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."
