I’ve never told anyone this before. Not my friends —not even Chioma, who practically knows everything about me. It feels like one of those things you’re supposed to keep to yourself, you know? Admitting it out loud would make people look at me differently.

 

The thing is, I can’t watch those films. The ones my friends giggle about during girls’ night, the ones they recommend in hushed tones with that knowing look in their eyes. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But every single time, something happens to me that I don’t quite understand.

 

It started in my second year at university, and even now. I remember then, my roommate was watching something on her laptop, earphones in, and I caught a glimpse of the screen. She noticed me looking and laughed, asking if I wanted to watch together. I said no too quickly, and she teased me about making shakara for the rest of the week.

But it wasn’t about being prudish or forming innocence. It was something else entirely.

 

The few times I attempted to watch, my body would react in ways I couldn’t control. My heart would race. My skin would prickle with heat. And then this overwhelming sensation would wash over me, like every touch on that screen was happening to me directly, not in my imagination, but in my actual body. The male character would trail his fingers down the woman’s arm, and I would feel phantom touches on my own skin. A kiss on her neck, and mine would tingle unbearably.

 

It was too much. Too intense. Too real.

 

I would sit there, frozen, my body responding to scenes playing out before me while my mind scrambled to make sense of it. The discomfort wasn’t shame exactly. It was more like standing too close to a fire, the heat becoming unbearable, the need to step back becoming urgent.

 

I always wondered if this was normal. If other women felt this way and never mentioned it. In Nigeria, we don’t really discuss these things openly. Even among friends, there’s only so much you can say before it becomes “too much information.” So I kept quiet, carrying this strange secret, half-convinced something was wrong with me.

 

I never googled it. Never tried to find answers online. Part of me was afraid of what I might discover. What if it had a name? What if it meant something clinical, something broken?

 

But lately, I’ve been thinking about it differently.

 

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe I’m just someone who can’t experience intimacy secondhand. Maybe my body and mind refuse to be spectators, insisting instead on being participants.

 

I realised I don’t want to watch someone else’s story. I want to live my own.

 

And maybe that’s okay.

 

Maybe some of us are built for living, not observing. Maybe my body’s intense reactions weren’t a flaw but a compass, pointing me toward authenticity. Toward presence.

 

I still haven’t told anyone. But now, when my friend asks why I always decline their erotic movie recommendations, I just smile and say, “It’s not my thing.” And she shrugs, accepting it without question.

 

Because it truly isn’t my thing.

 

And I’m finally learning that’s perfectly fine.

 

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