There are things that embarrass me more precisely because they don’t seem sexual.
This is one of them.
Because if someone found my browsing history, my thoughts, or the hundreds of strange associations I’ve built around this image, they probably wouldn’t understand any of it.
Neither do I.
Sometimes I think it would be easier to explain an extreme fantasy.
At least that would have an obvious logic.
But how do you explain that one of the things that has occupied the most space in your mind for years is simply imagining yourself sitting in someone’s lap?
It sounds ridiculous.
And that’s exactly why it’s so difficult to talk about.
I remember that at first it wasn’t even arousing.
It was just interesting.
I’d see an image, a scene in a movie, an illustration, something similar, and part of it would stay with me.
I didn’t know what.
It just kept returning.
Like a song you don’t particularly like but somehow can’t get out of your head.
For a long time I thought I was exaggerating.
That it was a passing curiosity.
That it would disappear.
But it didn’t.
It started changing.
And that was worse.
Because it stopped being just an image.
It became a feeling.
The feeling that someone is making room for you.
The feeling that for a few minutes you don’t have to decide where you’re supposed to be.
The feeling that your body belongs exactly where it is.
And the harder I tried to ignore it, the stranger it became.
Eventually I started looking for similar scenes deliberately.
Not because I was looking for arousal exactly.
Or at least that’s what I told myself.
I convinced myself I was researching.
That it was curiosity.
That I was trying to understand why it mattered so much.
But if I’m completely honest, I think I already knew the answer.
I just didn’t like it.
Because there was something childish about it.
Something vulnerable.
Something that clashed with the adult image I had of myself.
And yet I kept looking.
Kept reading.
Kept watching.
Kept paying attention.
The most embarrassing part is that it was never the whole scene.
It was absurdly specific details.
The way someone adjusts themselves before sitting down.
The way they stop carrying part of their own weight.
The automatic trust with which they occupy that space.
The complete absence of hesitation.
Those were the things I noticed.
And afterward I’d ask myself why the hell I noticed things like that.
There are nights when I still catch myself thinking about it.
Not as a specific fantasy.
More like an unresolved question.
Because part of me still associates that image with something very close to peace.
And another part still feels embarrassed every time it admits that.
Maybe because for years I’ve been used to being the one carrying the weight.
The one deciding.
The one paying attention.
The one calculating.
And there is something strangely dangerous about imagining the opposite.
Not because someone is forcing me.
Not because I lose control.
But because for a few minutes the idea of not carrying everything feels like too much relief.
Too attractive.
Too necessary.
And that’s where the discomfort begins.
Because I start wondering how much of this is really about a lap.
And how much of it is about exhaustion.
How much is fantasy.
And how much is need.
I still don’t know.
The only thing I know is that I keep returning to the same image.
And the more I try to explain it, the less simple it becomes.
My neck I am not moving it…
