A gay story: The Best Laid Plan THE BEST LAID PLAN
My name is Grover Hatfield. I do handyman work now that I’m retired. I still get around, and I’m in good health. I’m proud to say everything still works. That’s a necessity if you want to please the ladies. People tell me stuff. That’s how I learned this story. It involves two gay guys and
Doodles, a male Chihuahua. Doodles was a small dog, probably about 7 or 8 pounds, covered with short, coarse white fur, a dark spot on his head that made him look like he was wearing one of those little Jewish hats.
Now some dogs are so stupid you can’t teach them any tricks, about the only thing they can do is find the food and water bowl before you trip over it and kick the damn thing over. Doodles wasn’t dumb, he was just as smart as they come. He knew every trick in the book and a few that hadn’t been written down.
Doodles was a gift from Paisley Bob to his paramour Andy Sedacocus. They were a gay “married” couple that lived on the fringe of show business, on the edge of Las Vegas, a few miles into the desert where the city rules on dogs don’t mean squat. Bob was a dog trainer par excellence. They had an act that you might have seen on “America’s Got Talent.” It was the act where the dogs do all kinds of tricks; jumping, walking inside your legs, catching plastic saucers, wearing a hat and dress while pushing a baby carriage with another little dog inside.
Paisley Bob, or Bob, as he preferred to be called, was the trainer and organizer. Andy wore a tux, but Bob was the real genius, even if the public did not see him except at the grand finale. That’s when he would introduce “Brandy, the talking dog,” who is going to say, “Good Night.”
Brandy, a curly black-haired mutt, walked out standing on two legs, wearing his bowtie and actually said “Good Night” into the microphone. To be honest, it sounded like “Good Night” if you knew what he was supposed to say.
Bob was the jealous type. When he realized that Andy was fucking around behind his back, rather than in his butt, for it was Bob who was a bottom dweller, well he went plumb crazy. But Bob was a cagey rascal, the kind who says nothing but lies in wait. He knew full well that most Gay couples are not faithful. Bob trusted that Andy was wearing rubbers when Andy peckered whoever he was having sex with. Bob’s concern was if Andy was barebacking, he might catch an STD and bring it on home. Also, Bob, being the jealous sort, had reason to believe that Andy was shoving his dick into a whole lot of gay Las Vegas butts, and he was right on that score.
The Casino, where they were doing the dog act, was only a short distance from the Vegas Gay Bathhouse. Andy would arrive out of breath, sometimes late for his participation in the part of the act. He was supposed to run out, and 5 or 6 dogs would jump into his arms. Occasionally Andy rushed in, Bob would notice that Andy’s fly was unzipped or there was a cum stain on his tight trousers.
Paisley Bob was willing to put up with minor discretions, but he didn’t want Andy bottom fishing in their king-sized bed on that third week of each month. That was when Bob drove north to visit his 83-year-old mom in a rest home up in Reno. It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, but Bob, in a vengeful manner, trained Doodles the Chihuahua, to go after any erect naked penis he saw. Bob taught Doodles using a full-sized blow-up plastic doll with a hot dog stuck between its legs. He taught the small dog to bite deep and not let go.
Sad to tell, there was a windstorm last August. Bob was on his way back from Reno. He got sideswiped by a big diesel truck. He drove off the road and hit the gas tank of one of those little service stations along the desert. Needless to say, there was no one there to pull Bob out. He ended up barbequed. His last thought must have been,” Thank God I didn’t bring any dog with me.” That was the kind of guy Paisley Bob was.
When Andy heard the fatal news from the Highway Patrol on his cell phone, he was, as you might expect, cavorting in the Las Vegas bathhouse. Naturally, he was distraught, but he stayed late, had sex with three more guys, and went home just as the sun was rising. I guess Andy figured that good morning fucks are better than a tranquilizer.
In the days that followed, Andy got through the funeral arrangements.
Since there wasn’t much left of Bob, after the car burned, Andy went out to the crash site and shoveled what he thought was Bob’s ashes into a heart-shaped candy box. Andy gave them to the funeral director to put in the casket. Fearing Bob’s relatives would speak poorly of him, he paid twenty grand for a marble casket, a fancy headstone with the statue of a dog on top. Bob was buried in a cemetery off route 6. The inscription on the headstone said,
“A kind and loving man — a dog’s best friend.”
Of course, no one from Bob’s family showed up at the service, just a few gay friends and casino workers. Andy took them all out to dinner afterward at the Bellagio Buffet. That seemed to work nicely. One of the stagehands was crying so much that Andy took him in his arms. That’s when he learned that Bob had been fucking on the night of Andy’s AA meeting. The stagehand didn’t realize Andy and Bob were “married.”
Once the sad event was a distant memory, which took about two weeks, Andy invited one of his paramours, Larry Hogan, over to stay with him for the weekend. That is when he made the fatal mistake of not locking up Doodles. Like all things, the timing of sexual activities can be risky.
When Larry Hogan got into position on all fours on the king-sized bed, to welcome Andy’s incoming missile, Doodles the Chihuahua raced in, jumped on the bed, and grabbed Larry’s dangle right in the middle of the shaft. That dog would not let go. The paramedics dragged Larry into the shower stall and had to spray Doodles with ice-cold water before the dog released his grip. That process took about a while.
Larry was rushed by ambulance to the small emergency clinic over near the Hotel Altoona. Andy paid $3,500 for the late-night surgery. An Indian doctor stitched Larry’s cock back into shape, although it wasn’t exactly the shape Larry recognized. After that, catastrophe, Larry never returned to the desert hideout. He told Andy he’d discovered he was allergic to dogs.
Our Andy wasn’t a dog trainer, so he began to think about disbanding the dog troop, selling the house, and moving to West Hollywood or San Francisco. He kept making the monthly payments to Bob’s Mom’s Rest Home. He figured even if she lived to be a hundred years old, he’d still come out ahead.
Andy found good homes for each of the dogs. Andy hadn’t figured out why Doodles had attacked Larry, asked Doc Martin if he’d like to have the dog. The Veterinarian, who had always favored Doodles, accepted the little monster as a gift. Doc was quite happy to have a show dog at his clinic.
What no one considered was that the Doc was fucking his kennel girl. Rebecca Rollo, typical of girls who work with dogs, was a big girl. Vet assistants are famous for having big asses. Otherwise, they’d be working for legit doctors, of course, don’t tell Becca I said that. She is also my niece. Doc must have liked big butts. She was attractive, big boobs, long, strong legs, and a short little nose like a Pekinese and sexually she was up for anything.
I knew that Doctor Martin was married, in fact I knew his wife quite intimately. I also knew Martin was having an affair with Becca since she started working there several years ago. How do I know all this stuff? Well, Becca loves to talk about her sex life. I’d come over to the vet hospital to fix a leaking drain or a broken gate, and she talks a blue streak.
Now that Bob is dead, when I go over to Andy’s to get the pool pump working or chlorinate the water, Andy loves to gossip. For some reason, Andy thinks I’m gay-friendly. Just two weeks ago, I was there to change the water heater and fix a burst pipe behind the washing machine. Andy just keeps the talk stream going about his gay boyfriends and his sexual exploits at the gay Vegas Bath House. It’s quite entertaining.
Doodles fit in nicely at Doc Martin’s Animal Hospital. The kids loved him. Doodles still did all kinds of tricks and was a sweet pooch. The Chihuahua had the run of the place when they were closed before the afternoon hours. If they weren’t doing surgery, spaying some cat or dog, Martin would point at the table, and Becca knew just what was cuming next. She’d drop her tight white slacks from her big ass and throw her rubber apron in the corner. She’d climb on board and assume the position.
Doc Martin unzipped and fumbled around to get his sizable cock and balls out of his underwear into the fresh air-conditioned air. When he looked down at Becca’s naked butt, he had an immediate hard-on. Then he’d take a look at her big round ass, smeared a bit of Vaseline on his red-head and shouted,
“Here I come ready or not,”
He was just about to plunge forward into Becca’s caboodle. Wouldn’t ya know, that’s when that damn Doodles, who like an elephant, never forgot a thing he was taught, jumped up and grabbed the Doc’s swollen pecker and one of his balls and hung on for dear life.
There was no way anyone was going to get Doodles to loosen his grip. Becca finally used a syringe of anesthetic to put Doodles out. When Doodles hit dream time, his jaw relaxed, and the Doc was freed. Too embarrassed to go to the emergency room, the Doc sewed up what could be saved and medicated the rest. What he told Mrs. Martin, I can only imagine. He didn’t share that with me, but I assume she was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk.
Doodles was put up for adoption. The Doc, a smart guy, after hearing of Andy’s boyfriend’s skirmish with Doodles, figured the whole thing out and found a sweet middle-aged lesbian couple to adopt the dog. When they assured him they didn’t go in for occasional threesomes with guys or dildo fucking, they passed muster, and Doodles went home with them for good.
Last I heard Doodles was doing fine, the Doc more or less recovered, it took a few months. Becca says the Doc is more into blowjobs or pussy now that he’s been made whole once again. She says he’s turned into a slow fucker cause there is still a bit of pain when he swells up. They keep the room locked when it is playtime, and Mrs. Martin and I always do our fooling around on the Doc’s late-night clinics.
What is good for the goose is good for the gander, and Mrs. Martin could not be grander when it comes to blowjobs and fast fucks. Sometimes I have to duck out the back window if the Doc gets home early. Since I was never into anal and neither was Mrs. Doc, we leave the fudge packing to the Doctor Martin and his Ass-sistant as we call my niece, although the future of that activity seems to be in its last bite.