Ambivalent on His Lap

I'm sitting on his lap.      
His arms wrap around me.        
Warm blankets to fend off the cold.        
Strong, muscular arms guide me into his embrace like a lighthouse does a freight ship to its docks.          
I dock myself firmly against his pecs; he is my lighthouse, I think to myself.          
         
His hands glide down my body.        
Amazonian vines entangling me and evincing memories of someplace safe: someplace like the womb.        
The world is so warm and silent in his arms.        
         
I close my eyes and loosen my shoulders;        
a plea for him to continue.          
His hands slide down to my waist.        
I feel ambivalent like this on his lap.        
         
His stubble grazes the top of my scalp: his facial hair exfoliating my soul.          
His hands slide gently down my sides.        
His arms navigating the nooks and crannies of my midsection;        
he is Magellan, circumnavigating my waist, and I am the seven seas he yearns to explore.        
         
He shifts his hands toward my groin.        
I feel ambivalent like this on his lap.          
I know this is wrong, but I feel powerless in his embrace.        
His hands encroaching on my most delicate parts like a shadow cast down from a skyscraper, blotting out the denizens below.        

His hand, inches away from my pubic bone—I pull back.        
I can see the shock on his face from the corner of my eye melt into a wry smile.          
"Still shy as always," he mocks.          
"I'm sorry," I reply gingerly.        
I turn to face him now, still in his embrace, and say to him, "Dad, this is kind of weird and my friends are coming over soon."