Chapter 6: Gourmet Pooch

August 23, 1972

Dear Diary: Gosh, I don't know where to begin. Things have been jumping since I graduated in June. All my dreams are coming true! Whoa, slow down girl... calm yourself or the story will never get told. From the beginning, and cool...

Weird Harold was really freaked when I told him about Hollywood and the commercial try-out. He "put his foot down" and said no wife of his was going to get involved with all those L.A. faggots. I said that was fine with me and that he'd hear from my lawyer in the morning. Old Groveling Bear shit his pants when I started packing. He got really mealy mouthed, whining and whimpering about how he didn't mean it and not to leave him.

Asshole! To teach him a lesson he'd never forget, I told him when I got back from my screen test I wanted permanent separate bedrooms. That really got him good. Of course, we already had separate beds. I made sure they were installed in our new house before I set foot in the place. Anyway, Harold stopped sniveling and went into a sulk. I loved his sulks. They meant he'd keep out of sight and out of mind.

Not that he'd been around enough lately to cramp my style. The giant turkey himself was in L.A. more than he was in Langousta, what with his big negotiations with the Rams For some reason the talks had bogged down after he got out of high school. Something about his not being "vicious" enough on the field. I guess they expected him to cannibalise his victims or something.

Pop was in the hospital, undergoing exploratory surgery, but Mom insisted that she be allowed to accompany me to the screen test. I was so stunned by her callousness that I didn't tell her to go fuck herself, like I should've. All the way down on the plane I had to listen to her detailed instructions on the proper carriage, smile, and table manners of a successful model... things she knew absolutely nothing about. When I put on the stereo earphones to block her harping, nagging chatter, she assaulted every passenger in earshot, telling them about me, about how wonderful I was, about my big break in commercials. If her safety belt had been six inches longer, I would've strangled her with it.

Wally Baxter and Lenore were waiting for us at L.A. International. They totally ignored my Mom and rushed up to me giving me big sexy hugs. Wally had lost some hair. He had deep widow's peaks but I kind of liked them. He was super tan as usual and when he squeezed me I could feel something hot and hard pulse under his Bermudas right against my mound. Lenore hadn't cut her hair, I was glad to see that. And she'd gotten if anything a little bigger in the tit department. Later, she told me it was from the pill. She was wearing a loosely weaved knit top and I could see the large mocha-coloured nipples I'd loved to suck on as a kid. They brought a lump to my throat, let me tell you.

"This is how you dress for work?" I asked the beaming ad. man.

"Hey, Polly, things are casual down here," he said, stroking the wrinkles out of his Arnold Palmer style knit golf shirt.

"Especially when you're on unemployment," Lenore said shrewishly.

Wally gave her a look that was intended to kill. "Yeah, I got the sack," he confessed to me. "But that's got nothing to do with this deal I called you down about..."

On the way to the studio, Lenore was saddled with Mom in the back seat, while Wally explained things to me in the front. It seemed this nationally known, canned dog food company had commissioned Wally's agency to do a customer survey to find out who was buying their products and to direct a new ad campaign towards them. Wally got hold of the results before the dog food people, put two and two together and called me. I wasn't too clear on what the "two and two" were, or how he decided that I'd be what they'd want, but it was a little late to be suspicious... we were pulling up at the security gate of Sokolow Studios, a huge, block- long complex of beige stucco, aircraft hangar looking buildings somewhere east of Western Avenue.

Wally explained to the uniformed guard who we were and what we were there for. After a short phone call and a check of a list on a clipboard the sentry waved us past. After a bit of driving around, we found "Sound Studio D," which was where the tests were being held.

Once we were inside the monstrous cave of a building, Mom went nuts with her helpful hints and keen insights. Lenore, with keen insight of her own, dragged Mom off to the water cooler and stuffed a Thorazine down her throat.

Wally introduced me to Major Scampi, agent for the company and director of the screen tests. Major was his first name, not a military rank. He was sitting in a director's chair. He wore a pair of those funny riding pants with the over-sized thighs, knee high boots, a Venetian gondolier T-shirt... large red and white stripes... and a dark blue beret. When he stood up to kiss my hand, I saw how short he was. He had a hump on his back, too.

"Charmed, charmed, my dear," Scampi said, patting my hand. His brown bug eyes kind of rolled over me, starting at my cunt and stopping at the firm peaks of my tits. "Show her to wardrobe, won't you, Wally-baby? The other girls are already there."

Wally ushered me to the costume room. A dried-up old bag handed me a string bikini that looked like three knots in a piece of drapery sash. It was opaque and white and the kind of thing that could get a girl arrested up in Langousta. What the hell, I thought. When in Babylon...

The dressing room was crowded with girls in their late teens, blondes, redheads, brunettes. Girls with one other thing in common, aside from their ages... They were SEX-Y! I'd never seen such oodles of smooth baby fat, high, round buns, downy, fragrant muffs... not even in my cheer-leading days back at old Langousta. Every one of these girls was a silky smooth, stone soul fox. I tell you, it brought out the dyke in me. I must've been gawking pretty openly because the girl on my left, a tall, big-breasted blonde with a beauty parlour natural paused in rolling her tiny, white cunt cover, the string bikini bottom. over her abundant. black snatch.

"This is your first time, huh, baby?" she asked, putting a hand on her jutting hipbone. She had a pair of hips that would not quit, shaped like a lyre, sleek and curvy.

"Uh... yes," I managed to say, staring at her swaying, pink tipped jugs.

She stretched her arms up over he head--just for me--and the droppy tips of her soft tits lifted, arching magnificently. "You'll get used to all this, sister..." she said, indicating the plethora of pulchritude.

The word "sister" sent chills up my spine.

"... It's the out there you got to worry about," she continued. "Those goddamn mutts!" She turned her luscious back on me to display a double row of teeth marks in her plump right buttock. "I was here yesterday. Got those beauties from the sponsor's registered trade mark, Chef Fido, right in the middle of the screen test. That black sonofabitch attacked me without warning... goddamn psychopath! I was bending down, reaching for his dish, saying my one big line, and the next thing I knew the script girl, key grip and cameraman were trying to get his jaws off my ass. My agent threw a shit fit, of course. and he bullied Scampi into re-shooting my test today with a different Chef Fido. It's a hell of a way to make a living, sister."

I made sympathetic noises while I got undressed.

"Hey, you got a nice little muff there," the blonde said, bending down to adjust her sandals and letting her nose just graze my fuzz.

That shook me up good. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing her by the ears and dragging her face into my box. "Are all the chicks here switch hitters?" I asked.

She looked at me aghast. "Switch? Christ, no. We're all straight... straight homos," she said with a laugh. "Come on, lets get this thing over with..."

Well, at least, I figured I had one thing up on most of the chicks... I wasn't scared of dogs. As we filed out of the dressing room, we were each given a slip of paper with our one big line on it. God! You should've heard all those half nude cuties mumbling the words, trying different versions, different inflections out on the insipid phrase.

The line was: "Chef Fido's Gourmet Pooch is doggy dee- lishus!"

A chick in glasses made us go single file through a door marked "Make Up," where a natty little twerp dusted our tits and asses with anti-shine powder and sent us on our way. Another line formed at the entrance to the actual filming area. Wally and Lenore waved at me and held up crossed fingers as they dragged my tranquillised Mom into the studio. Was Mom ever wasted!

I could hear this wild, nervous barking coming from the studio. Despite my non-fear of dogs, the crazy, in-bred savagery in the yapping made me jumpy. And Major Scampi's voice, a high pitched shriek, shouting instructions at the girls being tested didn't help at all. The distance between me and the door way dwindled and then, way too soon to suit me, Big Blondie said, "Well, here goes nothing, sister..." and undulated into the studio.

I peered around the doorway and saw giant, expensive looking cameras, a maze of overhanging lights, and a set made to look like the average kitchen in an average $75,000 house. Big Blondie was consulting with Scampi, taking her stage directions. Over in the corner, sitting on a purple velvet throw cushion was a black poodle. No ordinary poodle, either. For one thing he was a giant. Must've stood 30 inches tall at the shoulder. For another thing, he was wearing a huge, white chef's hat. He was trimmed in the usual poodle lion style, only on him it was really effective. I mean that dog had muscles and then some.

He took one look at Big Blondie and started in with the howling. "WOO-WOO-WOO-WOORAHH!" he articulated most distinctly.

Major Scampi looked like he was about at his wits end, what with the dog's baleful outbursts and the unprofessional efforts of the assorted teeny-bobbers.

"No, goddamnit, you stupid cunt," he snarled, "you've got it ass-backwards! Bend over and then reach for the can...

When she'd gotten the little choreography bit together, the dog handler, who looked exactly like Mr. Clean, earring and all, brought Chef Fido over. The introductions were brief and to the point. Mr. Clean slipped the choke chain off the big dog, and the big dog went for Blondie's throat. End of screen test.

After the agent was dragged away, screaming lawsuit, it was my turn. I figured the vibes were so bad I didn't stand a chance so I just kind of relaxed and, as Tara would've said, "fluxed with the flux and flowed with the flow."

"Alright, honey-buns, get that keester over here "Scampi growled.

I'd watched Blondie go through the routine so many times I knew it by heart already. But Scampi felt he had to go over everything with me, step by step, so I humoured him. We did a quick run-through without Chef Fido and I amazed the director by being letter perfect.

"Alright!" he exclaimed, turning to the dog trainer. "Come on, you nelly... get that black turd over here... and keep the fucking choke chain on him this time!"

Scampi looked up at me and grinned this big, phony grin. "Heh-heh-heh," he said, "you aren't afraid of doggies, are you? Heh-heh."

"No," I answered matter-of-factly, watching Mr. Clean give commands to the huge poodle.

In psychology class, Mr. van Demis taught us about Pavlov and how he taught dogs to drool at the sound of a dinner bell. Mr. van Demis didn't say a word about girls teaching themselves to drool at the sight of a dog. Lordy. Did I ever have an urge to bend over and take a long, loving look at Chef Fido's monster parts! In his white hat, he was about the sexiest thing on four legs. I mean it. He had this glistening black nose and a pair of black eyes that sparkled underneath his curly bangs. God, it was his tongue, though, that made my pussy pucker up. It was long and creamy pink and covered with the tastiest bumps and ridges. I could imagine that thing drilling into my cunt, his sweet drool easing the way. Suddenly I got scared that my twat would give me away, you know, start gushing lubricant and stain the white bikini. It felt so wet down there!

"Miss... uhh?" Scampi said, faltering. "Oliver... "I prompted. "Polly Oliver."

"Yeah, meet Chef Fido... Let him sniff your hand, honey."

I was prepared to let him sniff more than that, for as long as he wanted. Mr. Clean gave the dog slack and, nails screeching on the linoleum, Chef Fido lunged at me.

"Hole-ee-shit!" Scampi cried. "Would you look at that!"

I held my hand right in front of my cunt and the sweet dog bathed it in his hot drool. Ooh. he was a darling. I could tell from the way his nostrils flared that it wasn't just my hand he was sniffing, either. His pom-pom of a tail was wagging and his eyes were twinkling.

"Ooh, what a good boy you are!" I cooed to him.

"WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-RAHH !" he howled, raising his muzzle skyward.

"He just wants some love, that's all," I said to Scampi, kneeling down and pressing my thighs against his super-silky and super-dense curls. I rubbed his ears real good and he sat down, plopped right down on the linoleum and bathed in the attention I lavished on him.

"Goddamn! That's a happy dog!" Scampi said. "That's the way Chef Fido's supposed to look. Let's do a take before he changes his mind. Places! Places everybody! This is a take. Camera!"

Everyone froze in their assigned positions.

"Action!" Scampi cried.

Let me tell you, I was walking on air as I strutted through the sliding glass doors at the back of the kitchen set. I let it all hang out. Not lewdly, mind you, but very young, demure, new- at-all-this-sex-stuff but loving every minute of it... the kind of tight, tender thing that would drive a paedophile into a deep coma.

One of the camera men groaned out loud, but Scampi made the "keep rolling" sign and strangled his megaphone, glaring daggers at the offender.

Chef Fido was supposed to be responding to the ultra-high frequency whistle commands of Mr. Clean. I couldn't tell if he really was or not. Everything just seemed to come together. It was like the happy poodle could read my mind.

I walked over to the long, ceramic tile counter, stood on tiptoes to open a high cupboard--while an overhead camera leered down the front of my tiny bikini top--and selected a can of Gourmet Pooch. The label read: "Canard a l'orange aux cerises."

Pausing to smile lovingly at the be-hatted poodle who was sitting calmly and wagging his tail, waiting patiently in front of his cut crystal food dish, I inserted the wide, flat can in the electric can opener and zip! Off with its top! Then I picked up the sterling silver tablespoon from the counter and dipped it into the wonderfully aromatic contents of the tin. The smell actually made my mouth water.