Dog Training The American Male (17 page)

Jacob approached.

She kissed him forcefully,
probing the inside of his mouth with her tongue as she ran her hand between his
legs.

He reached for her—only she smacked
him across the head with a rolled up TIME magazine.

“Ow!”

“That was just a treat until
after dinner.” She pushed past him, swishing her hips as she returned to the
kitchen.

Jacob followed.

“I’m going to make us some
dinner. Then, after we clean the dishes, I’m going to screw your brains out
like the most expensive whore in Las Vegas.”

“Damn . . . But
could you make it the cheapest whore? The kind of stuff I’m imagining I can’t
really afford.”

“Tonight you can afford it all
because I’m going to give you an opportunity to earn it.”

“Yes! Wait, did you say earn it?
How?”

She sniffed the air. “Do you
smell something?”

He sniffed. Smiled. “Sorry. I’ll
go and shower. Oh, is there anything you want
me
to shave while I’m in
there?”

“It’s not you I smell . . . well,
besides your feet. I meant the dog.”

Sam sat outside the glass door,
wagging his tail.

“While I make dinner, why don’t
you shampoo Sam like you promised you’d do last week? Do it out back with the
hose.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jacob hurried off
to the laundry room to fetch the dog shampoo and towels.

* * * *
*

An hour, a
bathed dog, and two
barbequed steaks later, Nancy stood from the kitchen table and walked behind Jacob,
nuzzling his neck as she rubbed his inner thighs.

Jacob turned to kiss her and
belched—earning a smack on his forehead.

“Ow.”

 “You don’t burp in a woman’s
face.”

“I thought tonight you were an
expensive whore?”

“The whoring starts as soon as I
digest my food. That should give you plenty of time to wash the dishes and
clean-up dinner.”

“But I made dinner.”

“And it was delicious, but we’re
going to start taking turns cleaning up the dishes. Would you rather me clean
up or ride you like a Vegas whore?”

“Can I use the dishwasher?”

 “Of course you can. Just make
sure the dishes are clean before you put them in, and be sure to take out the
trash before the dog tears into it. When you’re all finished, you can come in
the bedroom and help me with a special treat . . . a new
sex toy I ordered from eBay. Better bring a few double-A batteries with you.”

Nancy walked out, leaving both Jacob
and the dog panting.
Mom was right. It’s all about behavior modification.
Now I just need to incorporate that wisdom into my radio show.

TWO WEEKS LATER...

W.O.M.B.

The adrenaline
kept Nancy’s heart racing the entire drive in to work.

It was exactly two weeks ago that
the psychologist had launched her new radio show:
Dog Training the American
Male,
and so far the new format seemed to be working. Comparing men to dogs
was nothing new, but Nancy was offering practical advice on getting the Y
chromosome to comply with her female audiences’ needs, and because her
directions were based on her own experiences, her delivery had become warm and
enticing. Her information was also often sexually explicit, which kept the
phone lines lit. And while it was too early to measure the ratings results, she
did notice that the station’s managers were no longer treating her like the
slow camper trying to outrun the hungry bear. Yesterday, Peter Soderblom had even
managed a smile—a first for the new programming director.

Along with the change in format,
Nancy laid the groundwork for a new weekly morning support group—Women
Overcoming Male Bondage, or W.O.M.B. Replacing the failed
Sunshine Hour
,
each W.O.M.B. “delivery” would be a hard-hitting, take-control-of-your-life,
slap-on-the-ass therapy session designed to empower women to reverse their own
male-dominated mentality . . . a mentality Nancy held
responsible for her own failed relationships.

The question now was – would
anybody show up?

Heart pounding, she turned into
the parking garage twenty-five minutes before the first W.O.M.B. meeting was
scheduled to begin.
God please . . . give me at least
twenty women in attendance. Twenty pays for the use of the room and keeps me
off Olivia Cabot’s shit list for another week.

Exiting the car, she hustled to
catch the garage elevator as the doors began closing. Her ears burned as she
eavesdropped on two middle-aged women in business suits.

“. . . last year for our
anniversary, Anthony gave me a card and perfume which he bought at Walgreens
while he was picking up cigarettes. Two days before this year’s anniversary, I
handcuffed him to the bed and teased him for an hour before riding him into
submission. Well, guess what . . .last night he surprised me
with these diamond earrings!”

“They’re gorgeous. Last night,
John insisted I teach him how to do the laundry.”

“Amazing.”

Nancy heard the woman whisper, “I
told him I’d lick his balls if he did the ironing.”

She bit her lip to keep from
smiling.

The elevator doors opened—revealing
the LIFESTYLE lobby packed with women!

 Lynnie Ruffington was out of her
kiosk, the rotund receptionist red-faced and sweating profusely as she handed out
and simultaneously collected completed registration forms. Seeing Nancy, she
pushed her way through the crowd.

“Doc . . . (wheeze)
what’d you promise these broads (wheeze) . . . free drugs
and booze? Cause if you did (wheeze) . . . you better save
some . . . for me.”

Nancy could barely contain
herself. “Lynnie, how many women are here?”

“I don’t know . . . shit,
maybe a million. I put you in the Liza room; bet it’s already standing room
only.”

“I’d better get in there. You
have been collecting the twenty dollar seminar fee, right?”

“Seminar fee? A few . . . I
think. Can I get back to you on that, I need to check my cleavage.”

“Lynnie, we talked about this.
Each guest must sign and complete a registration form. When they hand it in
you’re supposed to staple the cash or check to the form, otherwise make sure
they filled out the credit card information.”

“Right, got it. Only I ran low on
staples—didn’t consider that, did you Dr. Hotshot? Thank God I decided to wear
the old Double-D slingshot, huh?”

Heads turned.

You’re a celebrity now. Don’t
be seen arguing with the help.
“Thank you, Lynnie. Good morning, ladies,
I’ll see you inside.

* * * *
*

Dr. Nancy Beach
stood before the
podium, humbled by the applause coming from her two hundred and seventeen
guests. A banner draped across the blackboard behind her read:

W.O.M.B.

Women
Overcoming Male Bondage

“Good morning, ladies. If you’ll
open up your information packets, you’ll find a laminated card with our pledge.
Let’s stand in unity and we’ll say it together: ‘Knowledge is power. With power
I enlighten my soul. With knowledge I begin my rebirth, emancipating myself
from my male bondage.’

“Very good. From now on, after
you say the pledge, try doing this:” Nancy demonstrated the salute. “Okay, now
you try.”

Palms over their faces, the women
slowly pushed their noses and foreheads through their separating hands like a
baby’s head emerging from its mother’s vagina.

“And we are reborn, excellent. I
know it seems silly, but that simple composing gesture will allow you to quiet
your mind when every fiber in your body wants to whack your growling, belching,
reactive dumb animals on their snouts with a rolled up newspaper.”

Nancy smiled, acknowledging the
applause.

“Ladies, the X chromosome is
found among both males and females; but only the male possesses the Y. Why?
Before I discovered the secrets of establishing a healthy home, a healthy sex
life, a balanced relationship, I used to ask
why
—as in, why must they
make us cry. Why must they piss us off? Why must they lie around and scratch
their balls and drink beer and watch football every Sunday and Monday night and
now Thursday nights while we clean and cook and put up and put out?”

Applause reverberated through the
small auditorium.

“Well, ladies, I figured out the
secret to the Y. The Y chromosome stands for YOU. You must teach your Y the
responsibilities of being a good husband and provider, father and friend. And
yes, while it may seem at first that the secret to controlling our Y is simply
to be his sex slave . . . his personal
ball-licker
,
as some callers have suggested, in fact, we are creating an obsession. And the
object of that obsession is us – not football, not porn, not beer – us! Our
sex—given to us by God—can be used to modify our Y’s behavior in a more
positive, productive way. Creating, fueling, and controlling that sexual
obsession can keep your Y from turning to drugs or alcohol when he gets laid
off or prevent him from straying into the arms of another Double X. The
illusion of that obsession in the work place can turn the tide in business and
politics so that we can finally cut the ties of male bondage and create a
better, safer world for our children!”

The standing ovation rocks the WOWF
offices—causing Lynnie Ruffington to drop the wad of moist twenty dollar bills
she has just fished out of her brassiere.

MANAGING
THE GAME

Bodies swelter in
the Sunday afternoon heat. Parents squirmed on the hot aluminum bleachers.
Coaches sweated profusely in their baseball uniforms. Park employees broiled
behind the flaming grills of their hot dog and burger concession stands . . . and
God help the umpires, clad in their long black pants and shirts beneath
stifling layers of protection.

Least affected by the heat of the
South Florida midday sun were the players themselves—fourteen-year-old Little
Leaguers—teen boys whose adolescent thoughts drifted from the game to the teen
girls milling about the stands.

Baseball in West Boca Raton. Four
baseball diamonds, their backstops forming a quadrant to the brick structures
which housed the bathrooms and food concessions. Eight teams competed every
two-and-a-half hours, the weekend games beginning running non-stop from seven
in the morning, ending at ten at night.

Today, Coach Vincent Cope’s team was
scheduled to play a double-header in the noonday broil-a-thon.

The manager sat in his designated
dugout—a concrete and aluminum bunker devoid of any breeze. It was still Game
One, top of the third inning of a scoreless contest, and his team was in the
field. Wade was pitching—Vinnie’s eldest son struggling to keep his offerings
in the strike zone.