Often times when I feel alone and sad, I think about a fantasy of mine. This fantasy involves a girl that I’m not sure is real or just made up in my head but she’s older than me by a few years, curvy beyond all expectations, a Japanese beauty, and the most caring and compassionate motherly type out there. In my dreams, she loves holding my head against her breasts and whispering “It’s alright, mommy loves you.”
Despite what it sounds like, I find it more of a desperate form of comfort from a neglectful childhood than some sort of fetish. Her soft, sweet voice makes my heart flutter as she pats my head and kisses my forehead.

I thoroughly enjoy this fantasy, yet I can’t help but feel disgusted with myself for liking this. I wish I could just be normal but my emotional scars have left this ugly mess that refuses to heal despite how much time has passed.