It Started In the Dairy Section

In the mid-point of the Obama administration, I was in my early thirties, that wonderful age when a single guy playing the field still has a wide range of age choices among women. Twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings and even sexy forty-somethings are fair game. Never been married, I was still looking for that "perfect" woman—or at least as close to perfect as one could reasonably get. The last time and place I expected to find her was ten in the evening in the dairy section of Wegmans. I had just placed a carton of Dannon vanilla yogurt in my basket, turned around and there she was. She smiled and said, "Is the vanilla good? I've been meaning to try it."

"Huh?" I uttered, mouth agape.

"The vanilla..." she repeated. "Is it good?"

"Um, yes, very good," I managed to say. "You'll like it, I'm sure."

She smiled, reached for a carton and placed it in the basket that dangled on her arm. "You're a late shopper too, I see. Long day at the office?"

"Uh, yes. I mean no. I, I mean I just got off working flex time. I'm here now to beat the crowds." She giggled, amused listening to me stutter. I didn't normally do that in front of women, even attractive women, but I found her more than simply attractive. Besides, it was relatively late and I didn't expect to see a goddess, much less someone who appeared as if she wanted to make conversation. She had caught me off guard. Getting my bearings, I asked her reason for the late shopping.

"Same as yours," she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. "I lack the patience for long checkout lines."

I nodded as my eyes continued to roam over this incredibly beautiful human being who stood before me in short cutoff jeans and a sleeveless white and red checked blouse tied above her navel. Her skimpy attire and the body beneath it reminded me of Li'l Abner's Daisy Mae. In fact, had she been barefoot (she wore sandals) and blond (she was a brunette), I'd have thought Al Capp's character had stepped right out of the funny papers. She had Daisy's legs, long and shapely, if not muscular in a feminine sort of way and a tiny waist, the sort of waist Victorian women strived for by binding themselves in super-tight girdles. She wasn't quite as busty as Capp's voluptuous Daisy, though she did possess her wonderful V-shape.

Almost apologetically, she said, "I only dress like this in the heat of the summer." She said this, I figured, in response to my ogling. It WAS hot, close to eighty degrees outside, even at this late hour, while Wegmans's aggressive AC kept the room overly cold, cold enough to produce goose bumps on her shoulders, rounded and packed with feminine muscle. "It feels like December in here," she said, rubbing her arms and shivering. Then she extended her hand. "I'm Clarissa Trowbridge."

I followed: "Dustin Stupak." My next thought was to wrap my arms around her lovely, shivering body to keep her warm, and then plant a kiss on her pouty lips, painted in a subtle shade of pink. Needless to say, I did neither. She made the next move, asking what I did.

"Really? You're not in uniform," she said in response to my profession, a sergeant in the county police department.

"Undercover, plain clothes detective," I clarified. "Sometimes I work in what I'm wearing now, jeans and a T-shirt."

"Oh, I see," she said warily.

"You look uneasy."

"No, just...surprised." I let it go at that and then asked what she did. "A personal trainer," she said. "I motivate people to keep in shape, people that can't or won't do it on their own."

Personal training had become a popular career choice. She claimed that business was

"booming." Only twenty-eight years old (four years my junior), she had corralled an impressive number of clients, enough to own a condo and a two-seater, Mercedes SL convertible. Her revelation, if true, told me that she might be somewhat materialistic.

Eyeing my six-foot three athletic frame, she said, "You look in great shape yourself. Do you keep that way on your own or do you work with a PT?"

"No PT, I'm self motivated, getting to the gym two or three times a week," I revealed. "But sometimes not even that. We tend to put in long hours."

"You work lots of drug cases, I bet."

I nodded. "Drug cases and also undercover sting operations."

"Hmm...sounds dangerous. What sort of operations?"

"We've broken up prostitution rings, locked up the pimps and Johns, as well as the ladies."

She frowned. "I've always thought that prostitution is a victimless crime. I mean, so what if someone wants to sell their body? Sex is a commodity like anything else."

"A commodity, yes. Like anything else? Can't agree there, because your body is the only thing you truly own. Slaves excepted, of course." I grinned, hoping she'd appreciate my stab at light humor.

She didn't seem to. In fact, she launched into a discourse about the hypocrisy of law enforcement officials prosecuting prostitutes while buying their services. She had a point, for I knew of cops that had availed the services of call girls, not to mention the case of former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer. "But you're just doing your job," she concluded. "I get that." She glanced at her watch. "Well, it's been nice speaking with you. Putting in all those hours chasing druggies and call girls, you probably don't have much time for socializing, do you?"

I wasn't sure how to take that. Was she making fun or was she interested in getting together? "I can make time. It depends."

"On what?"

"On who wants me to."

She stepped closer and gently gripped my arm. "Suppose I want you to?"

"Suppose I said great?"

"Suppose I give you my number?"

*****

For me, first dates normally meant dinner or a bite to eat over coffee. This time, I aimed to try something different and was delighted when Clarissa agreed to a picnic in Elk Neck State Park, a peninsula on the Chesapeake Bay, heavily wooded in places and bordered by a narrow sandy beach. She wasn't kidding about the condo, a fifteen-story luxury high-rise or the car, a black Mercedes SL. I wouldn't have seen the car—she parked it in her building's garage—except she, the proud owner, insisted on showing me. I felt sure she'd snicker at my green, late nineties, ho-hum Chevy Caprice. But she didn't. "You've obviously done well with your personal training business," I said as we drove from the Baltimore suburbs "Do you advertise to drum up business?"

"Not much. It's mostly by word of mouth and networking. If you're good at what you do—and, not to brag but I am—then word gets around."

The weather was typical for late July, hazy, warm and humid, perfect for a picnic by the water—we brought our swim gear. Good thing we found time during the week to go; the park was mobbed on weekends. Clarissa brought a blanket which we spread beneath a thick oak tree a few yards from the water. Our coolers held the goodies, soda and beer, spinach-fruit salad, cheese and a tuna casserole that Clarissa had made. She pulled out a couple cartons of vanilla yogurt. "If not for this," she said, "we wouldn't be here now."

I couldn't resist asking: "Did you really want to know about vanilla yogurt or was that just a ploy, a pickup line?"

A sly grin crossed her face. "Honestly, Dustin, it was both. You can't be shy to network, to go after what you want. My type of business demands assertiveness. I like big guys with strong features, baby-blues and blonde curly hair, the sort of hair you see on those Greek and Roman statues. Your looks fit that bill. Then, the instant you turned around, it was obvious that we shared a mutual attraction."

"I can't imagine any hetero male that wouldn't be attracted to you," I said, running my eyes over her bare legs and then gazing into her big brown eyes, enhanced by just a touch of makeup. As noted, Daisy Mae came to mind, but a refined Daisy Mae. In Wegmans, her wavy, light brown hair dropped just below her shoulders. Today, she had it tied on top.

As we ate, she went into more detail about her personal training. She trained men and women, conducting classes at the Y but also doing one-on-one training in people's homes. No surprise, she charged more for the latter, her "custom services" she called it. "Some of my wealthier clients have these really impressive gyms in the basements of their McMansions, so you'd think they'd be motivated enough to train on their own. But no, they need somebody like me to get them going and then to take them through a full workout. Not that I'm complaining. Motivating people can be a lucrative enterprise. In my case, lucrative enough where I was able to pay cash for my two-thousand-two Mercedes."

Must be nice, I thought, making that sort of change. My modest cop's salary would hardly allow me to do that. I had financed my Chevy, a car that cost less new than her Mercedes used. Was she bragging, giving me a not so subtle hint that she was more "successful" and younger to boot? Hot she might be, but I was beginning to get the feeling that she was too materialistic for me. Then, when she talked about giving free instruction to a handful of people who couldn't afford her services, I wasn't so sure. "I like to make money," she said, "but helping the less fortunate is just as gratifying in its own way. Poor people are generally more obese, less educated and saddled with health problems they could avoid by exercising and eating right. They can't afford health clubs and fancy equipment. But they can eat healthy and exercise."

"You're one of the few entrepreneurs I know with an altruistic side," I said.

"Well, I think it's important to give back, to help the less fortunate. Don't you?"

"Of course," I said, popping open a cold can of Schlitz. "But truthfully, Clarissa, I don't give it much thought. In my line of work, first as a street cop and then detective, charitable thoughts tend to get lost in all the cynicism. Being on the front lines of crime, confronting bad guys every day will do that."

She nodded, dabbing her mouth with a napkin after chewing a bite of tuna casserole. "Seeing so much ugliness, the seamier side of life, I can understand you feeling that way." She picked up on my look of incredulity. "Something I said?"

"No, it's just that you seem so tolerant, non-judgmental. Most people I know aren't like that. Some of my relatives especially, I'm ashamed to say, the wealthy ones who can't understand why a college educated guy like me didn't go into a more, quote, 'lucrative line of work,' unquote."

"And your response is..."

"I love what I do."

She gave me a thumbs up. "Then you're in the right line of work, same as me. Not many people can say they love what they do. We're lucky."

After chewing a bite of salad, I said. "Can I kiss you for that?"

She grinned and put down her paper plate full of casserole. "You absolutely may." I leaned into her, kissed her lightly on her sexy mouth, then pulled away. Now it was SHE who looked incredulous. "That's it? Kiss over?"

"I didn't know if you wanted—"

"Come here," she demanded, hooking her arm around my neck. "Yes, I want more."

She got more: kisses long and passionate when we shifted positions from sitting Indian style to going horizontal on her blanket. From the way she responded, I sensed that our shorts and tops and the swim suits we wore underneath would have flown off if only we had the privacy. The imagined headlines controlled my fire: Cop Arrested For Indecent Exposure. Well, it didn't fully control it. When she climbed on top, I didn't push her off, not did I hesitate in slipping my hands under her halter and thrusting my crotch into hers. Crotch to crotch, lips to lips—the heat kept rising inside and out. Coming up for air, she said, "Now that you got my bikini bottom soaking wet, maybe we should take a dip."

Minutes later, we were wading into the waters of the Chesapeake Bay to "cool off," though there wasn't much cooling with water temps around eighty and our bodies and lips pressed together in the calm, blue liquid of the bay. We got far enough out where the water hid my erection from the few bathers in proximity. Nearly a foot taller than Clarissa, I stood in water up to my chest, depth that would have submerged half of Clarissa's head if not for me holding her up with her legs wrapped tightly around my waist. "Some cooling off this is," I said, struggling like hell not to go further.

She laughed and said, "Too bad we're not in Ocean City," referring, I supposed, to the cooler ocean water. Even so, given the circumstances, I wasn't convinced it would have made a difference. We were going at it like two honeymooners, not a couple on their first date. It occurred to me right then that I might be holding the woman who would one day become my wife. Nobody falls in love on the first date, not really. My age and experience with women had taught me that love at first sight is a fallacy, fleeting and shallow. So no, I didn't love Clarissa, but I couldn't deny the visceral excitement, the heady sense of anticipation exploding inside me, something I had never felt for another woman this early on.

My feelings grew stronger through the summer. Had Clarissa turned out to be just a jock chick with money, bling with little substance, things would have ended fairly soon. But that wasn't Clarissa—or at least not all of her. She was multidimensional, had all these sides to her. Her intellectual depth went way beyond the superficiality of bodies and machines. She enjoyed classic literature (Adventures of Huck Finn, Lolita), plays (Our Town, Death of a Salesman) and classical music (Tchaikovsky, Brahms). We were similar in that regard, though our tastes differed when it came to books and music. I loved Bach; she couldn't stand him. I read mostly non-fiction, though we did share a fondness for Nicholas Sparks' romance novels. Last but not least, we got on well in bed. I'll skip all the sticky details. Suffice it to say, our compatibility rating on a ten-point scale was something around fifteen. The best part was what came afterwards, holding each other, whispering words of love so soft and tender, as the song goes, and talking about merging our lives. By late August there was little doubt in my mind that we had a future together. That is, until I learned more about what she did for a living.

*****

The first week in September, I met Ken Matheson, an old college buddy for lunch. Overweight, out of shape, he was working with a personal trainer named - surprise surprise - Clarissa Trobridge. He raved about her, went on and on about how wonderful she made him feel. I listened not saying a word, even through the part where he talked about her "custom services." She mentioned this to me at Elk Neck. Exactly what they entailed, I didn't know but was soon to find out. "She takes personal training to another level, an incredibly wonderful level," Ken said, forking into his salad at The Healthy Choice, a local eatery. "In addition to giving you tips on diet, she walks you through the exercises, shows you what you need to do to look better, then rewards you with her luscious body. Of course, you pay a few hundred bucks extra, but it's well worth it. I'm telling you, Dustin, it's the ultimate motivator." His broad grin melted when he saw me not grinning back. Then he asked, "Anything wrong?"

Of course, there was plenty wrong, but I played dumb. "It sounds like you're telling me that she's a call girl posing as a personal trainer."

He shook his head. "Not at all. I mean, besides being beautiful and sexy as all get out, the woman's in phenomenal shape. Strong. Tight bod. Great muscle tone. She's the real deal. It's just that she incorporates sex into the program. That's if you want it, and I can't fathom why any guy in my situation wouldn't." Ken wasn't exactly what you'd call a matinee idol. Overweight most of his life and lacking confidence, he never did too well with women. In college, I'd listen to his woes of sexual frustration. "Hopefully," he continued, "she'll give me some much needed confidence with the ladies."

That lunch with Ken sobered me up. I'd been dating a fucking prostitute (is there another kind?), even thought of marrying her. Damn it, I loved her! In fact, I still did despite my disillusioned fury. No wonder she defended prostitution so zealously; she engaged in it. I've locked people up like her, people that front legal activities to cover up their illegal ones, their main source of income. Questions lingered. Did she throw out freebies to her so-called poor clients? How many cocks had been rammed up her pussy? Should I confront her or just break things off with some lame, bogus excuse? Or, could I overlook it, accept it: she's just doing her job. I gave a resounding no to that last one. No amount of rationalizing could convince me to overlook it.

We had plans for a post-Labor Day trip to the shore. The crowds would have left; we'd have the beach to ourselves, and we'd be able to eat in the better restaurants without standing in line. And the sex—it's always more exciting at the shore. Sea and sun always turned me into a horny animal on the prowl.

I called a few days before we were to leave. She brimmed with excitement about the trip. "I can't wait for Sunday to get here," she said, gushing like a little girl. "I love you, Dustin. You know that, right?" She asked again when I didn't answer. "Dustin?"

"Yes, I do know that. I love you too. But..."

"Yes?"

"But you need to be honest with me."

"I have been. Dustin, where did that come from?"

"I had lunch with Ken Matheson the other day. Know him?"

"He's one of my clients. How do you know him?"

"From college."

"Small world."

"Right. Look, Clarissa, he told me what your custom services entail."

"Okay."

"Okay? Clarissa, if what he told me is true, then you're a call girl, a glorified call girl."

"Dustin, the only glory in it is making people look better and feel better—about their bodies and ultimately themselves. Anything wrong with that?"

I shook my head. "Plenty wrong with that, at least in the way you're going about it. Prostitution isn't legal in Maryland, isn't legal in any state except Nevada and then only in certain counties. And even if it was, I wouldn't be okay with what you're doing."

"First of all, I'm not a prostitute, I'm a personal trainer. That's what I get paid for, whether or not clients choose my custom service program. And by the way, it's offered to women also."

I sighed. "Wonderful."

"Yeah. And second, I resent you making moral judgments about what I do. Are you so perfect, is anyone that they have the moral authority to criticize the career choices of others? For your information, I've trained at least two district court judges who said nary a word about the law. They voiced no complaints, I can assure you. So, if you can't handle what I do..." She began to choke up. "Then, then, I guess we need to stop seeing each other."

I felt terrible hearing her cry. Between sobs, she tried to explain. "I didn't mean to deceive you, Dustin. I didn't tell you everything because I knew how you'd take it. Just hearing you now proves my point. I love you unconditionally. Obviously, you don't feel the same way." She began crying harder, then hung up.

Devastated, I called Lou Grossman, a confidant and old friend, and explained the situation. Like any good friend, he didn't judge. Plus, he had a knack for putting things in perspective. We often compared notes on our adventures with women. "It's always something, isn't it?" he said.

"But this is a bigger something than usual."

"Look, you love the woman and she loves you. From what you've told me, you compliment each another, have important things in common. Glorified call girl? That's a stretch. Call girls, glorified or not, don't give a shit about the physical condition of their Johns and they don't devise exercise programs. From what you told me, her program puts the training first, the sex second, and then only if her clients choose it. She seems like one strong chick, independent and comfortable with who she is and what she does, and doesn't give a shit what people think about her business. You've told me that she isn't real comfortable with cops, yet she accepts that part of you without reservation. You, on the other hand, find yourself in a quandary. The problem, my friend, is on your end, not her end."