Based on the short story:
It's A Dog's Day
Hi, my name is Stacy Meyers. I'm 18 years old and halfway through the 12th grade. I'm rather tall for my age, and to be honest with you, frightfully thin, weighing barely one hundred and five pounds. I don't have much in the way of boobs, (even less than my two younger sisters), but I do have green eyes, and long red hair that flows down my back all the way to my behind.
My dad breeds dogs. In fact, he's one of the biggest dog breeder's on the East Coast; so naturally, we have more than our share of dogs. Eight, to be exact. A nice even number. All are male. There is Skyler, the Great Dane; Boots, Edgar, Lawrence and Wolfy, the four large wolfhounds; Maxie, the Rottwieler; Trophy, the Black Lab; and Beethoven, our massive Saint Bernard. None of them is neutered because Mom condemns that as being immoral and cruel. I don't think Dad cares, but since Mom does...
Anyway, what happened was a complete fuckup. Which pretty much describes the Meyers household at all times.
"Now listen," Mom said, digging into her purse for her address book. Tearing a page out of the back, and handing it to me, she continued: "Mrs. Gross will be here no later than four o'clock. I can trust you not to get into trouble before four o'clock, can't I?"
"Mom!" I complained. "I'm eighteen, not twelve."
"Sometimes, you act like a twelve-year old," she said irritably, because, well, sometimes I do. She and my two younger sisters, Karen and Susan were going across town to stay with Uncle Mort for the night. Aunt Zelda had Alzheimer's disease, and Uncle Mort needed all the help he could get. Tomorrow, they were moving her out of the house into a facility. Uncle Mort could afford a facility. He was even richer than Daddy.
"Read them off to me," Mom ordered.
Sighing dramatically, I recited the numbers for Mom and Dad's cell phones, Uncle Mort's home and cell phones, Karen's cell phone, and finally the office and cell phone numbers for Dr. Crandall, my former pediatrician.
"What's with Dr. Crandall's numbers?" I asked, blushing with embarrassment. The last time I'd been to Dr. Crandall it had been a horribly stressful and embarrassing visit. I was sixteen years old, hadn't yet started my period, and at the insistence of my mother he'd given me my first pelvic exam. I will never forget the chagrin I'd felt putting my feet in the stirrups of his examination table and having the man that I'd had a crush on from the age of seven grope me with a clinical thoroughness that turned not only my face, but my entire upper body beet red.
"Don't feel embarrassed about this, Stacy," he'd said, grinning knowingly, both at myself and his nurse, all but winking at her. "I'm going to try my best not to hurt you, but your hymen is intact and it won't survive the insertion of my speculum, I'm afraid." He paused. "Is it important to you as an indication of your virginity?"
"No," I muttered, somehow growing more impossibly red. I valued my virginity and wanted it surrendered only to my husband on our wedding night, but I cared little about the need to substantiate it. It wasn't like I'd let him between my legs to investigate. At least, not at first.
Smiling, Dr. Crandall had then carefully spread me apart with his fingertips and inserted the tines of the speculum into me, and that was enough of remembering that particular incident, I thought.
Still irritated, Mom replied: "Because he's the only doctor you've ever been to, and it's your own fault for refusing to pick a new primary. You are an adult, after all; you ought to act like one once in a while."
Grinding my teeth and ordering my mouth not to reply, I folded the paper and slipped it into my back pocket.
"You'll loose that," Mom scolded. "Or wash it accidentally. Put it await somewhere safe. I don't want you searching for numbers if something happens to you."
"Nothing will happen," I muttered through my clenched teeth. "I'll be fine. The list will be fine. Will you go already!"
She moved two steps closer to the door. "No parties, young lady."
"I'm not going to party, Mom."
"No boys in the house," she countered.
"I don't have a boyfriend, remember?"
She looked at me through narrowed eyes. I hadn't had a boyfriend since the middle of 11th grade and that worried her some. Possibly she suspected that I was a lesbian, or bisexual or something. I was just as interested in boys as they were in me, which lately hadn't been a whole lot. Minuscule boobs on an 18 year old were evidently not as acceptable as on a 10th grader. Or something.
Finally she left, leaving me standing in the doorway watching as she joined my two obviously impatient sisters in the car. Her mood with them was little better than it had been with me, and I could see all three of them snarking at each other through the windows. It made me smile, which I fought. I waved gaily as the BMW drove away, Karen and Susan ignoring me, Mom returning my wave only grudgingly. The instant they were out of sight I lofted my right hand and bade them farewell with my upraised middle finger, this time not fighting my grin at all.
"Finally!" I exclaimed. Turning around and stomping inside, I slammed the door behind me and screamed at the time of my lungs: "I am so happy you are gone!" I let out a peel of laughter, which brought Lawrence, Edgar, Maxie and Trophy out of hiding or to their feet to investigate. A loud howl that I recognized as belonging to Wolfy answered me from the second floor, where undoubtedly he lay at the foot of Mom's bed, and Beethoven barked once from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen or mud-room. I stretched madly and giggled in my happiness. Alone. Just me and the dogs. Time for fun.
Rather than have fun, I very sensibly walked out to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich and poured a glass of milk, which I consumed at the kitchen table. While I ate I watched an infomercial about some versatile carpenter's tool that was surprisingly impressive, at least to a non-mechanical 18 year old. After I ate the sandwich and finished the milk, I placed the dishes in the sink and returned to the living room where I turned on the TV and watched another fifteen minutes of the amazing workbench. If Mom hadn't taken all my credit cards away, I would have ordered one of the things for my Dad's next birthday. Tinkerer that he was, he'd have loved it.
After dutifully waiting out an hour, I went to the front door to check that it was locked, then did the same with the mudroom door and the two sets of patio doors. Satisfied that I was safely locked in, I kicked off my tennies and peeled the anklets off my feet and let them drop to the floor in the foyer. I then crossed my arms and, grabbing the hem of my shirt I peeled that up and over my head and let it drop to the floor also. One-handed I unclasped my bra and shrugged out of it, catching it with my right foot and flinging it across the living room where it comically landed across the top of a lampshade. I giggled at that and wiggled out of my jeans and panties. Stretching again luxuriantly, listening to my joints pop and ligaments stretch, yawning magnificently, I sighed deeply and basked in the pleasure of my bareness. I loved being bare. I loved being bare and not having to worry about it. I very much loved being alone in the house for three whole days and knowing that I could spend as much of that time bare as I wanted.
Crossing to the nearest overstuffed chair, I collapsed into it and flung a leg over either arm. When blessed with these rare opportunities, I sometimes chose the otherwise ridiculous bean-bag chair Daddy had left over from his faux-Hippie days in the'90's, due to its comfort and the way it shaped itself so pleasurably to my body, but today I desired the greatest wingspread I could manage, which meant the chair. Smiling contentedly, I absent-mindedly rubbed my nipples while enjoying the sensation of coolness kissing my spread lips.
It was so rare to pleasure myself at home. The best I could normally do in the roomy but hectic confines of my second floor bedroom was occasionally diddle myself beneath the covers at night, or enjoy myself in the tub. In no case could I ever throw myself open as I was right now, not in a house where people considered a door an affront to their mobility. No matter how much I complained, no amount of complaining had yet forced Mom or Dad to get a hand on their youngest daughters; privacy in the Goldberg household remained a mist-shrouded myth.
My problem now was the dogs.
"You stay away from me," I warned Trophy, the Black Lab. He'd followed me from the front door into the living room and now sat attentively five feet away, his tongue lolling from his mouth, his breathing louder and more forceful than normal. There was no mistaking the mottled gray and red tip of his penis protruding from his sheath.
I had gone through this before. Eight male, un-neutered dogs around the house were any girl's constant irritation. In this I wasn't alone. Karen and Suzie both complained about the crotch nudging and unexpected snout in the rear-end that each of us put up with from time to time. All of us had endured an occasion leg-humping. Mom was no exception but bore the irritation in stoic silence, as it was she who refused to let the dogs be neutered. As you can imagine, the problem was magnified a hundred-fold by a certain female human who chose to undrape herself and sit spread-legged in the middle of the living room. My usual solution was to kick all eight of them outside. With it pouring down rain at the moment, however, outside wasn't much of an option. Sometimes I hated dogs.
.... There is more of this story ...