"Fine," he lied. "Where's Sam?" He glanced outside, the German Shepherd nowhere to be seen.

"I took him to the vet."

"The vet? Why? What's wrong?"

"He wigged out this morning, attacking another dog. I spoke to a friend, who suggested we have Sam neutered. It seemed like a good idea, so-"

"You had my dog's b.a.l.l.s cut off without asking me!"

"You bought the dog without asking me."

"That's different."

"I don't see how. Anyway, the vet told me Sam should have been neutered when we first got him. It's better for the dog."

"How? How is it better for my dog to chop off his nuts?"

"For one thing, you'll never have to worry about Sam getting testicular cancer. Plus his p.e.n.i.s will smell better and look a lot better-it's embarra.s.sing to have company over with that big rock sack flopping around between his legs."

"He was born that way! Jesus, Nancy, you took away his manhood."

"More like his ego. At least now I won't have to worry about Sam attacking every female dog that wiggles her naked a.s.s at him."

Jacob felt the blood rush from his face. A moment later his knees buckled and he hit the floor.

THE v.a.g.i.n.a DIALOGUES.

The mansion was situated on an acre of oceanfront property in Ma.n.a.lapan, a small island town just north of Boynton Beach. Jacob drove up to the iron gate with the giant letter C and pressed the b.u.t.ton on the speaker. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Name?" The male voice seemed bothered by his intrusion.

"Jacob Cope. I'm a guest of Ruby Kleinhenz."

The gate retracted on either side.

Jacob followed the stone paver driveway up to the two story, twenty-two room, five-car garage dwelling.

He parked . . . and prayed. "Dear G.o.d Almighty: Out of love for Nancy, I jerked-off twice today. Please don't let me get h.o.r.n.y around Ruby Kleinhenz-I really need this gig. Thanks, G.o.d. Oh . . . sorry for saying 'jerked-off,' that was kind of rude. I should have said m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed. Actually, you probably already know what I did since you're G.o.d and you see everything. Amen."

Reaching across the console, he grabbed the suitcase lying on the pa.s.senger seat and exited the van. Before he could ring the bell, the right side of the double-door opened, revealing a flamboyant gay man in his early forties, dressed in a tight-fitting charcoal colored tee-shirt and white Ralph Lauren slacks, the high hem exposing his bare ankles and hemp loafers. A light knit salmon-pink cardigan was draped like a cape over his shoulders; silver bracelets adorned his left wrist.

"Namaste. My name is Cyril and you must be . . . oh my G.o.d, I know you, don't I? This is so embarra.s.sing, but wait . . . don't you dare tell me. I know, we met on the dance floor at Twist in Miami. It was White Party week and you were dressed in a French cuff with scarab cuff links which intoxicated me like heroin."

"No-"

"Okay, just give me one clue-did it involve a pirate costume and a fake parrot named Mr. Tweed?"

"It involved a dog."

"Eww, really?"

"You tried to sell me a Bichon at the pet store where you work."

"Okay, but the dog was white?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"Gaydar! It never lets me down."

"Dude, I'm not gay. What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be selling cats or something?"

"Don't get testy. Olivia invited me over to see your act. She's hosting a big gig on the family yacht for her father's eighty-third birthday-as if she really wants to celebrate the occasion. All I can say is you'd better be good, especially after you waited until I filled out all that paperwork to cancel my puppy sale. See, Mr. Jacob, I do remember. Come this way."

He followed Cyril inside. They pa.s.sed through a two-story grand salon illuminated by a crystal chandelier, then trekked across the polished marble floors past a twenty-seat dining room. An alcove led them to an atrium, the indoor greenhouse's gla.s.s doors exiting to the back of the mansion.

"Holy s.h.i.t."

The tranquil azure waters of an invisible-line twenty-meter pool appeared to run straight into the ocean, its southern border melding into a stone and wood deck featuring a fireplace, koi pond, waterfalls, bridge, and sun deck.

"Hi, there."

Jacob turned. Ruby waved from a padded lounge chair. She was wearing a blue metallic micro-thong bikini, the woman in the chair next to her dressed in identical apparel, only metallic-purple.

Hail Mary, full of face . . . I ask the Lord my soul to take.

"Jacob, I want you to meet my dearest most-wonderful friend in the world, Olivia Cabot. Olivia, this is the young man I've been bragging to you about all morning."

Olivia Cabot smiled. "He's cute, but he dresses like my gardener. Cyril, think you can style him up a bit for my father's party?"

"b.i.t.c.h, please. I could dress him in a Hefty bag and it'd be an improvement."

Jacob forced his eyes away from the two nearly naked women. "So, uh, where do you want me to perform?"

Olivia cooed, "Why don't you perform for us in my romp room."

"How 'bout the sauna?" Ruby responded. "I like it sweaty."

"The whirlpool," Olivia retorted. "The jets act like vibrators."

"My guest room."

"Better in my bedroom."

"Better in my mouth."

"Better in my a.s.s!"

The women hi-fived, laughing hysterically.

"In her a.s.s . . . as if." Cyril rolled his eyes at Jacob, who was sweating profusely. "Well, look at you-nervous as a virgin prince at a prison rodeo. Hey Cougars? Your friend here just s.h.i.t himself a brick."

Ruby turned to Jacob, her voice inflecting a motherly tone. "Sweetie, just grab a chair and set everything up right here."

Locating a straight-backed deck chair, Jacob placed it on the koi pond's bridge facing his audience of three. "Ready?"

"Go for it, sweet-cheeks." Olivia winked.

"I, uh . . . okay. Good afternoon. My name is Jacob, and this . . ." he opened his case, removing a Lisa Simpson dummy, "this is my friend, Lisa. Lisa, welcome to the show."

"Thank you, Jacob." He strained to reach the practiced higher octave, earning applause from Ruby. "Lisa, you told me earlier you had something important to discuss."

"Yes, Jacob. I wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Henderson."

"And who's Mrs. Henderson?"

"She's . . . my v.a.g.i.n.a."

"Oh G.o.d!" Cyril burst out.

"I'm terribly worried about Mrs. Henderson. She's getting older and more wrinkled. Plus she's growing hair, only the hair isn't yellow like mine, it's dark and curly. And it itches. I'm afraid to scratch it in public."

"Because you're afraid people might think you're playing with it?"

"No. Because I'm afraid our Tea Party Governor will pa.s.s some stupid law making it illegal for me to even own a Mrs. Henderson."

Cyril had tears streaming down his face. "You go, girl."

"To be honest, Lisa, I feel a little uncomfortable speaking to an eight-year-old about her v.a.g.i.n.a."

"That's exactly what my mother said. Fortunately, I found quite a few references to it on the internet. I'm scared, Jacob."

"What are you so scared of, Lisa?"

"For one thing, high cholesterol. You should see how much meat Mrs. Henderson consumes in some of these videos. The poor dear is being turned into a sausage factory. Which brings up a new term I just learned: b.l.o.w. .j.o.b. Does the woman get paid to inflate the man's p.e.n.i.s by blowing air into his pee hole? Does the expression, 'this job really blows' relate to the pay scale or nature of the work?"

"All good questions, Lisa."

"Here's another. If a vegan is someone who only eats veggies, why isn't a lesbian called a vagan?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know the anagram for p.e.n.i.s is snipe, a wading bird with a long, hard, stiff bill? Most snipes fall into the genus, Gallinago, the closest relative being the woodc.o.c.k. Pretty deep, huh, Jacob?"

"Very."

"I only ask because my v.a.g.i.n.a is made of wood. Simple logic dictates that I acquire the services of a wood c.o.c.k to please Mrs. Henderson."

"Just don't get splinters in your mouth when you're polishing his wood."

"Oh my, I never even considered that! That job really would blow, no doubt pushing me toward a vagan lifestyle."

"You're a little girl, Lisa, you shouldn't be thinking about these things."

"It's unavoidable, Jacob, it's always on television."

"Really? Lisa, what TV show features such graphic s.e.xual content?"

"Family Guy."

NANCY BRIEFED SPENCER as she led the dog trainer through her home to the back yard. "Everything was fine until Sam saw that other dog. It was scary, I could barely restrain him."

"I'm not sure neutering him was the solution."

"I needed to set some boundaries."

"You probably had the collar positioned too low. No worries, I brought Sam a p.r.o.ng collar. You'll use it whenever you train him outside the home. As for Sam's aggressive nature around other dogs, you can fix that with a little training."

"Forget it. I'm paying you-you do the training."

"And what good would that do? Sam's your dog, not mine. His aggressiveness is a reflection of your own conscious nature."

"My nature? This is his previous owner's fault, not mine. I barely knew the dog before I let him move in. I mean . . . oh never mind."

"Let's put that little theory to the test, shall we?" Spencer opened the sliding gla.s.s door and greeted Sam. The German Shepherd immediately calmed, its ears drooping, its tail low and tucked between its bandaged groin. The former military man leashed the dog and led him out front to his parked van, Nancy following them out.

"Sam, sit!"

The dog waited in a sit position while Spencer opened the back doors, sending Tilda into a frenzy. He opened the cage. "Tilda, heel!"

The female leapt down from her perch to take her place on Spencer's right. Moving Sam to his left, the trainer attempted to walk both dogs, the male Shepherd fighting to get to the female to sniff her behind.

"Sam, stop it, that's disgusting!" Nancy pushed her dog's snout away from Tilda's hind quarters.

"There's nothing to be distressed about-a dog sniffing another dog's genitalia is perfectly natural. Sam is merely attempting to obtain information from Tilda's scent."

"Maybe it's natural to you, but I don't want my dog sniffing another female's a.s.s."

"As you wish." Spencer tugged on the choker chain, sending Sam scurrying back to his side of the trainer.

A minute later both dogs were walking steadily and happily, flanking Spencer.

"Well?"

"Well . . . obviously cutting off his nuts took away some of his aggressiveness. Besides, this was a Golden Retriever, not another Shepherd. Not a female Shepherd."

"Fine. We'll visit a dog park with Sam when he's fully mended. For now, know this: A dog will reflect its owner's state of mind. If you're confident, they'll remain submissive. If you're angry, the animal will register your tense feelings and become aggressive."