by L. A. Knight
She handed him the condiment. “You know, Vin, I think your mother and I have a lot in common. I’m still dealing with my own anger issues over my father’s death. Plus the stuff with my two fiancés. It’s hard to trust again once you’ve been hurt.”
“You sound like one of my patients,” Vince said, stuffing his mouth with shrimp. “She was married thirty years when she found out her husband was cheating on her. Now she sleeps with men half her age and livin’ life large.”
Helen grabbed his fork mid-bite. “Would this patient happen to be Ruby Kleinhenz?”
“Yeah? So?”
“According to Wanda, Ruby was coming on pretty strong the other day.”
“To Jacob, not to me.” Oh shit.
“Kleinhenz?” Nancy turned on him like a hawk circling a pink-eyed bunny. “Isn’t that the woman who hired Jacob to do the Ritz-Carlton gig?”
“Did she? I can’t remember.”
“And this woman wants to sleep with Jacob?”
“Wade . . . Dylan . . . get in the car!”
“Vin, answer her.”
“Nancy, Ruby Kleinhenz is fifty-two years old.”
Helen interjected. “She has the tits of a porn star and hasn’t looked a day over thirty-five since her face lift. Wanda told me you have the Cougar scheduled for labia surgery.”
Vin picked up a piece of General Tso’s chicken with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth. “Yes, Helen. Ruby Kleinhenz is scheduled to get her lower lips tightened. I’m a vagina doctor. Restoring outstretched labia is one of the surgical procedures I offer to women who have birthed children.”
Helen’s face flushed red. “Are you insinuating that my lips need tightening?”
Torpedo in the water! Launch countermeasures! “Of course not. If anything, your lips are too tight. And why the hell is my RN talking to you about my patients? That’s a strict violation of the doctor-patient code. You’re lucky I don’t report the two of you.”
“And you’re lucky I offered you half of my dinner!” Helen snatched Vin’s plate of Chinese food. “Go change your clothes, vagina doctor, you’re going to be late.”
Vin started to say something . . . then thought better of it and left. He made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped. Apologize. It’s a strategic surrender and it won’t get you laid, but at least you’ll be able to watch Sports Center tonight in peace.
Vincent re-entered the kitchen. “Helen, honey . . . I’m sorry.”
“Shut-up and get the boys to practice. And stop encouraging Cougars like Ruby Kleinhenz to re-do their goolie lips!”
Forget the white flag . . . she’s at Defcon One. He trudged back up the steps, passing Dylan on the way down. “Hey, kid—twenty bucks if you snag your old man an egg roll.”
OLD SCHOOL
Sixty-six-year-old Sandra Beach stretched out on a towel-covered lounge chair on the Lido deck of the cruise ship beneath a cloudless cobalt blue sky. It has taken three days and several mango Mojitos for the widow to finally loosen up enough to enjoy the senior’s cruise. This morning the ship had arrived at their first port of call along the “Mexican Riviera” but Sandy had no interest in leaving the sun deck—now that her Chinese suitor had finally made his move.
A steward had introduced her to Dr. Jun Dong two nights ago at a cocktail party. The wealthy acupuncturist from Beijing was a slight but virile man a few years younger than Sandy, his shaved head polished and tan, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. Dong, as he preferred to be called, was traveling in one of the more expensive suites on the ship and claimed he had been keeping tabs on the Widow Beach since Sandy had boarded in Los Angeles. They had eaten dinner together last night and she had been his “arm candy” at the casino where he had lost over $3,000 playing blackjack as if it were pocket change. A late night dance had led to their first kiss—the first real kiss she had shared with a man not named Brian Beach in almost forty years.
Her friends (two of whom were also widows) had pushed her to take the cruise and be open-minded to “new experiences.” Spending time with a divorced Asian man certainly qualified. They had met again for breakfast early this morning, had played three games of badminton (she had to stop when her calf muscle had cramped) and now they were in bathing suits by the pool, Dong working up a sweat as he lovingly massaged her sore calf and feet.
Brian had been a hairy man—hairy back, hairy shoulders . . . hairy groin. As far as Sandy could tell, Dong was hairless. What if they ended up in bed together? Would his hairless dong cause her to laugh or turn her on? Recalling her late husband’s hairy ass, she decided that a change might indeed be a good thing.
Her cat nap was interrupted by her ringing cell phone. She checked the caller ID. “Nancy?”
“Hi, mom. How’s the cruise?”
“Wonderful. Tell your sister there are lots of eligible men on board. Men with penises.” She winked at Dong, who had produced a small packet of wooden acupuncture needles from his robe pocket.
He nodded reassuringly, whispering, “to help your leg pain.”
Sandra ignored him. “So, what’s new darling?” She asked Nancy, twirling her badminton racket. “How’s Lawrence?”
“Jacob, mom. I want to know how you did it. How did you manage to stay with the same man for thirty-seven years?”
“Forty years. We lived together for three years before Lana was born. Men are like clay, darling, they need to be shaped in order to be good companions. It requires a lot of patience—son of a bitch!” She whacked Dong across his sweaty bald skull with her badminton racket. “That fucking hurt! Enough with the goddam needles!”
“So sorry.” Dong bowed, quickly removing the needle protruding from the arch of her foot.
“Unbelievable . . . Where was I? Oh yes, patience. It really is the key to molding the man. Nancy, be honest, do you love Louis?”
“It’s Jacob, mother. And yes, I love him.”
“As I remember, you said the same thing about Dan and Sebi. My point, sweetheart, is that sometimes love isn’t enough. That’s where behavior modification comes in. Of course, some women take it too far. Why just last night I read a news report that said there were over ten thousand battered husbands living in America. Ten thousand! And do you know why?”
“No mother. Why?”
“Because, darling, they don’t fucking listen. Hold the line.” She pulled her foot away from Dong. “That’s enough with the massage. Why don’t you be a good boy and get us something to drink?”
He offered her a thumbs-up, blew her a kiss, then jaunted over to the bar, catching himself as he tripped over an empty lounge chair.
Well, it was fun while it lasted . . . “Nancy, are you still there?”
“Behavior modification. I’m trying that.”
“It takes time. Try to be patient with this one, darling. You’re not getting any younger and I’d really like some grand-babies before I’m too old to enjoy them. Gotta run. Kisses to Louis.”
Sandra disconnected the call, then stood and limped off to join a water aerobics class, lugging her bag with her in the hopes of losing her would-be Chinese suitor. It would have never worked out. Going through my adult life as Sandy Beach was bad enough; I don’t think I could handle Sandy Dong.
DOG TRAINING THEAMERICAN MALE
LESSON TWO: BALL PLAYING
Seated out back on a partially-chewed patio chair, Anita Goodman kept a watchful eye on Nancy Beach as she used a treat to bribe the exuberant male German Shepherd into a “sit” position.
“Well done. I think you and Sam have mastered the sit and paw; let’s move on, shall we? Dogs that eat shoes or seat cushions are either lonely or bored. My English springer spaniel, Daisy, used to drive me crazy chewing on my leather sofa—God, I could have strangled her. Then I started tossing the Frisbee with her twice a day and . . . wah-la, no more chewing. Sam is a big, frisky dog, and big frisky dogs love to play fetch.”
Anita removed a tennis ball out of her backpack and showed Sam the ball. “You like
the ball, baby? Go get it!” She tossed the ball off the back of the fence.
Sam chased after it, and then brought it back, chewing on it.
“Wow, he did it.”
Sam nuzzled Anita with his mouth but refused to let go of the ball.
“See how Sam wants me to engage him, forcing me to physically remove the ball from his mouth? Only I don’t want to engage in the game of tug-of-war . . . A, because Sam may accidentally bite me, and B, because I just had these nails put on.”
“They do look great.”
“You don’t think the fuchsia is too much for my toes?”
“I think you need it with the white pants.”
“I agree. Sam . . . drop the ball. Draaaahp . . .” She bribed the dog with a treat.
Sam dropped the ball.
“Always remember to repeat the desired behavior. Rinse and repeat, just like shampoo. Now you try.”
Nancy took the ball and tossed it high into the air. “Get it, boy!”
Sam ran under it and leaped, snagging it in mid-air.
“Did you see that? Good catch, Sam. Now bring it here.”
Sam brought the ball to Nancy.
“Sam, drop!”
The dog dropped the ball, earning his treat.
“Excellent mastery of the ball toss.”
“Now if we could only train him to put down the toilet seat.”
“Without an opposable thumb? Not likely.”
“I meant my boyfriend. He’s not as quick a learner as Sam.”
“Ah . . . gotcha. Girlfriend, do you know the real difference between a man and a dog?”
“No opposable thumb?”
“No. The difference between a man and dog is that a dog can lick its own balls.” Anita nodded coyly at Nancy.
* * * * *
AT PRECISELY 5:57 p.m., Jacob Cope entered his home. “Nance, I’m home.”
He placed the newspaper on the shelf by the hall mirror . . .then thought better of it and tossed it in the powder room trash can – forgetting to remove his sandals, which left a trail of dirt. Hearing the dog leaping and barking at the glass sliding door, he entered the kitchen to find Nancy standing by the refrigerator . . .wearing a bathrobe and spiked heel shoes.
“Hey, Nance. Nice shoes. Are you going out somewhere?”
“No. I’m staying right here so I can fuck your brains out.” She opened her robe, flashing him a quick view of her physique—her nipples and shaved groin just barely concealed beneath a red g-string bikini.
“Holy shit . . .” No longer exhausted, Jacob approached Nancy like a dog in heat.
“No!” She closed her robe again. “Come with me.”
Jacob practically skipped behind her to the front door.
“Jacob, do you know what gets me wet?”
“No. I mean, of course I know . . . sure. But I’d rather hear you tell me.”
“What really gets me horny is when I walk into my house and I don’t have to trip over these smelly sandals . . .which you’re still wearing – and have left dirt all over my clean floor.”
“I can fix that!” Removing his sandals, he opened the door and tossed them outside, then – on his hands and knees, swept the dirt into a neat pile. Using a wad of wet toilet tissue (the anti-dingleberry brand worked best) he swept up the mess, tossed the dirty swab in the toilet with a resounding splash, and proceeded to strip.
“Jacob, what are you doing?”
“Getting ready to get you wet and wild, baby.”
“Get dressed.”
“Get dressed? Why?”
“Because tonight I’m going to get you all wet and wild, er . . . hard and wild. But first I need to use the powder room. Is there anything in the powder room that might turn me off? Anything at all?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I haven’t even used it.”
“Be sure, because I’m really horny 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, 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 B
ondage, 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.”