Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

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My Angel,

I’m signing my just-received dividend check over to you. Just because.

Not that I think you’re a better money manager than I, though I appreciate your being one of the most fiscally/financially shrewd women ever to grace my life. No, I won’t quite concede you’re better; skilled, no doubt. Turns me on. But I’m not ready to relinquish my title.

The enclosed check has an extra zero before the decimal . . . for extra pampering. You deserve it.

Remember when I told you about Wendy’s being under $5 per and paying a handsome 4-cents-per divvy to boot? You hesitated. Your socially and health-conscious-investor principles just wouldn’t allow you to pull the trigger.

I did. After studying the books, the new marketing push, and total food and store makeover, I moved on it.

Funny how the economy is painfully slow to heal. The conservatives and countless others blame Obama. Others, Congress. Still others blame the ‘greedy’ banks and the ever-hungry, nothing-else-matters-but-the-dollar Wall Street.

Sure, there’s enough blame to go around. But, despite the rhetoric and vitriol, those same people are making a killing in the market. Thousandaires are now millionaires; millionaires have turned billionaires; and billionaires, well, let’s just say they aren’t wanting for anything. ANYTHING!

JCPenney had brought in Apple Stores’ Ron Johnson to work his wizardry on the Middle-America retailer. Well, disaster struck. The people who crave Apple pods, pads, and phones don’t necessarily crave JCPenney attires and wares. The stock plummeted from the mid 30s to $14.

I took a risk and got in. Of course I didn’t recommend it to you–I swore an oath never to lose my babygirl money. But my instincts spoke to me in silence. I scooped up a nice lot at $14.70 and sat quietly. Still sitting.

Until news hit the wire yesterday that European billionaire George Soros recently staked over 17 million JCP shares. Damn. Is that a nice play or what? And now today’s business news has it that JCP just lined up a $1.75B loan from Goldman Sachs. Nice!

As you’d expect, the stock’s up handsomely. I’m sitting. But not sleeping.

Businesses are built to be immortal. I read that in Michael Eisner’s (former Disney head) autobio, ‘Work in Progress.’

Just like romance. And pampering. Immortal, in my book.

Let’s not let this love end. Let’s keep investing and partaking in the mutual ROI.

Enclosed is my recently cut dividend check–with an extra zero. Signed over to you.

Do what you will. Pamper yourself, by all means. And then be prepared to be pampered some more, tonight. And this weekend.

Why?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

Yours,

Rg2

***

If you want the highest returns, pamper the woman. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

ROI = Romance on Investment (by Rg2)

image: © Mossad

La Verne, Calif.–Friday Afternoon Delivery, Pamper-Her-Friday:

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My Sweet,

Men don’t write love letters anymore.

Is that true? If so, it’s a sadly lost art. Or is it that times–technologies–have changed, evolved? Maybe we’re a bit reluctant because, after all, the internet is written in ink, not pencil. Once it’s out there in the ether, we can’t take it back. Can’t erase it.

Women, on the other hand, will write love-letter circles around men. If I were to challenge you to a love letter-writing contest–the longest wins–yours, no doubt, will be several pages in length.

Mine? A page and a half at best, if that. OK, so we’re lacking in exposition, fully fleshed expression with a little embellishment to fill the white space.

Yes, you’re so much better at expressing the inner lockings of your mind, heart and soul. Your vocabulary more extensive than mine. Your overall composition more professorial than my own.

You’re worthy of an A+ based on overall literary quality.

I? I’m worthy of an A solely based on effort. I won’t challenge you to a love letter-writing contest. No. But a love-making contest? Oh, it’s on.

I know what you’re thinking. Sure, that’s all men think about: love-making. Let’s squash that misperception right here, right now.

There’re two forms of love-making: The Physical. And the Emotive/Creative*.

The simple man succumbs to the first–it’s all he knows, all he’s been taught, all he’s gotten away with from women who didn’t know any better.

The latter? The Emotive/Creative? He may not be the most gifted, the most versed in the prosework art form. But his mind is teeming with ideas to pamper his woman.

He’s a “touch prince.” There’s majesty in his fingers. There’s nobility in his conviction that a woman should: 1) Be made to feel comfortable in his presence; 2) Can’t wait for Friday to arrive; 3) Welcome him (and him only) in her comfort-heart-soul zone.

We don’t have to make love. It’s not a deal-breaker on my end. Not one solitary item of clothing has to be removed if that’s not your Friday pleasure.

But I’m gonna make love to you all the same. Emotive/Creatively.

Yes, your love letter is several pages. And I read each one with bated breath. Mine? A page and a half–if that.

But there’s a man behind Pamper-Her-Friday. The idealist, the innovator, the creator, the love-maker behind that genius concept of Pamper-Her-Friday is . . . a man.

Yes, my love letter is brief. But my love for you is anything but.

And I’m expressing it right here, right now. On the unerasable internet. Ink, my Love, not pencil.

I’m writing, ‘I love you.’

On Pamper-Her-Friday.

Endlessly,
Rg2

***
* True Romance is the second form of love-making: Emotive/Creative. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

image: © cap juluca

Sunset Beach, Calif.–12:16 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

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My Angel,

I haven’t made love in days. Nights, twilights, and sunsets on end.
I might as well be a nuptialed man.

What am I implying?

I won’t take no as an answer. Especially on Pamper-Her-Friday, woman.

The package is due to arrive early this afternoon. Yes, I took the liberty of selecting a seaside dress: white sand tone, ankle-length with shawl accessory. The perfect complement to the cloud-white khakis you chose for me.

You’re on for a pampering at Nadine’s World at Sola Salon. Once Nadine has performed her wondrous hair magic on you and you’re ready to leave the chair (to come to me), she won’t dare accept a payment, tip neither.

Why?

Because it’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love. And you’re the ‘designated pamperee.’

I finished writing chapter 14 last night and, afterwards, became engrossed in a wee-hours movie entitled “Bella and the Beast,” a romantic tale about a middle-class, college-enrolled, girl-next-door sweetheart who finds herself falling for the town ogre–a self-made multimillionaire with a granite exterior masking a heart of stone masking a buried need to love again.

We’re a needy, emotional people–all of us. Most of us just don’t want to give way.

I haven’t made love in days, what seems like weeks . . . eternities.
I may as well be a married man.

So busy revenue chasing and living-making. Just haven’t made time for my “Bella.”

Let’s talk about it at sunset. You’re the only one I’m willing to have the conversation with.

Yes, you, woman.

Why you? I think we know that.

Why tonight?

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

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***

Romance lives. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Nia & Larenz: Chemistry Unrivaled

Hollywood Hills, Calif.–7:19 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

” . . . we had fun, didn’t we?”

“Ooh yes, we did. It wasn’t even like work on the set. Just imagine if all our movies could be like that. People actually thought we had a thing going on off-camera,” she blushes into his eyes.

Their interaction is fluid, easy, effortless.

“How you know I didn’t?” he throws a slider she doesn’t expect.

She looks askance then returns his gaze with knowing eye language.

“So what are you saying?”

“What I’m sayin’ is . . . maybe we should do it again. We both know that no other couple on this chocolate earth can match our on-screen heat, woman.” His swag and charisma, intense as ever, tugs at her, rendering her near helpless.

The proposition doesn’t take much thought.

“You know people are talking about a sequel on social media. They’re workin’ on trailer apps already . . . and our own ad platform on the new facebook Home phone . . . .” he adds.

She begins talking contract figures, box-office/DVD/internet streaming/cable revenue, including Netflix, and urban media.
She’s grown since that breakthrough project and is now a fierce businesswoman as much as a can’t-take-our-eyes-off-her actress.

“I’ll tell you what,” she slips into her mesmerizing, captivating character. “You’ll be the blues in my left thigh . . . and . . . ” she pauses, leaving him suspended in her melt-inducing brown eyes.

“And?” he can’t wait.

“. . . and I’ll be the funk in your right.”

DAYUM!

They both break out in laughter.

And a jones, once immortalized on film, resurfaces.

***

I got a jones for you, woman. -Rg2

Coming soon: “Love Jones 2: The Pamper-Her-Friday Affair”

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Rated Rg2: Romance Confidential, Extremely Private
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My Love,

Someone’s got to have integrity.

There was an unexpected knock at my door last night. I didn’t bother peering through the peephole nor asking for her name within earshot.

I kept her faceless, nameless. She was uninvited. How’d I know it was a woman? The decibel of the knock–uninquisitive, unurgent, provocative.

I stood there momentarily, silently. I imagine she did, too. I heard no walk-away shoesteps. I could feel, I could interpret her intentions. Even separated by the locked door, her longings were palpable.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t open the door. Just stared at the deadbolt.

Someone’s got to have integrity.

One more wrap on my door and I turned my back to it. Stood there and fought my vulnerability, stood toe-to-toe with my anatomical on-the-verges–heart throbs rapid, pulse quickened, mind racing to the quixotic fantasy standing, waiting, lustfully at my doorstep.

A man is weak, so most women swear by. A bachelor even weaker, no?

“Don’t turn down money; Don’t turn down a woman”–the unwritten but to-the-death ascribed man-code. The Player’s Manifesto? I know each clause, each stipulation, each line like my times tables. Hell, I’m a co-author.

But I stood there. Wordless. Actionless. I imagine she did, too . . . for awhile. I heard no walk-away footsteps. We stood the door down. Perhaps she was daring me to open. Perhaps I was daring her to knuckletap once more.

And she did.

But I didn’t.

Why? Because.

Because, as utterly enticing, as tantalizingly provocative, as daringly, lusciously sweet as the low-hanging fruit waiting outside the door–her fragrance somehow wafting sneakily and entrancingly and batingly through the seams of the jambs; her wantings and longings and take-me-as-you-want-me’s seemingly haunting me through the door’s minute pores–as mesmerizingly tempting as the uninvited guest was outside my entryway . . .

. . . she wasn’t you.

You know where my mind escaped to in that very moment?

The lake.

You and I on the lake to usher in spring. Homemade hand-carved, honey-glazed turkey breast sandwiches; spring-mix, fruit-infused salad; Woodbridge, Calif.-sourced almond champagne; and (your idea) custom-baked red velvet/cream cheese cupcakes.

Yeah, I didn’t answer the door.

I’m going to the lake instead. With you.

On Pamper-Her-Friday.

***

Romance lives. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

© Igor Pavloff

“Don’t wait to show her.” -The Pamperer
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Spring Kiss, Calif.–12:36 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

By all means, do it today.

Better yet, do it now.

Tomorrow’s kiss isn’t promised to any of us.

Give her one.

No, two or three. More even.

After all, it’s Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .

***

A kiss that is never tasted,
is forever and ever wasted. -Billie Holiday

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Pacific Isle, Calif.–Sunset, Pamper-Her-Friday:

“American women are the least pampered species on Earth.” -The Pamperer
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His checklist:

Romantic cave-ambient lighting? Check.

Freshly laundered towels? Check.

Hot spring, soft-element, skin-massaging bubble water? Check.

Hint-scented, organic candles? Check.

A rapt listener to the happenings of your week? Check.

Foot massage while you’re submerged in the hot pond? Check.

My taking requests from you as to how you want me to pamper
you during Spring Break? Check.

Poetry serenade during foot massage? Check.

Bird of Paradise drinks with vodka hints? Check.

Your legs wrapped around me to keep me from water-drifting away? Check.

As the oxygen bubbles ascend the water’s surface, you find your way to my chest, head relaxed mid-pecs? Check.

A tangerine sunset aglow in the distance? Check.

Your eyes drift to a euphoric close, serenity overcomes you while I breathe on you? Check.

Life, as you now know it, in this very moment, is so damn good? Check.

***

Pamper-Her-Friday? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check . . . ! -Rg2

Just because, Love.

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

© bridgette duplantis

The Pamperer’s Lair, Calif.–7:17 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:
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“A woman hasn’t lived until she has experienced a luxurious milkbath.” -The Pamperer
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Babygirl, I’ve been in the marketing side of business long enough to master its trickery, its gimmicks. Its illusions.

Marketing–successful marketing–at its core is a play on the emotions, part fantasy, part theatre, part sleight-of-hand.

Many a suspicious woman has considered the storied milk bath just that: Marketing at its finest.

But it’s usually those who haven’t been fortunate to engage its wonders. Especially at the hands of a ‘pamperer’ with whom she’s in love.

I say we dispel any notion of a ‘milk-bath myth’ right here, right now. I suggest you follow my directives:

Tie up your hair . . . bun, hive, Japanese twist–doesn’t matter. Just sweep it from your neck.

Let me help you with the shoes–no, wait. Let’s make those the final destination.

The capri pants are cute, but they’re begging for a rest. Let me help you. Have a seat . . . raise up (hips elevated slightly, capris released).

This wasn’t part of my research but bear with me–forefoot kiss, ankle kiss, shin kiss, calf massage, hind-knees massaged while kneecaps kiss-pampered . . . thighs become jealous at the lower-leg attention. No need for envy. Let’s welcome those, too.

(Her head sinks into the recliner’s headrest, her noggin partially overhanging the chair’s upper lip. Her eyes become peaceful, their lids fall helplessly to the ambiance of the methodical disrobing.)

The brazier’s been holding its end of the bargain all day long and is craving a respite. How dare it work overtime. It escapes.

And the thong.

By gosh, the laggard, the late arrival which, truth be told, never wanted to come to the party to begin with. It feels used and manipulated–as if all it’s wanted for is adornment. No other purpose.

Well, let’s honor its wishes and toss it awry. Who needs you anyway?

Where’re we going, you ask? A soothing shower lather rinse first to wash away the week’s debris, both mental and physical. As the last of the water circles the drain, the milk bath awaits.

Let’s pat you dry . . . well, let’s not bother with formalities. Come, the bath is eager.

Easy. No need for a splash. The warm milk is just as tender as you, Love. Here, lay your head on the puffy towel.

How’s that? You like? Oh, you love? Good.

Now, how about a glass of bubbly? I’ll join you. That good? Great. Glad you like.

Now relax and tell me how your day transpired. By all means, take your time, sweetheart. We’ve got the night.

All night.

The entire weekend in fact.

What’s that? You’ve been thinking about me all week, you say?

Hmm, what a coincidence.

Thank God it’s Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .

***

Pamper the Goddess . . . . -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

It was all a dream!
I used to read Fortune magazine
From rusted-out clunker to presidential limousine
But what’s it all mean without a Nubiana Queen? -Rg2

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My Sweet Love,

I needed an ally; a protector. I needed a secret agent with a potent mind-gun. A public agent, I wanted, to help me navigate this thing called life, negotiate this thing regarded by many as love.

Prior to meeting you, the other women I’d dated all described me as aloof, emotionally distant, unwilling to come ashore from the far-away ocean drift they saw my life as. 

And then I met you–anchors aweigh no more.

How was it that you were safe harbor, woman? Have we defied the odds? Some would say as much. Others say odds have nothing to do with . . . destiny. We both were acting on instinct. Impulse. But your emotional intelligence was spot on, no?

And mine wasn’t too shabby either.

I guess at some point a ship adrift must eventually come ashore. You made certain my anchor reached the ocean floor, as only you could. 

I reached safe harbor. I thank you for providing the perfect dock.

And I’d like to express my appreciation this evening in commemoration. 

The Service will escort you tonight to the vessel I had commissioned by a group of veteran shipbuilders. I thought of the ideal name: The Queen Michelle. We’ll christen it just before a private dinner featuring your favorite jazz quartet. 

Moonlight gazing aboardship awaits us. And a PHF surprise that I’ll let go unhinted for the time being.

A private celebration of safe harbor. 

The occasion? 

Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

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***
Pamper the woman and forever is her Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Image: © Mrs. O.

Maldives Island–Midday Sun, Pamper-Her-Friday:

Love, though we haven’t spoken since Monday, the soul whisperer in you has sent smoke signals and poke signals my direction. I took notice of the heartwaves. They tugged on me just enough to remind me what I mean to you–what I mean to your psyche, your balance, your harmony.

You’ve been restless, huh?

But can yours match mine? I don’t know. I could be mistaken but, well, let’s just say you’ve monopolized my thoughts the weeklong. There’s this healthy paranoia we both are slave to: Neither of us wants to publicly admit that pure, unjaded, unadulterated caring is not just possible within us. But probable for us.

This thing we share is a must . . . who’re we kidding? We, together, are a must. And trust? What, you’re afraid to trust it?
Understandable. The heart is a vital organ.

And it’s indicating vital signs. Mine more than yours? Or yours more than mine?

I admit, I’m likely tipping the scales on my end. But that’s quite alright. Emotional equity, though ideal in a relationship, doesn’t always win out.

Surely, one or the other is loving just a bit more deeply.

It’s probably me.

Which is why I’m proposing a warm-weather getaway this weekend. You’re not one fond of snowplows or frozen windshields or driveway shoveling.

So I’ve arranged a lounge chaise on the shoreline under pristine skies . . . to get you away from the arctic elements for a lovely spell.

Oh, and pampering will be all there is to do.

What do you say?

***

Romance lives.

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®