Dog Training The American Male (28 page)

MALE
BONDING

It was half past
two in the afternoon when the Volkswagen van exited the mansion’s gated
entrance, thoughts of a
ménage à trois
dancing in the driver’s head.

Olivia Cabot had loved Jacob’s
performance. To celebrate his hiring, she and Ruby had insisted he join them
for a swim, then stay for lunch. With five hours to kill before he had to
“return home from work,” Jacob agreed.

He had followed Cyril down a
stone path to the guesthouse to locate a bathing suit. Decorated like an erotic
honeymoon suite, the single-floor dwelling opened to a large living room with
dark shades and a projection screen television that occupied an entire wall. A
bookcase featured the latest movies as well as a shelf dedicated to adult
videos; the bar was fully-stocked, the thick carpet littered with giant
throw-pillows. The master bath was done entirely in Italian marble and housed a
bidet, sauna, and a two-seat whirlpool; the bedroom kept simple but titillating
with its mirrored ceiling and king-size bed. A saddle-like woman’s vibrator,
called a
Sybian
, sat next to an exercise bike.

Cyril directed Jacob to a drawer
filled with an assortment of men’s bathing suits. “Choose whatever you like,
not that it matters.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wake up, my dear. The contest is
on, and you’re the quarry.”

“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?”