Whether we conversed for three minutes or three hours, phone calls with my state policeman rocked.
I normally let him do the majority of the speaking; his voice is very sultry, I felt I could take it in for-just-ever. Besides, the less I said the more he revealed. From the tidbits to the importants, Tony had become my Lamborghini on the information superhighway.
Occasionally he’d make me laugh, and he never failed to note, with pride, that he’d managed to do so. It was adorable how he seemed to thrive on pleasing me. At the end of every call, Tony, sweet guy that he is, would politely thank me for chatting with him.
Somewhere along the line, the clever fellow purchased a Sprint cellular, telling me it was because we’d be able to confer extensively without draining all of our minutes since that provider has unlimited cell-to-cell contact and I already had service with them.
After a couple of my accidentally pocket dialing him on his new toy, the hot cop found an app to block my number from audibly ringing and another to hide from his live-in girlfriend our eventual continuous texting -- hundreds of messages transferred daily and often throughout the night, too. He also covered up by sending a lot from his email to my number.
Being I was, as they say, “free, White, and 21,” and doing nothing wrong, I didn’t have to worry about concealing such activities from anyone I was supposed to be in a committed relationship with. When detectives with the Charlottesville Police Department illegally seized my property, then sent it to multiple other Law Enforcement agencies, there were numerous, uhm, rather racy exchanges between Tony and me for officers to read.
On the morning of July 8, 2010, during a call with Tony, I’d been complaining about a faulty charger and the problems I was having with my at-the-time Rumor2 because of it. Plus I’d lost my back-up. Ever-helpful, Tony posited a potential solution: try a mini USB cable instead. One of our next emails picked up where our gabbing left off.
