Vincent Farnsworth 2:38 p.m., Sept. 26
- Community Blog
Jocko the Gigolo at Lunch
The role of gigolo has one subtle trap that sneaks up on him if he’s not careful. A roof over his head, regular feedings, clean water bowl and a snuggling companion all lure him into the deadly trap. Sally’s two story was nice enough, her bed warm and cozy, meals often at his favorite café. She’d arranged a gathering of the girl friends, lunch down at the harbor, a view of the boats entering the channel. Jocko was enjoying his rides in the convertible, as he hadn’t done much socializing sense he’d been staying with Sally. The wind in his ears made him realize he’d been missing some action.
A breath of the sea air sure felt good, he thought he recognized some curves in the road. Freedom, a chance to stretch out his legs and see who else thought the harbor was their turf.
Sally pulled into the parking lot, put the Beemer in park and said; “Jocko you wait right here, I just want to go in and see if the girls have arrived.”
All right, it didn’t seem like a time to upset Sally. He’d just sit, do what he was told, go against his wishes, play the obedient boy role and wait it out. It never fails, just when you’re in a compromising situation, someone you know sees you. Larry, that garbage eating, mangy low life from 15th Ave just knocked over a trash can and caught sight of Jocko being so well mannered.
“Hey there, don’t you look cute, sitting in that car, you pussy; waiting for a cookie…….if you’re a good boy,” chided the low life.
Larry went right to work sorting through the goodies. Jocko slumped down in the leather and stewed. Larry of all mongrels, that classless, tasteless bastard, he wouldn’t understand even if Jocko tried to explain the situation. He had no idea the power a woman can have over a male, especially at lunchtime. It would be nothing else but rude if Jocko went over and beat the heck out of that looser. He’d just had a shower and Sally had spent some extra time brushing him; you know, meeting the girls and all.
Sally finally came skipping out of the restaurant to rescue him.
“Everyone’s here and dying to meet you. I’ve got a little something for you to wear; I think we’d best to have it on in the restaurant, “ she said smiling ear to ear.
The sunlight reflected off the shinny chrome links, momentarily blinding him; “It’s a little collar, well the man at the store called it a choke chain and don’t you love the red leash, “ Sally sighed heading for his muzzle.
Before he realized what had happened, Sally had turned and was headed for the entrance nearly yanking him off his feet. He’d fallen in, the trap had closed; he was now a kept canine.
The allure of the gigolo, their position in society, must never include a leash of any kind. When staying at some woman’s house, there must always be a door ajar. The inference that the gigolo belongs to a woman is social death. The mystery that surrounds his persona, the excitement a woman feels when in his company, add value to his service. Genetically programmed to take flight at the first sign a female wants to control him, being leashed was far worse than being seen in the convertible by Larry the Loser.
Jocko was freaked. In route to the patio, his leash got wrapped around a stool at the bar, knocked over a potted palm and tripped up the hostess with a tray of martinis. Sally couldn’t understand his behavior. Her little companion was acting like such a brat.
All the girls were so excited. He was just as Sally had described him. What were they drinking thought Jocko? He put his paw up on the table pounding it next to one of the martinis. Sally’s dumb blonde friend turned out to not be so dumb after all.
“Sally, it looks like he wants a martini, “ she exclaimed. “Waiter”
After a couple of those, Jocko resigned himself to the predicament and just laid low till the girls were sufficiently sloshed and it was time to leave. Back at Sally’s he noticed the kitchen door ajar and figured it was time to regain his freedom.