Dr. Oz Gets Enamored w/ Maclachlan

Panicked vapor, moist in all the expected places, but heavier than the substance of most dreams: another nightmare about spelunking between feminine mounds. The mounds that used to cast haunting convex busts behind opaque turquoise scrubs and keep Mehmet Oz turning always and ever over on his silk sheets before important practicum exams. O! If only he had known that his hard cock would beget a soul harder than even the 24-hour priapism he attended to in the ER last Thursday.

***

"There's nothing wrong with being attracted to overweight women."

"Doctor. Doctor. I need help."

"I'm telling you, Mehmet, there's absolutely nothing wrong with your proclivities. There are many, many men who prefer full-figured women."

"If the press got a hold of this.. Boy, oh my dear boy! Picture the TMZ headline: Dr. Oz, Closet Chubby Chaser. God lord jeez, the feminist backlash. Hypocrite baked in heresy baked in self-interested health baked in brie. I'm ill, doc. I can't look in the mirror anymore. You're my shrink, Paul, you gotta help me."

"I'm gonna toss a few more milligrams on your Valium 'script. But I'm telling you Mehmy, that's all I can do. You have to learn to accept yourself."

***

That was then. Mehmet stood in front of his mirror, wavering uneasily. He stuck out his tongue and put two Valium pills on the yellowed organ. Unabashed lust for excessive flesh had melted into self-loathing, complete fracturing of self. He was pushing nutrition like his shrink was pushing Valium like the urchin across the street was pushing dope. He was reducing love handles and cellulite and all the things that fed the maw his velvet-lined fantasies. The light now fully out of his eyes and hidden in a refractory beam, Mehmet stumbled to the phone and dialed numbly.

"Susan, I won't be there tonight."

...

"Yes, I know all the guests are lined up. Yes, I know we've been working to get that vegan chef on for 6 months."

...

"Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes."

...

"FUCK IT SUSAN. I'M NOT COMING IN. NOT TONIGHT, NOT TOMORROW, NOT FUCKING FOR EVER, NOT EVEN FOR A RICHARD SIMMONS-MICHELE OBAMA-DEEPAK CHOPRA HYBRID!"

***

Weeks passed and the skies darkened. Mehmet was afraid of the outside world and the cords of contradiction he had tied with himself and his fans and the trees and pop medicine. A routine emerged: online grocers brought comically large tubs of sugar-free ice cream and Mehmet would sit down to watch Sex and the City and desperately try to wank it to the lean bodies of the New York socialites. At 11pm, he would take a few benzos, let the light from his eyes drain , and fall asleep to dream of being cradled between a giantess' pliable mammaries giganti.

Soon, half-way into Season One, his retinal glow no longer vacillated between the off/on position. All light in his pent house grayed and curdled. Mehmet began to dream only in beige and black. From between his lizard-slit eyes, Mehmet watched as Charlotte was trying to cross a bustling Manhattan street in sensible-but-sexy 4-inch heels. He didn't wince as she was knocked over by a rogue cab, though a small stream of saliva dribbled down his lips-askew. The door of the cab opened and-- out walked a priggish man with an alabaster gleam and a forthright stare, eliminating the soft spaces around him, driving away the clutter of plushy adipose apparitions. Here was the antidote to the squish that rivets certain souls, like Mehmet's... the antithesis of feminine non-Eucliedean geometry. Mehmet imagined looking at Trey Macdougal-- Kyle Maclachlan-- from between his lithe thighs, past his jutting hip bones and into his monocle. Surely, he must own a monocle or two, Mehmet thought. Tortoise shell... or perhaps ivory... Mehmet hardened under his duvet cover. He erupted imagining the ambiguously-raced children he and Maclachlan would bear, raise, take shooting...

***

The light was there and something fierce. Mehmet reached to his phone in a series of right-angles.

"Susan?"

...

"Yes, it's Mehmet. I need to call Kyle Maclachlan and set up a meeting for us right away."

...

"I suppose it has been a few months..."

...

"Worried? I don't pay you to worry about me."

...

"Fucking Jesus! No questions, just get me Maclachlan and get him ASAP. And don't call me until you do."