Dog Training The American Male (32 page)

DRY-HUMP
WEDNESDAY

Olivia Cabot
valet parked her silver Mercedes SLR McLaren at West Boca hospital, grabbed the
ticket from the attendant, and marched into the visitor’s lobby.

A uniformed older black man greeted
her with a smile. “Morning, ma’am.”

“It’s afternoon. The patient’s
name is Cabot.”

The security guard scanned his
computer monitor. “I have a Truman Cabot. Room 316, Bed B.”

“That’s him. Any chance he died
over the last hour?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” She handed him her
driver’s license.

The guard typed in her
information and snapped her picture, which spewed out of the side of his
machine as a guest pass sticker. “Take the elevators on the left and—”

Olivia pushed past him before he
could finish.

* * * *
*

She had gotten
the phone call two hours
earlier. When the man had identified himself as the physician treating her
father at West Boca hospital, her heart had raced with adrenaline.

“Ma’am, we need you to come down
to the hospital and sign a few papers.”

“If it’s a
Do Not Resuscitate
order,
I can give you a fax number to expedite matters.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“You mean he’s already dead?”

“What? God, no. I’m calling because
he listed you as an emergency contact.”

“The emergency—was it a stroke? A
heart attack?”

“It was a circumcision.”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. It
sounded like you said circumcision.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is this a joke?”

“You weren’t aware your father
was admitted Sunday morning to have his foreskin removed?”

“You must have the wrong Cabot.
My father’s name is Truman; he’ll be eighty-three years old on Friday.”

“Truman Cabot. Born March 7, 1939.”

“This is insane. Why the hell
would he be getting his dick flap removed at his age?”

“Comfort, cleanliness, a
religious conversion—it’s really none of my business. But we need you to come
down as soon as possible.”

* * * *
*

Olivia Cabot stepped
off the elevator
onto the third floor, quickly finding her way to room 316. The first bed was
occupied by an older gentleman with a thick Italian accent who was receiving
instructions from a Jamaican nurse from behind a partially-enclosed curtain.

“Mr. Coglioni, your colonoscopy
is scheduled for three p.m. You need to finish your prep.”

“
Mi fa cagare!
” (It makes
me poop.)

“I’m setting this port-o-potty by
your bed so it’ll be close. Do you know how to use it?”

“Va fungool.”
(Fuck off.)

Olivia walked past the closed
curtain to the next bed. Her father was sitting up, arguing with a male nurse.

“Sir, I can’t discharge you until
I change your bandage.”

“And I told you, I don’t want
another man touching my Johnson! Olivia, tell him.”

“I’m his step-daughter; would you
give us a few minutes?” She waited until the male nurse left. “Truman, what the
hell? Have you lost your mind?”

“Ah, here we go. I told the
doctor not to call you, that I already had a ride home, but did the
son-of-a-bitch listen to me? Hell, no.”

“Why on earth would you get a
circumcision?”

“What do you care?”

“You’re eighty-two years old.
What’s next? Tattoos? A tongue piercing?”

“If it makes my bride-to-be
happy.”

“Your bride? You’re getting
married again?”

An explosion of diarrhea echoed
from behind the drawn curtain, followed by a gag-inducing smell as Mr. Coglioni
emptied his bowels into the port-o-potty.

“Hey, Luigi, do that in the
goddam bathroom!”

“Shaddup and go fuck your
goomah
!”

“She’s my daughter, not my
girlfriend, you dumb guinea wop.”

“
Finocchio
! I hope your
new Jew-dick falls off.”

“And I pray to my lord and savior
that you shit out your lower intestines.”

“Hey Truman, I’m a gonna come
over there and’a bare ass’a your pillow.”

Cabot cracked up laughing. “I
love this guy.”

“Truman, who’s the woman?”

“Her name’s Carmella and she
stole my heart.”

“Jesus, not another clone of
mom.”

“And what if she is? I miss your
mother. God took her from me too soon.”

“How long have you two been
seeing one another?”

“We haven’t dated yet. I had to
get circumcised first.”

“Truman, you are not marrying
this woman. I forbid it.”

“Try and stop me.”

“I’ll do one better—as CEO of
Cabot Enterprises I’ll cut off your money before I allow you to will it to this
gold-digger.”

“Ah, horseshit. As long as I’m
alive I still own fifty-one percent of the corporation.”

“Unless I have a doctor declare
you incompetent. Getting circumcised at your age without telling anyone sure
qualifies.”

“She’s a Jew. They liked the fat
trimmed!”

Luigi let loose with another
bowel movement. “Hey, Truman, that one was’a for your Jew
goomah
.”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Truman
Cabot leaped out of bed, yanking out his I.V. line as he pushed his way through
the curtained partition and attacked his roommate, knocking him off the
port-o-potty.

* * * *
*

Nancy exited the
hospital elevator. Seeing
Cabot’s physician speaking to a police officer, she joined him at the third
floor nurses station. “Dr. Maharaj, how’s Mr. Cabot doing?”

The Indian surgeon turned. “He’s
gone.”

“What?” Nancy’s heart skipped a
beat. “When? How?”

“About two hours ago. I tried to
reach you.”

“I was in the middle of a live
radio show. You told me the procedure was safe!”

“It is.”

“Then how did he die? Did you hit
a vein?”

“No, no—he’s not dead. I meant he
already left the hospital.”

“Oh God, thank you. Wait . . . who
drove him home?”

“His step-daughter.”

The tension headache announced
itself behind Nancy’s right eyeball. “Was she in a good mood when she left?”

“Actually, she was quite furious.
She left without signing the discharge forms.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“That her dress was covered in
diarrhea.”

“Why was she covered in
diarrhea?”

“Mr. Cabot got into a fight with
another patient. The nurse said it reminded her of two angry monkeys at the zoo
tossing feces at one another. Here, you need to give this to your friend.” He
handed her several pages of papers.

“What’s this?”

“A prescription for pain, along
with his post-surgical instructions. It’s important he wait at least a week
before taking any more Viagra or he’ll tear loose his stitches. Ms. Beach,
where are you going?”

Nancy ignored the Indian
physician, rushing to catch the elevator.

* * * *
*

It was four
o’clock by the time Truman
Cabot stepped out of his apartment. Freshly-showered, he was dressed in
loose-fitting creme-colored dress pants and a black golf shirt.

The bandage around his penis had
been removed, his trimmed “unit” feeling airy and only a touch sore. It didn’t
matter; this evening was just a tease—to let his goddess know that he had
transformed himself for her . . . that he had staked his
claim in her future.

He pressed the button to summon
the elevator, checking his watch. Having taken the Viagra fifteen minutes
earlier, he calculated the arrival time of his anticipated four hour “woody,”
wondering if his lack of foreskin would increase its perceived length.

* * * *
*

Carmella Cope was
enjoying the cool
late afternoon 73-degree temperatures outside with her “entourage.” The four
women were dressed in their standard recreational attire (tennis skirts,
sweaters, hats, and sunglasses), competing in a heated game of two-on-two
horseshoes.

Sylvia Krawitz underhand-tossed
her horseshoe to the opposite pit, knocking loose Carmella Cope’s leaner,
rendering it dead. “Take that, C.C.”

“Kiss my ass, you old bitch.”

Sylvia tempered her laugh as she
spotted Truman Cabot crossing the putting green, making a bee-line for them.
“Don’t look now, but here comes Richie Rich. Did you hear why he checked into
the hospital?”

“I heard.”

“He looks like he means
business.”

“Follow my lead, Sil. Let’s screw
with the horny old fart’s mind.”

“Afternoon, ladies.”

Carmella offered a Cheshire cat
smile. “Well, if it isn’t little Lord Fauntleroy. I hear you were in the
hospital getting castrated.”

“Yes . . . wait,
no. The balls are still there. I was circumcised. I did it for you, Carmella.”

“How thoughtful. Wasn’t that
thoughtful, Sylvia?”

“Very thoughtful. Naturally, you
had it done by a
mohel
.”

“Of course. Wait, what’s a
mohel
?”

“A
mohel
is a Jewish man
specifically trained to remove the male foreskin.”

“I, uh . . . am
sure, he was Jewish. Absolutely.”

“What’s his last name?”

 “Mah . . . stein.
Abraham Mahstein. That Jew enough for you?”

“Sylvia, your late husband was a
mohel
.
Isn’t a
mohel
required to suck on the wound until it stops bleeding?”

“According to Talmudic law.”

“No man sucked on my wound!”

“How do you know?” Carmella asked.
“Didn’t they put you to sleep?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a religious
procedure. The surgeon stitched the wound.”

Carmella shrugged. “If you didn’t
get snipped by a
mohel
, it doesn’t count, does it Sylvia?”

“Not in our book. Of course, it’s
not too late. If you could find a Jewish man willing to perform the ceremony . . .”

Cabot looked pale. “But the
wound’s almost healed.”

Carmella shook her head.
“According to Jewish law, it’s not officially healed until the stitches are
removed. Thank God it’s not too late, eh Sil?”

“Thank God,” Sylvia said, turning
her head while biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“Just what are you ladies
suggesting? That I allow a man to . . . to suck on my
Johnson?”

“Of course not,” Carmella said.
“It has to be a Jewish man. Sil, who could we get to suck Truman’s Johnson?”

“What about Sol?”

“Wouldn’t work. Truman’s
Catholic. Sol keeps Kosher.”

“Is Bruce Jewish?”

“Why, yes he is. And he’s
experienced.”

“The fag from New York?” Cabot felt
ill. “No . . . no way, I couldn’t—”

Sylvia winked at him. “Not even
for a hot date with C. C. Rider?”

Carmella shot her friend a look
to kill.

Cabot’s eyes widened. “Friday
night on my yacht. It’s my birthday.”

Sylvia nudged her friend. “Come
on, C.C., one date for Truman’s circumcision cleansing.”

“How will we know if he actually
went through with it?”

“Truman can take a video.”

“Oh, no. No videos!”

“All right. How about Carm and I
watch the ceremony?”

“Two of you, huh? Been a while
since I did a . . . 
uhhh
!” Truman Cabot doubled over
in pain as a burning, stabbing sensation lanced at his enlarging penis.

“Is that a yes?”

“
Ahhh
!
Ahh
!”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Hurts . . . bad!”

Sylvia pointed. “Look, Carm. He’s
pitching tent.”

Carmella inspected the kneeling
man’s crotch closer. “Is that blood? Hey Truman, I think your dick’s bleeding.”

Sylvia shook her head. “This is
what happens when you don’t use a
mohel
.”

The ladies’ two teammates approached
from the opposite horseshoe pit, the fallen senior attracting a small crowd.

“Jesus God, my dick’s on fire!”

“What did he say?” squawked
Esther Rabinowitz.

“He said his
schmeckle’s
on
fire.” her husband, Sol yelled back.

“He’s on fire? Quickly,
everyone—get him into the pool!”

Seven senior citizens (two with
walkers) grabbed Truman Cabot by his arms and legs, half-carrying,
half-dragging the screaming millionaire across two shuffleboard courts before
tossing him into the shallow end of the pool.

SHOCKING
THURSDAY

Nancy Beach stood
at the podium, looking out at a multitude of women, the small auditorium filled
to capacity.

“Good afternoon ladies . . . and
gentleman,” she nodded to Pete Soderblom, who was seated next to Olivia Cabot
in the third row, “and welcome to this special afternoon edition of
W.O.M.B.—Women Overcoming Male Bondage. Before we begin, let’s stand in unity
and recite our pledge.”