It was my first time inside of a community center and it was every bit as bad as I thought it was going to be. I was in a classroom of sorts with cracked walls and water stains on the acoustic ceiling tiles. There were posters with rainbows and platitudes and the desks where we sat had gang logos carved into them. The woman leading the meeting was much like the center itself, underfunded and beginning to sag.
I didn’t want to be there but when you’ve been charged with a felony sex crime and then offered a deal that will keep you out of jail, you take it.
“We have a new face among us,” the woman said, leveling her laser pointer so it put a red dot in the middle of my forehead. “Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself?”
“Uh, my name’s Dave and I’m a pug-oholic.”
“HI DAVE!”
Jesus.
How did I manage to sink so low so fast? It was not all that long ago that I was at the top of my game with a good job and an awesome girlfriend. Sure, I also had an active interest in dog porn, but no more so than one would expect from any man with a healthy libido.
It all began one night after an especially stressful day at work. I had managed to delete some vital data files by accident and was unsuccessful in my attempts to delegate blame to an intern. The subsequent ass chewing I received soured me on all of humanity.
“Tough day?” asked asked Betty when I got home, noticing my clenched fists as I walked in.
“Fuck you,” I explained and headed into the room with the computer, closing the door behind me. There was only one thing that would improve my spirits, danceswithlegs.com. God bless the internet.
Betty was no stranger to my mood swings and had learned to adapt accordingly. I heard the low hum of her vibrator from the bedroom as I booted the computer and went to my favorite website.
The latest “Mutt of the Month” looked quite fetching. “Fatima” the Saluki had long, beautiful flowing ears and despite the name, not an ounce of fat on her. She was wearing some sort of weird leather bondage harness, which I thought was completely unnecessary. However, I was open minded enough to realize that they had a business to run and therefore must cater to kinky perverts as well.
At the top of the page, there was a banner ad that would change my life forever. It read:
Forget Pug Room Ripoffs! Ours Is The Real Deal!!
Our Pugs Give Their All!!! That’s 700% in Dog Love!!!! (Visa/MC)
Pug rooms had been making the headlines lately as the latest craze for those into pushing the erotic envelope. The practice was in a gray area legally. You didn’t actually have sex with the dogs. Instead, you took advantage of the breed’s affectionate nature by lying on the floor naked and letting them do all the work (perfect for me). The first pug room opened at a kennel in the red-light district of Amsterdam. It wasn’t long before the Russian mafia muscled in on the operation and expanded the business into a word-wide phenomenon.
The legal status was about to change. Shortly after pug rooms began to spring up in major cities across the United States, there was an outcry among religious conservatives, animal-rights activists, and other groups given to outcries no matter what. Dianne Feinstein (an obvious cat person) drafted legislation to make ownership, operation, and participation in a pug room a federal crime. Needless to say, the bill sailed through both houses of Congress and was sitting on the president’s desk waiting to be signed into law. As a born-again Christian, there was no way he was going to veto the thing. If I was going to try the pug-room experience,waiting around was not an option.
From the bedroom, the vibrator notched up a couple of settings. Its drone was quite audible now and from where I sat, its message was loud and clear: Betty was making the best of a dreary evening and so should I. I mentally thanked her for her wise counsel and clicked on the ad.
I was redirected to a page that asked me for my credit-card information (to be billed to “Best In Show Productions”), my home address, and a phone number where I could be reached. There was also the option of booking a date and time for an appointment or simply clicking a box marked “ASAP.” In light of a law-enforcement crackdown on the horizon, I chose the latter.
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rang. The voice on the line had a heavy Russian accent.
“David Charles Jennings?”
“Speaking.”
“Your credit is goodnik. Are you home now?”
“Yes.”
“Da. Please wait outside. We send car to acquire you.”
That was fine by me. Betty had cranked up her toy to a level where I could feel the vibrations in my molars. I wanted to be out the door and on my way before it went to maximum power and started setting off car alarms.
I left my apartment and stood on the sidewalk to wait. A cold, unforgiving wind was blowing in from the north. For a moment, a thought ran through my head that I should just go back inside and forget the whole thing.
That notion quickly passed. It was too late for that now. I had already paid my money. If I was in for a penny, I was in for the pound.