With Jen by my side, I stared at the dog and he stared back at me with a snarl. His razor-sharp fangs showing. His hackles bristling. Enemy detected. My nerves buzzing, I tried to keep my cool as the words of Glinda the Wicked Bitch drifted into my ears.
“Otto is one of our longest, most beloved clients. His owners, the Von Schmidts, are major benefactors. If anything ever happened to him, we would shut down.”
Yup, it all boiled down to money. To be honest, I doubted that Scout had aggressively attacked this vicious Satan-horned beast. It was probably the other way around and Scout had bit him in self-defense. But there was no point in defending him as I couldn’t prove a thing. And besides, whose side was Fraulein Glinda going to take? Former Gestapo dog’s or former bar mitzvah boy’s?
“Is Otto going to be okay?” I asked, secretly hoping the dog would contract some rare fatal disease and rot in hell.
“Our in-house medical technician examined him and doesn’t think he’ll need any stitches.”
“That’s good,” mumbled a stunned Jen.
“But if he does get an infection and this unfortunate incident leads to a lawsuit, our contract spells out that you are responsible.”
“No problem.” My posture grew stiff, my hands fisting by my sides so I wouldn’t shake the shit out of this woman. “Now, can we please have our dog?”
“Fine.” She slapped back the word and then asked the pink-haired stonehead to retrieve him.
Five minutes—and one steaming turd—later, we were out the door. My tiger elated. And our dog equally excited to get the hell out of this shithole and go home. Much to his credit, he’d left a souvenir.
It seemed ridiculous to go back to work. It was already three o’clock in the afternoon and neither of us had anything pressing on our schedules. Plus, we had no place to leave Scout who could not be left unattended. So we headed home.
Before taking the elevator up to our condo, we gave him a short walk down Wilshire and to our relief, he conked out in his bed upon our return.
“He’s so cute,” cooed Jen, glancing down at his curled up body.
I am, too, I silently retorted.
“I can’t believe he’d bite a soul. That mean looking dog must have instigated him.” A pause. “Blake, what if the owners sue us and try to take our Scout away?”
I weighed the possibilities. And the word “our.” Maybe the incident was a mixed blessing in disguise. The Von Schmidts, who didn’t need the money, might drop their lawsuit if we got rid of Scout. I would agree to send him to a dog farm in the Midwest. Give a hefty donation to the doggie concentration camp and wipe my hands clean and free of the beast once and for all.
“Jen, it’s all going to be okay,” I reassured her, wrapping an arm around her slender shoulders. “Let’s not worry about what might not happen.”
“But—”
“But what, baby?” Not giving her a chance to respond, I gathered her in my arms and walked her backward into the ensuite bathroom. “C’mon, let’s take a relaxing bath.”
My idea of relaxing might be different than yours. For me, it meant soaking in our Jacuzzi tub with my tiger in my arms, her back against my chest, my cock buried between her legs. The steamy bubbling water gurgled as I pumped my tiger in this position, my hands cupping and massaging her dainty breasts in tandem. Her head tilting back, her back arching, her hands gripping my thighs, she met my thrusts with little breathy bounces.
“Oh God Blake, I really needed this.”
“Tell me, baby.”
“Do you think Scout was traumatized by his doggie daycare experience?”
I mentally growled. The mention of Scout almost broke my concentration. Bringing my tiger and myself to a stratospheric climax took a lot of determination. And a lot of focus. Seriously, how could she be thinking of that damn dog when I was banging her with such force? All I could think about was making her fall apart all around me, my own epic orgasm chasing hers. And all she should be thinking about was yours fucking truly.
“Tiger, stop worrying about him. He’s fine. Stay in the moment.”
I moved my hands to her haunches, gripping them, as I picked up my pace. Pumping her harder. Faster. Bringing us closer to the edge.
Just as I expected, she quieted, except for those delightful whimpers, which harmonized with my guttural grunts. I was so close to combusting I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Come for me, baby,” I urged, moving one hand to her clit, rubbing it to ecstasy.
“Oh, Blake!” Her body shuddered against mine as my cock exploded inside her.
Mission accomplished.
All squeaky clean and sexed out (in other words, relaxed), Jen and I retreated to our bedroom. We were wearing our matching terrycloth robes, one belt loop away from another round of screwing. I was looking forward to making love in our freshly refurbished bed. Jen and I had made a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond yesterday afternoon to replace all the bedding Scout destroyed. All of it top of the line and yummy. My cock hardening, I stepped foot inside and my eyes bugged out.
Big mistake! We’d accidentally left the bedroom door open.
One of us was humping, but it wasn’t me!
Chapter 18
Blake
Holy Moses!
My bulging eyes zoomed in on our bed.
I couldn’t believe it. Scout was on it. This time not destroying our new pillows and comforter. A new activity!
Our dog was humping Jen’s oversized plush white tiger! The only stuffed thing on our bed that had survived his Saturday night rampage. There was a reason. And it was now obvious.
Scout was in love with his tiger as much as I was with mine.
“Oh my God, Blake, what’s he doing?”
“I think he’s found a friend with benefits,” I muttered as he pounded the stuffed animal with unbridled determination. Oblivious to us. Finally, he slowed down and pulled away.
And then Jen let out a frantic shriek that pierced my ears. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh my God, Blake! Look!” With her other hand, she pointed to the long, thick shiny red thing dangling between his legs. “His guts are coming out!”
I followed her gaze. Holy shit!
“What is that?” Her voice was a shaky mix of fright and repulsion.
“His thingie!”
“His thingie? What do you mean?”
“His wiener.” It looked just like one of those jumbo Hebrew National hot dogs my grandma liked to grill.
“Blake, but he’s fixed. Something’s very wrong with him! He looks like he’s in pain! And why isn’t it going away?”
Five minutes later we were on our way to Dr. Chase’s new office, Scout in the car, still fully erect.
Dr. Chase’s new office was located in Culver City in a non-descript strip mall on Santa Monica Boulevard, not far from our condo. Though on the small side, it was sleek and modern, with black leather seating and interesting black and white wildlife photos artistically placed on the walls in the reception area. Despite his condition, Scout was in rare form, hyperactively panting and sniffing everything in sight. Praying to God he wouldn’t take a dump, I held him tightly by his leash to keep him away from the scowling woman with a puff of white hair, who was guarding her caged, frightened cat. The cat’s mewling was getting under my skin. I wanted to stuff a sock in its mouth. Then, to make matters worse, Scout began to bark at him.
“Can’t you control your animal?” the woman snapped as Jen made her way to the receptionist.
The receptionist’s face was obscured by her desktop computer, but upon hearing the commotion Scout was causing, she looked up. I recognized her instantly. And so did Jen. And so did an excited Scout, whose barking morphed into a gleeful howl. It was Tessa, the girl from the dog shelter, who’d introduced us to Scout. Her eyes lit up at the sight of us and then she sprung up from her chair and came around the console to hug Jen.
“Jen! It’s so good to see you again! And thank you so much for the recommendation!
I just love working with Dr. Chase, and I’ve already learned so much in a single day.”
“I’m so happy for you,” replied my beautiful wife, a smile lifting her lips for the first time since we had sex this afternoon.
Tessa squatted down and hugged Scout, giving him a big, juicy kiss on the top of his head. “Hi, handsome boy! What brings you here?”
Wagging his tail vigorously, our dog licked her face. I was feeling very left out. All this love and praise for this canine beast that had only cost us problems. And thousands of dollars. Raising my voice above the still mewling cat, I responded.
“Um, er, he has a big problem.” Shelter Girl followed my gaze. “He had a little tryst and it won’t go down.”
Now sitting, Scout’s erection was very obvious. At the sight of his boner, Shelter Girl’s eyes widened while Cat Lady gave both him and me a disgusted look. Now, after all the kisses and affection, poor Scout didn’t seem too happy. Uncomfortable and embarrassed was more like it. And possibly in pain. He let out a whimper. To my surprise, my heart felt for him. A connection. I knew what this was like, having suffered a frightening bout of life-threatening priapism a month earlier. Well, it wasn’t really life threatening, but it sure felt like it then. As much as I despised this pain-in-the-ass dog, panic set in.
“Tessa,” I spat out, “this is an emergency. Can Dr. Chase see Scout right away?”
“Please!” begged Jen.
Tessa hurried back to her desk and picked up her phone.
One minute later, a technician came out and led us back to Dr. Chase’s examination quarters. Cat Lady looked like she wanted to claw me.
“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” said Jen with a small grateful smile as we piled into the small, sterile examining room.
“No, problem,” replied Dr. Chase, dressed much like before in jeans, a Scooby-Doo T-shirt, sneakers, and a white lab jacket. “And thank you for introducing me to Tessa. We’ve had a busy first day and she’s been doing an amazing job. She told me she wants to be a veterinarian and I hope she’ll get plenty of pre-vet school training here.” He circled around Scout, not looking very alarmed, and then his eyes flitted to me. “So, you got your unicorn pin back?”
“Yeah, it’s better than new.”
“Great. And no rectum problems? Like blood in his stool?”
“No, nothing like that. But we have a new problem that’s freaking us out.”
He followed my gaze. Scout’s dangling crimson wiener was hard to miss. It stuck out like a sore thumb, no pun intended.
“Ah, I see what the problem is. Paraphimosis.”
“Paraphimosis?” Jen repeated, her voice shaky.
“Yes, the technical term for a male dog’s inability to retract his penis back into his prepuce—aka his sheath.” He squatted down and planted his hands on Scout’s flanks. “So buddy, did you have a little fling? A brunette like your mama?”
Scout cocked his head. I cocked my brow and bristled. Any physical reference to my tiger by this movie star handsome vet incensed me. “Actually it was with one of my wife’s stuffed animals.”
Chasehole chuckled. “That’s common too.”
“But doc, his balls are chopped off. How’s that possible?”
“Even after they’re fixed, many male dogs still have a lot of pent up sexual energy and they need to release it.”
“Is it fixable?” Jen asked nervously. “I mean, can you treat the problem?”
“Yes, it’s DIY. You can do it at home. But’s it’s a good thing you brought him in. Extended paraphimosis can cause the penis to become extremely dry and painful, often interfering with the proper flow of urine, and lead to major bladder problems.”
Gah! A shiver skittered down my spine and my cock twitched. I never thought I could have so much empathy for this stupid canine creature as we watched the vet apply some lubricant to his exposed wiener and gently massage it back into its sheath.
“Bingo!” he shouted as Scout’s manhood fully retracted. “All better.”
“Is that all we have to do?”
“Yup. It’s as simple as that. Any cream or moisturizer will do. Dermadoo is especially good if you can find some.”
At the mention of the D-word, a pain shot through my cock. After my own form of paraphi-whatever which may have been caused by that cream, I never wanted to go near the stuff again. N-E-V-E-R. Not wanting to share my nightmarish experience with Chasehole or find out if he’d ever used it, I shakily asked, “Can you recommend anything else?”
“K-Y Jelly is also really good.”
“Ooh, we have lots of that at home!” chirped Jen.
I cringed, feeling something between mortified and violated. Well, I guess we were going to have to share my tiger’s vibrator jelly with the fricking dog. We’d better order a case.
Putting the cap back on the tube of lubricant, Chasehole added that we could also use a cold compress. It worked well too.
“So, how can we prevent this from happening again? Can we teach him not to hump things in obedience school?” As an aside, I quickly told the doctor that I’d enrolled Scout in the obedience school he’d recommended and then lied through my teeth that he was a stellar pupil.
Chasehole laughed. “I’m afraid not. You’ll need to hide that tiger or put it some place where Scout can’t reach it.” He bent down and affectionately patted the dog’s head. “What he needs is a big yard to run around in to release all his pent up sexual energy.”
When we got home, Jen’s plush tiger was sitting on top of our tall armoire out of Scout’s reach and at my tiger’s insistence, I was on the phone again with my mother.
Chapter 19
Blake
A week passed, then another, then a month. It was hard to believe it was the beginning of December. Our official first anniversary, my thirty-first birthday, which happened to fall on the same day, and the holidays were around the corner. And Scout would be with us to celebrate each of these monumental occasions.
We’d gotten into a routine with Scout. Every morning, Jen and I got up early and went on a long walk with him. Then we fed him and got ready for work before dropping him off at my parents’ house. It was Jen’s bright idea after the Hebrew National incident to call my mother and ask if Scout could stay there on weekdays while we worked. And until we bought a house with a yard. Though I didn’t want to resort to my mother’s help yet again, it panned out much to my surprise. And relief.
Scout loved hanging out in my parents’ backyard. There were acres to explore and lots of rabbits, birds, and squirrels to chase after to keep him amused. The highlight of his day was taking a swim in the Olympic-size pool, which no one ever used. My mother preferred to play tennis with her cronies, and my father, golf. In no time, Scout became best friends with the gardeners, the pool guy, and all the other staffers.
Despite all his activities, he started to put on some weight thanks to the delicious meals my grandma, who lived in the guesthouse, made for him and the treats she sneaked him. I mean, how many dogs got fed pastrami on rye with a side of slaw? Or cream cheese rugelach in the mid afternoon? The crazy dog loved to eat everything! Plus, he got to stay at my parents’ house every Friday for Shabbat, much to my eight-year-old twin nephews’ delight, and consume all the brisket leftovers.
“Chow shmow!” declared my indulgent grandma. Even my mother, who never fed her designer pooches dog food, contributed.
Each day, Scout’s behavior improved. He heeled when I walked him and was a pro at the commands: SIT, STAY, LAY DOWN, and COME. And he no longer chewed up things . . . well mostly. Much to my pride, he graduated from the Royal Canine Obedience School, coming in second in his class right after Boyd’s Attila. Plus, he got another ribbon for being “Most Improved Student.” Drill sergeant Martha, whom I’d grown to respect, gave me one too. And a hug.
There was still, however, one big problem: my award-winning black Lab mix still did not seem to grasp one simple two-letter word: NO.
—NO
, Scout. Off the couch!
—NO, Scout. Get your paws off the dining table.
—NO, Scout. You cannot rummage through the garbage.
—NO, Scout. You cannot chew on my nine hundred dollar handmade Italian loafers.
—NO, Scout. You cannot chew up my rare Cuban cigars.
—NO, Scout. You cannot come up on the bed unless we call for you.
—NO, Scout. You cannot sniff Jen’s crotch.
—NO, Scout. You cannot play with Jen’s underwear.
The latter was particularly a problem. He would steal Jen’s panties whenever he could, especially when our housekeeper Blanca had them in the laundry basket and wasn’t looking. Just as I would settle into my favorite chair to watch a little TV after dinner, he’d bring me a pair, dangling from his jaw, and I’d try to wrestle them away from him. I suppose it was my fault it became a game—a game of tug of war. A battle of will and might. Unfortunately, my strength was no match for his strong canine jaw, and Jen’s flimsy G-strings usually ended up in shreds. She thought it was laugh-out-loud funny and reminded me that she had a limitless supply of sexy underwear from Gloria’s Secret, thanks to making a mutually lucrative My Sin-TV sponsorship deal with CEO Gloria Long Zander, the wife of my best bud, Jaime.
Thank fuck, sex with Jen was never a problem. It couldn’t have been better. Scout had his own tiger—his stuffed animal with benefits—which we let him have access to, now that we knew how to fix his potential issue. While Jen and I fucked our brains out, Scout “played” with his “friend,” as we called him. It was a win-win for everyone. Although I’m not sure what the toy tiger got out of it except a lot of wear and tear.
This holiday season we had a lot to celebrate. The jeweled unicorn I’d bought Jen in Scotland had brought us luck. We were having a baby! Yes! In July!
Thanks to my sister Marcy. Marcy, an esteemed OB-GYN, who’d been the one to share the great news that Jen, despite her hysterectomy, could still produce eggs because she still had one functioning ovary. However, because her uterus had been partially removed, she was unable to carry a child and hence we would need to find a surrogate. We’d begun the search for one as soon as we heard that exciting news back in February, but our search had been challenging. California was one of the few places in the world where surrogacy was sanctioned, and hence demand was much greater than supply, with infertile couples, gay couples, and couples in our situation being put on long wait lists. It was unlikely we’d be introduced to a suitable surrogate for over a year regardless of how much money we offered. Money couldn’t buy us a child. Our disappointment and frustration could fill volumes.
THAT MAN 8 Page 9
