Dog Training The American Male (18 page)

“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.