Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Say, my Love, lend me your tender ear
I’ve a special announcement to make,
Come sit in my lap, I want you near
For this affectionate moment’s sake

I’m taking two Christmasweeks in your name
Yes, I’ll be shutting it down,
To share each holiday moment with you
Are you ready to paint the town?

Slip on your red dress, stilettos select
We’re on for the Pasadena Playhouse,
The Chocolate Nutcracker awaits our company
Your head on my shoulder will rouse

The St. Nicholas heart lain restless in me
from the beginning of our Autumn Romance,
I’ll let you choose the fresh-cut tree
The most fragrant deserves the chance

The Fraser Fir appears to’ve taken your eye
Love, I’m totally in agreement,
I’ll gather winterberry and hand-picked cones
We’ll revel in your creative achievement

So interior décor flows natural in you?
Sure, have at it, do tickle your fancy,
Let me know if it’s straight while I tighten the screws
I don’t want to be too chancy

With this sensually sweet holiday endeavor
we’ve indulged like first-Christmas lovers,
I’m in love with you, girl, there, the gift’s unwrapped
I don’t much care about the others . . .

. . . those trinkets and the latest gotta-have-things
requiring a hope-he-likes-this purchase,
Let others enhance the merchants’ coffers
Much deeper and tender are my urges

A spontaneous come-with-me to See’s chocolate factory
You’ll sample the first luscious bite,
Then on to see the candy caners in action
We’ll take with us the flavors you delight

Now, that’s only the start of my pamper-her list
and Rudolph is several miles away,
But it’s beginning to feel like love is in the air
and Santa sent a message to convey:

“Don’t procrastinate, young man, in giving the woman
a hint of what’s in store . . .”
It’s Pamper-Her-Friday of the holiday season
I promise you there’s so much more . . .

. . . awaiting us, Love.

***
It’s beginning to look a lot like . . . Romance. -Rg2

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

I wasn’t taught how to hold a woman, how to touch a woman. No one ever told me there’s an art to it. Coming from a dysfunctional family where affection was hardly, if ever, on display, the lack of visual knowledge bordered on tragic.

My father died at 28; my mother, at the time, was carrying me. Tragic. Never saw him breathing, walking, building, chastising, guiding, laughing. Loving. God, I never saw my father love my mother–both in words and touch. I shed tears as I write this because.

But–‘but’ being the operative word here–when I watch my mother reminisce on time past, her eyes rivet speaking of him. When 2 a.m. came and my sister was crying in her cradle, he’d tell mother, “Stay put, I’ll get her.” My mother lay in bed, exhausted from the relentlessness of the day, while he would calm and cuddle my sister. And this wasn’t a one-off event; he was faithful in his dedication.

I never saw it. Jesus Christ, I never saw it. Never saw him touch and comfort what he’d helped give life to. Touch. Just imagine, if he’d touched my sister tenderly enough to tide her 2 a.m. tears, just imagine what his touch meant to my mother.

Can a man be fatherly–yet instinctively mother-like? Especially when the occasion requires the duality?

I shed tears as I write this.

Not necessarily of sadness, tears. But inherited tears. Bequeathed tears from a man, for a man, who didn’t know, instructively, what he was doing, but did it perhaps better, more giftedly, more naturally, more tenderly than most men born to this life.

I’m not sure who taught him. I don’t know who taught him. Perhaps his father, his grandfather, an uncle, a friend’s father. His mother? Maybe he saw what the right touch elicited from his own mother, what her eyes revealed when she spoke of a certain gentleman, a certain tenderman, or perhaps a toughman who’d lost his share of good women and learned–through trial, error, and redemption–that touch is of utmost importance to woman-treating.

Touch is vital.

I never saw my father touch my mother. But, I swear, her eyes, in reminiscence, educate and inform me like no photo or book or letter or oral confession can nor ever will. My father was a touch artist of the highest order. Did he know it? Did my mother know it at the time, while he still walked this earth? Or did it become so strikingly evident only “after” God called him home?

When my trademark lawyer asked me why I wanted to trademark Pamper-Her-Friday–he seemed to assign no intrinsic value or human power to my intent–I said simply:

‘For my father.’

He fell deafly silent and lowered his eyes in a moment of conscious misunderstanding, but when he returned his gaze to me, I knew, we knew, what the meaning was. Its eternal power.

Perhaps he had a father, similar. It’s powerful–touch.

I wanna touch you tonight. On this occasion of Pamper-Her-Friday.
In honor of my father. For my father. And mother. My mother and father.

I wasn’t taught how to touch a woman.

But I was bequeathed the knowledge. The innate tenderness.

Yes, I’m dysfunctional. Forgive me my dysfunction. But let me hold you tonight to make up for the lacking.

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday. I want to hold you. I wanna touch you. Like no one else is capable.

I want to share my inheritance.

With you and no one else.

Tonight. And evermore.

All My Love,
Rg2

 

 

***
The truest, most timeless meaning of pampering. -Rg2

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

We thanksgave, didn’t we, Love?
I don’t believe we left anything on the table
I suggest we christen a new holiday:
ThanksPampering . . . and we’ll trademark the label,

Yes, I’m at it again, aren’t I?
My mind’s in perpetual idea mode
If you consider my culinary skills an act of heart-wooing
Your affections tell me you’re sold,

They say a man gifted in the art of cooking
is never at a loss for a woman’s company
Because she has two palates that need satiating:
Physical/Emotional appetites–part of the summary,

I’ve written down like a generations-long recipe
What it is both your heart and mind require
You want to be pampered during these holidays
and I so abundantly possess the desire,

Did you awaken to sweet thoughts this morning?
I left an autumn note at the edge of your bed
Buried beneath fragrant leaves from your favorite season
Symbolism of what needn’t be said,

Tonight we’ll go easy, put your feet up
I’m making hot tea with a chase of brandywine
You wanna cuddle with a movie by the fireplace?
It’s ThanksPampering and, woman, you’re mine. All mine.

***

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

Image: autumn emotion by amaria

 It’s raining, Love–in Southern California no less
Just look at this bed, what a beautiful mess

And you? Your hair’s frazzled, so artistically unkempt
Oh, so, you blame me? As though you didn’t tempt

What is it? You can’t locate your autumn pantie?
Well, finders, keepers, woman, I’m upping the ante

Up, up, so strongly up, yes, still I am
“Gentle,” you requested, then you didn’t give a damn

Make up your mind for autumn’s sake: Agony or ecstasy
Part two this morning? That sounds to me like a plea

Alright, the pillow toppled over, why don’t you hold still
“Lift your abdomen, just like that . . . ,” I want you to feel

Ease down, slowly, spine parallel to the ceiling
left arm west, right arm east, as this sexual healing

Has opened his eyes toward the misty window
The droplets are in free fall,
No, don’t you dare move, let it ring
I’m not taking that call

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday after re-election
We’ve donated and volunteered,
My mind was on work today
but somewhere I veered

Or was the detour a result of your feverish arousal?
The way you purr at my stimuli borders on spousal

Support . . . I don’t mean to contort your
heaven-sculpted limbs
Don’t say a word, obey my commands
subjected you’re to my whims

And woos, your coos, and oohs followed by ahhs
Let’s make this Lovers Ditch Day, a pause for the cause

Of hope and change and peace and romance
beyond another four years I dream that it spans

Mmm, how supple, your thighs are so warm
I can’t think of a safer shelter from this mid-autumn storm

Let’s make it a long weekend, the rain we’ll celebrate
While it pours unabated, we’ll take pleasure in the wait . . . .

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, my Love–in lieu of flowers
I offer my autumn romance,
Before you assume you aren’t worthy of lilies
and dare to look askance . . .

Listen to my voice as I recite what
my candid heart has written,
The first line may be the most evocative
The last stanza affirms I’m smitten,

Somewhere between a throwback gentleman
and a modern renaissance man,
Label me what you will, no matter,
I’m ready to take the stand,

In defense of men who misunderstand
the art of woman-treating,
The last of a dying breed I’m not
But here’s a nugget worth repeating:

Patient talks and paced autumn walks,
Let’s not cease touching hands,
Relationships are not predisposed to failure
unless we neglect to dance,

Not only to music but the rustle of leaves
that rain from October skies,
There’s a bench I’ve scouted near the edge of
Park Place for the lyrics in your eyes,

Will you meet me? How will you greet me?
Will the elation be subdued?
Or will you let it go, that it may overflow
I may elicit the sweetest taboo mood,

When Harry met Sally it wasn’t a given
their relationship would evolve,
What they wanted at 20 would differ at 40
Romance not enough to solve,

Friendship cultivates for longevity’s sake
and the kiss will find its way,
No assumptions I’ll make and no liberties I’ll take
But we can’t keep this thing at bay,

It’s Pamper-Her-Friday, Love.

Image: by floridapfe

Forgive me, Love, my late arrival
I couldn’t make it on Friday,
I understand your disappointment
But let me have my say

On second thought, my creative actions will speak more persuasively than words,
Come stand next to me by the window
and have a gander at the skybirds

Yes, they’re on their southward migration
having made plans for the winter,
I took a cue from their foresight
and to you shall I render

An autumn kiss for Sunday evening bliss
but that’s only the start,
I need you to disrobe your tender limbs
and bare all dermal parts

It’s time for luxo-hydro therapy
infused with subtle aromatics,
I’m ready for some touchy-feely comedy
and take-our-time sexual dramatics

So you were disaffected by Barack’s debate performance?
No worries, he’ll turn it around,
Now focus on what I’m bringing to the stage tonight
’cause, woman, it’s about to go down

Dip, easy, toe first, Love,
Tell me, how does that feel?
Let’s submerge just a little bit lower
and don’t withhold your inner zeal

Because try, try, and try as you might
never could you conceal,
Your body cannot hide the truth
For I’m the healer of its ills

Gaze into the flames for a moment
and share with me what you see,
A simple fire under containment?
Or do your autumn emotions run free?

Forgive my hands and fingers, babygirl,
they’ve a mind of their own,
Oh, you like it there . . . what about there?
Careful, I might awaken an ero-zone

Wait a moment now, woman, this is
suppose to be Sunday evening therapy,
I simply wanted to relax you
But, Mmm, how you take care of me

What is it? You wish tomorrow wasn’t
a back-to-work day?
I feel you, but there’s a silver lining:
Next Pamper-Her-Friday . . . .

***

Pamper the woman and yours is her Autumn Romance. -Rg2

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®

6:59 p.m. PST
“Where do you want to meet?” he asks, detecting the thinness in her voice, its veiled regret discernible.
“Wherever you suggest,” she replies.
“There’s a coffee house on the corner of 5th and Main. Half an hour?”
“OK.”
It was her fourth call, and two unanswered letters, finally getting through. He cared about her fervently at

one time. But she was still sorting things out–love interests at both edges of the country, a career in flux,

a borderline arrogance born of her camera looks, and a mother who didn’t respect her father.
She walks into the coffee shop and is immediately taken by his presence at a bar table not far from the entrance. He stands. Dressed in jeans and stylish tweed blazer over top a woven charcoal turtleneck,

he’d evolved into the figure she’d anticipated–tall, understatedly handsome and approachable, his eyes noticeably guarded as ever.
“How are you?” he says, extending his arms to embrace her.
She needed the warm welcome.
“I’m well, thank you. It’s so good to see you.”
“Our coffees should be up any minute. I ordered Irish Cream blend. You use to like it that way.”
“I do, still,” she says, a smile finding its way to her lips. He greets it in kind.
“You look great,” he gives, “obviously taking care of yourself.”
“I’m trying.”
A nervous pause intervenes.
“And you? It looks like you haven’t had a bad day in years, if ever.”
“If only I were so lucky,” he turns away from her eyes. “The trick is to not let on, right?”
He excuses himself to the counter for their drinks. She trails him visually, studying his physical language, the broad shoulders, the strong yet measured steps, the gentle confidence. He places the cups midway between them, steam whirling before her and the Colombian beans persuasively aromatic. Beyond the the glass-paneled walls, gray clouds gather and a light rainfall appears.
“Has love been kind to you?” he breaks the silence.
“Not always. But I guess it makes no promises, does it?”
Vocalist Michael Bublé intones from the ceiling speakers and entrances the entirety of the coffee den. The song does something to her. To them both.
“I haven’t heard from you in years.”
She can’t find words. Until they find her.
“I didn’t know how to say goodbye.”
“I guess you didn’t,” he agrees.
More than a decade ago, she came to him heart-wounded. Forsaken by her boyfriend and unable to trust her friendgirls, she found him to be a refuge. He invited her to his place, gave her his bed, fed her chicken lentil soup and herbal tea. And, as if a seasoned soother, he read her a bedtime love story, supplanting her name for the heroine’s–to her enchantment. And held her throughout that storied night.
She awoke not totally healed but less wounded–and forever touched by the man.
“That night still lives in me,” she reveals. He sets his eyes on hers, acknowledging the revelation without words. “I’ll never forget it. Your spirit. You pampered me like a fairytale.”
He lowers his eyes to his cup and then resumes his gaze of her.
“I really didn’t want you to leave. But I took the moment for more than what it was. You were my responsibility for only a night.”
A gloss appears over her eyes, a helpless haze that admits to what her heart still feels. A helpless regret that surfaces as her eyes take hold of the wedding band on his finger.
“I wear it in remembrance,” he says. “I lost her two years ago to breast cancer.”
“I’m so sorry,” her empathy genuine.
“She loved me. But she wasn’t in love with me. And I guess I truly wasn’t either. We had learned to put aside the difference . . . and made it work.”
“Was there anyone else that you were truly carrying?”
He pauses while Bublé inspires a moment of reflection, resting his eyes on hers once again.
“I think you know the answer to that.” He looks at his watch and determines he’d taken up more time than anticipated. “I better go. I’m sure you’ve got things to do this evening. I didn’t want you to get caught in the rain. It was wonderful seeing you again.”
He relinquishes the coffee cup from has hand, takes a final gaze of her eyes and motions to unseat himself.
“I need to know,” she beckons, thrusting the words from her mouth as if they’d been caged far too long.
“Why? That woman went away years ago without so much as a goodbye.”
Her eyes fall from his. The hurt still evident.
“But you were always on my mind.”
Her eyes lift at the lifeline. Bublé’s vocals trail off.
“Make me your responsibility. Give me that moment again. I’ve waited years.”
He takes her hand and escorts her out into the night’s rainfall.
Little did she know, he’d been waiting, too.

***

Second Chance. Second Autumn. Romance. -Rg2

© 2012 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®