Dog Training The American Male

by L. A. Knight

  “What contest?”

  Cyril smirked. “Hello? Five grand to the first one who sleeps with you. Ruby and Olivia play the game all the time—don’t look so shocked; it’s what rich bitches do when they’re bored. So which one will it be?”

  “Neither. I have a girlfriend.”

  “As long as you’re not married, they don’t care.”

  Jacob scoffed. “Dude, they can’t force me to have sex. What are they gonna do? Rape me?”

  “No, you’ll go quite willing. While we’re in here picking out your bathing suit, Olivia’s spiking your beer with ecstasy.”

  “Shit.” Jacob peeked out the bedroom’s Venetian blinds to see a servant wheel out a cart of sandwiches and drinks.

  Cyril moved next to him to sneak a peek. “You’ll sun and swim while they tease you, then it’s lunch on the veranda. Twenty minutes later you’ll be back in here, humping two gorgeous middle-aged women . . . with a combined age of a hundred-and-four.”

  “Jesus, Cyril, what do I do?”

  “Don’t you mean, who will you do? Don’t worry about the loser; she’ll get double-or-nothing odds on the yacht.”

  “What if I leave now without doing either of them?”

  “Assuming you still want that big pay-day next Friday night you’ll need a good excuse. Wait . . . you drove, right?”

  “So?”

  “So, while you take a dip in the pool, I’ll remain here and stick my finger down my throat. I’ll stagger back to the pool all sick and pale -- you offer to drive me home. Don’t even change, just grab your clothes and a towel and G-O-go, bro.”

  “Dude, you’d do that for me?”

  “No, but I’d do it for little Lisa Simpson. She stole my heart.”

  * * * * *

  THE PLAN HAD worked to perfection. Forty minutes later, the orange and white Volkswagen van was weaving its way through the streets of an upper middle-class neighborhood in Boynton Beach, the driver parking curbside in front of a two-story home.

  Jacob clenched his fist to bump knuckles with Cyril. “Thanks again, man, I owe you one.”

  “Then you won’t mind coming in . . . just for a minute while I get the lights on. I know it sounds strange, but I get very nervous entering a dark house.”

  “Dude, it's only 3:20 in the afternoon.”

  “Yes. And it’s dark inside.”

  Realizing Cyril was not budging; Jacob shut off the van’s engine and exited the vehicle, escorting the gay man to the front door of his home.

  Cyril keyed in, entered the two-story house and worked his way inside, flipping on light switches, illuminating a professionally decorated, brightly colored interior, not a speck of dust or a magazine out of place.

  “Nice digs. See you next Friday night.”

  “Jacob, wait. Would you mind walking ahead of me to the den?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I feel funny about coming in to an empty house. I’d feel better knowing an axe murderer wasn’t waiting for me in the den.”

  “Dude, seriously—you should get a dog. And not one of those foofie white dogs either. Something with teeth.”

  “Mr. Jacob, I’m not going to change the way I look or the way I feel to conform to anything. I’ve always been a freak. I’ve been a freak all my life—”

  “—and I have to live with that, I’m one of those people.”

  “You recognize the John Lennon quote?”

  “Who wouldn’t? The man was a game-changer. And don’t feel bad, I suffer from a few minor phobias myself.” Jacob led him past an oak staircase to a glass-enclosed family room.

  Cyril situated himself on a stool by a wrap-around bar. “What are you drinking?”

  “Nothing for me, I have to go.”

  “No you don’t. You told me in the van that your girlfriend thinks you’re at work. What time do you normally get home?”

  “Around six.”

  “Then sit.” Cyril reached for a plastic container shaped like a Hawaiian god and fills two glasses with its copper-colored liquor.

  Jacob sat uncomfortably on the cushion of a wicker love seat. “Look, man, I appreciate you saving my ass today at Olivia’s, but—”

  “Bourbon?” Cyril shoved one of the glasses in Jacob’s hand, then powered on the CD player. Music pumped softly from the wall-mounted speakers—Lady Gaga’s Born this Way.

  “Jacob, may I ask you a question, and please be honest—what do you think of me?”

  Jacob’s pulse raced. “What do you mean?”

  “You've known me several hours now; surely you must have formed some opinion.”

  “I dunno. You seem like a nice person.”

  “Did you know I was a homosexual?”

  “I’ve got to go.” Jacob stood.

  “Sit down. You’re going to finish your drink and answer my question. You owe me that.”

  “Yes, Cyril, I knew you were gay. All of Boca knows you’re gay.”

  “Am I . . . attractive?”

  “Okay, this conversation is now officially weird. I hate to leave you alone in an empty house, but I’m sure your boyfriend will be home from work any minute and—”

  “No. Greg won’t be home until tomorrow morning.” Cyril smiled, sauntering toward him.

  Jacob retreated around the other back side of the love seat. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “You didn't really think that I’d do something like that!”

  “Like what? Tell me.”

  “For God’s sake, Cyril. Here we are, you’ve got me in your house; you give me a drink. You put on music, you tell me you’re gay—which I already knew—which the entire world already fucking knew, then you tell me your boyfriend won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”

  “So?”

  “Dude . . . you’re trying to seduce me.”

  Cyril situated himself on a barstool, resting his bare right foot on the adjacent chair as he lit a cigarette, chuckling softly to himself.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Actually, I hadn’t thought of it. You told me you had a girlfriend so I sort of took it for granted that you were heterosexual. Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly flattered.”

  Jacob felt the blood rushing from his face in embarrassment. “Cyril, I’m sorry for what I just said.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right. I’m just seriously fucked up right now.”

  “It’s forgotten. Finish your drink, you’ll feel better.”

  Jacob drained the bitter liquor. “What the fuck is wrong with me? Ever since the Lehman Brothers disaster I just haven’t been myself.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s my future; I’m just worried about my future. Losing my job . . . depending upon Ruby to get me gigs, all while she tries to . . . you know—”

  “Seduce you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jacob, did Ruby mention I was a painter?”

  “A painter? No, I don’t think so.” He inspected the walls. “Everything looks professionally finished.”

  “Not the walls, silly, I paint portraits. I’m really quite good. Perhaps I could paint you sometime.”

  “I’ve got to go.” Jacob placed his empty glass on the coffee table and stood to leave.

  “Will you stop with the seducing nonsense! I meant paint you with your girlfriend.”

  “Really?”

  “Consider it an early Christmas present. Now would you like to see my work? ”

  “Yes. Yes I would.”

  “Come with me.” Cyril led him out of the den back to the staircase.

  “It’s upstairs?”

  “Yes. We hung it in the master bedroom.”

  “I really have to go.”

  “Jacob, what is wrong with you? I didn’t take you for such a homophobe.”

  “I’m not a homophobe. I just don’t feel comfortable going into another dude’s bedroom.”


  “Would you like me to seduce you?”

  “What?”

  “Now it all makes sense. I mean, what red-blooded Heterosexual male wouldn’t have given his right testicle to be in a ménage et trois with two beautiful women like Ruby and Olivia. Unless that red-blooded heterosexual male was a closet homosexual.”

  “Cyril, I’m sorry about the whole seduction thing, but I swear to you I’m not gay.”

  “Prove it. Take a look at my artistic creation, then go home to your girlfriend—assuming she really exists.”

  “Fine.” Jacob followed Cyril up the steep wooden steps to the landing.

  “The master bedroom is at the end of the hall, go and take a look. I need to use the little boy’s room.”

  Jacob waited for Cyril to shut the bathroom door before he walked down the hall to the master bedroom, feeling a bit lightheaded from the bourbon. He pushed the door open, stepping inside.

  Gray carpet, pink throw pillows. A white comforter covered the queen-size bed; a framed painting hung on the wall above the headboard—two naked men kissing.

  “Yuck.” Looking closer, Jacob realized it was a paint-by-numbers canvas.

  The bedroom door slammed shut.

  Jacob turned to find Cyril clad in a leather dominatrix slave outfit, his groin concealed behind a black thong, his nipple rings trailing matching straps. “Don’t be nervous—”

  “Oh . . . God.”

  “Jacob?”

  “Get away from that door.”

  Cyril locked it. “I want to say something first.”

  “Jesus Christ . . .”

  “If you don’t want to sleep with me now, I want you to know you can call me up any time you want and we’ll make some kind of arrangement.”

  “Let me out.”

  “I find you very attractive. I also wanted you to know that . . . well; I’m part of the wager.”

  “Wait . . . what?”

  “The wager between Ruby and Olivia? I’m part of it.”

  “You set me up? For this?”

  “Yes. But if you sleep with me, I’ll split the winnings with you.”

  A car pulled into the driveway, screeching to a halt.

  “Oh, God, that’s him!” Jacob pushed his way past Cyril, unlocked the bedroom door, and sprinted down the stairs as Cyril’s boyfriend, Greg entered.

  “Hey, Cyril, is that the Scooby Doo mobile out front?”

  Jacob squeezed past the leather-clad biker and raced out the door.

  DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE

  LESSON ELEVEN: SCENT TRAINING

  Spencer Botchin sat at his client’s kitchen table, perplexed. “Nancy, if you tell me why you wish to train Sam to discriminate between scents, it would make my job a lot easier.”

  “If you must know, I want to make sure my boyfriend’s not sleeping with his manager.”

  “I see.” Spencer nodded, still a bit apprehensive. “Well then, we’ll need an article of clothing or a personal belonging that carries the, uh, scent of the suspected female. You don’t happen to have—”

  “I do.” Nancy reached inside her handbag and removed a plastic zip-lock freezer bag containing a pair of women’s thong underwear. “They’re fresh. Courtesy of a friend who works in the doctor’s office the bitch frequents for her weekly labia tightening and boob enhancements and whatever the hell else she does to keep from looking her age.”

  Spencer inspected the undies. “The average human sheds thousands of skin cells every day, each cell carrying our own particular scent. What we’re doing is training the dog to isolate one scent above another, in this case, the stench of this rival female on your boyfriend. To do that, we must first condition the dog so it realizes that making the right choice will result in a reward.”

  “Wait . . . am I conditioning my boyfriend to make the right choices, or the dog?” Nancy’s cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID. “Would you excuse me a moment?”

  “Of course.” Spencer waited until she walked away before opening the zip-lock bag. The English gentleman stuck his nose inside, inhaling deeply. “Ahh . . . Caswell-Massey Lilac skin cream . . . my favorite.”

  Nancy took the call from her radio producer in her bedroom. “Trish, what’s up?”

  “That big W.O.M.B. party set for next Thursday afternoon? I just found out Olivia Cabot will be there. Soderblom too.”

  Nancy’s heart pounded in her chest. “You think they’ve made their decision about the show?”

  “The word around here is that they’re still on the fence. Which means Thursday’s meeting could be what decides whether we have a job next month. Lean in, baby!”

  “I will. Thanks.” She returned to Spencer, who was rubbing Ruby Kleinhenz’s thong undies over six magazines. The dog trainer spread them out on the kitchen floor, then slid open the back door and called for Sam.

  The German Shepherd hurried to him, tucking its tail as it recognized the Alpha male.

  “Alrighty then, Nancy. These six similar objects now carry the suspected home-wrecker’s pubescent stench. In step one of our scent training, Sam will smell the undergarment, then be given the ‘seek’ command. Every time he goes to a magazine he’ll be praised. In step two we’ll repeat the exercise, having exchanged a scented magazine for an unscented one. We’ll continue the drill, swapping a scented magazine for an unscented one until only one scented magazine remains. Depending upon Sam’s progress, we’ll then scent and hide a different object with the whore’s stink trail on it, preparing him for the moment when you ultimately put Sam onto your boyfriend’s scent trail -- the dog determining if there is a match.”

  * * * * *

  AT PRECISELY 5:57 p.m., Jacob Cope returned home, having spent the last few hours guzzling coffee at a local donut shop. Regaining his sobriety, he had changed back into his shorts, tossing the wet bathing suit and towel in the donut shop’s dumpster—his mind fantasizing about the afternoon that might have been with Ruby and Olivia Cabot.

  “Nancy, I’m home.”

  He placed the newspaper on the shelf by the hall mirror and carefully removed his wiped-clean sandals, depositing them in the bedroom closet on their designated shoe tree branch. His bladder ready to burst, he headed for the master bathroom, lifted the lid and seat and urinated. Wiped the rim with toilet paper and flushed. Rinsed his hands. Bypassing the neatly-folded hand towel on the rack, he used his shirt to dry his hands, thus maintaining the high performance score required for what he called ‘spontaneous sex.’

  Nancy was waiting for him in the bedroom when he emerged. “Shoes in their proper place, towel not destroyed . . . I’m impressed. How was work?”

  “Stressful. I need to unwind.”

  “By unwind, you mean sex.”

  “Sex? Sure, I suppose sex would relieve my stress, but more importantly it would allow me to express the overabundance of love that I feel for you at this very moment.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get naked, cowboy, we’ll have a quickie.”

  “Works for me!” Jacob stripped in four seconds flat.

  Nancy carefully removed her skirt and blouse. “Wait, you didn’t say hi to your best friend. Sam, come!”

  The German Shepherd came bounding into the bedroom.

  “Hey, boy, how are ya!”

  “Sam, seek!”

  Sam’s demeanor suddenly changed, the dog sniffing at Jacob’s legs, feet, and testicles.

  “Whoa, easy boy, I need those.”

  Satisfied with Jacob, the German Shepherd sniffed the pile of clothes. Finding nothing, the dog left the bedroom to search the rest of the house.

  “Seek?”

  “Affection. It’s important to hug your dog every day.”

  “And your sexy girlfriend.” Jacob attacked Nancy, growling like a bear.

  Nancy intercepted him with a passionate kiss, her hands groping his groin as she slowly dropped to her knees, kissing and inhaling his scent.

  Jacob’s eyes fluttered as she reached his hard-on.

 
; “Chlorine?”

  “Huh?”

  “You smell like chlorine.”

  “I do?”

  “Were you swimming today?”

  “Swimming? I . . . no, I wasn’t swimming. Why would I be swimming? That’s crazy.”

  “Then why do you smell like chlorine? Normally when you come home you smell like onions.”

  Confess, lie, or deny—which one offers the best chance of still getting laid? “Wait, I know what it is. I went to the gym after work to check out a trial membership. While I was there I used the steam room.”

  “The steam room?”

  “My lower back was killing me; I thought it might loosen things up. I was all sweaty after that so I took a shower. I didn’t have any soap, so yeah; I probably do smell like chlorine.”

  “That makes sense. Which gym?”

  Jacob’s hard-on shriveled into something resembling a large chickpea and two Fava beans. “Which gym? The one on the drive home from work.”

  Nancy eyeballed him, suddenly suspicious. “L.A. Fitness?”

  “No. The other one.”

  “Gorilla Workout?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How ‘bout I call them to see if they registered you as a guest?”

  “I wasn’t a guest guest, I didn’t work out or anything. I sort of snuck in.”

  “To use the steam room?”

  “Exactly. Then I took a quick shower. It was spontaneous.”

  She located her clothes, getting dressed.

  “Nance, what are you doing?”

  “Suddenly I don’t feel so spontaneous.”

  “Aw, come on—for real?”

  “Tell me the truth, or it’ll be a dog year before we have sex again.”

  “Fine. I got laid off.”

  “Jacob . . . when?”

  “Last week.”

  “Then every day you left the house for work—you were lying to me?”

  “It’s just temporary. Hopefully I’ll work again on Monday, but Mr. Patel said I’d have to switch to doing customer service calls on the road. I have to dress professionally, which means I need to buy dress shoes, which I don’t have the money for.”

  “But you hate going into strangers’ homes.”

  “I know. But we need the money. Which is why I went swimming this afternoon.”