Dog Training The American Male Part 15

"I haven't even used it."

"Be sure, because I'm really h.o.r.n.y and I thought I just heard a splash."

Jacob climbed back into his Bermuda shorts and entered the hall bathroom the toilet seat covered in water. Using another wad of toilet paper, he wiped down the seat, tossed the wet tissue inside the bowl, and then closed the lid.

He found Nancy waiting for him in the den. She was posing seductively, her open robe dangling halfway down her back. "Very good boy. Come."

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, swis.h.i.+ng 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 wh.o.r.e in Las Vegas."

"d.a.m.n . . . But could you make it the cheapest wh.o.r.e? 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 gla.s.s 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 wh.o.r.e?"

"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 wh.o.r.e?"

"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 s.e.x 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 s.e.xually 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 Suns.h.i.+ne Hour, each W.O.M.B. "delivery" would be a hard-hitting, take-control-of-your-life, slap-on-the-a.s.s therapy session designed to empower women to reverse their own male-dominated mentality . . . a mentality Nancy held responsible for her own failed relations.h.i.+ps.

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. G.o.d please . . . give me at least twenty women in attendance. Twenty pays for the use of the room and keeps me off Olivia Cabot's s.h.i.+t 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 . . . s.h.i.+t, 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 G.o.d 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, emanc.i.p.ating 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 v.a.g.i.n.a.

"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 establis.h.i.+ng a healthy home, a healthy s.e.x life, a balanced relations.h.i.+p, I used to ask why-as in, why must they make us cry. Why must they p.i.s.s us off? Why must they lie around and scratch their b.a.l.l.s 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 s.e.x 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 p.o.r.n, not beer us! Our s.e.x-given to us by G.o.d-can be used to modify our Y's behavior in a more positive, productive way. Creating, fueling, and controlling that s.e.xual 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 bra.s.siere.

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 G.o.d help the umpires, clad in their long black pants and s.h.i.+rts 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.

"Ball four, take your base," yelled the home plate umpire to a chorus of groans. Runners on first and second, one out, and Wade Cope was feeling the heat.

His father and manager stepped out of the dugout, clapping his support. "Shake it off, kiddo. Just play catch."

Wade nodded, acknowledging his father's advice: Ignore the batter, focus only on the catcher's mitt.

"Strike one."

"That-a-boy." Vin allowed his ego a moment's flight-would'a made a great minor league pitching coach . . . as he took his seat on the bench next to his younger brother. With the team's regular first base coach away on business, Jacob was sitting in as Vin's a.s.sistant.

What surprised Vincent was that his brother, who grew up hating sports, had actually volunteered. And the schmuck had been smiling all day.

"Ball. One and one."

Vin removed his baseball cap, wiping sweat from his eyes. "G.o.ddam doubleheaders. Feels like my nuts are being slowly roasted in a crock pot. So, little bro, what's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Jacob. You've been walking around all day with a stupid grin on your face. Things really that good at home?"

"Can I ask you a personal question? How often do you and Helen . . . you know?"

"Ball two!"

"What? Have s.e.x? Lately . . . maybe twice a month."

The three bench players at the opposite end of the dugout glanced their coaches' way.

"Eyes on the field, ladies. Heads in the game."

"Two times a month? That's all?"

"I'm married. s.e.x comes in waves, like the tide. Right now Helen's tide is out. You try raising three boys, see what it does for your libido. Soon as the last little monster goes off to college, Helen gets a face lift, b.o.o.b job, and her varicose veins lasered off, then I'll ride the high tide into my retirement."

"Ball three."

"So it's true-marriage really does change your s.e.x life."

"It has nothing to do with marriage, it's about the kids. Helen and I used to do it two or three times a week before Wade was born. Diapers, pre-school, kindergarten . . . then sports kicks in, plus we're both working. One kid is a shared obsession, three in six years is a merry-go-round. Now she's in bed early and I stay up late."

"Watching ESPN?"

"Strike two. Full count."

"ESPN? No, dawg, I watch p.o.r.n. Every night a different fantasy. I m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e more now than I did when I hit p.u.b.erty. Use it or lose it, that's my philosophy. Unless you want to end up like one of those pathetic old men popping v.i.a.g.r.a."

"That's more than I needed to know."

"What? Don't tell me you, the Plastic Ono Band Casanova suddenly has a problem with milking the one-eyed lizard?"

"No. I just didn't think married men would have to do that kind of thing anymore."

"Yeah? Well you've got it all wrong. Among its many other benefits, masturbation maintains the health of the prostate, improves the immune system, and can decrease the desire for a man to partic.i.p.ate in an extramarital affair. Look at me. Do you have any idea how many hot women come into my office, strip naked, and spread their legs for me just so I can probe their privates? Masturbation saves lives, my friend. Think about this: If Clinton had jerked off instead of allowing that chunky Jewish broad to suck on his cigar, Gore would have won the election back in 2000 and we'd have never invaded Iraq. That b.l.o.w.j.o.b cost our country thousands of soldiers' lives and $3 trillion dollars. And I'll bet your left nut she didn't even swallow."