Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Image: © Starlaim 164908

Love Letter from Calif.:

My Love,

Listen, I, uh, I, well, I’m not one with a flair for dramatics.
And, well, I, I’m not exactly gifted in spoken-word acrobatics.
And sometimes my silences and mental distance betray me as enigmatic.

Forgive me, woman, my heart’s not capable of insincere tactics.
But what I feel can be summed up with fairly simple mathematics.

Valentine’s Day is but once a year. And the two of us are tailor made for the occasion.

Why?

I’ve been heart- and mind-writing about love and attraction and romance for the majority of my adult life. Few, if any, have noticed–let alone read.

Except you.

You couldn’t put me down, refused to ‘write’ me off as some one-poem, some single-romancework wonder.

You’re in love with me, though you’ve never voiced it. It’s OK, Cupid heard your whispers in the dark. And put a little something in my ear, put a little extra ink in my pen, a little more energy and elan in my fingers at the keys.

A little more romance in my heart.

I’ve been writing about romantic serendipity and mystery and epiphany like a madman. A MADMAN!

I’m either foolish (but wasn’t it Steve Jobs who said, “Stay foolish”?) or I’m the Michael Jordan of Romance. Yeah, I’d write (play) for free . . . for love of the art (game).

Remember when he cried helplessly while clutching the trophy after winning his first ring? The world watched Air Jordan cry.

I, too, cried–silently, tearlessly. I understood, not so much his struggle (no one will ever know that but he), but that life struggle, that love struggle for something one wants so god-awful bad, something greater than himself . . . that blood, sweat, and tears are left on the court and on the page and even on the keys.

You kept reading. And encouraging. And wanting it for me because, unlike most other women, there lives in you a spirituality, a life-giving force of nature, a selfless generosity that says somehow,
“If he wins, we all win; life becomes just a little bit better for his efforts.”

Yeah, like MJ, I’d cry . . . I’d shed exclusive tears for my trophy.

My trophy?

Your “yes.”

This is my ask, woman.

Will you . . . by all means, will you . . . with everything within me, will you . . . ?

Eternally yours,
Rg2

***

Romance lives.

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

The Valentine Suite, Calif.–10:29 p.m., Post-ValDay PHF:

She slaps his face furiously with her right hand and, a second later, callously smacks him with her left, as he looks on, throttled. Dazed.

“You’re coming up subpar!” she explodes. “Play your position with passion . . . or don’t play at all!” she unloads fiercely.

“Mami, don’t hit me no more,” he pleads, suddenly getting her point. And he gets his erotic mojo back instantaneously.

“To hell with Valentine sentimentality . . . and to hell with pampering. I wanna be bruised tonight!” she commands.

Lights out.

Fade to black.

***

Meet the woman’s demands. Or else . . . . -Rg2

Woman on fire!

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Image: © catmycat3 goodfon.ru

Cupid’s Hideaway, Calif.–12:28 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

He walks nonchalantly into the corner drugstore to pick up a bottle of aspirin, 70% rubbing alcohol, and a roll of Hall’s menthol cough drops. The first aisle that runs astride the main-entrance corridor
is lined with gold-speckled, red bow-striped, heart-shaped boxed chocolates–those last-resort gifts for the man who either procrastinates or lacks imagination.

He pauses about midway, faces the expansive shelves stockful of candies, scans the length of the eye-level gold-rush hearts, and rubs his chin with his hand. Struck by a notion, he.

A blue smock-wearing, bespeckled middle-aged gentleman with a manager’s tag on his lapel approaches, speaks a hello, and continues his brisk pace. “Excuse me,” he addresses the store clerk. “How much do you want for the candies?”

Incredulous, the manager replies, “Beg your pardon, sir?”

“All the boxes on the shelf, how much do you want for the entire inventory?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

He pulls out both an AmEx and a debit card. “Which do you prefer? I’ll take them all off your hands. Will you actually sell all of them by the 14th?”

The manager struggles for words, still in disbelief but his eyes now beaming matching dollar signs like a hologram. He then escorts the buyer to the register to transact the tender.

“Let’s see now,” the manager says with a slightly nervous excitement, “128 times $5.99 . . . .”

“Make that 127,” he chimes in. “I want one left on the shelf, unbought until I return. Oh, and could you shrinkwrap them on a pallet for me? I’ll need a hand-truck as well.”

“Yes, sir! No problem.”

He pockets the receipt and exits the sliding glass doors into the early night, the manager and the few customers who’d been standing in line having eye-trailed him out, bewildered faces on them all.

***

5:11 p.m.:

Her handset chirps, a text: “2013 is officially the last year for Valentine’s Day.” A sad-faced icon punctuates the message.

She texts back: “What?! Oh, no, it’s the end of the world,” she plays along after a moment of ponder. “So what’s a girl to do without a big, strong, romantic Cupid to look forward to?” Double sad-faced icons follow her reply.

“She should make certain she spends the send-off with someone worthy of the very last ValDay as we know it.” His icon turned smiley. “In fact, I hear there’s a run on chocolates all over the city . . . people snapping up all the boxes in sight at retailers everywhere, like 1980s cabbage patch dolls. Mayhem!”

She laughs to herself at his message.

“Do me a favor,” he concludes, “I won’t be leaving the office for another couple of hours, last-minute paperwork. There’s a Rite Aid on your way to the metro. Could you pick up a Whitman’s or whatever might be left and I’ll reimburse you? If this is the last run, those heart boxes will only go up in value over time.”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be silly. A run on those chintzy candies at the pharmacy?” Her giggle continues as she types the words. “I’d rather just make my way straight to you instead . . . you promised me Thai food tonight, remember?”

“Of course,” he replies. “The play’s at 9:30. I’ll be there by 8.”

She sends a heart icon as confirmation. After resting her mobile atop her desk, she turns toward her west-facing office window and peers out at a beautiful Southern California winter’s sunset–between its beckoning tangerine glow and the imagery still lingering from his just-read texts, she’s eager to start her weekend.

It’s Thai night.

***
5:32 p.m., PHF:

As silly a notion as it was, the thought of a Valentine chocolates run sparked just enough curiosity for her to pay the drugstore an oh-what-the-heck visit, if only for a few needed toiletries.

Making her way to the feminine products section, she remembers his request and redirects her steps to the main artery of the store, where in-season items are most readily reached. She lets go a humored chagrin when she approaches the holiday-theme aisle–candy aplenty! M&Ms, red hots, licorice and candy bars galore, all a hand-grab away.

But, eerily, the top shelf is without merchandise. She walks around the huge display to its opposite side, only to discover an exact visual: wrapped candies in abundance from eye-level down but the crown shelf bare. None of the familiar heart-shaped, Valentine-theme boxes of less-than-premium chocolates she (and so many others) had taken for granted.

“Excuse me,” she approaches a bespeckled man at the checkout counter. “Are you out of the chocolates?”

“Oh, yes. They sold out just recently . . . the whole lot of ’em. Wouldn’t you know it? Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Puzzled she stood. Her inner voice–his–seemingly laughing at her while thumping her noggin at the same time.

Could this be?

“No thanks,” she says, deflated, as she begins making her way out of the store, a sudden jones–out of nowhere–for sweet chocolate having crept onto her taste buds.

Funny how we miss nothing.

Until it’s gone . . . .

(The conclusion: Next week)

***

There’s an art to the ask. -Rg2

(Rated Rg2: For Ladies Only)

Panti Petals, Calif.–7:17 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

“Tell your girlfriends to take a raincheck this weekend. If there’s a problem, see me,” his words roll off his lips like a chieftain laying down the law to a second-in-command with no options except acquiescence–glad acceptance. “I want you to myself tonight . . . no distractions, no interruptions.”

Her hands clutched around the beveled frame of the iPad, she projects eagerly into the touchscreen a surrendered grin, oddly submissive to his directive.

“OK.” Her reply brief, simple, and defenseless. Surrender. Deliberate and willful surrender. Communicating with him via the facetime video app, she scans his face in real time, wanting to reach her hand through the tablet and stroke the five o’ clock shadow adorning his lower jaws, cleanly trimmed to match the temple fade of his short, wave-rippled coif that begs her finger-play. Funny, her palms begin to generate an excited moisture as their tele-interplay plays out.

She rotates the tablet from landscape to portrait to landscape again, to allow the condensation from each hand print to evaporate after each pause. This bodily chemical reaction is foreign to her, though not unfathomable. The man in the electronic portrait is a throbber–several degrees hot. And hotter.

“Tilt the pad,” he requests. “Slow, let it scan you methodically. I want a glimpse of what awaits me in a few hours.
“Slowly,” he reiterates.

No resistance offered, aptly engaging his wile, she begins a provocative self-scan of her bare frontal with the handheld e-device, her bodyscape captured mesmerically by the rectangle optical lens, revealing cleavage and ribprints and navel art and the teasing, triangular-formed, chiffon panty covering that disappears at each hip.

Further the lens drifts, at his urging, to her thighs, further still over her entire leg length–each of his requests greeted with each of her gives, his approvals feel-able through the machine.

The flower bouguet arrived in yesterday’s late afternoon to her total wonder and one of the roses, in particular, begged her playful hand. The petals, aromatic and silk-textured, were the perfect body adornment in anticipation of their tele-chat.

They both revel in the provocative e-moment.

“Well, I’d better go,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve got work to do. We’re each other’s tonight, woman.”

They sign off . . . the room now riddled with both pheromone and anticipation. Working from home today, she’s in no rush to start what would otherwise be a hectic day. She showers and begins prepping her hair. Her doorbell surprises her.

Her arrival at the entrance, strangely, is greeted by no one–a prank. Until she notices a black slate at the doorstep. She recognizes it as his tablet, of all things. More curious than startled, she visually scans the walkway and then the driveway. To no avail.

She retrieves the iPad from the welcome mat. Oddly enough, the device is powered up, the blacked-out screen features nothing but a post-it note. “Swipe,” it reads.

At mid-point of her finger stroke, his portrait lights up the screen, bared, chiseled chest, a bouquet of roses clutched by his left palm.

And then . . .

. . . he appears.

In real time. In real life. At the doorstep.

“I took the afternoon off,” he says, his smile and piercing brown eyes greeted by the amazement of hers as she jumps into his arms.

He closes the door behind them as the late morning sun appears jealous it wasn’t invited in.

And Pamper-Her-Friday, a bit earlier than anticipated, begins.

***
The Art of Romance. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

(Rated Rg2: For Mature Readers)

Nature’s Bathfall, Calif.–8:26 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

“Turn off the phone.
“You heard me; turn the phone off–now.”

(The Android icon signs off and her screen goes black.)

“Log off and shut down the tablet.
“Yes, shut it down. Now.”

(The tiles on her Surface disappear and the touchscreen fades to black.)

The antique tub sits provocatively silent save the cloudlike whirls of steam defying gravity as they hover just above the H2O’s surface, ascending into the private room’s atmosphere before evaporating into the warm, organic candle-scented air that oxygenates the bath enclosure.
He approaches her standing, stilled, calm-before-the-quiet-storm body, clothed only by a thickly luxurious terry cloth robe–her back to his front.

Stealth-like, harmlessly predator-like, he bridges the last ray-of-light distance between their bodies, like a door now only slightly ajar, and breathes on the delicate curvatures of her shoulders,
the surface skin area of each clavicle seemingly inviting his warm exhalations as they travel methodically toward her neck, deftly climbing the vertebrae at a snail’s pace until she feels the pulsating warmth near the anterior of her ear.

“Mmmm,” she helplessly sighs.

His hands–those hands–part repairman, part sportsman, part landscapeman, part chiropractor, part masseur . . . all gentle yet confident lover describe the composition of his palms and fingers that envelop her hands, her wrists, her forearms, gliding meticulously along her biceps, the robe sleeves giving way at
each half-inch while the terry’s neckline now rests at her mid-back.

Off comes the cloth, meeting the floor with a barely audible thud while draping her hindfeet. He nudges her forward, his body on hers, his breaths faintly perceptible upon the smooth mass of her upper back.

He kneels, cradles her interior knees and torso with his toned arms, and positions her entire body from vertical to horizontal against his chest, like a hard-bodied crane lifting a tender tree
from effortless ground clearance to weightlessness.

He positions her parallel to the awaiting tub’s flower petal-sprinkled, hot spring water-filled mouth and begins a slow-motion, instant replay-like descending of her tingling-from-head-to-toe body, gently breaking the surface of the hot pond.

The sponge he takes, as if a months-long-trained womanwasher, and begins a symphony violin lathering upon her shoulder, her arm the instrument, his hand the bow.

She closes her eyes, takes in a series of deep breaths and lets each go as if exhaling away all cares, concerns, worries, and burdens at each release.

Every part of her is his–the pamperer’s.

And the only words her mind can conjure in the moment are, “Heaven is upon me.”

It is.

Because it’s Friday.

Pamper-Her-Friday.

***

Romance lives. -Rg2

Southern California–10:59 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

The first semi-annual Pamper-Her-Friday After5 Affair went off like a charm at the Citizens Bank Arena on a storybook, not-quite-wintry evening in Southern California’s Inland Empire.

With rain-cleansed, crisp air and snow-hatted mountains in the backdrop, the inaugural he-reveals-the-creative-ways-he-cares-for-her gathering featured Asian-fusion dinner; almond-flavored California champagne; piano chords-/strings-inspired, slow-pulse dancing; and the night’s highlight: the improvisational show-her show.

The Improvisational Show-Her Show?

An open-mic, open-stage, open-floor, 4-minute-limit-per-man segment of the evening in which he reveals and/or displays to his captivated love interest what Pamper-Her-Friday means to him–what she means to him.

Each man’s vignette ran the creative/artistic gamut: One man recited her favorite–Chaucer–yet completing the final verses of the poem with lines he’d written exclusively for her. Another man broke into song the very ditty her father would sing to her as a little girl to cheer her after she’d come home with boo-boos and hurts–physical and emotional–from a rambunctious school day.

Another–a novice magician–pulled from his top hat the cutest bunny rabbit that, once released, actually hopped to her table with a tiny satchel dangling from its ears, containing a woo note and gift card to the last remaining independent bookstore (she loves books!) in their city.

And yet another man–perhaps the highlight of the evening and its loudest “awww” moment–began communicating via sign language to his soft-eyed date the very vows they had taken at their wedding those many years ago–she’d recently been in a car accident and the head trauma she suffered resulted in a loss of hearing . . . along with a creeping, silent fear he’d end up leaving her because.

He didn’t.

He signed, among his heart-stopping performance, “Yesterday, today, tomorrow . . . we’re forever.” I don’t believe there was a dry eye in the room. Not a one.

My date seemed to clutch my hand a little tighter and pressed her shoulder upon mine to alleviate any inkling of space between us–to the point I could literally feel the blood coursing throughout her arm, her heartbeat in sync with my own.

It wasn’t about big gifts to one-up the other man; wasn’t about showy theatrics that exaggerated a figment caring that doesn’t actually exist when they go home; wasn’t about which man was the most talented or creative or ooh- and ahh-inspiring.

It wasn’t about the best performer of the night.

No, the inaugural Pamper-Her-Friday After5 Affair wasn’t about outdoing, outperforming, outblinging, or outshowing the next man.

It was about simple expression of caring–in his own way.

Simple expressions of pampering as best he knows how, from the heart.

It was a magical Pamper-Her-Friday.

Man, I had fun.

***

Pamper the woman. From the heart. -Rg2

© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Her Cottage, Calif.–6:49 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

He recorded a message on her handset, left it at the edge of her bed along with a notecard that reads: “touch play at sunrise.”

She gently rubs her morning eyes, uncocoons her cradled body from beneath the warm down comforter, and commences to follow his handscripted directive with a first-love curiosity.

Upon touching the screen, his voice takes the room like a lone instrument.

“It took everything within me not to remain by your side as the hearth flames subsided last night. As I carried you from the sofa to the warmth of your bed, you clutched my arms right at the release point, instinctively, with a sudden burst of consciousness that took me by surprise because your eyes were closed all the while.

“You had fallen asleep only moments earlier in my arms, almost perfectly in sync with the ending of the novella. I’d never had a woman ask me to read her a bedtime story, let alone as a gift to ring in the new year. I guess the lullaby still has a sacred place in this post-modern world after all. Or are we simply throwbacks to some imaginary time past or that never was?

“Well, it is. It still is. I like it. And I look forward to the next reading at your request.

“I honored your reluctance for physical intimacy. In fact it really wasn’t that difficult–I took the gentleman’s vow a long, long time ago. To all is a season, you know? I respect seasons.

“I do believe, though, you wanted me to stay. No more than I. It took everything within me not to remain by your side till the morning sun. But I felt my temporary exit would be much easier
in the quiet of the night, after you were put away safely and soundly . . . enough to reflect on our time together when morning arrives.

“And to look forward to my return. To pick up the story where the last chapter ended. With you in my arms once again on the very first Pamper-Her-Friday of the new year.

“It’s a new season, Love. It begins tonight. I look forward to seeing you.”

She finger-wades through her ruffled hair and stares at the phone, the instrument having played to its final note–wishing it hadn’t.

She feels, her body feels, her mind feels, her imagination feels like she’s on the verge of something, something . . . something helplessly irresistible, something bewitching and becharming and lullaby-like all at once. Something like the mystery and the enchantment of a new year.

Of a new romance.

Hearth Place, Calif.–5:42 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

“Romance by Firelight”

Say, sweetheart, Christmas left us all dressed in white
and the weather outside isn’t the least bit frightful,
Let’s go ice skating under the holiday moonlight
I wanna share some special moments insightful,

If, well, ‘when’ I happen to lose my balance,
can you try not to crack a smile?
I have a feeling on the way back home tonight
you’ll be helplessly laughing all the while,

OK, OK, so I’m not the most gifted
when it comes to traversing the winter ice,
I like the way you wrapped your arms around my waist
Mmm, woman, that was so very nice,

And isn’t that the relationship ideal defined:
Where I falter, you’ll compensate,
And when you care for me through romantic acts so tender
My Love, I’ll gladly reciprocate,

Twofold, threefold, fourfold and more
There’s no limit to devotion’s depth or degree,
and when it comes to pampering ma chérie d’amour
It may well behoove the world to see,

The holiday spirit, we so mutually feel it
and Pamper-Her-Friday is ours as a gift,
Leaving the chill outside, I’ll make a fire inside
Our romance a little higher we’ll lift,

Ah, that’s right, I promised to take you to the cinema
Which one did you choose? Was it Django?
What is it, you wanna go over the weekend instead?
Tonight you’re feeling a little romantic tango,

Uh huh, I’m lovin’ your thought process, woman
You’ve definitely made the right call,
We can star in our own romantic movie tonight
The most successful box office of them all,

A little drama, a little comedy, with a sprinkle of humor
Perhaps even our own version of satire,
Above all an abundance of holiday romance
An evening of cuddling and snuggling by the fire,

Warm apple cider eagerly awaits our flutes
Meanwhile there’s one last thing,
Notice the lone box sitting under the tree
Hold still, for you I’ll bring,

I deliberately reserved it for this special night
to extend the mirth of Christmas past,
Let me slip it on your finger as it sparkles by the light
For you I saved the very best for last.

Merry Christmas, Love.

***
Pamper the woman . . . for the holidays. -Rg2

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Kringle’s Carol, Calif.–5:11 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

Got a collect call from Kris Kringle this morning
Imagine that, he still hasn’t gone mobile,
But I gladly accepted the charge
For his words were movingly noble,

“I won’t be able to make it to your place,” he said,
“but I’m sending my faithful Blitzen,
“I’m battling this stubborn flu bug
“And the workshop roof needs fixin’ . . .

“When Blitz taps his hoof on your door
“be sure to answer with your princess,
“He’ll kneel in her presence
“and behold her as if an empress,

“Take the package but be gentle
“The contents are rather fragile,
“Please send back milk and cookies
“And my recovery will be more agile,”

OK, Love, should we open it?
Or might we wait until the Eve?
Your face is flush with curiosity
As if in Santa you still believe,

Alright, come gather by the tree with me
A coupled audience by fireside,
I’ll open a Blitzen’s Blanc for two
Mr. Kringle’s instructions we’ll abide,

OK, you start with the ribbon
and then we’ll tear away the wrapping,
And should Blitz chance one last window peek
We’ll pretend as if we’re napping,

There, now ease it out of the box, Love,
Remove the top and tell me what you see,
Whoa, you’ve gone from flush to blush
Why, what on earth could it be?

You’re kidding me: The promise ring I gave you
those many years ago?
You’d lost it our first winter together
as we play-fought in the snow,

And the very first love letters we penned
encased in exquisite hand-carved glass,
The exact words inscribed in gold lettering
Traces of my cologne dabs it even has,

My, how in the world did he know?
That crafty Kris Kringle,
He’s a romantic after my very own heart
and this moment calls for a jingle,

Come closer to me, woman,
I wanna carol a ballad in your ear,
It’s a special Pamper-Her-Friday, my Love
For Christmastime is here.

***

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

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Noel Romance, Calif.–5:58 p.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:

“No Romantic Grinch”