Dog Training The American Male (33 page)

Five hundred and seventeen women
stood. “Knowledge is power. With power I enlighten my soul. With knowledge I
begin my rebirth, emancipating myself from my male bondage.” Palms over their
faces, the women slowly pushed their noses through their separating hands,
their heads birthed from their imaginary vaginas.

“And we are reborn in unity, leaning
forward out of society’s womb . . . excellent. Ladies, today’s
agenda is packed with excitement, including the debut of a new line of
Y-training apparel from Wanda Jackson, owner of the Sex Emporium. But before we
begin, I’d like to discuss a hormone responsible for every conflict since Cain
slew his brother Abel . . . a hormone that has led to our
near-financial collapse, drug wars, political corruption, gang violence, the
poisoning of the environment, the energy crises . . . a
hormone called testosterone. It’s testosterone that fuels the male ego; it’s what
caused Neanderthals to club their mates and the sole reason the Catholic Church
and Congress are nothing but old boys’ clubs reeking in scandal.

 “Ladies, it’s not enough that
our gender ‘Lean In’ when it comes to opportunities at the workplace, in order
to truly change society we must become masters of testosterone . . . not
by being more aggressive but by reconditioning the male ego by redirecting
testosterone the way a judo wrestler uses his opponent’s force against him.
This afternoon, I’m going to provide you with a few tools to become judo
masters, but before I do, I’d like to introduce you to someone who is very
important to the success of my radio show, our station’s programming director,
Mr. Peter Soderblom.”

The crowd applauded politely.
Pete waved from his seat.

“Pete, can you join me at the
dais for a moment? I have a small gift of appreciation I’d like to present to
you.”

Pete glanced at Olivia, who shrugged.
With a hop in his step, he joined Nancy at her podium. “Morning, ladies. By the
way, I never clubbed my wife. Slipped her a roofie – just kidding.”

Pete snorted a laugh, and then
stopped when he saw the women’s expressions of disgust.

“Peter, for being such an
inspiring Y in my life, I’d like to give you this specially-handcrafted dive
watch, with my gratitude.” She handed her programming director the watch.

“Thanks. I don’t really dive,
but—”

“Go on, put it on.”

Pete adjusted the watch to fit
his left wrist. “It’s nice. Got some weight to it.” He waved to the crowd, and
then headed back to his seat.

“Pete, before you go, I need a
volunteer to play the role of my significant Y in a quick W.O.M.B. exercise.
Since you’re the only male present—”

“What about Juan Carlos?” Lynnie
yelled out from the first row, pointing to the slight five foot, four inch
Mexican. “And here’s some good news, ladies, this baby-making machine is still
on the market. Check out the size of his fingers.”

Nancy ground her teeth. “Thanks,
Lynnie, but for this exercise I really wanted Pete.”

“Ah, go on; let the little guy
handle it.” Pete headed back to his seat.

“Stay!”

As if struck by an invisible bolt
of lightning, Peter Soderblom flailed wildly in the aisle, his blonde hair
standing on end.

The female audience gasped,
confused yet engrossed.

“What . . . the . . . hell?”

Nancy feigned innocence, the palm
control concealed in her left hand. “My goodness, are you alright?”

“Felt like I stepped on a live
wire.”

“Well, thank you for agreeing to
help us out. Ladies, can we give our volunteer a warm round of applause?”

The audience clapped. Pete waved,
unsure.

Nancy pointed to Trish, who was
supervising the set-up of a small round table, checkered table cloth, and chairs.
Two chairs, side by side, had already been placed to the left of the podium.
“Ladies, in this first exercise, Peter will play my husband, the two of us en
route to a local restaurant for dinner. First we’ll pretend to be in the car,”
she pointed to the two chairs facing the audience, “then we’ll enter the
restaurant—the outside door represented by those two orange cones, at which
time we’ll seat ourselves at the table. Ready, Pete?”

“Seems kind of stupid, but
whatever.”

Nancy led him to the two side-by-side
chairs. “Here’s our family car. Pete, you’re driving so you sit in this seat on
the left . . . go on, sit down. Now I’ll sit next to you,
and you pretend to drive.”

The program director rolled his
eyes, his hands maneuvering an invisible steering wheel. “Do I need to make
engine noises? Rrrm . . .rrrm.”

“And we’ve arrived. My husband
parks the car . . . he shuts off the engine—shut it off,
and we exit the vehicle to walk to the entrance of the restaurant.”

Pete stood. He pretended to close
the car door, then walked over to the orange cones, leaving Nancy seated in the
vehicle.

ZAP
!

Pete’s limbs flailed wildly as he
fell backwards on his buttocks.

The women whooped and hollered.

“What the hell was that?”

“Honey, you forgot to open my car
door for me. Can you do that now, please?”

“Huh?”

“The car door.” She nodded to her
invisible passenger door.

Still a bit woozy, Peter pretended
to open the door for Nancy while his eyes searched the floor by the podium for
a loose wire.

“Thank you, honey. Shall we go
inside and eat?” Nancy led him to the orange-cones, waiting for him to open the
invisible door.

Feeling ridiculous, Pete feigned
opening the door, the audience applauding.

The program director nodded, a
stupid half-grin creasing his face.

“Oh look, honey, there’s an open
table.” Nancy walked ahead of him to the table, and then waited by her chair.

Pete pulled his own chair out and
sat.

ZAP
!

He went down again, moaning on
the floor in pain.

“What did my husband forget to
do, ladies?”

“PULL OUT YOUR WIFE’S CHAIR!”

Pete looked up, bewildered.

Nancy removed his dive watch and
held it up to the audience. “Introducing the Y-training device—a combination
electrical dog collar and men’s dive watch. As you can see, the controls are
easily concealed in the palm of my hand, and the electrical charge can’t be
traced back to the watch. I had the intensity set on high, but there are two
lower settings. I’m also hoping to have a reward setting that reverberates the
Y’s genitalia.”

The women stood and applauded,
many yelling out, “Where can I buy one?”

“Sorry, ladies, this is just a
prototype. I have to speak with someone about mass-producing them.”

* * * *
*

Wanda Jackson took
over the lecture
twenty minutes later, her five college-age female employees modeling a sexy
line of lingerie, corsets, and bustiers. No longer in pain, Peter Soderblom
watched from the third row, thoroughly enjoying the show.

Olivia Cabot joined Nancy in the
corridor outside the lecture hall. “Very impressive, Dr. Beach. You’re
original, creative, and your audience loves you. I’m renewing your show for two
years, with a thirty percent bump in salary. We’ll include a syndication
clause—I think we can open markets in New York, Philly, and L.A.”

“Oh my God.” Nancy teared up.

“I also want to talk to you about
setting up a partnership to manufacture those watches, along with an exclusive
line of Y-training items.”

“That would be amazing.”

“The dive watch . . . may
I?”

“Huh? Oh yes, of course.” She
handed Olivia the dive watch and its palm control.

“Simple, yet effective. We’ll
have to refine the design of course, make the watches more fashionable.”

“Of course.”

“I’m hosting a party tomorrow
night on our yacht; why don’t you join me as my guest.”

“That would be amazing.”

“Be at the Bridge Hotel dock in
Boca at eight o’clock. It’s black-tie.”

“I’ll be there, thank you so
much.”

“Oh, would you mind if I borrowed
the watch for the weekend?” Olivia winked. “I have a new young stud that needs
to be corralled.”

Nancy smiled. “Keep it, it’s
yours. Give the young stud a jolt from me.”

* * * *
*

Helen Cope entered
her husband’s
workplace—disturbed to find a pair of Miami Dolphin cheerleaders occupying the
waiting room. Long-legged and well-endowed, bare-midriffs and skirts—a
peroxide-blonde and an auburn-haired black girl.

Two twits twittering away on
their iPhones.

Nurse Kim opened the door
separating the waiting area from the exam rooms. “Tina Owens?”

The black cheerleader stood.
“That’s me. Only I’m just here for my Vanilla Swirl.”

“Before you get your
Gynnie
Gusher
Dr. Cope needs to examine you. Wait in Exam Room 3.” The nurse held the door open for the patient, and then spotted Helen. “Hi, Mrs. C. Are you here
socially or for an exam?”

“Exams I get at home. I brought
the Muffin King his dinner, tonight’s his late night.” She held up the deli
take-out bag.

“He’s pretty busy; I can take
that for you.”

“That’s all right; I’ll just put
it in his office fridge and be on my way.” Helen entered the treatment area,
pausing at the receptionist desk to say hi to the staff.

An elderly woman entered the
waiting room and signed in at the front desk. “Edna Dombrowski. I have the
four-fifteen.”

The receptionist broke from her
conversation with Helen. “I need your insurance card and a photo ID.”

The sixty-three-year-old divorcee
from New York extracted the items from her purse. “Nurse, how long do you think
Dr. Cope will be? I have a dinner date in an hour—a realtor I met on
J-Date
.”

“There are two patients ahead of
you. Go on and have a seat, we’ll call you back as soon as we can.”

Helen finished her conversation
with the receptionist, and then headed down the corridor for Vincent’s office.
She walked past several closed exam room doors—pausing as she heard a girl
giggling inside Exam Room 4 . . . followed by her husband’s
voice.

“We never had cheerleaders who
looked like
you
when I played college ball. If we had, I probably would
have turned pro.”

The door opened and Dr. Cope exited—leaving
a gorgeous wavy-haired brunette on the table, her hiked-up dressing gown
exposing a tanning-booth tan hairless vagina.

“Vincent Thaddeus Cope!”

Vin clutched his heart, dropping
the patient file. “Jesus, Helen—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“You were flirting.”

“No, I was speaking to one of my
patients.”

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous. I wasn’t
expecting you . . . standing there, lurking in the
hallway.”

They turned as Nurse Kim led the
peroxide blonde into Exam Room 6, the twenty-three-year-old cheerleader winking
at the red-faced gynecologist as she sauntered by.

Vin casually turned back to his
wife, his mind racing for something to say that might to diffuse the situation.
“What’s in the bag? Dinner? Smells great. You smell great.”

“Office. Now!”

He followed her into his private
office. Closed the door behind him. “Don’t get mad.”

“Why should I be mad?”

“You shouldn’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then why are we in my office?”

“I just wanted a moment alone
with my husband . . . to give the man I love an early
birthday present.”

“Birthday present?”
My
birthday’s not for five months. Probably tickets to a show she wants to see. Or
a cyanide capsule.

Helen reached into her handbag
and removed a small jeweler’s box, the second-hand velvet packaging scuffed.
“Happy birthday, honey.”

Vin checked the box for a
trip-wire before opening it. “Wow, a dive watch.”
Jesus, what the hell am I
supposed to do with this cheap piece of shit? Looks like she bought it in a
Vegas pawn shop.
“Honey . . . this is awesome.”

“Try it on.”

“Absolutely, are you kidding?” He
removed his $19,000 titanium Piaget Polo timepiece with the luminescent hour
markers and sapphire back and strapped on the $159 plastic and rubber dive
watch. “It’s a beauty. Thanks, hon. What? No card?” Vin forced a laugh, giving
her a quick hug as he rolled his eyes behind her back.

Nurse Kim opened the door. “Sorry
to interrupt. I’ve got you in Room 4 next. Get this—the blonde in Room 6 wants
to discuss whether she needs birth control for anal sex.”

Sweat beads broke out across
Vinnie’s upper lip. “Jesus, Kim, can’t you see my wife and I are sharing an
intimate moment?” He leaned over and French-kissed Helen—

—who pushed him off her, gagging.
“Go. Examine your cheerleader. I’ll see you at home.”

 Helen left Vincent’s office,
pausing outside Exam Room 4. The door was ajar, revealing the black
cheerleader’s nude body. The exhibitionist had her back to the door—completely
oblivious—as she casually turned her dressing gown inside-out, confused over
which opening to place her arms.

Helen slammed the door shut.
Ignoring good-byes from the check-out nurse and receptionist, she exited to the
waiting room as Nurse Kim called out, “ Edna Dombrowski?”

“Right here.”

“Exam Room 2.” Nurse Kim waved to Helen and shut the door.

Instead of leaving, Helen selected
a magazine from a rack, found a vacant seat close to the door and pretended to
read—her left hand searching her handbag for the watch’s control device.

* * * *
*

Vince left his
office, his heart still
racing from “Warden Helen’s” surprise inspection. Deciding it best to settle
his nerves before moving on to the highlights of his day, he bypassed the
Nubian cheerleader in Room 4, grabbing the chart off the door of Exam Room 2.