I read the email and tilted my head to the right slightly. The clear implication was that it’d been sent by a member of Law Enforcement. In... ter... ressst... ing.
I’d received email from assorted so-called Boys in Blue before but mostly from the braggart types who, in some way, somewhere in the contact explicitly stated the profession they’re in -- as if their career alone made them extra special, and they wanted me to know it. This one, well, this one was… different.
For a moment I considered the possibility the missive was from some random generic person, someone who knew of my very unhidden affinity for cops, and he was merely amusing himself with a game of sorts. Still, there was just enough of an I-have-a-badge edge to it to make me believe it was indeed from an officer.
Prickles of excitement began to meld with the curiosity that was already assaulting me.
I reread the words again. Who is this guy?
I copied the unique address the electronic letter had come from and promptly plunked it into Google. Nothing. At all! That to me indicated, whoever the man was, he’d probably set up the Gmail account strictly for the purpose of this communication with me. I’ve learned it’s not uncommon for people when they do such to try to conceal their identities to stick with something near to what they’re already familiar with. So I ran queries on close versions of the term -- for example, substituting a “1” for a “one.” Got nowhere with that either. I went back to searching the original address in quotes but now under mail servers other than Gmail -- @yahoo.com, @hotmail.com, et cetera. I was both irritated and intrigued by the absolute lack of results those too produced. Next: same servers, previously-mentioned variations. No good. Last, I gave the name itself a shot; it was an unusual anonym, yet not so extraordinary it wouldn’t pull any information up. I included some narrowing specifics as well, like “Virginia,” “VA,” or “officer.” I scanned the multitude of potentials that, this time, the search engine offered. Figures, thirty zakillion pages and none seemed to fit what I was seeking. All right, fine; be that way.
There was only one feasible solution: with a big ol’ cheesy grin on my face, I, the graced recipient of an attention-getter, returned to my Inbox and clicked “Reply.”
Showing posts with label My perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My perspective. Show all posts
Observation And Causation
According to the time-stamps, he’d sent the last couple of emails to me within a minute of each other. Before I even viewed the contents of the second one, I noticed immediately both the sender name and return address on the first one was different. Yay -- new things to search on! I read the latest -- where he acknowledged the changes and hinted this was his regular electronic communication home -- before directing my browser to my favorite engine. The anonym was, as I’d assumed previously, near to the original, but the address was nowhere remotely close to its former. Darnit. I was only half right in my guess.
Queries on Google yielded sparse results. If I were to go along with them, they implied I was corresponding with a middle-aged member of multiple adult entertainment sites who, at least in 2007, was looking for sexual partners for himself and his lady as a pair. Oh. God. This can’t be the same guy who wrote me. I was fairly confident the deviant and the fellow now in touch with me were not one and the same.
Although I hadn’t made any progress with the lookups, the fact was my mysterious stranger had already gotten comfortable enough with me to switch to contacting me with a personal email account he admitted he used more often. Good deal. The sign auspicated potential. I smiled at the thought.
Queries on Google yielded sparse results. If I were to go along with them, they implied I was corresponding with a middle-aged member of multiple adult entertainment sites who, at least in 2007, was looking for sexual partners for himself and his lady as a pair. Oh. God. This can’t be the same guy who wrote me. I was fairly confident the deviant and the fellow now in touch with me were not one and the same.
Although I hadn’t made any progress with the lookups, the fact was my mysterious stranger had already gotten comfortable enough with me to switch to contacting me with a personal email account he admitted he used more often. Good deal. The sign auspicated potential. I smiled at the thought.
Fishing
The “further reflection” I mentioned to him? From the clues he’d provided in our exchanges so far, I’d thoroughly perused my I HeArTE JADE site looking for entries I’d made around the time frame he’d alluded to and the majority of them that also fit other things he’d indicated -- his being in Law Enforcement, “more vehicles parked around in the background,” “out of the ordinary” -- were Virginia State Police related. The most notable was a post of mine that contained no commentary but had several pictures I’d taken at a multiple-murder and big manhunt situation in Appomattox, VA. A substantial amount of VSP officers had been at it and it was a big mainstream news story, too, with loads of media present. I supposed since it was a stand-out event -- and likely would’ve been seen as such especially to anyone who’d been there in-person -- it had to be what he was referring to.
If nothing else, he was definitely forcing me to think. I had a feeling he’d, by studying I HeArTE JADE, ciphered out exactly the kind of game-playing that appealed to me and was purposely attempting to stimulate my mind to keep me attracted. I wondered what kind of man would make to so extreme a degree this clear effort; whatever sort, he’d absolutely hooked me. The question was: how much line would he give me before he’d finally try reeling me in?
If nothing else, he was definitely forcing me to think. I had a feeling he’d, by studying I HeArTE JADE, ciphered out exactly the kind of game-playing that appealed to me and was purposely attempting to stimulate my mind to keep me attracted. I wondered what kind of man would make to so extreme a degree this clear effort; whatever sort, he’d absolutely hooked me. The question was: how much line would he give me before he’d finally try reeling me in?
Every Piece Of Information Helps
I have to admit the guy was entertaining, energizing. He’d certainly gotten my curiosity juices flowing. Now more than ever I wanted to find out who I was “talking” to. It’s not fair he knows who I am but he gets to be an enigma to me. Before I’d composed my last email to him, I’d, after a great deal of thought, finally concocted a method which might bring me that much closer to identifying him.
Like many other bloggers use on their sites, I have a web tracker installed on I HeArTE JADE that provides real-time data and detailed analysis of ‘net visitors. It’s not like it supplies the precise names, addresses, and phone numbers, of people -- wouldn’t that be handy? -- but it does show the distinct pages they view and gives their general city and state locations.
I’d already assumed my “Wordless Wednesday” entry was the one that incited him to write to me in the first place. Plus it was something I’d published many weeks ago, thus not likely to be a post that just any person would randomly cyber-land on at this point. So if I sent him a direct link to it via email, and he clicked on it… Voila! More info about him for me!
I kept an ultra-close eye on my stats page after I’d dropped the URL to him in Gmail. Sure enough, presumably oblivious to my plan, he followed it. Good boy! I was delighted.
I still may’ve not known who he was. But at least I knew where he was.
In disguised reference I even bragged about it to him.
Like many other bloggers use on their sites, I have a web tracker installed on I HeArTE JADE that provides real-time data and detailed analysis of ‘net visitors. It’s not like it supplies the precise names, addresses, and phone numbers, of people -- wouldn’t that be handy? -- but it does show the distinct pages they view and gives their general city and state locations.
I’d already assumed my “Wordless Wednesday” entry was the one that incited him to write to me in the first place. Plus it was something I’d published many weeks ago, thus not likely to be a post that just any person would randomly cyber-land on at this point. So if I sent him a direct link to it via email, and he clicked on it… Voila! More info about him for me!
I kept an ultra-close eye on my stats page after I’d dropped the URL to him in Gmail. Sure enough, presumably oblivious to my plan, he followed it. Good boy! I was delighted.
I still may’ve not known who he was. But at least I knew where he was.
In disguised reference I even bragged about it to him.
Details, Details, Details
When I went to reply to his latest correspondence to me, I noticed my last email to him had apparently hit the engaging man’s Inbox, according to Gmail, at “2:38 PM.” The clock on my computer and my microwave are perfectly synchronized; they both read 4:30 PM. Hmm… that’s weird. I know time flies an’ all but surely two whole hours haven’t passed since I wrote him. I opened the email of mine he was quoting and saw, again according to Gmail, its sent time was “3:38 PM.”
He must not have been kidding about traveling somewhere. Wherever he was, it was a time zone an hour earlier than mine.
Neither did it escape my attention he’d gotten bolder with his flirtatiousness. Well, he had inferred I found the description he gave of himself attractive-sounding. Tall, dark, and handsome? Yep, that what does it for me. The sole other thing that appeals to me, not included in the romantic cliché, is “older” -- and born-in-1963 darling “DJ Vox” had covered that as well.
Honestly, he’d been giving me prime chances to intentionally stroke his ego; I’d wagered he’d, true to male form, soak it up without thinking of ulterior motives -- mine only being, at the moment, learning who he was. I felt he too had been dishing out adulatory treatment; what he might not have known is that I do think about it and habitually view palavering in my direction as an insincere farce. Simply put: flattery doesn’t work on me. On the other hand, ludic behavior without serious intentions I am all for. And Oh. My. God. was he uber-excellent at being playful! I was tremendously enraptured by our banter.
He must not have been kidding about traveling somewhere. Wherever he was, it was a time zone an hour earlier than mine.
Neither did it escape my attention he’d gotten bolder with his flirtatiousness. Well, he had inferred I found the description he gave of himself attractive-sounding. Tall, dark, and handsome? Yep, that what does it for me. The sole other thing that appeals to me, not included in the romantic cliché, is “older” -- and born-in-1963 darling “DJ Vox” had covered that as well.
Honestly, he’d been giving me prime chances to intentionally stroke his ego; I’d wagered he’d, true to male form, soak it up without thinking of ulterior motives -- mine only being, at the moment, learning who he was. I felt he too had been dishing out adulatory treatment; what he might not have known is that I do think about it and habitually view palavering in my direction as an insincere farce. Simply put: flattery doesn’t work on me. On the other hand, ludic behavior without serious intentions I am all for. And Oh. My. God. was he uber-excellent at being playful! I was tremendously enraptured by our banter.
This Is The Style Of Junk That Keeps Me Humble
Once again the time-stamp on the email was off; it seemed I’d sent my reply to the alleged officer three hours sooner than I actually had. Where on earth is he now? I scanned through our last several communications to find the one where he’d adverted the distance he’d gone on his trip. Aha! “Roughly 3k farther west.” Oh-kay. For some stupid inexplicable reason the gray matter in my head managed to convert that into 300 miles farther east. Well if you’re three hundred miles east of Virginia, ya’d better be a helluva swimmer ‘cause it’s right smack out in the flippin’ ocean! I ascertained this when I explored Google maps expecting to turn up the State he may be in or, you know, land. From there, my magnificent brain offered up two possibilities: either he’d lied to me or I’d been wrong about… the direction. Maybe he meant north. Yes, I know, I know, I was having a low-IQ day. Hold on; it gets even more ridiculous.
My I HeArTE JADE web tracker, which I keep close tabs on, had been informing me that during these same dates I was writing to an out-of-the-area “DJ Vox,” my site was being frequented by a visitor at a hotel in Philadelphia, PA. It just so happened that I suspected Eric Kudro, a policeman from Albemarle County I’d been Internet-ly poking fun at, was possibly in Pennsylvania for personal reasons. And it just so happened that where he supposedly was, as my query to the map program proved, was, you guessed it! Roughly 300 miles north of Virginia.
Could it be my unknown correspondent is Eric Kudro mocking me as payback? But how to find out for sure?
I logged-in to my stats page and got the name of the motor inn the Pennsylvania IP address belonged to. I typed the name of the lodge into an online telephone directory and got its number. I punched the digits into my cellular and asked the clerk who answered to put me through to Eric Kudro’s room, please. After four rings, the front desk picked up once more and inquired if I wanted to leave a message. I politely declined and said I’d call back later. I disconnected taking the fact that I’d been transferred as confirmation he was staying there.
Fortunately -- or the outcome with “Dj Vox” might’ve been very different -- I wasn’t satisfied. I waited a few hours and tried to reach Mr. Kudro again. I dialed the same place, only, this time, when my call was served, the woman declared there was no guest by that name there. Huh. Really?
We had some back-and-forth, with me furnishing particulars about Mr. Kudro and the reasons he would be in that locale and she trying to recall if anyone fit the descriptions.
Finally…
“No ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t believe he’s here. I have no record of him checking out recently either.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks for helping, anyway.”
“But --”
“Yes?!”
“We do have another location nearby. I could give you their number if you’d like.”
“Yes! Please!”
The employee at the second overnighter also denied Mr. Kudro presence. But when I gave her the same elaborate story I’d told her associate moments ere, she recognized a detail and rattled off a familiar name -- a relative of Kudro’s. Then she broke the bad news to me: that family has departed.
Grr… I’m no better off than before. The thing was, after this entire endeavor, I was reexamining my speculation. I’d heard Eric Kudro is a flirt. But I’d gathered he’s kinda the “class clown” type. The philandering gentleman writing to me could never be mistaken for a goofball.
Before my intelligence level fell to rock-bottom and I yarfed up any more dumb things, I decided my only chance for victory was drop another unique link in an email to “DJ Vox,” hope he, as prior, took the bait, and see what panned out.
My I HeArTE JADE web tracker, which I keep close tabs on, had been informing me that during these same dates I was writing to an out-of-the-area “DJ Vox,” my site was being frequented by a visitor at a hotel in Philadelphia, PA. It just so happened that I suspected Eric Kudro, a policeman from Albemarle County I’d been Internet-ly poking fun at, was possibly in Pennsylvania for personal reasons. And it just so happened that where he supposedly was, as my query to the map program proved, was, you guessed it! Roughly 300 miles north of Virginia.
Could it be my unknown correspondent is Eric Kudro mocking me as payback? But how to find out for sure?
I logged-in to my stats page and got the name of the motor inn the Pennsylvania IP address belonged to. I typed the name of the lodge into an online telephone directory and got its number. I punched the digits into my cellular and asked the clerk who answered to put me through to Eric Kudro’s room, please. After four rings, the front desk picked up once more and inquired if I wanted to leave a message. I politely declined and said I’d call back later. I disconnected taking the fact that I’d been transferred as confirmation he was staying there.
Fortunately -- or the outcome with “Dj Vox” might’ve been very different -- I wasn’t satisfied. I waited a few hours and tried to reach Mr. Kudro again. I dialed the same place, only, this time, when my call was served, the woman declared there was no guest by that name there. Huh. Really?
We had some back-and-forth, with me furnishing particulars about Mr. Kudro and the reasons he would be in that locale and she trying to recall if anyone fit the descriptions.
Finally…
“No ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t believe he’s here. I have no record of him checking out recently either.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks for helping, anyway.”
“But --”
“Yes?!”
“We do have another location nearby. I could give you their number if you’d like.”
“Yes! Please!”
The employee at the second overnighter also denied Mr. Kudro presence. But when I gave her the same elaborate story I’d told her associate moments ere, she recognized a detail and rattled off a familiar name -- a relative of Kudro’s. Then she broke the bad news to me: that family has departed.
Grr… I’m no better off than before. The thing was, after this entire endeavor, I was reexamining my speculation. I’d heard Eric Kudro is a flirt. But I’d gathered he’s kinda the “class clown” type. The philandering gentleman writing to me could never be mistaken for a goofball.
Before my intelligence level fell to rock-bottom and I yarfed up any more dumb things, I decided my only chance for victory was drop another unique link in an email to “DJ Vox,” hope he, as prior, took the bait, and see what panned out.
March To June
Months would pass before I would hear from the roguish officer again.
Between the investigative me’s arrant failure to identify him and the echt me’s missing the duologue with a man who actually came across as intelligent, I was kind of disenchanted. But, as they say, life goes on.
My favorite drug Task Force to cyber-tease had taken aim at me once more -- this time for a so-called violation of a court order -- and that brought on possible jail issues, definite legal proceedings, and recourse and coping with their allegation through cautious blogging.
I was having personal problems with a City of Charlottesville policeman as well. The toughness of keeping our relationship and interactions secretive was wearing on him -- and he was taking it out on me, both physically and psychologically. Mostly he didn’t believe I appreciated the risks he’d taken for me. Thinking back on it, he was probably right. We would ultimately kiss and make up.
Not everything going on with me was negative. But when all you want to do is experience a Calgon commercial in the real world…
I’d always taken it for granted that when someone encountered writer’s block, it meant he or she couldn’t come up with any words; I was having the opposite conundrum: an influx of them were sluicing through my head relentlessly. In front of my computer one morning, after my fingers had flown over the keys for, like, an hour composing an update for my site, I stared at the consequences of my hellish version of writer’s block. Dullness extraordinaire. Bordering on tenebrous I craved a change of mental scenery, a noetic pick-me-up. I needed somebody fun and bright to amuse me.
Only one person came to mind: “DJ Vox.”
Between the investigative me’s arrant failure to identify him and the echt me’s missing the duologue with a man who actually came across as intelligent, I was kind of disenchanted. But, as they say, life goes on.
My favorite drug Task Force to cyber-tease had taken aim at me once more -- this time for a so-called violation of a court order -- and that brought on possible jail issues, definite legal proceedings, and recourse and coping with their allegation through cautious blogging.
I was having personal problems with a City of Charlottesville policeman as well. The toughness of keeping our relationship and interactions secretive was wearing on him -- and he was taking it out on me, both physically and psychologically. Mostly he didn’t believe I appreciated the risks he’d taken for me. Thinking back on it, he was probably right. We would ultimately kiss and make up.
Not everything going on with me was negative. But when all you want to do is experience a Calgon commercial in the real world…
I’d always taken it for granted that when someone encountered writer’s block, it meant he or she couldn’t come up with any words; I was having the opposite conundrum: an influx of them were sluicing through my head relentlessly. In front of my computer one morning, after my fingers had flown over the keys for, like, an hour composing an update for my site, I stared at the consequences of my hellish version of writer’s block. Dullness extraordinaire. Bordering on tenebrous I craved a change of mental scenery, a noetic pick-me-up. I needed somebody fun and bright to amuse me.
Only one person came to mind: “DJ Vox.”
I didn't think of it at the time but....
We had another five emails go back and forth -- that he’d initiated -- titled “I didn't think of it at the time but....” They contained brief discussion about movie actresses in which he wrote “it doesn't get any better than” Grace Kelly, and I shared my like of another classic-film star, Myrna Loy.
While I was well-informed on the screen performer that’d caught his eye, he was utterly unfamiliar with my preferred leading lady. The difference, as I saw it, was that his selection was mostly known for her striking beauty and mine was not just a knockout but recognized for her sense of humor, as well.
Regardless of our difference in cinematic tastes, I was learning more and more about what made my cyberian companion tick. ‘Twas felicity at its finest.
While I was well-informed on the screen performer that’d caught his eye, he was utterly unfamiliar with my preferred leading lady. The difference, as I saw it, was that his selection was mostly known for her striking beauty and mine was not just a knockout but recognized for her sense of humor, as well.
Regardless of our difference in cinematic tastes, I was learning more and more about what made my cyberian companion tick. ‘Twas felicity at its finest.
One Year Ago Today
In our first round of email exchanges, what began as a casual over-the-Internet contact, that he’d initiated, had shortly developed into mildly flirtatious chit-chat. After no word from him for months, our second bout, brought on by me, had taken another turn; we touched on topics more serious in tone -- mainly concerning Law Enforcement, our respective opinions now interspersed with nothing short of blatant displays of risqué coyness.
The increase in our sexual harmonics hadn’t escaped my awareness, nor had I missed his revealing to me the identity of Virginia State Police Lt. Craig Worsham. My prurient counterpart had surmised correctly about the latter though: I did have Worsham’s name previously. Hello, these uniformed guys wear name pins! If I was able to snap his picture, I was able to read his tag. Duh.
When I’d published Worsham’s photograph and my inquiry on I HeArTE JADE, I had to be sure I knew the name of the distinguished Lieutenant already because I’d used the entry purely with the intention of garnering new sources. If someone gave me the wrong name, obviously he or she wouldn’t be a reliable informant. But if they forked over the right one… It was a sneaky diminutive plan which much to my delight has been successful -- to this day I exploit the post in the same way. Tricks of the trade.
It wasn’t like “DJ Vox” was supplying state secrets or anything, but his willingness to share such details with me, a person branded -- erroneously, I might add -- “anti-cop,” was remarkable.
My observation about “DJ Vox” that captured and thrilled me the best was his transparent own fishing expedition. Between his inquisitiveness regarding the policeman I’d recently blogged about my surreptitious get-together with, and his elaborate fictitious mental analysis of how an encounter with me and him would go, I suspected he was earnestly deliberating a real-life rendezvous. The idea made me absolutely ecstatic. I found him so amazing, being captivated was unavoidable.
The online letters coming from my provocative stranger were suddenly arriving at my Inbox rapid fire. Not only were two and three or more notes appearing in succession, they were being sent under multiple and separate titles too.
It was June, 28, 2010. Roughly three weeks had passed since we’d broken our interlude.
He and I would be standing face-to-face just seven days later.
The increase in our sexual harmonics hadn’t escaped my awareness, nor had I missed his revealing to me the identity of Virginia State Police Lt. Craig Worsham. My prurient counterpart had surmised correctly about the latter though: I did have Worsham’s name previously. Hello, these uniformed guys wear name pins! If I was able to snap his picture, I was able to read his tag. Duh.
When I’d published Worsham’s photograph and my inquiry on I HeArTE JADE, I had to be sure I knew the name of the distinguished Lieutenant already because I’d used the entry purely with the intention of garnering new sources. If someone gave me the wrong name, obviously he or she wouldn’t be a reliable informant. But if they forked over the right one… It was a sneaky diminutive plan which much to my delight has been successful -- to this day I exploit the post in the same way. Tricks of the trade.
It wasn’t like “DJ Vox” was supplying state secrets or anything, but his willingness to share such details with me, a person branded -- erroneously, I might add -- “anti-cop,” was remarkable.
My observation about “DJ Vox” that captured and thrilled me the best was his transparent own fishing expedition. Between his inquisitiveness regarding the policeman I’d recently blogged about my surreptitious get-together with, and his elaborate fictitious mental analysis of how an encounter with me and him would go, I suspected he was earnestly deliberating a real-life rendezvous. The idea made me absolutely ecstatic. I found him so amazing, being captivated was unavoidable.
The online letters coming from my provocative stranger were suddenly arriving at my Inbox rapid fire. Not only were two and three or more notes appearing in succession, they were being sent under multiple and separate titles too.
It was June, 28, 2010. Roughly three weeks had passed since we’d broken our interlude.
He and I would be standing face-to-face just seven days later.
The Italian S... Tease!
I intently studied the photograph he’d attached to the email. Oh, it wasn’t so much what each of the eight arranged squares depicted, rather what I honed in on were the letters in the tiny copyright that appeared on every one of them in the montage. ‘Course it was easy to make out “Anthony” -- given he’d already told me that was his first name. But what was the rest of it? C… u… t…? C… a… l…?
I dragged the picture into Photoshop, where I gave enlarging it a stab: Ctrl +. First letter… C… C… Ctrl + Ctrl + Too pixilated. Ctrl - Ctrl - I zoomed back out. Hmm… I adjusted the brightness levels. I fiddled with the contrast. I flipped it horizontally.
He had boasted he’s Italian. What are some Italian surnames? Meh. This is gonna get me nowhere.
Last ditch, hoping to find a larger original, I plugged what he’d titled it, “mod,” into an image search engine. Thousands upon trilloids of results. I’d have better luck if I just rang up the Virginia State Police and demanded they me who all their Italian officers are.
I would sporadically revisit the paste-up as I acquired more details the prolific policeman -- which I, by then, one hundred per cent. believed he was -- supplied.
Even after learning his last name, I still didn’t see it in that darn collage.
I dragged the picture into Photoshop, where I gave enlarging it a stab: Ctrl +. First letter… C… C… Ctrl + Ctrl + Too pixilated. Ctrl - Ctrl - I zoomed back out. Hmm… I adjusted the brightness levels. I fiddled with the contrast. I flipped it horizontally.
He had boasted he’s Italian. What are some Italian surnames? Meh. This is gonna get me nowhere.
Last ditch, hoping to find a larger original, I plugged what he’d titled it, “mod,” into an image search engine. Thousands upon trilloids of results. I’d have better luck if I just rang up the Virginia State Police and demanded they me who all their Italian officers are.
I would sporadically revisit the paste-up as I acquired more details the prolific policeman -- which I, by then, one hundred per cent. believed he was -- supplied.
Even after learning his last name, I still didn’t see it in that darn collage.
I. Couldn’t. Believe. It.
I stared -- there’s just no more efficacious word to describe what I was doing -- transfixed, my eyes wide as they could be, at the picture he’d sent of himself.
Yeah, I couldn’t see his face.
Yeah, he had an admirable derrière.
But...
Was... he... seriously... rock-climbing?!
A finer first photograph of himself he could not have sent me.
You have to understand. For years I’ve said I want a man who’s intellectual and adventurous. It’s been my experience that men who are mentally bright enough to carry on a prehensile conversation are not fun in any other areas; and men that are fun everywhere else are about as brainy as a lug nut.
Within the last few months, prior to receiving this bomb of a snapshot from Tony, I’d told at least two confidants “What I’m looking for is a high-IQed guy who can not only carry on an intelligent conversation, but who also does things. I need a guy who’s... I dunno… I need a guy who, like, rock-climbs!”
And there, on the computer screen before me, he was, perched on a wall of coalesced mineral matter, mindfully tethered to a safety harness. Exactly what I’d articulated to be the ideal male.
No longer was he just merely a cop for me to analyze like particulate under a microscope; he was perchance an interesting person who could end up genuinely meaning something to me.
From that realization on, it was often I felt as if I was playing with two different males.
Especially after we met.
Time and time again, Tony would validate my already-instilled impression of many police officers -- he’d lie to gain personally, cheat on his long-term girlfriend in whose house he resided, partake in intimate encounters during his working hours, have sex in his state-government-issued vehicle while on-duty, blah, blah, blah. As far as my inquisitive research purposes go, that part was terrific. He is a leopard; those are his spots.
When I wasn’t appraising his badged behavior, I found him as an individual to be highly endearing -- he had ideas and the talents to pull them off, he honestly wanted to help people, plus, when it came to me, he was extraordinarily romantic. I’d grow to simply adore him.
However, for now, all I had in visual range was a mug-obscured posterior-modeled picture he’d sent of himself. How could he possibly have known the effect it would have on me?
Yeah, I couldn’t see his face.
Yeah, he had an admirable derrière.
But...
Was... he... seriously... rock-climbing?!
A finer first photograph of himself he could not have sent me.
You have to understand. For years I’ve said I want a man who’s intellectual and adventurous. It’s been my experience that men who are mentally bright enough to carry on a prehensile conversation are not fun in any other areas; and men that are fun everywhere else are about as brainy as a lug nut.
Within the last few months, prior to receiving this bomb of a snapshot from Tony, I’d told at least two confidants “What I’m looking for is a high-IQed guy who can not only carry on an intelligent conversation, but who also does things. I need a guy who’s... I dunno… I need a guy who, like, rock-climbs!”
And there, on the computer screen before me, he was, perched on a wall of coalesced mineral matter, mindfully tethered to a safety harness. Exactly what I’d articulated to be the ideal male.
No longer was he just merely a cop for me to analyze like particulate under a microscope; he was perchance an interesting person who could end up genuinely meaning something to me.
From that realization on, it was often I felt as if I was playing with two different males.
Especially after we met.
Time and time again, Tony would validate my already-instilled impression of many police officers -- he’d lie to gain personally, cheat on his long-term girlfriend in whose house he resided, partake in intimate encounters during his working hours, have sex in his state-government-issued vehicle while on-duty, blah, blah, blah. As far as my inquisitive research purposes go, that part was terrific. He is a leopard; those are his spots.
When I wasn’t appraising his badged behavior, I found him as an individual to be highly endearing -- he had ideas and the talents to pull them off, he honestly wanted to help people, plus, when it came to me, he was extraordinarily romantic. I’d grow to simply adore him.
However, for now, all I had in visual range was a mug-obscured posterior-modeled picture he’d sent of himself. How could he possibly have known the effect it would have on me?
This or That
On Tue, Jun 29, 2010 at 10:26 PM, Tony began a “This or That” gambol with me via email.
The gist of the game is for one person to pose a question which offers two choices and the respondent is to pick the option which is preferable to him or her. For example, Tony started with “Mac or Windows?” and I replied “Windows;” next from him came “Mountains or beach?,” my response being “Mountains.” It’s a lighthearted yet efficient means to harvest insight about its players.
At least a couple of hundred of our emails were devoted to this -- with the probing officer doing most of the asking. While he was learning things about me by my answers to his postulations, I was extrapolating things about him more by the type of interrogatives he was tossing my way.
When I told him I opted for “shaven” as opposed to “facial hair,” he wrote back “(makes note to shave),” and upon my saying I liked a male to have as short of hair on his head as possible, he joked he would schedule a haircut.
I let him know I liked “tall” and, subsequently, “solid” as a build. The combination prompted me to inquire of him what his body type was and he stated “A TAD more solid than I'd like... I just sent a pic... I've gained about 15 since that picture because i've not been rock climbing lately but I'm getting back to the gym as I'm hating the extra at the moment. I'm just shy of 6'2" and am about 205 right now. I was about 190 in that picture.”
Because he reveled in creating new subject titles, Tony had a habit of delivering multiple emails to my Inbox -- on that date, 6/30/2010, there were seven of them going at once -- so I had to temporarily put our “This or That” on pause in order to hunt down the one I’d clearly missed that included the photograph pertaining to his comment.
Our disporting activity continued until well past midnight, ultimately leading to a provocatively carnal tone mainly set in motion by this remark of his:
“I consider myself a sensualist... not in the sexual sense (but of course that is included) but in the, "being aware of your senses" sense. Feeling the sun on your skin... cool breezes.... the caress of your lovers hair falling across your shoulder..... smell of ozone from a thunderstorm.”
He followed it up with this admission:
“I have a multi-track mind.... there are two trains that are always running... food and sex.... sometimes on the same track.....”
I took it all in stride. I mean, gosh, a guy who’s always thinking about sex? There’s a shocker!
Our hours-long game would conclude with an emoticon wink and a “Distract you tomorrow..... ;) Night” from my playmate. But, as impending contact would evidence, that night’s delving into titillating was only the idiomatic scratched surface of what was to come.
The gist of the game is for one person to pose a question which offers two choices and the respondent is to pick the option which is preferable to him or her. For example, Tony started with “Mac or Windows?” and I replied “Windows;” next from him came “Mountains or beach?,” my response being “Mountains.” It’s a lighthearted yet efficient means to harvest insight about its players.
At least a couple of hundred of our emails were devoted to this -- with the probing officer doing most of the asking. While he was learning things about me by my answers to his postulations, I was extrapolating things about him more by the type of interrogatives he was tossing my way.
When I told him I opted for “shaven” as opposed to “facial hair,” he wrote back “(makes note to shave),” and upon my saying I liked a male to have as short of hair on his head as possible, he joked he would schedule a haircut.
I let him know I liked “tall” and, subsequently, “solid” as a build. The combination prompted me to inquire of him what his body type was and he stated “A TAD more solid than I'd like... I just sent a pic... I've gained about 15 since that picture because i've not been rock climbing lately but I'm getting back to the gym as I'm hating the extra at the moment. I'm just shy of 6'2" and am about 205 right now. I was about 190 in that picture.”
Because he reveled in creating new subject titles, Tony had a habit of delivering multiple emails to my Inbox -- on that date, 6/30/2010, there were seven of them going at once -- so I had to temporarily put our “This or That” on pause in order to hunt down the one I’d clearly missed that included the photograph pertaining to his comment.
Our disporting activity continued until well past midnight, ultimately leading to a provocatively carnal tone mainly set in motion by this remark of his:
“I consider myself a sensualist... not in the sexual sense (but of course that is included) but in the, "being aware of your senses" sense. Feeling the sun on your skin... cool breezes.... the caress of your lovers hair falling across your shoulder..... smell of ozone from a thunderstorm.”
He followed it up with this admission:
“I have a multi-track mind.... there are two trains that are always running... food and sex.... sometimes on the same track.....”
I took it all in stride. I mean, gosh, a guy who’s always thinking about sex? There’s a shocker!
Our hours-long game would conclude with an emoticon wink and a “Distract you tomorrow..... ;) Night” from my playmate. But, as impending contact would evidence, that night’s delving into titillating was only the idiomatic scratched surface of what was to come.
Touché
I read the earliest email he’d titled “Speaking of cameras….” puzzled.
What is this about cameras?
I knew Tony, as adroit as he was, wouldn’t randomly bring something up; he always had a reason for writing any given thing to me. Everything he provided, or didn’t provide, was all carefully crafted.
Method to his madness.
I loaded up Google Images and pasted “Canon Powershot A5” in the search box. I glanced at the first few results. Huh. Is that maybe a new gadget he got?
I returned to Gmail, moving on to his second missive under the same subject. Using his correction, I harked back to Google Images and deposited “Canon Powershot A510” into the little white rectangle.
One look at the foremost result sent goosebumps surging across my every inch of skin. Oooooh myyyyy God. My heart pounding, I leapt from my chair, ran to the end table and ripped open my laptop sheath -- which also held my camera case. With shaky hands, I pulled out the device I most commonly utilize to take photographs. I blanched. Clutched in my trembling fingers was a Canon Powershot A510.
How? How does he know what kind of camera I have? I was rocked by… I don’t want to say “fear” because I didn’t believe I was in danger. It’s difficult to explain. It was a peculiar emotion. The sensation was more like queasy adrenaline-ridden awareness of vulnerability. But, again, I didn’t feel threatened. Seems realizing you’re not invincible has powerful consequences, even when you’re well-aware you aren’t going to be hurt or killed.
My thoughts instantly bounced to the many policemen I’ve mocked using my I HeArTE JADE site. Is this what they experience when they see privileged personal information I’ve posted about them on the ‘net? Or when they grasp how narrowly they avoided showing up in a picture I published?
Dissimilar to members of Law Enforcement, I wasn’t going to react with unnecessary panic to somebody who meant me no harm. I was actually quite thrilled there was an officer out there who, whether intentionally or not, had beaten me at one of my own games.
What is this about cameras?
I knew Tony, as adroit as he was, wouldn’t randomly bring something up; he always had a reason for writing any given thing to me. Everything he provided, or didn’t provide, was all carefully crafted.
Method to his madness.
I loaded up Google Images and pasted “Canon Powershot A5” in the search box. I glanced at the first few results. Huh. Is that maybe a new gadget he got?
I returned to Gmail, moving on to his second missive under the same subject. Using his correction, I harked back to Google Images and deposited “Canon Powershot A510” into the little white rectangle.
One look at the foremost result sent goosebumps surging across my every inch of skin. Oooooh myyyyy God. My heart pounding, I leapt from my chair, ran to the end table and ripped open my laptop sheath -- which also held my camera case. With shaky hands, I pulled out the device I most commonly utilize to take photographs. I blanched. Clutched in my trembling fingers was a Canon Powershot A510.
How? How does he know what kind of camera I have? I was rocked by… I don’t want to say “fear” because I didn’t believe I was in danger. It’s difficult to explain. It was a peculiar emotion. The sensation was more like queasy adrenaline-ridden awareness of vulnerability. But, again, I didn’t feel threatened. Seems realizing you’re not invincible has powerful consequences, even when you’re well-aware you aren’t going to be hurt or killed.
My thoughts instantly bounced to the many policemen I’ve mocked using my I HeArTE JADE site. Is this what they experience when they see privileged personal information I’ve posted about them on the ‘net? Or when they grasp how narrowly they avoided showing up in a picture I published?
Dissimilar to members of Law Enforcement, I wasn’t going to react with unnecessary panic to somebody who meant me no harm. I was actually quite thrilled there was an officer out there who, whether intentionally or not, had beaten me at one of my own games.
Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me
So now I had dual cathecting things going on at once, simultaneously brought about by VSP Tony.
The first was the Metadata mahoozuht. I was conceptually aware of it in a general manner -- not like I’d never heard of it -- but I couldn’t imagine how it applied to the info he’d plainly gained about me from the contents of my I HeArTE JADE site. And since, again, I’d determined the darling man didn’t bring things up for no precise reason, when he mentioned it, I naturally had to research it using Google.
The more I read, the more I freaked. It was the equivalent of a grenade; only, I didn’t know when it was going to explode or, more importantly, maybe it had already. By the time Tony had composed a new email to me titled “Shhesh... did you know this would happen??” it’s adequate to say hell yeah I knew! I’d found out there was a plug-in for Firefox related to the -- what could safely be called “traitorous” -- element and I was ripping through my weblog with it, in utter awe.
Due to my former ignorance on the matter, by blogging certain tidbits I’d unwittingly caused what I saw as two huge problems. Uno: I’d completely compromised the anonymity of a few of my unidentified Law Enforcement sources. Dos: I’d, though unintentionally, possibly violated the terms of my plea agreement. The former could cost my close cop sweethearts their jobs and more, the latter could cost me my freedom. I was greater worried about protecting my much-loved lawmen than being sent back to the roach-dominated slammer, therefore re-hiding them became top priority.
I will be eternally appreciative to the savvy state policeman for alerting my attention to this.
The second was the pornographic text Tony had written and shared with me. I admit I’m not the best author but I do try to be grammatical… literate… sententious... all that junk…and, as annoying as it might be to me sometimes, I can’t help but view with an editorial eye what others pen. So, at onset perusal that’s how my brain valuated his erotica. Upon immediate subsequent reading, I decided, as far as its intent to arouse, it wasn’t half-bad. However, I was mostly impressed that he’d passed it along to me to begin with. I couldn’t negatively critique it after that. Besides, I still hadn’t found out who he was. Luckily I’m fairly capable of playing extra nice to reach a goal.
The first was the Metadata mahoozuht. I was conceptually aware of it in a general manner -- not like I’d never heard of it -- but I couldn’t imagine how it applied to the info he’d plainly gained about me from the contents of my I HeArTE JADE site. And since, again, I’d determined the darling man didn’t bring things up for no precise reason, when he mentioned it, I naturally had to research it using Google.
The more I read, the more I freaked. It was the equivalent of a grenade; only, I didn’t know when it was going to explode or, more importantly, maybe it had already. By the time Tony had composed a new email to me titled “Shhesh... did you know this would happen??” it’s adequate to say hell yeah I knew! I’d found out there was a plug-in for Firefox related to the -- what could safely be called “traitorous” -- element and I was ripping through my weblog with it, in utter awe.
Due to my former ignorance on the matter, by blogging certain tidbits I’d unwittingly caused what I saw as two huge problems. Uno: I’d completely compromised the anonymity of a few of my unidentified Law Enforcement sources. Dos: I’d, though unintentionally, possibly violated the terms of my plea agreement. The former could cost my close cop sweethearts their jobs and more, the latter could cost me my freedom. I was greater worried about protecting my much-loved lawmen than being sent back to the roach-dominated slammer, therefore re-hiding them became top priority.
I will be eternally appreciative to the savvy state policeman for alerting my attention to this.
The second was the pornographic text Tony had written and shared with me. I admit I’m not the best author but I do try to be grammatical… literate… sententious... all that junk…and, as annoying as it might be to me sometimes, I can’t help but view with an editorial eye what others pen. So, at onset perusal that’s how my brain valuated his erotica. Upon immediate subsequent reading, I decided, as far as its intent to arouse, it wasn’t half-bad. However, I was mostly impressed that he’d passed it along to me to begin with. I couldn’t negatively critique it after that. Besides, I still hadn’t found out who he was. Luckily I’m fairly capable of playing extra nice to reach a goal.
Smarter Than The Average Bear
A... a... a... Special Agent?!
I have a theory:
I began to piece together the knowledge I had related to the specific date he and I were both in Appomattox, VA, with this new information he’d just provided me about his rank within the State Police. More and more things were dropping into place.
As for the “Trent” Tony asked me about, he was the Virginia State Police Special Agent enlisted by local Law Enforcement and their cheerleaders to try to shut down my perfectly lawful I HeArTE JADE cyberspot. It took SA Jason Trent pouring over my blog for four months, spending hours a day investigating, before he came up with a way he felt might do the trick. While the diligent fellow did manage to drag me into the legal system, as anyone can see he totally failed to knock my site off the webbernet. I’m thinking if the powers that be wanted to triumph in that regard, maybe they should’ve given the case to Tony instead.
I have a theory:
- When compared to the general population, Virginia State Troopers are above average in intelligence.
- When compared to VSP Troopers, Virginia State Special Agents are above average in intelligence.
I began to piece together the knowledge I had related to the specific date he and I were both in Appomattox, VA, with this new information he’d just provided me about his rank within the State Police. More and more things were dropping into place.
As for the “Trent” Tony asked me about, he was the Virginia State Police Special Agent enlisted by local Law Enforcement and their cheerleaders to try to shut down my perfectly lawful I HeArTE JADE cyberspot. It took SA Jason Trent pouring over my blog for four months, spending hours a day investigating, before he came up with a way he felt might do the trick. While the diligent fellow did manage to drag me into the legal system, as anyone can see he totally failed to knock my site off the webbernet. I’m thinking if the powers that be wanted to triumph in that regard, maybe they should’ve given the case to Tony instead.
And I Don't Even Know His Last Name
Wow.
Tony obviously had no trouble in the “first moves” department.
First he contacted me out of nowhere via email. Then he shot me a highly provocative story he’d written. Next he made a pitch for a real-life encounter. Now he’d proposed a phone conversation.
Not bad for an officer who up until very recently I never even knew existed. ‘Tis fortunate I like aggressive men.
Bonus that he’s incredibly good-looking.
I was only partially kidding with him about being reluctant to have an in-person meeting because of his being such a handsome gent; the truth was his physical appearance, for some reason,
greatly intimidated me.
I kept going back to the photographs he’d sent of himself and, as I gazed at them, wondering why on earth someone who is so beautiful would want to get together with someone who is so… not.
He was correct though: it would be coffee, not a wedding.
I already knew we were capable of decent communication in writing; if it wound up just half as awesome as that in a call, well, maybe I could ignore how gorgeous he is.
A quick Google search on the number he’d given me produced zilch, other than area code information I was formerly familiar with due to Richmond acquaintances.
Not bothering to block my own number -- what’s one more policeman who has it? -- I dialed him up. “Wheezy girl like tones” my tush! His timbre perfectly matched his looks. Resonant masculinity poured from his throat into my ear. I could lock him in a box with air holes and listen to his voice and nothing more for years. “Vox” indeed.
We talked about this, that, and everything besides. It was amazing how easy the tête-à-tête flowed, as if we’d been chatting with each other our whole lives.
We spoke about the near-miss in Appomattox, his position as a Special Agent with the Virginia State Police -- he mentioned he’d bring along his badge if we met -- and briefly about the kind of work he does for them. As one of their tech gurus, he was right up my alley. Electronics, computers, wiretappings, audio and video recording analysis -- fascinating stuff!
The sexy cop remarked that what he believed had brought us together, the fun, the flirtiness, the kinship and compatibility we experienced, had to be described as “serendipity.”
I think I might’ve told him I was in love with him. Much like the way I am in love with Sean Connery.
Tony obviously had no trouble in the “first moves” department.
First he contacted me out of nowhere via email. Then he shot me a highly provocative story he’d written. Next he made a pitch for a real-life encounter. Now he’d proposed a phone conversation.
Not bad for an officer who up until very recently I never even knew existed. ‘Tis fortunate I like aggressive men.
Bonus that he’s incredibly good-looking.
I was only partially kidding with him about being reluctant to have an in-person meeting because of his being such a handsome gent; the truth was his physical appearance, for some reason,
greatly intimidated me.I kept going back to the photographs he’d sent of himself and, as I gazed at them, wondering why on earth someone who is so beautiful would want to get together with someone who is so… not.
He was correct though: it would be coffee, not a wedding.
I already knew we were capable of decent communication in writing; if it wound up just half as awesome as that in a call, well, maybe I could ignore how gorgeous he is.
A quick Google search on the number he’d given me produced zilch, other than area code information I was formerly familiar with due to Richmond acquaintances.
Not bothering to block my own number -- what’s one more policeman who has it? -- I dialed him up. “Wheezy girl like tones” my tush! His timbre perfectly matched his looks. Resonant masculinity poured from his throat into my ear. I could lock him in a box with air holes and listen to his voice and nothing more for years. “Vox” indeed.
We talked about this, that, and everything besides. It was amazing how easy the tête-à-tête flowed, as if we’d been chatting with each other our whole lives.
We spoke about the near-miss in Appomattox, his position as a Special Agent with the Virginia State Police -- he mentioned he’d bring along his badge if we met -- and briefly about the kind of work he does for them. As one of their tech gurus, he was right up my alley. Electronics, computers, wiretappings, audio and video recording analysis -- fascinating stuff!
The sexy cop remarked that what he believed had brought us together, the fun, the flirtiness, the kinship and compatibility we experienced, had to be described as “serendipity.”
I think I might’ve told him I was in love with him. Much like the way I am in love with Sean Connery.
Pin-ups And Count-downs
I will have you know I am a mega fan of Alberto Vargas. Tony’s “SIN HERE” delivery -- evidencing his undeniable interest in graphics of such nature -- gave me an excuse to laud the Peruvian pin-up virtuoso. The seductive State Policeman and I devoted nineteen more “:)” emails to each other on the subject, some of which included my attaching examples of AV’s art, before moving on to a different topic.
As Tony observed, the countdown to our face-to-face was roughly 15 hours. Neither of us knew at that moment how much sooner we’d really be getting together.
It’s tough to explain how I was feeling about actually laying eyes on the guy who, in a mere matter of weeks, had so sure-fired beguiled me. I had no doubt I could hold my own when it came to conversation, and I was fairly confident in my aptitude to charm him out of desired information. As for my appearance, ah, I’ve always managed to work around that before. The main thing was my being on the fence about whether I should be looking at the upcoming encounter as: am I meeting a man or am I meeting a cop? Both were attractive to me -- for many of the same reasons but, also, for different ones.
I was positive if I could lay it on as thick as I sometimes had in writing to get what I wanted from him, I could definitely do the same with him in person. I just had to decide what exactly it was I sought, and soon. The sands of time on that were falling fast.
As Tony observed, the countdown to our face-to-face was roughly 15 hours. Neither of us knew at that moment how much sooner we’d really be getting together.
It’s tough to explain how I was feeling about actually laying eyes on the guy who, in a mere matter of weeks, had so sure-fired beguiled me. I had no doubt I could hold my own when it came to conversation, and I was fairly confident in my aptitude to charm him out of desired information. As for my appearance, ah, I’ve always managed to work around that before. The main thing was my being on the fence about whether I should be looking at the upcoming encounter as: am I meeting a man or am I meeting a cop? Both were attractive to me -- for many of the same reasons but, also, for different ones.
I was positive if I could lay it on as thick as I sometimes had in writing to get what I wanted from him, I could definitely do the same with him in person. I just had to decide what exactly it was I sought, and soon. The sands of time on that were falling fast.
The Meeting
Even if I wasn’t an insomniac, I don’t think I would’ve been capable of succumbing to sleep that Sunday night.
Close to midnight, I went back through every bit of written contact Tony and I had. It was unfathomable after all this to change my mind about meeting him. But I wanted to reassure myself I was not driving into a set-up.
He and I were scheduled to adjoin the next day at around 10AM in Appomattox. Me being aware the Virginia State Police Division Headquarters was located in that area -- therefore a plethora of Troopers would be on hand for potential amusement -- I’d already decided I’d be hitting the highway to get there long before then.
My email analysis over, in the wee hours I donned a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans, black and white printed T, and a pair of matching snakeskin high heels. I fixed my hair -- black, with royal blue straight bangs at the time -- and penciled on a dash of eyeliner. I added mascara as an afterthought. As I pulled out of the parking lot of my place, it struck me that I was dressed near identically when I’d gotten together with an Albemarle County cop.
I rolled into Appomattox at dawn. Just as I expected: Trooper Heaven! I followed this one and snagged a few photographs, chased after that one and got a few more snapshots. I was trailing lackadaisically behind a third, down an unmarked back road, when suddenly he swerved. Paying attention to the pavement, I spotted the avoided tortoise. Sure that, regarding flattening a reptile, not every motorist would be as kind as the lawman and me, I abandoned my pursuit of the officer in order to rescue the clueless creature. Scooping the turtle off the concrete, I saw there was really no good patch of land nearby to relocate it to. Sticking the shelled critter on my passenger side floor, I set off to find it a less dangerous home. That’s when my cell rang. At quarter after seven, turned out Tony had gotten into town ahead of time as well. He was waiting for me at the Exxon next to the Super 8 Hotel -- where we’d originally agreed to meet -- on Route 460. Box companion in tow, I, with heart apoundin’, looped into the gas station two minutes later.
I noticed the motorcycle. Then the dreamy man sitting in front of it on the grass, legs outstretched, back propped against a tiny tree. I slid my vehicle in the space next to the bike, pushed the gearshift to “P.” Here goes... everything. Striking my best closed-mouthed smile I hopped out to greet the guy who’d been teasing me for weeks. He rose to his feet.
Oh my God. He was hotter than hell. As great as they were, the pictures I’d seen of him had not done him justice.
We simultaneously splayed our arms to hug. We held on for, like, ever. It seemed so natural. So intoxicating. He looked good. He smelled good. He sounded good. He felt good. Before the end of the afternoon I’d discover he also tasted good.
Our salutations subsided, I mentioned that I had a friend with me and explained the presence of the turtle. Tony agreed to go with me to return it to the countryside.
Our conversation during the ride was as enjoyable as our embrace had been.
Cold-blooded organism safely delivered to the woods, my new human acquaintance wanted to pick up his m‘cycle -- he didn’t think it was secure where he’d left it -- and have me follow him to main street to find a coffee shop, which we did.
Inside the café slash bookstore, we cozied up intimately, side-by-side, on a large faux leather couch and recommenced chatting. A portion of my pale pink bra strap was exposed and Tony used his fingertips to move my shirt aside slightly to get a better view of the undergarment’s lace. There was definitely physical attraction going on, but, instead of being blatant about it, we let it simmer sweetly under the surface.
Law Enforcement and stuff relating to him were the main topics. I learned countless things from and about him.
Tired of the indoor atmosphere, we opted to go for a walk. But not before we each made a pit-stop at the restroom. We both joked about the single bathroom being unisex, and Tony, with a wink, kidded that we could’ve gone into it in concert. I laughed, responding it wasn’t big enough for the both of us. Tony is nothing short of strapping; the top of the toilet probably hardly came up to mid-shin on him.
We strolled to a little park up the street and got comfortable at a picnic table. It was there that our sexual chemistry became too tough for either of us to resist.
It all started with hand sex. Seriously. While we were speaking, we put both our right and left palms together and the erotic energy surged through us like currents of electricity. We separated our hands from one another and returned to the refuge of shooting the breeze. Eventually there was a brief span of silence. A moment later he leaned towards me bringing his mouth a shade from mine. When I went to complete the kiss, he moved back a smidge. My lashes parted wide in astonishment. He narrowed the gap between our faces again. I caught the gleam in his pupils. He was toying with me. I advanced slow and deliberate to unite with him, yet, once more, he ebbed away. I smirked at his foreplay. He made it plain his desire was to have me ask him for his lips to caress mine. Ultimately we connected, our tongues dancing with intensity. I was beginning to believe there was nothing Tony wasn’t amazing at.
Somehow I ended up straddled on his lap. I untucked his shirt so I could explore his upper body with my hands. I could tell he was excited, but he was adamant we would not go any further today than we had. I mutely debated whether I should be insulted or impressed by that.
After being in one another’s company for hours, it was time for us to part ways. Tony and I moseyed back to our respective transportations to say good-bye. Tony, as it so happens, is a hand-holder. Nice. Though both of us acknowledged we were pleased by the turn-out, we each expressed apprehensiveness that the other might be content to let this be the end of it all.
When I got home to my apartment, I found he’d already sent two emails to me.
Close to midnight, I went back through every bit of written contact Tony and I had. It was unfathomable after all this to change my mind about meeting him. But I wanted to reassure myself I was not driving into a set-up.
He and I were scheduled to adjoin the next day at around 10AM in Appomattox. Me being aware the Virginia State Police Division Headquarters was located in that area -- therefore a plethora of Troopers would be on hand for potential amusement -- I’d already decided I’d be hitting the highway to get there long before then.
My email analysis over, in the wee hours I donned a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans, black and white printed T, and a pair of matching snakeskin high heels. I fixed my hair -- black, with royal blue straight bangs at the time -- and penciled on a dash of eyeliner. I added mascara as an afterthought. As I pulled out of the parking lot of my place, it struck me that I was dressed near identically when I’d gotten together with an Albemarle County cop.
I rolled into Appomattox at dawn. Just as I expected: Trooper Heaven! I followed this one and snagged a few photographs, chased after that one and got a few more snapshots. I was trailing lackadaisically behind a third, down an unmarked back road, when suddenly he swerved. Paying attention to the pavement, I spotted the avoided tortoise. Sure that, regarding flattening a reptile, not every motorist would be as kind as the lawman and me, I abandoned my pursuit of the officer in order to rescue the clueless creature. Scooping the turtle off the concrete, I saw there was really no good patch of land nearby to relocate it to. Sticking the shelled critter on my passenger side floor, I set off to find it a less dangerous home. That’s when my cell rang. At quarter after seven, turned out Tony had gotten into town ahead of time as well. He was waiting for me at the Exxon next to the Super 8 Hotel -- where we’d originally agreed to meet -- on Route 460. Box companion in tow, I, with heart apoundin’, looped into the gas station two minutes later.
I noticed the motorcycle. Then the dreamy man sitting in front of it on the grass, legs outstretched, back propped against a tiny tree. I slid my vehicle in the space next to the bike, pushed the gearshift to “P.” Here goes... everything. Striking my best closed-mouthed smile I hopped out to greet the guy who’d been teasing me for weeks. He rose to his feet.
Oh my God. He was hotter than hell. As great as they were, the pictures I’d seen of him had not done him justice.
We simultaneously splayed our arms to hug. We held on for, like, ever. It seemed so natural. So intoxicating. He looked good. He smelled good. He sounded good. He felt good. Before the end of the afternoon I’d discover he also tasted good.
Our salutations subsided, I mentioned that I had a friend with me and explained the presence of the turtle. Tony agreed to go with me to return it to the countryside.
Our conversation during the ride was as enjoyable as our embrace had been.
Cold-blooded organism safely delivered to the woods, my new human acquaintance wanted to pick up his m‘cycle -- he didn’t think it was secure where he’d left it -- and have me follow him to main street to find a coffee shop, which we did.
Inside the café slash bookstore, we cozied up intimately, side-by-side, on a large faux leather couch and recommenced chatting. A portion of my pale pink bra strap was exposed and Tony used his fingertips to move my shirt aside slightly to get a better view of the undergarment’s lace. There was definitely physical attraction going on, but, instead of being blatant about it, we let it simmer sweetly under the surface.
Law Enforcement and stuff relating to him were the main topics. I learned countless things from and about him.
Tired of the indoor atmosphere, we opted to go for a walk. But not before we each made a pit-stop at the restroom. We both joked about the single bathroom being unisex, and Tony, with a wink, kidded that we could’ve gone into it in concert. I laughed, responding it wasn’t big enough for the both of us. Tony is nothing short of strapping; the top of the toilet probably hardly came up to mid-shin on him.
We strolled to a little park up the street and got comfortable at a picnic table. It was there that our sexual chemistry became too tough for either of us to resist.
It all started with hand sex. Seriously. While we were speaking, we put both our right and left palms together and the erotic energy surged through us like currents of electricity. We separated our hands from one another and returned to the refuge of shooting the breeze. Eventually there was a brief span of silence. A moment later he leaned towards me bringing his mouth a shade from mine. When I went to complete the kiss, he moved back a smidge. My lashes parted wide in astonishment. He narrowed the gap between our faces again. I caught the gleam in his pupils. He was toying with me. I advanced slow and deliberate to unite with him, yet, once more, he ebbed away. I smirked at his foreplay. He made it plain his desire was to have me ask him for his lips to caress mine. Ultimately we connected, our tongues dancing with intensity. I was beginning to believe there was nothing Tony wasn’t amazing at.
Somehow I ended up straddled on his lap. I untucked his shirt so I could explore his upper body with my hands. I could tell he was excited, but he was adamant we would not go any further today than we had. I mutely debated whether I should be insulted or impressed by that.
After being in one another’s company for hours, it was time for us to part ways. Tony and I moseyed back to our respective transportations to say good-bye. Tony, as it so happens, is a hand-holder. Nice. Though both of us acknowledged we were pleased by the turn-out, we each expressed apprehensiveness that the other might be content to let this be the end of it all.
When I got home to my apartment, I found he’d already sent two emails to me.
Can You Hear Me Now?
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.
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.
Brenda Priebe AKA Pseudo-Wife
Anyone who’s familiar with my I HeArTE JADE site, or me, would know I’m fairly open about preferring married men. Getting involved with a man who has a spouse or other long-term lady counterpart in his life means I never have to worry about where my relationship with him will go. In addition, I get all the great stuff he has to offer and she can suffer all the downsides of him whenever I ship him home to her. Let’s face it, even a good wife nags and whines; a good mistress is always fun and attentive. As for the ol’ “home wrecker” argument, hey, I’m not the one who made a commitment to her then violated it; I owe her nothing. My lone stipulation in these affairs: I must be the only “other woman.”
Unless his girlfriend looked like Sarah Jessica Parker, I’m pretty sure Tony had meant the enemy is nigh -- not “neigh” -- when he’d first referred to her. Calling her the warden, among other equally derogatory slights in the future, appeared to fit considering the things he’d share with me about their bond, and eventually I established my own trusty euphemism for the female he resided with: pseudo-wife.
Tony was conscious of my aforementioned philosophy but, for some inexplicable reason -- maybe it’s just in a male’s nature -- he did what all cheating guys do: he fed me every stereotypical line about his main woman. She’s mean to me… she doesn’t “get” me… I’m only staying with her because… ad nauseum.
Seems over the last, oh, five or ten years, men have taken to including “she has a ‘history of violence’” when speaking about a disliked current or an ex.
Though it was entirely unnecessary, Tony spared me none of it. From her dictating the way he had to arrange the plasticware in the kitchen cabinets to her physically assaulting him, the stories from him about how horrible his existence was with her were endless.
I took it all with the proverbial grain of salt. Whether what he said about her was true or not simply had no bearing on us in my opinion.
I don’t believe he in a single instance used her actual name with me, but I found her first one out soon after we started seeing each other. She called him on a morning that he and I had hooked up in Crewe, Virginia. My state policeman and I were in his agency-supplied gold Expedition when his phone rang. A picture of an older blonde and the name Brenda were displayed on the screen when he pulled his cell out. He courteously excused himself, with chagrin, from the vehicle to talk to her. Naturally I used the time they spoke to nose around his SUV. Aside from other interesting junk throughout the Ford, I found the paperwork inside the glove compartment that showed the automobile was registered to the Virginia State Police. When Tony finally hopped back inside with me roughly ten minutes later, I commented on the black and white DMV card. I mentioned the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force carried no such documentation in either their work Van or Beater.
On a different day, Tony let me rifle through his billfold while we were sitting at a restaurant. I discovered his wallet contained a tiny photograph of pseudo-wife tucked inside a folded Post-It or something with a phone number scratched on it. I laughed to myself about the fellow carting around a snapshot of a chick he supposedly harbored animosity to.
If recollection serves, I inadvertently came across her surname while Google-mining for data on him.
I never once asked or nary implied Tony leave Ms. Priebe for me. I’d expressly stated to Tony more than a few times that I thought they’d be eternally inseparable. Honestly, I was quite content with that. What the hell would I do with him if they broke up? I didn’t want us to be exclusive; it’d take the excitement out of what we had. Although I never admitted to Tony I didn’t desire him as a boyfriend, I was absolutely straightforward about his not splitting up with her for the sole purpose of being with me. Regardless of his veraciousness concerning their ties, based on facts like their backgrounds, personalities, pastimes and disinclinations, to date I haven’t the least idea why they were, or remain, a couple.
Unless his girlfriend looked like Sarah Jessica Parker, I’m pretty sure Tony had meant the enemy is nigh -- not “neigh” -- when he’d first referred to her. Calling her the warden, among other equally derogatory slights in the future, appeared to fit considering the things he’d share with me about their bond, and eventually I established my own trusty euphemism for the female he resided with: pseudo-wife.Tony was conscious of my aforementioned philosophy but, for some inexplicable reason -- maybe it’s just in a male’s nature -- he did what all cheating guys do: he fed me every stereotypical line about his main woman. She’s mean to me… she doesn’t “get” me… I’m only staying with her because… ad nauseum.
Seems over the last, oh, five or ten years, men have taken to including “she has a ‘history of violence’” when speaking about a disliked current or an ex.
Though it was entirely unnecessary, Tony spared me none of it. From her dictating the way he had to arrange the plasticware in the kitchen cabinets to her physically assaulting him, the stories from him about how horrible his existence was with her were endless.
I took it all with the proverbial grain of salt. Whether what he said about her was true or not simply had no bearing on us in my opinion.
I don’t believe he in a single instance used her actual name with me, but I found her first one out soon after we started seeing each other. She called him on a morning that he and I had hooked up in Crewe, Virginia. My state policeman and I were in his agency-supplied gold Expedition when his phone rang. A picture of an older blonde and the name Brenda were displayed on the screen when he pulled his cell out. He courteously excused himself, with chagrin, from the vehicle to talk to her. Naturally I used the time they spoke to nose around his SUV. Aside from other interesting junk throughout the Ford, I found the paperwork inside the glove compartment that showed the automobile was registered to the Virginia State Police. When Tony finally hopped back inside with me roughly ten minutes later, I commented on the black and white DMV card. I mentioned the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force carried no such documentation in either their work Van or Beater.On a different day, Tony let me rifle through his billfold while we were sitting at a restaurant. I discovered his wallet contained a tiny photograph of pseudo-wife tucked inside a folded Post-It or something with a phone number scratched on it. I laughed to myself about the fellow carting around a snapshot of a chick he supposedly harbored animosity to.
If recollection serves, I inadvertently came across her surname while Google-mining for data on him.
I never once asked or nary implied Tony leave Ms. Priebe for me. I’d expressly stated to Tony more than a few times that I thought they’d be eternally inseparable. Honestly, I was quite content with that. What the hell would I do with him if they broke up? I didn’t want us to be exclusive; it’d take the excitement out of what we had. Although I never admitted to Tony I didn’t desire him as a boyfriend, I was absolutely straightforward about his not splitting up with her for the sole purpose of being with me. Regardless of his veraciousness concerning their ties, based on facts like their backgrounds, personalities, pastimes and disinclinations, to date I haven’t the least idea why they were, or remain, a couple.