Ch 3 - 8 Men and 2 Women | The Real Jeannine Pr

Chapter 3 - 8 Men and 2 Women - Updated January 11, 2026

The Real Jeannine Price

Chapters One, Two and Three Re-Released with additional audio and video on January 11, 2026.

Chapter Four Published on January 11, 2026.

Memorialize with truth, not perjurious words with ulterior motives. Choose actions not with emotion. Be very careful against whom you make false allegations - especially against someone who not only knows and can prove your indictments false, but can also prove you to be the very antagonist you indict that someone else to be. Someone with the heart of a lion and a very precise skillset may choose to fight back with all Hell’s fury for the balance of his life. Judas words might not yield a Jesus response.

FAFO. January 16, 2026 - truth.

For: Zuul, Cain-Cain, and My Ruca

8 Men and 2 Women

By late 2019 I had moved in with Jeannine. Among the few things I first brought to her house was Axel. Axel was my 13-year-old German Shepherd. He was the third GSD I had since I was 22. First, there was my only female, Cubs. Then, there was my first male, Dakota. And then - Axel. Axel would live the last six months of his life with me and Jeannine.

Before I decided to move in and introduce a 120-pound GSD to her two beagles and four cats, there were a couple of, let’s say, revelations Jeannine confronted me with. Nah, that’s not a very fair description. Jeannine straight up dropped a few bomb shells on me.

When I first met Jeannine, nearly a year before I moved in, we had a series of conversations all adults, I suppose, should have. Any couple who find themselves in their mid and late 40s who endeavor to start a new life together needs to have alot of those candid, honest, adult talks. These talks should be, among other things, about those boatloads of shit baggage you’re about to drop on each other’s front stoop.

During one of those heart-to-heart talks, Jeannine became extra curious about my past. She wasn’t talking about how many kids across the country I may have illegitimately fathered. She already knew my three children. She was specifically referring to how many women I’d been with in my life, sexually. I took no offense knowing she had every right to know, if for no other important reason than her own health.

“So, I’m curious,” she began, “exactly how many women have you been with in your life?”

“You’re asking me how many women I’ve slept with in my life?”

“Ummm. Yeah.”

“Seven.”

“Buuuuuuuuu-l shit,” she said with a disbelieving smerk on her face. Seven was the truth.

“I’ve been married most of my adult life. Even when I wasn’t, I’ve never found the fascination of random and nameless hook-ups. Why is it okay for men to be sluts but not women? Emotional connection is way undervalued and important to more men than you might expect. If you’re worried about your health, there’s nothing to worry about - I’ve never slept around and I’ve never had any sort of STD.”

“Okay. Well. I don’t know if I actually believe that. But, I’ve only been with 10 people in my life. Eight men and two women. And I’ve never had an STD, either.”

I had absolutely no reason to doubt her claims. The rule of thumb is that men generally over exaggerate their past number of sexual partners while women do the opposite. But, I knew that she’d been married twice, like me, so I estimated that those two marriages probably took up the majority of her adult life therefore keeping the number of past sexual partners to a roundabout but respectable “8 and 2.”

No more than a few weeks after this conversation, we entertained another. I learned that both of Jeannines’ marriages failed before their respective one-year anniversaries. I also came to learn that Jeannine, then at 42, hadn’t maintained any other romantic relationship that survived more than a year.

Hoist the red flags.

“Wait a minute,” I began in this new, honest, adult conversation, “you are 42 and you’ve honestly never been romantically involved with any one person for more than a year, including your two ex-husbands?”

“Nope. I have a habit of attracting fucking ass holes who always fuck me over.”

Hoist more red flags.

Here was a woman, 42 years old, who just proclaimed to me she had been married twice; had never maintained any romantic relationship with anyone for more than a year; and asserted that she was the victim in every failed relationship. That should’ve been the part where I applied the “Duck” rule: if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a fucking duck. Unfortunately for me I had already donned my sweet, new pair of Jeannine goggles guaranteed to be kryptonite against recognizing bullshit.

She sensed my withdraw to her comments. She, I believe, suspected my withdraw was questioning her ability to remain in committed relationships.

That wasn’t it. Entirely, anyway.

My suspicion was that she was the primary driving reason for the failure of all her past relationships. By this time in 2019, I was already well aware that Jeannine was a raging alcoholic. Hell, that’s a well-known Virginia Beach fact. Also, by this time, I had become well introduced to being her preferred target in her episodes of drunken violence. Those Jeannine goggles were powerful.

Her alcoholism and propensity to violence were no strangers to Cameron, either. When Cameron was younger, she and I were trying to capture EVPs. Cameron believed there to be ghosts in her grandparents’ house, so we turned on our voice memo apps and tried to see if we could capture the voices of those spirits. While we recorded, Cameron and I talked normally. In our conversation, Cameron told me she had dreams about her mom wherein Jeannine was sometimes violent. Cameron also said, “I don’t wanna’ end up like my mom … I do think she needs to go to like a rehab place.” So sad.

Jeannine would go through a very systematic rollercoaster of emotions and actions when she drank, which was … umm … nearly every day.

After the first couple of drinks, she would become extremely engaging in dialogue, and outwardly happy - almost overly excited. Although Jeannine is naturally rarely the quiet one, the dialogue we had when she started drinking was more sincere, as though she was trying to more deeply discuss things while simultaneously showing an outward emotion of extreme happiness.

Once she reached that second or third drink, she became loud. Again, she’s naturally and supremely the loudest one around, but she became really loud. Although she snorts often when she laughs, she would snort almost excessively around that second or third drink. Since she was already demonstratively happy, the snorting became almost ridiculous. But, that was her when she was drinking and I loved being around her when she had a few drinks. I never had more fun in my life, and I never minded the sharp decibel increase or the snorting.

Once she had a few more, and mind you - when she drank she was drinking a double rum and Diet Pepsi, she became outwardly generous if we found ourselves in a bar or restaurant. By this level of intoxication, somewhere around drink four or five, meaning drink eight or ten in Jeannine terms, she would begin barging her way into conversation with other, random bar patrons, usually hugging each and every one of them several times before insisting the bartender put her newly found barfly friends’ next round on our tab. If we were home, she’d become bartender and make sure nobody’s adult beverage was ever empty.

Once she got to six or seven doubles, she would usually be inclined to order shots, usually peanut butter or cinnamon whiskey, Screwball or Fireball, respectively. She would say “nn-yyeeeeeeeaaaaahhhh,” a drunk Jeannine variation of the word ‘yeah.’ She used it as commonly as the word ‘the’ is used in everyday speech. Meaning, by now she would begin to lose the ability to keep dialogue so every response she made in conversation was as though you had asked her a question that she had to qualify with the affirmative “nn-yyeeeeeeeaaaaahhhh” followed by an attempt at forming a legitimate sentence.

Now, by no means is she done for the night at this point. Oftentimes at this point, she would find the ability to muster herself back to the happy and dialoguing Jeannine or the generous, ‘get-their-next-round-on-me’ Jeannine. The roller coaster was never static, relying on other factors like whether or not she had eaten; how quickly she downed her first few; or what time we needed to be home, considering whether or not we had to work the next day. If we were at home, her routine was more predictable.

Once she got beyond the seventh-or-so drink, possibly even coupled with a few shots, she became very graphically and openly sexual. If we were out, this would become uncomfortable and did put me in a really bad situation on several occasions. She would begin to invite those barfly friends whose drinks she just bought into conversation with us. Jeannine would invariably initiate candid conversation about sex. Unfiltered.

On December 29, 2023 we were home for the holidays alone. Cameron was in Florida through the New Year with Jeannine’s brother; and my two daughters were set to arrive that weekend to visit us for a few days for Christmas.

We decided that night to head to a local establishment called the Ready Room, a small hole-in-the wall bar we had been to a couple times through the years. Jeannine got to that point where she became openly sexual and sharing with strangers X-rated tales of the not so rich and famous. When she got to that point, she would, in addition to talking to other randos about sex, begin making demonstrative sexual gestures, the most common being like she was performing oral - in absolutely no discreet way and always complete with sound effects.

On this particular night at the Ready Room, rather than chatting about her sexual proclivities with rando, recently-met barfly buddies, she began telling the bartender about her need for clitoral stimulation. The bartender was someone we’d talked to before although, at least until this night, never about Jeannine’s ever-so-sensitive lady parts. She was one of the steady bartenders with whom we’d, on several occasions, had great conversations. I don’t recall her name but she was a sweet lady, thin with graying blonde hair, who was probably in her mid to late 60s. Jeannine was actually trying to talk to her like it was some sort of secret girl talk - and fortunately not with the usual Jeannine volume. Once the clit chat started, though, I knew it was time to go.

“Hey dear … can you get me our ch…”

Before I could finish asking the bartender for our check, Jeannine yelled, and at her normal drunk decibel in that nasally, overpowering voice, “But my favorite. Hey … hey … nn-yyeeeeeeeaaaaahhhh … I like sukk-kkkin’ his dick” … Snort.

“Time to go, babe.”

“Da’ Fukkkk! I’m jusssss’ sayinnnn’ I love sukkkin’ your dick.”

“Yeah. That’s nice. Let’s go outside and I’ll get you in the truck.”

I looked at the bartender, mouthed ‘sorry,’ and told her I’d be right back to square up. As I had done so many times through the years, I physically held Jeannine up and somehow managed to get her to the truck as she high fived her new-and-never-seen-again bar friends on the way out.

I came back in, squared up our tab and headed back to the truck. I was immediately met with, “Fukkk yuuuuuuuu - you fukkkin’ muther-fukker. Thuuu fukkk were you doin’ in there, mother fukkker? Thuuu fukkk you been?”

Now, whether or not she continued drinking beyond this point when we got home was a very tricky road for me. I had to closely observe her outward, demonstrative actions. Her actions would tell me whether or not she was preparing for a fight or if she was ready to pass out for the night. It was a bad sign if she continued to drink, even marginally; became quiet and introverted; and began ‘yes’ and ‘no’ head gestures.

Jeannine’s hair was long. She most often, except at work or a few days at night during the week, kept it down. When she sat quietly to herself and started, while looking downward, to shake her head ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as if she were agreeing or disagreeing with her own thoughts, it was a bad sign. A very bad sign. I knew I had to tread very lightly. There was about a 25% chance that any unpredictably wrong word out of my mouth; my untimely movement; or even a song playing, over which I may not even have control, might prompt her to start in on me.

That wrong word, unintended movement or innocently-playing song would be followed by, “Fuck you, muther fukkkker! You peeeeece uh fukkin shit! Fucker! Get thuh fukkk out uhh my fukkkin house, motherfucker! I fukkin hate you - you peeeece uhhv fukkkin shit.”

Now there were typical verbal assaults - of which I’d become used to through the years. Then, there were key words or phrases I came to recognize as her in her genuine pre-fight routine, looking to provoke a fight as if we were two characters in Street Fighter. No shit. She would actually put her dukes up and yell, “C’mon. C’mon. Lessssssss fukkkkkkin go.”

I often compared her immediate and violent personality change to ‘Jekyll and Hyde.’ It was like she, in a moment’s notice, became possessed by some demonic force. Why do you think liquor is referred to as ‘spirits?’

Yes, we had many of those heart-to-heart conversations throughout 2019 before my move in with her - and many more in the years to come. I learned a lot about Jeannine, but it wasn’t until March 11, 2019 that her “8 and 2” number of past partners would become the spotlight of conversation.

As I said earlier, when I first learned about the oh so reasonable sum of “8 and 2” past partners, I had no reason to disbelieve her. Over the natural course of time, though, I had become introduced to Jeannines’ family and friends. I, of course, learned many new things about her. Her friends, one family member in particular and more than one neighbor made comments. I started to get that feeling … you know, that feeling when you know something just ain’t right.

I should’ve taken the hint from one of those neighbors, Mr. James, an older gentleman with whom I would develop a very friendly relationship through the years. Mr. James approached me in Jeannine’s front yard early in my and Jeannine’s relationship. Right after introducing ourselves to one another, he said something to me I’ll never forget. After introductions and small talk about Jeannine, he simply said to me, “Just gotta’ calm her down.” It would be an understatement if I said Mr. James’ words repeated in my head, through the years to come, thousands of times.

On March 10, 2019, Jeannine, Cameron, my oldest daughter and I had dinner at Murphy’s Irish Pub - an iconic restaurant and bar at the Virginia Beach Oceanfront. After ordering drinks and dinner, Jeannine excused herself to go to the bathroom. After she’d been gone for 20 minutes or so, the girls started asking me where she was.

“Pops, where’s Nin?” My oldest daughter called Jeannine ‘Nin’ - a variation of ‘Ninna,’ the nickname I called her. ‘Ninna’ came from what everyone else called Jeannine: ‘Neener.’

“I dunno’. Hope she didn’t fall in.”

Dinner arrived at our table. Still no Jeannine. I walked to the back of Murphy’s where the dart boards and bathrooms were. I found Jeannine seated at a pub table drinking a double Captain and Morgan she must’ve gotten from the bar and talking with two men who were throwing darts together.

“Dinner’s on the table.”

“Okay. I was just catching up with a couple of my buddies - I haven’t seen ‘em in awhile.”

The two men stopped throwing darts and turned toward me and Jeannine. And, in what just felt like a genuinely uncomfortable moment, Jeannine went through the motions of introducing us.

“This is Vance and Bryce. Vance and Bryce - this is John.” It got even more uncomfortable but I exchanged “nice to meet you” formalities before Jeannine and I headed back toward the table where the girls where waiting for us to start eating.

“Where the heck have you been, Mom?,” Cameron asked.

“I was talking with Vance. Remember him - the guy that taught you that trick with straws?”

After dinner, we headed outside into the cold, early spring nighttime air. With the girls in the backseat and the detailed replay of all the events before dinner being analyzed in my own thought process, we drove away from the Oceanfront.

Jeannine had, of course, her fair share of double Captain Morgans and Diet Pepsi at dinner, but she wasn’t sloppy by any means. She had eaten and because we had the girls, I suppose, remained in the ‘happy Jeannine’ state. From the front passenger seat, she could obviously sense my withdraw as I drove. I analyze everything - methodically. It was what I did largely in my professional capacity for over two decades. Jeannine, by March 10, 2019, knew this about me - that my withdrawal usually indicated I was allowing myself time to analyze and process.

“Whatchu got on your mind now?”

“Just thinking.”

“What - about the guys I was talking to? Vance?”

“Yep. I’m sitting at the table with the girls and you just vanished.”

“Sorry - I didn’t realize I was gone that long.”

“I don’t like that guy, Vance. Something about him. Don’t know what it is - but I know there’s something.”

“Who? Pee Wee Herman?” When Jeannine called Vance Pee-Wee Herman, regardless of the deep thought process I was in, I had to laugh, even if just a little. She hit the nail on the head with that one. That’s exactly who he looked like.

“Is that his nickname or something?”

“No. He just fucking looks like Pee-Wee Fuckin’ Herman. Goofy muther fukker.”

With Jeannine’s new nickname for Vance, I laughed again and put away my thoughts for the rest of the night. Now looking back, I agree that not only does he look like Pee-Wee but he’s the same bag of ass clownery. Also looking back now, I realize although I instinctively analyzed, because of a twenty-year career of doing just that, everyone and everything with which I come into contact, I was exact and on-point about Pee-Wee all while being completely blind to the Mr. Hyde right by my side.

The next day, March 11, 2019, I reengaged my thought process. I did what I had to do to resolve the many questions I had about Jeannine that had developed since I met her. I analyzed, among many other things, all I’d come to learn about her through our many talks; remarks made by others that may have gone otherwise unnoticed by anyone other than me; photographs of her contained within several picture albums; and other observations I’d made and tucked away for later analysis.

Then, I found something that would prove to be the final piece of evidence I needed to validate questioning her about my suspicions that she was completely untruthful about her past.

Pee-Wee provided a flood of evidence for me. Well - his social media did. This guy was the typical 40-something Facebook cheerleader queen. His whole manchild life was right there for the world to see. If he so much as took a quality shit, he’d be sure to capture it and post it, trusting his intestinal-ass work would get hundreds of thumbs ups and various emoji replies. Complete stud - this guy, Pee-Wee.

There were hundreds of photos. Many that a lot of people probably wouldn’t have wanted on display for the world to discover. Including photos of Jeannine. Jeannine was definitely not an “8 and 2” woman. She was a bonafide party girl.

In one photograph on Vance’s Facebook page, there was Jeannine - seated on the steps of a deck at an outside, backyard, summertime party. Standing in front of her was some unknown, random guy. Jeannine’s head was right in front of his junk - something she was apparently very accustomed to. He was clothed - but Jeannine held in front of his junk a zucchini while she sucked on it. A true show of class - her own outside cameo, soft-core porn production.

People put the craziest shit on social media, but this was open source social media - and out there for anyone to see including Cameron. Cameron was 11 by then and had a phone. By 11, most kids these days have more cellphone, computer and network skills that most adults. Cameron could easily have found this photo of her mother. Imagine being an 11-year-old child and finding your mom mock-blowing a dude on social media.

Not to mention, what kind of a fucking asshole would put shit like that on open source social media where someone else’s child could see it? Completely no care or concern whatsoever … but it was such a great mock blowjob photo it had to go up on Pee Wee’s Facebook page. It was guaranteed to give him dozens of thumbs ups and laughing out loud emojis. Douche.

I knew that guy made my hair stand up the previous night. A quality A+ Ass Clown.

There were lots more photos, too. Many more. There were other Friends of Friends who offered more evidence I needed. With everything I’d already learned and with what I just came to know, courtesy of Paul Reubens himself, I called Jeannine after work telling her I was on my way to her house and that I’d like to talk.

I texted her the blowjob photo. No words. Just the photo.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea that was online” was all she offered in reply via text. She called me over-and-over after the mock fellatio text message, but I refused to answer, knowing this was a conversation to be had face-to-face. I had finally seen behind her mask and needed to get some honest answers.

I arrived at her house sometime around 7pm. She was sober. She didn’t mince many words. She never really did, sober or otherwise, even when she lied through her teeth. She was immediately on defense. Remember, her only defense is her offense. I walked in and she initiated the conversation the content of which was already known.

“I was a slut before I met you!”

“Wait a minute. What does that even mean? I just know your past is not what I’ve been led to believe.”

“I was a fukkkin’ slut!”

“There’s no need to yell. I just want the truth. Describing yourself like that does nothing for me.”

We were in the living room when this dialogue began. I was seated on the couch and she was seated on a small bench she made in a wood workshop class. She stood up quickly.

“Okay. Okay. I … was … a … fucking … slut. I lied to you. I knew you wouldn’t be with me if you knew about my past. I’ve probably been with more than a hundred men.”

Stop the fucking press.

I was crushed. I completely expected the number of past partners to be more that 10. But, holy shit. She was the one who initiated this conversation only a few months before! I simply answered her question and she offered the reply of “8 and 2.”

“And Pee Wee Herman? What the fuck? A ‘buddy?’”

“I mean, he isn’t a past boyfriend or anything. I mean we’ve hooked up before. But nothing serious.”

Ummm, apparently. Apparently there never has been anything more than random fuck buddies - a whole village of them, I thought to myself.

“And you introduce me to a poser like that? Who puts an image of you blowing a dude for anyone and everyone, including your daughter and my daughter, to see? Please don’t ever introduce me to some Social Media Fuck Boy like that again.”

I told myself before I arrived I was going to end things if she delivered to me some sort of crazy explanation about the untruths of her past. Her crazy explanation was signed, sealed and delivered.

I stood up, told her she was great but I was crushed by this bomb shell.

Tears began to flow from her eyes and stream down her face. As I write this I can see her that night and it breaks my heart. I know more now - so much more - about her. I wish I could go back now, with knowledge I didn’t then have, to that very moment. While it may have all made sense in time, that night when I learned about the extent of her past, I was devastated. Nothing made sense. The devastation, though, wasn’t learning she’d lied about her past. The devastation was that I knew I loved her anyway.

She lunged toward me after I stood up. She hugged me - squeezed me. Her arms wrapped tightly around my neck and she came to rest her right check on my left shoulder. I felt her tears run down my neck.

“I gotta go.”

She raised her cheek off my shoulder and in my left ear she whispered to me four simple words - four words that will forever haunt me:

“Please don’t do this.”

I should have. I wanted to. But I didn’t. Instead, I delivered to her what would be my own lies.

“I just need some time to think. We’ll be okay in time. I just need to think.”

Not a few weeks later, I would learn she had also failed to tell me she has a viral sexually transmittable disease. Within the year, I learned she even had sexual relationships with her college instructors at Tidewater Community College.

Drunken violence; lies; non-existent moral compasses; tenured college instructors exchanging college instruction for sexual favors; and an undisclosed, good ol’ fashion, life-long vaginal herpes condition seemed to suggest, in no subtle way, to run. Run away. Now.

I didn’t. I stayed. And it would get worse.

Camis' Thoughts About Her Mom

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