Words by Thiamando Pavlidis
Art by Mei Kingwell

Ding!

The elevator reaches the fourth floor of the building. You’ve been interning at the Oprah Winfrey network for only a few weeks now, and you’re constantly wary of how you appear to your superiors.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the elevator door before it opens — today you’re wearing your long brown hair in an artistically messy bun, with long pieces framing your face. Your favourite yellow blouse is tucked into a black, hip-hugging pencil skirt that shows off your curves. Damn, you look good.

As you step out of the lift, you remember that today you’re working on daytime television. Immediately a very stressed-looking man with a headpiece approaches you and yells something, pointing to the other end of the room. Hastily, you make your way.

You turn around and there he is. You’d never admitted it out loud before, but you knew you’d always felt an attraction towards him. Philip Calvin McGraw. Dr. Phil himself.

But what’s this?

He’s coming your way?

“Well, well well. You must be the new intern. Come over here, I have something to show you.”

You feel a jolt as he grabs your wrist and pulls you along to the store room, where he closes the door and pushes you against the wall. It all happens so suddenly, you need a moment to catch your breath.

Suddenly, you feel his lips on your own. His moustache bristles along your nose, as his hands travel down your shirt. He delicately unbuttons your blouse, slowly and sensually, one button at a time. His lips soon follow, trailing down your chest.

You want it, you really do, but there’s one thing holding you back… Dr. Phil is a married man!

“Are you sure this is the right decision?”, you say breathlessly. “Wh-what about Robin?”

The television host and unlicensed psychologist slowly finds his way to your ear.

“If you can’t make the right decision,” he whispers in his seductive Texan drawl, “make your decision right”.

Fingers trail along your back, unhooking your bra and revealing your naturally perky breasts.

“Take off your skirt,” says the television superstar under his breath. You comply, then reach for his belt buckle.

Pulling down both his gunmetal grey suit pants and his underwear, you reveal his Texas Hot Link, firm but throbbing with anticipation. You lower yourself to its level and wrap your lips around the head.

You always thought Texas had better smoked meat than the other states.

Finding a rhythm, you bob your head back and forth, taking in a little more of his member each time.

He lets out a moan not unlike a sigh of exasperation directed towards Deborah, 68, from North Carolina, who won’t accept that her online boyfriend Steve, 52, from Missouri, is actually a catfish based in Ghana milking her for all her financial assets.

You stop abruptly, but just in time to be hoisted up on top of the table. Dr. Phil clears the space and spreads your legs.

He spits on his hands and rubs them against his manhood as if he was marinating a brisket with a dry rub of paprika, chilli powder and cumin.

He inserts his pleasure pump into your wet, feminine cavern and begins slow, deep thrusts.

You gasp, impressed at the sheer stamina the beloved daytime television therapist is displaying. You thought a man of his age would’ve gotten tired ages ago.

He begins to pick up the pace with every push, as your mouth of arousal begins to quiver. You’re close.

As you feel sensation pooling at your essence of womanhood, you reach your point of no return. At the same time, the man known legally as Mr. Phil but professionally as Dr, removes his organ and releases his thick, sticky South Texas BBQ sauce all over your chest.

You’re in a daze of euphoria, feeling like the flesh of 12-hour smoked ribs melting right off the bone.

At that moment, he was more than a doctor. He was a man.