected mystery behind the most creative, compelling, scintillating, heart-thumping romance compositions ever written and yet to be published.

So you’ve never agented? Well, Barack had never been president before ‘08. Warren Buffett was initially a newspaper boy. Oprah had never owned a television network. Michael Jordan was cut from his sophomore team.

Represent me. Represent something far more powerful than me. The world awaits.

Your fee? Write it on a napkin. Then set the pen down and look at your writing, the figures.

And be prepared to be pampered.

Think it over. Take your time. No need to rush your decision.

Tomorrow’s only Pamper-Her-Friday.

Artfully yours,
Rg2

___________________

***

Pamper the woman . . . with a proposal like no other. -Rg2

© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

 

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2017 in Pamper-Her-Friday

 

Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 351: ‘I Can’t Help But Crave You Tonight’: A Naughty Love Letter

 

(Rated Rg2: Mature Women Readers Only)

“I Can’t Help But Crave You Tonight”

Dear Vegas Lover,

My body needs you tonight.

This French Moscato simply won’t suffice. If anything, it’s heightening the desperation.

I swear to my God above, I won’t hurt you. Have you ever known me to hurt you, your skin, your lips, those shoulders having borne the weight of a cruel world that gives so little damn about you?

I do.

My lawyers have begun the process of registering the trademark for Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2 internationally, China and India especially. Evidently, women are being mistreated in nearly all corners of the globe, our research reveals. Enough already.

I’m only one man. I can’t remake the world. So few know me intimately.

But you do.

I can’t help but crave you tonight. Can’t help it.

I haven’t shared my body with any other. Call me stubborn. Call me naively loyal.

I can’t help it. You’re an angel in disguise.

But I’ve blown your cover, woman. No one but me. It’ll always be.

Have you thought of me this week? What’s the best day of your week?

Damn right it’s Friday.

Come to these arms of mine, Vegas Lover. Run to me as you would no other man in this God-forsaken world. There is safety here. There is belonging here. There is won’t-let-go-of-you here . . . these arms of mine.

Friday is ours. I’ve trademarked it. There’s not a man alive who does Friday the way I do.

It’s yours. As am I.

What am I offering you this Pamper-Her-Friday that no other man alive can?

Me.

My all.

I can’t help it if I wanted to.

My body needs you. Is yours calling for me?

I want to pamper you tonight.

Your body’s calling.

Bring that ass to me, woman . . . .

______________

***
Pamper the woman and her body is yours. -Rg2

© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

 
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Posted by on March 11, 2017 in Pamper-Her-Friday

 

Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 350: ‘A Snap, Pamper, and Love Affair’ The Friday Serenade

piano-stockings

 

“A Snap, Pamper, And Love Affair”

I’ve made this whimsical investment, Love:
You may’ve heard of the camera company SNAP?
This love note will disappear after a few seconds
But I’ll make it reappear on your favorite app

For I need only a moment’s-time impression
To make your smartphone a pleasure to behold,
The colorful features and the laughable filters
Had given me an idea that’s borderline bold

Co-founders Evan Spiegel and Bobby Murphy
Have added nine zeros to their fortune stash,
What might they do with such infinite loot?
But spread the gravy to fund a pamperer’s bash

A private party for two, that would be me and you
Romantic dinner and slow dancing by the fireplace,
I’m in a piano mood at your every request
I need you to slip on this soft velvet and lace

Open the envelope as I serenade you
Four thousand shares, in your name, are now in play,
Sell at your discretion or hold on while they float
You’re a winner, my Love, on this Pamper-Her-Friday.

_____________

***
Pamper the woman and forever live in her soul. -Rg2

© 2017 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

 

 
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Posted by on March 4, 2017 in Pamper-Her-Friday

 
 
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