Turn 116 of 228

Ask Dr. Reeves about the results and share that you have feeling amazing lately. Also tell her about your habits to shock her even further. Post about the entire escapade on OnlyFans after the appointment is done

"So I'm healthy," Lena says. The yellow nails rest on the enormous belly. The paper on the exam table is compressed flat beneath her. The exam room is cold and the body is warm and the hum is quiet.

Dr. Reeves looks at the chart again. The pen is still on the desk. The white coat is still crisp. The professional composure has returned — the third expression replaced by something clinical, something trained — but the eyes haven't caught up. The eyes are still doing the second expression, the confusion, the math that doesn't add up.

"You are, by every metric I can measure, healthier than your last visit. Eight months ago you were twenty-four pounds overweight, pre-hypertensive, and your inflammatory markers were elevated. Now you're —" She checks the chart. The number is there. Five hundred and ninety-eight.

"Now your numbers are textbook. Better than textbook." The pen stays on the desk.

"I cannot explain that."

"I feel amazing," Lena says. The words are easy. The belly shifts on the thighs. The matted body hair catches the fluorescent light.

"I've never felt better in my life. I sleep well. I eat well. I work well. My body doesn't hurt. My joints don't hurt. I have more energy than I've ever had."

Dr. Reeves picks the pen up. Puts it down. Picks it up again. The training is fighting something. The training wants to ask about diet, exercise, lifestyle changes. The training knows what the answers should sound like for a 598-pound body. The training knows that 598-pound bodies do not have blood pressure of one-twenty over seventy-eight.

"Tell me about your habits," Dr. Reeves says. The voice is careful. The pen is ready.

Lena leans back. The exam table groans. The paper crinkles. The belly spreads. She tells her everything. She doesn't filter. She doesn't edit. She hasn't filtered or edited anything in months — the body doesn't filter, the wish doesn't filter, the hum doesn't filter. She tells Dr. Reeves that she hasn't showered in months. That she hasn't brushed her teeth. That she hasn't shaved. That she hasn't clipped her nails. She holds up the yellow nails — long, curved, thick — and the toenails click against the metal stirrup. She tells her she doesn't wipe. She tells her she eats whatever she wants — junk food, fast food, cold pizza, donuts, chips, soda, Chinese takeout. She tells her she drinks every night. She tells her she smokes weed every day. She tells her she works naked. She tells her she sleeps naked. She tells her she lives naked. She tells her she has gained 350 pounds in eight months.

The pen is not moving. Dr. Reeves is writing nothing. The clipboard is on her lap and the pen is in her hand and the hand is still. The white coat is still crisp but the face behind it has gone through a fourth expression — something past confusion, past professional composure, past training. The mouth is closed. The eyes are on Lena. The eyes don't leave Lena.

"You should be diabetic," Dr. Reeves says. The voice is quiet.

"You should be hypertensive. You should have severe sleep apnea. Your joints should be failing. Your liver should show signs of fatty liver disease. Your skin should be — with the hygiene you're describing — you should have infections. Cellulitis. Fungal. The inflammation alone —" She stops. The pen touches the clipboard. Nothing is written.

"I know," Lena says. The yellow nails drum the belly. Three taps. The hum is warm.

"I know what it should look like. It doesn't look like that. It looks like this."

The walk home is fifteen minutes barefoot through the February cold. The yellow toenails click on the sidewalk. The belly swings. The body is 598 pounds and the body is comfortable and the body is healthy and the doctor said so and the numbers said so and the hum said so and the hum has never been wrong. The apartment is warm when she gets there. Marcus is on the couch. The screen is flashing. Lena sits at the kitchen table — the table covered in containers and bags and crumbs — and opens the laptop. The OnlyFans page loads. The yellow nails find the keyboard.

She posts everything. The photo first — the exam room, the paper on the table, the belly, the matted hair, the yellow nails, the body that a doctor just called textbook. The caption is short. She types it with the yellow nails clicking the keys.

*Went to my family doctor today. 598 pounds. Haven't showered in months. Haven't brushed my teeth. Haven't shaved. Haven't clipped my nails. Eat whatever I want. Drink every night. Smoke weed every day. Work naked. Live naked. Don't wipe. Don't clean. Gained 350 pounds in eight months.*

*Blood pressure 120/78. Resting heart rate 62. Cholesterol normal. Blood sugar 84. A1C 5.2. Liver normal. Kidneys normal. Thyroid normal. EKG clean. Inflammatory markers lower than last year.*

*The doctor said she can't explain it.*

*I can. The body knows what it wants. I gave it what it wants. The body is comfortable. The body is healthy. The body has never been wrong.*

*More.*

She posts it. The notification goes out. The subscribers see it. The chat will move. The tips will come. The hum is quiet and warm and certain. The body is 598 pounds and the body is healthy and the body is comfortable and the wish has never been wrong.