Dog Training The American Male

by L. A. Knight

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.

  “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 assistant.

  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. “Goddam 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 sex? 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. Sex 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, boob 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 sex 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 porn. Every night a different fantasy. I masturbate more now than I did when I hit puberty. Use it or lose it, that’s my philosophy. Unless you want to end up like one of those pathetic old men popping Viagra.”

  “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 participate 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 blowjob cost our country thousands of soldiers’ lives and $3 trillion dollars. And I’ll bet your left nut she didn’t even swallow.”

  “Ball four, take your base.”

  Boos from the home stands rent the humid afternoon air as Wade Cope walked the bases loaded.

  “Time!” Vinnie stood, pulled his sweaty underwear from the crack of his ass and left the dugout, trotting out to the pitcher’s mound where his son was waiting. “Getting hot out here. How’s the arm holding up, kiddo?”

  “Dad, please don’t take me out. Marie McGuire’s watching and it’s embarrassing.”

  “Cheerleader Marie? No shit?” Vin searched the stands.

  “Dad, don’t look.”

  “Okay, but be honest—are you focused on the catcher’s mitt or the girl?”

  “The mitt, I swear. I can’t help it, my fastball’s wild today.”

  “That’s because you’re rushing your pitches. Listen to me carefully . . . are you listening? Before you throw each pitch, I want you to take a slow deep breath, count to five, and imagine the ball pounding the catcher’s glove. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man.” Vincent Cope patted his son on the rump, and then walked back to the dugout—only to be greeted by a catcall from Ernie Whitman’s father, Bruce, a Palm Beach County trial lawyer.

  “Hey, Doc, we all know he’s your kid, but he’s killing us. How about replacing junior before this game gets out of hand.”

  “You gave your wife genital herpes, Whitman, but she hasn’t replaced you. Now sit your ass down and support the team.” Jackass . . .

  Whitman’s already sunburned face turned red. A few parents smiled, a few voiced their outrage.

  Vincent Cope could give a shit. He’d been coaching Little League games since T-Ball and all he ever asked in return was for the boys’ parents to alternate bringing drinks and snacks to every game and to keep things positive.

  Whitman’s got some set of balls attacking my kid. Maybe I’ll use syrup of ipecac instead of peppermint in his wife’s next Gynnie Gusher . . . see how much he likes going down on her then.

  Vin entered the dugout bench, greeted by his brother’s knuckle punch. “Well played. Your coaching style reminds me of Ghandi.”

  “Let the jerk-off sue me. And you can bet the house Wade strikes out the next batter. So what’s up with you and Nancy?”

  “Honestly, Vin, I’m seeing a side of her I never saw before . . . and I like it.”

  “Like what? Wait . . . you mean sex?”

  The bench players turned.

  “Eyes, gentlemen.”

  “Strike one!”

  “Atta boy, Wade.” Vin lowered his voice. “Talk to me, pal, and don’t hold back any sordid details.”

  “All of a sudden she’s really into sex; we’ve done something kinky almost every night for the past two weeks.”

  “Kinky? Like what? Bondage? Whips and chains?”

  “Yes, chains. Last night after I finished the laundry, we took Sam for a walk—and she hooked me up to a leash. It was kind of weird at first, but it really made me horny.”

  “Strike two!”

  “Nice kiddo.” Vin turned back to Jacob. “Go back. Did you just say you walked the dog after you did the laundry? Why the hell are you doing the laundry?”

  “It’s no big deal. I help out and—”

  “—and she gives you sex. That little vixen . . . she’s out to break your spirit as a free-thinking man.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Strike three!”

  “Good job, Wade. One more, baby, do it again.” Vin grabbed his brother by the arm. “Crazy? She’s playing you like a violin. Haven’t you ever read Sun Tzu? The Art of War?”

  “Was he a sex therapist?”

  “Sun Tzu was a warrior. Twenty five hundred years ago he wrote the ultimate guide to ensure victory in the battlefield. All warfare is based on deception. Hold out bait to entice the enemy. Feign disorder and crush him. Wake up, pal. Nancy has your balls in the palm of her hand and she’s squeezing the man-juice right out of you.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s because you don’t want to believe it. Like it or not, you’re being conditioned. All this sex—it’ll start tapering off, only you’ll still be doing the laundry every week. You’re like the lazy frog relaxing in a pot of cool water simmering on a stove. Everything seems wonderful to you now, only the water will gradually get warmer and warmer until it’s boiling your skin off while you’re happily cooking with a stupid grin on your face. What else does she have you doing? Wait . . . let me guess. Taking out the trash? Doing the dishes?”

  “Yeah . . . Tonight I’m supposed to help her faux paint the powder room.”

  “That heartless bitch. We’ve got to do something now, Jacob, or by next week you’ll be watching Martha Stewart and subscribing to the Home Shopping Network.”

  FAUX PAINT

  Nancy, dressed in a see-thru negligee, slipped on a pair of oven mitts and removed a brisket from the oven. Using a serving fork, she placed the steaming-hot roast beef on a cutting board on the counter to cool—the dog hovering close, watching her every move.

  Her cell phone rang. She tossed aside the oven mitts and answered. “Dr. Beach, can I help you?”

  “Nancy, Pete Soderblom. That was some crowd you attracted this morning.”

  “It’s only the beginning. By next week we’ll need a bigger room.”

  “Let’s hope so. I’m actually calling to tell you your show picked up two new sponsors this afternoon. Keep this up and come July first we may actually renew your contract.”

  Nancy’s eyes teared up. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  She disconnected the call, pumping her fists. You did it! You showed those bastards. You—Nancy Beach, are the keeper of your own fate; you’ve emancipated yourself from the bonds of your past.

  The dog suddenly became alert, wagging its tail.

  Jacob entered his home, greeted by Sam. “Hey boy. Nance, I’m home.” Casually strolling by the open powder room, he opened the sink cabinet and tossed the newspaper inside.

  He found Nancy in the den, lying on the sofa in a sexy negligee—a pint of paint dangling from her fingers.

  “Welcome home, Picasso. This paint’s water base. After we finish the bathroom, I thought we’d paint each other.”

  “That sounds pretty wild, only I can’t do it tonight. Mrs. Kleinhenz called; she’s got two tickets to tonight’s Heat playoff game and wanted to know if I wanted them . . . duh!”

  “Oh. Well, sure . . . I’d love to see the game.”

  “Sorry, babe. I kind of already asked Vince.” He checked his dive watch. “Did you want to have a quickie?”

  “No, I wanted to faux paint the bathroom.”

  “Maybe tomorrow . . . oh, wait—tomorrow night is Ruby’s event. Tell you what, why don’t you just paint the bathroom without me. I gotta change.” Cutting through the kitchen, he entered the master bedroom—

  —Nancy right behind him. “Jacob, I’m not mad, but I am a little perturbed by this.”

  Jacob pulled off his tee-shirt, then took a whiff beneath each arm pit. “Gonna need some deodorant. Sorry, what’s perturbing you?”

  “You mean besides what you just did? Blowing me off, for one thing. And since when did Mrs. Kleinhenz become Ruby?”

  “I don’t know. What’s the difference? It’s just a name.”

  “Is she coming on to you?”

  “Come on, I’m like half her age.” Jacob rubbed a deodorant stick along
each armpit. “Are you asking me this because you wanted to have sex? I’ll be home by midnight, we can do it then.”

  “You think I’m having sex with you after you cancelled the paint job?”

  “Paint job?” He squeezed a glob of toothpaste from the tube directly into his mouth, and then brushed. “Are ru raying ra roni reron roo—”

  “Just finish brushing . . . God.” Placing her hands before her face, she pressed her nose and head out of her separating fingers.

  Jacob rinsed out his mouth, spitting white residue across the basin. “l said, are you saying the only reason you’ve been initiating these wild sexual fantasies is so I’d be your Stepford boyfriend?”

  “Of course not.”

  The dog barked—a car horn honking in the driveway.

  “That’s Vin, gotta go.” He kissed her quickly and exited the bathroom, leaving the cap off the toothpaste.

  Nancy growled at her reflection in the mirror. Stay calm. Remember, behavior modification takes time. She put on her bathrobe and returned to the kitchen to eat dinner alone—only to find the slab of roasted meat gone.

  “Sam, you son of a bitch, where the hell are you?” She found the dog eating the remains of the brisket on the leather sofa. “Bad dog! Get out of my house!”

  Nancy opened the sliding glass door, chasing the dog outside.

  BLACK-TIE ELEPHANTS

  Located on seven acres of exclusive beachfront property in Lantana, Florida, the Ritz Carlton-Palm Beach is a five-star luxury hotel with the kind of amenities that catered to the upper class.

  Jacob cruised north on A1A, the Atlantic Ocean on his right as he followed the scenic two-lane roadway to the hotel entrance. He had hoped Nancy would have joined him on this – his first officially paid gig, but after last night’s fiasco, she had banished him to the silent treatment.

  She did look sexy in that negligee. Maybe you shouldn’t have listened to Vin?

  Stop! You need to focus on the gig. Your future clients are in tonight’s audience. Do a great job, pass out your business cards, and who knows what can come from this.