Might it be that time on your electronic calendar …
When your mind escapes from your present locale,
Daydreaming at your desk with paperwork piled high
Romantic spring is in the air and you’re just the gal
For sun kisses on her shoulders, white sand beneath her feet
Breeze-tickled eyelashes and wind-brushed hair,
Fruit-medley garden salads and herb-infused ‘tinis
Dragon Berry Bacardi ice cream—two spoons to share
You want to run away, you want to be swept away
Rescued like a damsel in a lovely pastel dress,
Speaking of a dress, nothing quite like it turns me on
A woman with a hint of dainty takes me, I confess
After all, it’s spring, of new bloom, of new love
I’ve got the butterflies just thinking of you,
Forgive me if I stutter as I make your heart flutter
If your skies are hazy, mine are pristinely blue
On the west coast lives this most generous host
Who understands your need is hidden from view,
An escapade with serenades to break your monotony
I want to introduce you to my creative milieu
Chariot you, I will, in my Tesla convertible
It’s due to be delivered on springtime order,
I sold a tranche of stock for some pamper-her cash
They’ve eclipsed $300 per share this quarter
Come away with me, and if you can’t stay with me
For your responsibilities there are far too demanding,
Then allow me to crush the ball and break the chain
Woman, you need the freedom of flight with safe landing …
In my environs you’re at liberty to make yourself at home
By all means, let down your hair and bare your feet,
The air is springtime fresh and I promise to enmesh
you in a storybook dalliance with chivalry replete
My place? A Mayan-influenced, humble writer’s space
Featuring a sub-terrain wine dungeon—no dragon,
Sweet convo we’ll begin there as our buzz takes hold
Where events take us next I can only imagine
We’ll let spring have its way . . . on Pamper-Her-Friday.
“It’s not the end of the world until the end of the world.” -Barack Obama to his daughters Malia and Sasha
My Angel,
Never one given to hyperbole or overdramatization, I won’t begin now in this most heartfelt letter. But when President Obama said, repeating what he had recently told his daughters, in his final press conference, “…it’s not the end of the world until the end of the world…,” I couldn’t help but internalize his words—not to mention the sorrow on his face.
I was quietly hoping he wasn’t being prescient, foreshadowing something ominous on the political horizon. As cool as he’s so known to be, he couldn’t possibly have given in to hyperbole either, right? I doubt it. Barack’s a sensible, God-fearing, family-loving man after all.
Unease, however, was written all over his face at that conference.
We all, if not most of us, realize we’re living in a diminished America. As soon as we conceived and then dropped the atom bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, and other nations became nuclear-enabled, we were doomed. It would become only a matter of time.
Truth told, none of the mighty nations wants to perish; their peoples are as afraid of nuclear death as we Americans are. If they can avoid conflagration, they will. Except most other nations haven’t been living as good as we have for all these years. They likely feel they have less to lose.
The way I see it, Love? We have only two options: Coexist nonviolently in peace or end our existence by violent co-annihilation.
Sorta like a marriage. Marriages, relationships for that matter, rarely, very rarely, end amicably. It nearly always gets ugly at the end. I’m not sure what hurts more at the conclusion/dissolution: Realizing you really didn’t need the other for your own happiness or coming to grips and accepting the fact that we all need each other—such is the interdependence of life.
Now as it applies to you and me, I understand clearly that you don’t need me . . . for your survival, for validation of your womanhood, nor for your self-defined happiness.
And I don’t need you for largely the same reasons.
So, is that why it’s so damn good when we come together? We seem so delighted to be in the other’s midst that something as simple as breathing on one another (you in my arms of course) somehow sates our mutual thirst for romance. I guess I shouldn’t speak for you; you may feel differently. Though you never try to escape my embrace, now do you? (Lol)
This is what I suggest we do in light of the coming Third World War—God help us all: Come away with me for a spring picnic beneath my favorite sycamore tree over in Wildomar Meadow.
No, I’m not engaging in hyperbole. My romance is sensibly genuine and real.
I offer you the most lovingly peaceful coexistence you’ve ever experienced. I wanna pamper you, woman. You’ll be in my arms and we’ll be in God’s hands.
On Pamper-Her-Friday.
Will you come?
Forever your love,
Rg2
____________
***
Nothing can come, not even war, between us. -Rg2
Especially one as tantalizingly alluring as you. So I implore you to take my not coming as the exception as opposed to the Rg2 rule.
I’d be disingenuous to say I didn’t want to see you that unforeseen evening, that intrigue hadn’t crept into my made-up mind that night after Pamper-Her-Friday. There was no other woman in my company at the time of your communique—nor was there one on her way.
You could have called on another, I understood. Whether you did, either before or after our talk, matters hardly to me. The fact that I was in your thoughts at all is a pleasantry I don’t take for granted. Having not seen you in a number of years brought back an infinity of silent wishes I hadn’t realized I harbored still.
Time has obviously been gracious to you; it might have even stood still in your behalf, judging visual effects alone. But as life does to most of us during the living of it, you haven’t escaped being upended by love’s flightiness. My grandfather once quipped, “The farther west one goes the more transitory love is.” The sage had lived through and survived a few heartbreaks of his own—and spoke in no double terms hence.
In spite of it all, we remain optimistic. Love demands it.
That night? It was a pre-planned “Rg2 night.” Solitude, twin vodka tonics, and into-the-night writing held me on lockdown. They were a jealous lover—daring me to defy their loyalty. I couldn’t, Lynn.
You kept creeping, mental footsteps tapping, no, ballerina-ing toward the corners of my mind, to the access keypad of my anatomy.
A weaker man would have crossed his values. Weakness, however, doesn’t live in this entrepreneur—though thighs and bedroom eyes are highly persuasive.
If another man attempted to take what was mine that evening, call him and tell him he’s a lucky chap for the effort.
Luck, however, doesn’t strike twice.
Pamper-Her-Friday, and what it means, has held you spellbound since hearing my voice. It’s no easy gift. Earned and deserved are its hallmarks.
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
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
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?
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
If there’s a tissue in your vicinity, I suggest you reach out and cradle it in your palm. Upon reading this, tears may well be in the offing.
I’m leaving stateside.
To be quite honest, I haven’t a clue whose shore on which I’ll land. I’ve simply unfurled my sail and rendered my life to the mercy of the most forgiving wind. Seeking a literary safe haven am I. A strange yet unhostile place which will accept a wounded, far-from-empty love letter scribe.
I’m not certain which economy around the world will support a driven romance composer, let alone reward him. Call it a mindless crap shoot. But there’s little to lose I’ve reckoned. The dice, as I write this, shake in my right hand and are on the precipice of a hearty, careless toss and roll.
Fall and rest where they may. I’ve come to the only conclusion: I must go.
God, I can feel the tenderly soft texture of your forehead against the interior of my thoughtful hands. The pillowcase fragrance derived from your unblemished facial skin stubbornly resurrects in the darkness of nights of my aloneness—even after countless washes.
That verse of Sade’s Nothing Can Come Between Us you let go of before catching yourself, it still brings me an endless joy. You never sang it again. Oh, sure you have, in your own presence, shunning the spotlight so shyly. But I caught that one . . . in its purest moment. And I finished the lyric. Do me a favor, would you? Don’t sing it to anyone else. It’s my eternal keepsake.
I’ve prided myself on being an honorable man. Flawed, human, fallible, imperfect, like all the men walking this earth. But honorable.
Is there a country for honorable men?
Honorable men who write romance? If so, I’m en route. Somewhere, some place I’ll land. With my laptop. And if it’s some off-the-map archipelago, with no electric juice, a pen and memo pad.
I’m afraid, Denise. My father’s in heaven. My grandfather’s in heaven. I can’t seek their counsel. They’ve scaled their own treacherous mountaintops. And neither was a romance writer.
I don’t wish my craft upon any man. I swear, the romance-writer pursuit is the most difficult of any human endeavor. Albert Einstein devised the atom bomb . . . that destroyed and deformed thousands of lives. I bet if you asked him to instead write romance for a living, he wouldn’t touch it.
Yet here I find myself. Writing my life into a hopeful relevance, lest I die a broken man. I can’t carry you into this anchorless, rudderless abyss of an existence. You deserve so very much more. I can’t do that to you.
I’m afraid. Of the unknown. And yet, I’m utterly fearless . . . because my life is in my savior’s hands.
Forgive me my instability. I can’t allow a woman to carry me. Somewhere between pride and character, I can’t ride your compassion. You too are finding your way.
I have no idea what’s in store for me. Whichever continent will have me, desperation accompanies me. Bring it on. I’ve nothing to lose.
Except you. I’ve reconciled that possibility with the treatment that you’ve experienced only from this romance writer. My life is out of my own hands, Denise. And, strangely, no one understands that more clearly than you.
God, I miss you already. And I haven’t even reached foreign landfall.
I’m leaving stateside. I can’t stay. I must go.
As God is my witness, I’m taking your love with me.
If this ask is somehow interpreted as conduct
unbecoming a gentleman, it’s not my intent,
I won’t suggest you surrender your Sunday virtue
To a Pamper-Her-Friday that requires you to repent
For giving in to a pre-Valentine love deluxe
Letting a man have his way is uncharacteristic,
You’ve prided yourself in having Janet’s control
But this surface lust fever is on the verge of ballistic
The darker side of fifty shades is not my seek
There is no vindictive former lover on the prowl,
But a rose-petaled pond in which to enhance our bond
Is a body-rousing law of which I may run afoul
For a night, this particular night, this is our night
To cast aspersion on your former Valentine, I won’t,
You knew not what you were doing that time ago
You had questions, and Oprah says, “Doubt means don’t….”
Ah, but not tonight, my dear, let me quell your fear
Of the knowns and unknowns of a romantic loverman,
I want to kiss-trace your palm into the midnight calm
As you witness the gradual unfolding of my sensual plan
Still, soft water in which to make your introduction
Part secret garden, part lagoon for an erotic baptism,
A lathering of your hair for a slow cranial massage
Woman, close your eyes and give in to the pamperism
The rising of the knee and the shin breaks the surface
Crimson petals adorn the landscape of your skin,
A gentle rubbing and poking leads to aquatic thigh-stroking
Ouuww, girl, have a sip of this Scotland scotch blend
Your anxieties I’ll disarm while the free-radicals alarm
is silenced, giving way to musculoskeletal peace,
You’ve been fighting the good working warrioress fight
Your iron defense mechanism needs a moment to release
Let it go, Love, let go of the clench of your fear’s claw
Let me be the conduit for your tensions to pass through,
Here, bite into the essence of this chocolate-covered berry
And savor the sweetness of the therapy my hands will brew
Your soothing Valentine or your servant Valentine
Matters little the title that you bestow on me tonight,
You’re immersed in the luxury of an effervescent garden
Prelude to a weekend of rose petals and candlelight….
It was a cold and rainy night in Southern California
Sat a man alone with his February thoughts,
The words escaped the fences of his splendid mind
Contemplating the she-loves-me’s and she-loves-me-nots
Might it be that you’re the instigator of the first line
An unwitting provocateur of his romantic instincts,
The verse being read from Thailand to Manitoba
Its author ordering roses of vibrant reds and pinks
Sending inklings your way that they may convey
A woo steeped in love from a hidden romantic figure,
His February only needed a beautiful catalyst
Cupid’s bow’s been arrowed, woman, you’re the trigger
Should he step from the shadows of the trade-press scribes
To reveal himself: The back cover of Harlequin’s tale,
What’re the chances he’ll make inroads to your heart
You do realize a “no” would be an epic fail?
How romantic are they? You’re sitting on the fence
This love letter finds its way to your sweet, weak spot,
Your entertaining the offers of those other hopefuls
Woman, I’ve entered the arena and the temperature’s hot
I don’t care how enticing their propositions transmit
The copious amounts of cash they dangle your way,
What will you talk about across a candlelit table?
Sitting there, how long are you willing to stay?
The wrong table’s been reserved, you’re in the wrong seat
The candle flame is nothing more than a mere distraction,
The evening is by no means too late for a turnabout
I’m coming to rescue you, woman, an intentional infraction
Never keep company with the least of three bums
And the other two are certainly no better for your time,
There’s a hidden romantic figure waiting in the wings
Look, I’m standing in the window and I’ll pantomime
With my hand over my heart, I then point to you
Lip-synching the words contained in the February letter,
“The Fourteenth means nothing without you, woman …”
Make your Valentine an experience? I can do it far better
I’m coming, stepping out of the shadows of obscurity
My sole purpose is to win your Valentine heart,
This hidden romantic figure is yours for the taking
I won’t dare allow us that moment to be apart
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Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 