Dominique the Dog Trainer
*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.
Dominique Woofenstein is in her late twenties. She walks dogs for a living, she is a licensed dog trainer but has the body of a licensed worm trainer. Despite that, she is kind of sexy. Her face is nice, and she has that chubby, curvaceous body; only two M&Ms away from obesity. But unfortunately, she is not into doggy-style. She does not like it. Although it is her best angle, she says that too much air gets in and queefing is quite a turnoff.
She came to my house, we chatted over Rufus’s newly learned abilities. It was amazing, in only 45 minutes Rufus had learned to sit, roll over, play dead, and order the groceries online. Rufus rejoiced over the rewarding dried liver, and to be honest, so did we.
Dominique had quite a big mouth, that is how I know all about her sexual life. Every week, she was dating a new guy. Thus, she was extremely cautious.
“Yesterday I could not sleep because I was searching for this dude on Instagram,” She said wide-eyed.
“Did you have any luck?” I contributed.
“No… But I want to make sure the guy I am dating is not a complete psycho! That is why I went to his house at 3 AM to watch him sleep.”
“Naturally.” I concluded.
I knew the girl was nuts, but since she was from Chihuahua, Germany. I could not resist those German shepherd eyes, I wanted to take her Boxer off, get my Cocker Spaniel out majestically—to show off its trimmed hair—to Bulldog her Poodle, I mean, bulldoze her puddle.
Anyhow, who am I to judge Dominique? I, myself, am fighting with a variety of disorders. Only two weeks ago, I had my first appointment with a psychologist.
“Wherever you want on the sofa, make yourself at home.” The therapist said.
“Thank you.”
“You can call me Marisol.”
I sat and noticed the coat hanger. I eased the beanie off my long hair, slid my gloves out, removed my puffer jacket, untangled my blue scarf, unzipped my cashmere sweater, took my earmuffs off, the pants came off, and the long-sleeve shirt, and a second pair of gloves, and my little-mermaid costume underneath, and my belt, and the top hat at last.
“Very well,” she added, “what brings you in here?”
“Well, I like to expose myself in front of people.”
“I can smell that…” She leaned back.
“Yes, I am an exhibitionist.” I waxed on. “It all began as a simple hobby, but eventually developed into a full compulsion. Now, I feel like I am vanishing if I do not expose my genitals to other people.”
“Who else has seen your genitalia?” The shrink asked.
“For starters, my dentist, my marijuana dealer, my girlfriend, my girlfriend’s girlfriends, my dad, my dad’s dad, and the current governor.”
“I see,” Marisol mused, “is it freeing?”
“You see, I suffer from extreme warming, so my balls usually compress into a homogeneous mass, but when I take my low hangers out I feel less guilty.”
That was the moment the cops came in and I spent a night in jail. I gave her 3 stars and a half on BetterHelp.
In less than a week, Dominique and I were a couple. I could not believe it was happening. But I should have guessed. The first time I exposed my dick in front of her, she recommended me to shave downward only and complimented my foreskin. Plus, Dominique is not that picky. Last week, she almost got engaged with Oscar Mayer, a miserable pest controller guy who has a big fetish for insects. The first time I had sex with Dominique, she told me Oscar’s complete life story. He got the job while sitting on a curb, bouncing his back against the concrete after he had inhaled a rag moistened with paint thinner. A man saw him on the street spraying chemicals and flirting with cockroaches, so he offered him work.
“How much for exterminating the insects in my home?” Tobey said.
The door slid nicely for the beetle that Oscar was. People would pay him to finish off with those long-legged spiders, or those black, lengthy and throbbing centipedes.
But Oscar did not have the necessary venom, instead, he collected them in jars. He took them to his house and pronounced sweet love to them, in his parent’s yard—often during family parties.
But it was during his first job at Tobey’s house when Lynda—Tobey’s wife—knew something was off with Mayer, perhaps due to the enormous tent inside his pants while he was getting stung by a scorpion.
“My love,” Lynda asked Tobey, “where exactly did you find this guy? In the street?”
However, my relationship with Dominique ended after four hours since her big mouth admitted to another client that her license to train dogs was fake, in reality, she used to point at the puppies with a revolver inside her sports sweater pocket.
Her license was revoked, her depression made her the yellow M&M, and she returned to Chihuahua, Germany with her parents.
Oscar Mayer won the Nobel Peace Prize and now owns an insect sanctuary/strip club for people with Formicophilia.
And Marisol—the therapist—asked me for a date, she is also an exhibitionist herself. But holy Shih Tzu! I still miss Dominique… I guess it does not matter because the Chow Chow must go on.
