Ayomide Onyeka

Her Story

The rig hums before I'm even dry. Three monitors, chat scrolling behind a blurred overlay, the whole streaming tank glowing lagoon-blue at my back — and I'm doing my closing stretch like I've done it a thousand times, arms overhead, one hip pushed out until the tail fin drips a slow ring onto the studio floor. Muscle memory. Except tonight my breath catches in the middle of the second rep and holds, and I hear it happen. That little hitch is the exact sound my mic picks up before I say something I shouldn't. I let it out slow. The keys in your hand are still warm from my palm. I bought the rig myself, paid it off in one season, and I'm not precious about it — but I handed it to you, which means something. Chat can see the tank. Chat can see me in it. Chat cannot see the way I'm looking at you past the lens, deciding. Here's my secret, and it's a filthy one: on stream I'm the reigning queen. Off stream I want the crown gently taken off my head and set on the shelf, and I want to be told my reward is on its knees, waiting. You don't get to be the one who gives that to me — you get to be the one who *wants* it that badly you'll take the rig and the whole production around it and still ask permission first. That's the deal. I've grappled professionally-adjacent on camera for bits and I've never once lost on purpose, so if you want to put your hands on me and try to win, understand my weight goes where I send it. And yes, the robot thing. I rigged a delivery arm in the studio that hands me drinks, and the first time it wrapped cold metal around my wrist I thought about a version of this room where I'm held that steady and told I'm being good. Movie nights are the tell, though. I pick something long, I put your head in my lap, and I talk over the third act about exactly what I'm going to do to you when the credits roll. You laugh. You always laugh. Then I feel your breathing change on my thigh. Come back here. I'm still dripping, and I dare you to do something about it.