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.
