Dr. Phil And The City

He was in New York City. The hotel he chose for the short stay was too elegant for the patrons to notice him. If it wasn't the bald head and the mustache, it was that southern twang which gave him away.

"Oh My god, It's Dr. Phil!"

He had enough of those pesky Midwestern housewives cackling for his autograph. He was the son of a doctor for crying out loud. He had played college football; he was the savviest business man he knew! Still, the world insisted on him being Dr. Phil, the hillbilly doctor with the straight answers wrapped in tough love. He was much more than that. If they only knew about his passion, about his true visit to the city, they would have him committed, if not jailed.

Yesterday, at around noon, he had crouched behind a wall of bushes in Central park, waiting for a jogger to pass buy, one that would match his description. It took a little patience, but the jogger eventually came his way. She was a woman of about 35, slim and pretty, she was running at a good pace, her shirt was damp with sweat, shorts stuck to the tops of her lean thighs, her brown curls tied behind her head; she did not suspect a thing. He waited, waited until the perfect moment and then Snatch! His hand was around her mouth, the other one around her arms and waist, and with very little effort, he pulled her into the bushes.

There was no struggle on her part, as he laid her on the grass and squatted over her stomach. He could see the fear in her eyes, those big green eyes that had so quickly gone from looking at a jogger's path, to grass, dirt and rocks. He put his fingers to her lips.

"Shhh", it's fine, it's all going to be all right." The twang in his voice was noticeable despite the effort of concealment. "All I want is your shoes," He said.

She no longer had a hand covering her mouth, she could scream if not for the shock.

"mm-mm-my shoes?" she asked.

Her heart was beating so loud she thought it would burst from out of her chest. His hands moved from her sweaty legs and down to her ankles. She was not wearing socks.

"OHH, I love stinky feet," he said, shoving his hands into the worn out running shoes.

She lay on the grass, her legs sprawled, while the familiar stranger probed her shoes. She could have easily kicked him on the nose. She was free to run. The stranger, as big as he was, no longer squatted over her. The strong legs she was so proud of had turned to jelly.

"Oh, I bet they are going to be so stinky and sweaty!" he said, eyes glazed with admiration.

He pulled on the laces, desperately attempting to untie them. With deep concentration, he managed to free her feet. He brought the sweaty running shoes up to his nose and sniffed, deeply sniffed in the odor of her stinky feet. She lay there, immobilized at the strange man's actions. He took her feet into his hands and brought them up to his face. He started to sniff them, lick them, and rub them all over his bald head. What could she do? The moist souls of her feet were now slapping the top of his bald head furiously. It did not seem to her as if there was any danger in the situation, it was still light out, and there were other joggers about.

"Oh, they are so wet and smelly," the stranger said, in a daze of ecstasy.

They were not far from the jogger's path, someone would notice them. Surely the strange bald mustached man was aware of this? He began to slap his face with her feet. It seemed as if this man was in heaven. Who was he? He looked so familiar. Then, it occurred to her that she was being attacked, this might be one of those crazy foot fetishists one hears about on the news every now and then, who's only interest was their obsession, but still, he had pulled her into the bushes, frightened her to the point of immobility, covered her mouth with his hands and sniffed her feet like a madman. "Help," She screamed, but the words came out weak and confused.

The stranger continued his deranged ritual, now, sucking on her big toes, not at all phased by her meek attempt at freedom. She remembered her heart, and how fast it was beating, how it was almost leaping from her chest.

"Someone Help!" she screamed again, this time with the intention of being heard.

The bald man shoved her big toe in his mouth, took one last sniff at her running shoes and was off. She was left on the grass, barefoot and distressed, with nothing but a peculiar story, a wet big toe, and a strange feeling that she had seen the madman before. Within less than a minute, a police officer was by her side.

"Dr. "Phil that was a close one," , he said to himself, with an arrogant smirk. . Now, he was in his elegant hotel room, overlooking the park, and all of the shoes entering and exiting, sweaty and stinky. "If they only knew," he said to himself, holding a glass of cheap merlot to his nose, "If they only knew."

The End