Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Newlyweds Kerry & Nnamdi–Dynamic Duo

Idaho–Pamper-Her-Friday:

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Say, Love,

It appears Kerry’s got her man. It’s anything but a scandal.

Quiet she wanted it kept. And so it was.

I pondered for a moment last night, how does a Hollywood romance differ from a non-public romance, at its very essence?

I remember the virtuoso Tina Turner saying she was thrilled to be away from Hollywood because all the roles she was ever offered were sadly limited to three typecasts: Maid, Mistress, or Harlot.

How have times truly changed for Kerry Washington, I wonder. Her brilliance is undeniable, her acting chops unquestionable, her beauty unparalleled.

But have times truly changed?

Which makes a private relationship, a private romance so very vital to a sane life. I mean, imagine not being able to come home to a sanctuary of true love, unpretense, and genuine caring.

Kerry deserves that, no? And so does Nnamdi Asomugha.

He’s vowed to be the balance, the ballast, the anchor in the ‘scandalous,’ turbulent, troubled waters that is today’s Hollywood.

The NFLer and newly minted San Francisco 49er harbors some special attributes beneath his glitzy résumé that Kerry couldn’t help but fall in love with. In addition to being a highly touted shutdown cornerback, Asomugha is a corporate finance major from UC Berkeley as well as the offspring of Nigerian parents who hold doctoral degrees in engineering and pharmacy.

Kerry’s no slouch as a romance selector, eh? The woman knows what she’s doing.

But what lies at the heart of their union, I wonder. Perhaps no different than what lies at the heart of a non-public union, or what lies at the pit of our union, babygirl: Trust; Faith; and ‘This feels so good.’

The man certainly has taste, does he not? They will do well. You can see it in their eyes.

But give me the ‘non-public.’ My romance doesn’t need the limelight; doesn’t even want it.

I wanna come home to you, my sanctuary in which only you and I are welcome. I love the way you do it–privately.

So let’s raise a toast to Kerry and Nnamdi: To love, faith, fidelity and eternity. May they have them in abundance.

Now turn off the TV and come sit on my lap, woman. I’ve a gift for you that I know you’ll love. Just because.

Why?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Angel.

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***

Romance lives. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Ms. Jolie, double mastectomy survivor

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My Princess,

I wouldn’t call it mixed emotions my heart dissonance over your decision.

As much as I didn’t consider it ‘our’ decision, I appreciate your concern for my feelings. No, let’s call it what it really was: Your fear.

Of loss.

Losing your breasts you somehow juxtaposed to losing me; the precision cutting and removal of such an intimate part of your anatomy somehow translated to the cutting away of me from our union–as if our romance is so fragile.

Come, stand in the mirror while I shadow you. It’s OK, babygirl, my tenderness hasn’t abandoned my hands, my intentions, our union. Come on now, hold your head up and face the mirror; there, the mirror’s not going to criticize. Train your eyes squarely into the looking glass.

And watch my hands. Your shoulders are majestic–no need for the straps. Easy. The fabric will fall away from your upper arms with an elegance befitting a princess.

No, don’t eyefall. I need your gaze in the reflector. There, I’ll hold you a little tighter so the insecurity, what remains of it, washes away into never-again-land.

I’m tender. I’m romantic. As I’ve always been.

Shhh, it’s quite alright. Easy now, I want to read your skin braille; there, your lower neck is so warm. I’m reading, each finger of this heart of mine, these hands of mine want to read further the nervous skin script bared by the cleavage’s remnant.

It’s OK, Love. I want to touch you there, I want to braille surface read what once was there, mid-chest, tender against my palms, gently I press and I can feel your pulse. Your life pulse.

Our romance pulse.

Does that hurt? Of course not. I know no other way than tenderness.

Yes, they’re gone. Forever gone they are.

But I’m not. And neither will our romance.

Can I touch you there? Everywhere? Like a man even more in love?

Men can get breast cancer too, you know. Who knows if or when my time may come. I’ll need your touch as well.

Now look, there, in the mirror. What do you see, princess?

I see romance.

On Pamper-Her-Friday. And ever after.

Till death do us part,
Rg2

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***

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

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Mr. & Mrs. James

South Beach, FL.–After midnight EST, Post-Game, Pamper-Her-Friday

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My Love,

I saw a man last night, a gifted, humble, generous, down-to-earth special human being last night. In awe I was. But then, not really.

Because he’s always been what he was, what he is, and what he’s yet to be. It’s easy to dismiss athletes as superhuman freaks of nature or physically blessed beyond measure or simply as ones abnormally gifted with a ball of some sort.

Most would say our priorities are in the wrong place in this day and age: worshipping and idolizing an anomalous runner, leaper, dunker, shooter or can-you-believe-what-he-just-did game changer.

And they’re right, I guess.

Teachers are more noble, no? Doctors are more revered, right? Computer code writers deserve more admiration, say? Business titans are the ones to emulate, eh? Even the presidency of the United States should be the highest aspiration, yes? Sure enough, they deserve our reverence.

But what if the athlete is honest, hard-working, a shrewd businessman, takes more joy in elevating his teammates than elevating himself, especially in the ‘heat’ of battle?

What if he truly loves his woman and, even more, his boys, his family as a unit? What if Earvin Magic Johnson–the ultimate giver and humanist–says this particular athlete wins and will continue to win because his heart, like his game, is selfless?

Is it okay to then become a little more than a fan? Especially when you realize you’re more than a fan of his game, but a fan of his ‘spirit.’

Is it permissible to root for him when two-thirds of the country–hell, maybe even the world–roots against him–and don’t even know why they do?

No, he’s not a doctor or teacher or Nobel Prize winner. He’s not a curer of a life-threatening disease (unless joy watching him play can be so classified) or social-media innovator or inventor. No, he’s not any of those noble callings.

But he’s an influencer; I swear, you can learn a great deal about life if you study his game, and, better yet, his humanity.

I saw a man last night. A special individual. Someone who quietly yet monumentally quelled his critics and naysayers and substanceless dislikers.

I saw a pretty special human being last night take a further step in his blessed evolution. He immediately went over to congratulate and hug his on-court adversaries after the victory. Class can’t be taught, my grandfather once told me. “It’s either in you or it’s not,” the old sage said.

I saw class last night, babygirl. It was breathtaking. But then it wasn’t. Because that’s who he was, is, and always will be.

He won.

In some strange way, I felt as if I had too.

Let’s go for dinner tonight, sweetheart, and talk about the beauty of the human spirit. I wanna share what I saw last night, what I felt last night. And then we’ll pass it on to everyone we meet thereafter.

Let’s celebrate like LeBron and Savannah. In our own little way.

What do you say, Love? It’s Pamper-Her-Friday.

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***

We win when we’re right within . . . and pamper our woman. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

“Women are not the sensitive sex. Men are the true romanticists.” -Cary Grant

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My Friday Angel,

They laughed at me. Mocked and ridiculed me–for a moment at least.

My former college buddies–all now either married or relationshipped–made me the butt of the collective joke recently when I mentioned my ideal date.

Not since the late ’90s had we gotten together for a man-tribe reunion of sorts. It was great seeing everybody–the laughter nonstop.

Of course the conversation eventually turned to women: What keeps them interested; How to keep the candle kindled; Why they take good men for granted once corralled . . . and other questions and mysteries.

I remained church-mouse quiet during this phase of the multilogue. At one time I felt I knew at least some of the answers. But time has taught me otherwise. You never truly know a woman . . . .

Just when you think you may, she metamorphoses. That’s not blanket or generalized, no. And it’s not necessarily intentional on your part. It’s just that . . . satisfaction is elusive. Seems to be.

I said to the group, “When she gets into your car and if she settles into the passenger seat, releases all vestiges of on-guardness in her body language, turns to you with no words but rather the eye language that says, ‘Take me wherever you want, I trust you,’ . . . well, something special has occurred. Yours is the only passenger seat that matters. Regardless of the make and model of the vehicle.”

The tribe became deathly quiet. I’m no oracle, no. I just shared my observation. And then–this is where I lost them to the funny, the “Man, please!”–I shared my ideal date, regardless of time.

“Whatever happened to the banana split?” I posed. After a round of mocking laughter, someone said, “I know you don’t mean a date? Take her out for an ice cream?! Man, please!” Full-throated belly laughs everywhere.

Until our server, who happened to be within earshot of our conversation while bringing over the dinner check, said, “I think that’s so sweet, a banana split date. I wish my guy would agree to something like that.”

Deathly quiet, our table. I was smiling like a schoolboy who’d finally beaten up the campus bully after being fed up with having his lunch money taken daily.

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, woman. The corner ice cream shop agreed to my business proposal of “Banana Split Fridays”: Couples who come in after having liked the shop’s facebook page will enjoy a free made-to-order banana boat. Two spoons optional.

He said since he’s implemented the promotion, sales volume has increased by 40%. The bananas are hardly able to turn deep yellow because of the turnover.

So, what do you say? The banana split is back. We’ll call it a comeback. And you’re the only woman I’ll allow to double-dip.

The cherry on top? Yours. Why?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

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***

Romance: Call it a comeback! -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Orchard Cove, Calif.–1:27 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

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Hey, Pretty Woman,

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday. I want you to do the following; listen carefully.

There’s a new locavore (locally sourced) organic edibles store recently opened on West Orchard and Main Ave. I approached the owner, a warm, personable woman with a lovely entrepreneurial spirit, with a proposition: If she’d incorporate a Pamper-Her-Friday theme into her marketing, I’d all but guarantee a bump in store traffic.

I expected her to brush me off as another empty salesman. But I noticed an inquisitive glimmer in her eye at my mention of the PHF concept. She wanted to know more.

I said, “When’s the last time you were pampered?” She smiled nervously but had no ready answer. I continued, “You believe in good health, don’t you? Isn’t that why you sell pesticide-, insecticide-, and herbicide-free organic produce? You want to promote good health for your patrons, without contributing to the cancer epidemic, or what seems like one, right?”

She couldn’t say no.

She sells a variety of produce separately but also baskets for the occasion-givers. I asked, “What about picnic baskets . . . with spring water/bottled wine and a set of stems as part of the bundle?” A ‘throwback’ idea on my part, but one that is salivating to make a comeback in 2013 because people are realizing more and more the true gift of life and love is ‘simplicity’ after all.

She said I was persuasive but she’d have to think about it. I told her there’d be no expense to her bottom line, not one dollar. I left her feeling ‘pampered,’ in hopes she’d pay it forward.

She called me back the very next day with a “Why not?”

So today marks her first Pamper-Her-Friday marketing promotion; she’s gifting a designated number of picnic baskets to unsuspecting patrons.

And guess what? You’re one of the designees. All you’ve got to do to claim your gift is ‘like’ the Pamper-Her-Friday page on facebook. Yes, that simple.

But listen: Don’t go mentioning this to your friend network. As much as a business would love its marketing efforts to go viral or reach critical mass, Pamper-Her-Friday holds a certain mystique that’s not conducive to mass appeal.

After all, you’re not one of the masses, woman, you’re among a special, precious few for whom pampering is a deserved undertaking.

Lastly, what’re you gonna do with the basket? Share maybe? I know a guy who’d love some organic fruits and veggies, and not just for the fabulous health benefits.

But for your company as well. Perhaps under a huge oak tree with a convenient talk-with-her blanket just waiting to be unfurled. And a jealous sunset in the distance.

Who is he? Well, let’s just say he’s certainly no ’empty salesman.’

See you this afternoon, Love.

Happy Pamper-Her-Friday.

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***

The Art of a Summer’s Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

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®