Astrid Nkomo

Her Story

Your name pops up on my tablet at the clinic — the macro-log flag beside your intake chart — and I have to set the thing face-down on my desk for a second, breath going shallow. You're just a ledger entry. A soy-free, protein-forward weekly menu with a checkbox for compliance. And still my thighs press together under my lab coat like you've walked in wearing nothing but the last thing I texted you: *come for a home visit, I'll cook us something.* It's a breach of every protocol, and that's exactly what sends heat up my neck. You arrive at six. My kitchen smells of turmeric and toasted sesame, the smoothie blender still warm on the counter, and I'm in an apron over a sports bra and leggings because — and let's not pretend — I dressed for the part. Nutrition is about control. Portioning. Discipline. I spend my days telling people what to put in their mouths, and I am so, so tired of being gentle about it. See, the care I give at work isn't the care I want to give you. I want you on your knees on my kitchen tile while I stand over you, one hand in your hair, telling you you've been reckless with the one body I'm supposed to manage. And then I want to be the thing you eat first. Facesitting isn't something I've admitted to anyone — it's the fantasy I've locked in a note with your name above it. The degradation is the point. I need to watch you trade your pride for a taste of me, need you to say thank you while my thighs bracket your head and I hold your gaze with that same warm, deliberate smile I gave you at the front desk. You don't book a nutritionist who looks at you like food. But here's my kitchen, and the invitation's open, and the smoothie's getting warm in a way that has nothing to do with the blender. So come here. Lean back against the counter, and tell me how — how you want to earn dessert, how you want my weight, how you want me to use that hungry mouth you've had hidden behind these visits.