Might this be another companionless Pamper-Her-Friday?
Woman, tell me, are you deliberately staying away?
Understand: I’m drama-free, virus-free . . . so anxiously
am I summoning the most artfully precise words to say . . .
To you, such that their most immediate effect
Will be to drastically shorten the distance between us,
It matters little which of us happens to blink first
Someone needs to break the silence of this mutual hush
You’re there, in body only, while I, here, fight the lonely
Do you realize you never wrote to me a love letter,
What’s with the self-censoring the language of your heart?
Have you convinced yourself that muted feelings are better . . .
Than your dead-of-winter vulnerabilities exposed
Lest you somehow become my subject of ridicule,
You’ve self-vowed to give no ordinary man the pleasure
Woman, why is it that I’m willing to play the fool
Curious am I of your Friday night fragrance
And the elements of your Friday evening wind-down,
Hot, moist towels to enrapture your weary feet
Southern Comfort sipped by the fire—how does that sound?
We don’t have to remove our clothes to have a good time
No harm will be done to scrawl yourself over my lap,
And in case I begin to finger-comb your hair
By all means, feel free to succumb to a dreamworthy nap
Sweep you away like a sailoress tossed on a tide
I’m as gifted a rescuer as I am a havoc wreaker,
Finding ourselves smack in the middle of intimacy
Woman, consider me your anti-thrill seeker
A slow, methodical hand is the measure of a man
In whom you can deposit your fragile trust,
You simply haven’t been held at never-end length
Come just a little closer, and let me shake the rust
Off your too-long-neglected, fully clothed body
Nothing about their removal guarantees a good time,
The shortening of distance between us is its own reward
And now the reason for this Pamper-Her-Friday rhyme:
It would be my privilege your Valentine. Will you, J.?
Pamper the woman . . . present to her your heartfelt Ask. -Rg2
Forgive me the open publication of this love letter across the cyberwaves. I realize the internet is written in ink, not pencil; thus, a man must be extremely mindful what he releases into the global public square . . . especially as it regards his current emotional state of affairs.
The words, once released, never go away. So be it. I couldn’t care less what the world thinks of what I’m feeling in this very moment. Because, mocha woman, you are the sum total of everything I feel on this night, Pamper-Her-Friday.
If my thoughts are premature, if this ask meets you while least expected, then color me more proactive than overconfident.
Might you have plans for February 14th? More importantly, is there a reservation in your heart for a man, now and leading up to that date, that simply cannot be altered? If your answer is no on both counts, I suggest you consider me a contender . . . an unalterable contender.
You may not have heard of Park Electrochemical Corp. of Melville, N.Y. (ticker: PKE). The sleepy aerospace company develops and manufactures advanced composite materials for the global aerospace markets, from military to commercial to private-sector applications.
Park doesn’t make much noise amongst the behemoths of the “space-ware” suppliers, but it quietly gets it done for its clients—and its shareholders, of which this contender happens to be.
PKE has decided to reward us with a special dividend (above the regular) for the profitable recent quarters it’s had: $4.25 per share owned, payable on February 26 for stockholders on record by Feb. 5th and the shares purchased before Feb. 4th. I intend to add to an at-present 4,600-share cache next week. The current share count at 4.25 per comes to $19,550.
I figure just under 20 grand is not much good to a single man who has not a special woman with whom to spend it on the 14th of February. I’m curious your thoughts on that notion.
If this ask is a bit premature, forgive me the perceived rush. The contender knows his chances are few. So I stand before you, these words are my presence, and offer my ask, mocha woman:
Will you be mine?
Pamper the woman . . . present to her your most heartfelt Ask. -Rg2
Hopeful am I that your rests have been peaceful, there, in Jehovah’s arms. My recent nights have been anything but.
I didn’t realize I was so mistake-prone—being that I carry your very genes. So diligently have I tried to pace my emotional steps in walking alongside a woman, my intentions to handle with care the woman brave enough to inhabit my oxygen zone.
Denise is her name, Father. She hated it when first I called her that. I laughed internally at her reaction . . . not of humor, but because I sensed a momentary unhappiness dwelling within her, having somehow manifested itself in the form of strident displeasure with life.
I wondered if she’d ever been touched tenderly. Had she ever experienced the warmth of another sun in the person of a special mocha man—rare though we are.
Father, the woman found her way into my guarded life. And discovered me. She discovered you. She discovered mother. She discovered a genius, hapless, reluctant, awkward, flawed, unassuming, hard-headed, silly yet driven romance writer . . . like no other in this careless universe.
She somehow, for some reason unbeknownst to your son, believed in me. Denise believed in me. Something in my soul, something in my voice, something, Father, something in my slow hand touched the woman. My pen, my mind, my ceaseless creativity perhaps played a part. My body scent didn’t hurt either, I suspect.
Her fragrance, by the grace of God, her very fragrant essence, Father, I wear like a second skin still. Her candles flame as I write this, Father, but it is her fragrance they emit.
She stormed away as if she had competition. Denise had convinced herself that she had competition. Imagine that.
Little did she know: She has no rival.
My love for the woman is purely uncontested. Little did she know.
Put that one squarely on your son—my fault, my foible, my failure. I’d suspected all along, though in quiet denial alongside, that I’m human after all. But humanness, in all its frailty, is no excuse for letting a love down.
Mother, all these years later, still carries the hurt you caused, man. I know it wasn’t your intention. Ill will wasn’t part of your make-up. You know how I know? Because you live in me, Mocha Man. You are the inspiration, the very birther, of Pamper-Her-Friday as much as my own ever-fertile mind. And you should know: She loves you to this very day. Still. It’s in her eyes.
Love is stronger than pride.
My god, Father, what I would give to simply hold Denise’s hand once again . . . on a rainy winter night, walking, pace for measured pace, on the sidewalk of that holiday-soft-lighted Mainstreet. I’d forgotten my gloves (I never forget my gloves in winter!), the air was crisp and moist-heavy, it was, while the puddles along the path held a storybook romance in their stillness.
I gloved her hand with my own, Father. I really believe it’s not until a man takes a woman’s tender, bare-naked hand into his own that he interprets her spiritual definition. That he begins to grasp his responsibility—to her. If her hand gives way, if it grasps back with a firm yet soft clasp, if she gives her hand without reluctance, then she gives herself to him. And therein lies his responsibility . . . a majestic, romantic, protective, integral responsibility—she.
Chivalry lives in that woman, Father. As it lives so fervently in me.
God, what I would give to open the passenger door for her, without fail, of my motorcar just once more. We both like how that feels. I saw it in her gemstone eyes, Father.
Denise is a romantic. And she recognized that hallowed quality in your son, perhaps long before I took her hand on that rainy winter’s night.
What I would give to romance her once more. Romance her to the edge of winter, throughout the rainy, snowy season. Romance her to and in Cancun’s sandy-beached, warm-breeze allure. Romance her facing the mouth of a flaming-logs fireplace on a cuddle-worthy love sofa. Romance her to China and India and South Africa and Newfoundland, where the natives are reciting verses of Pamper-Her-Friday creatives in both English and their native languages—because it sounds and feels so soothing to the universal soul.
Romance Denise—alas, pamper Denise—with the dividend checks from long-studied investments your son has made with the forethought inherited from you, Father.
Pamper her with, more than all, the unfettered, unadulterated, unconditional love that she knows in her heart your son is capable of.
To pamper her, Father, is this writer’s, your son’s, wish . . . if only once more.
On Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .
I love you, Roy Sr.
Ever your son,
Pamper the woman . . . before she gets away. -Rg2
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