The Gift That Scared Me

They say people change every day. It’s such a gradual shift that you don’t notice it happening, but if you were to look back a decade, you’d barely recognize the person you once were.

I know I wouldn’t.

In fact, I’m not even the same person I was two years ago. Two years ago, I was married. I never questioned anything, never wondered if the life I was living was really mine or just a script someone else handed me. I thought I was happy—or at least, I convinced myself I was.

Back then, I worked as an accountant for a small company where no one ever remembered my birthday or even bothered to ask how my weekend was. After work, I’d clean the house, cook dinner, and then lose myself in front of the TV for hours, watching characters with lives so much more vibrant and exciting than my own. My husband would be in the next room, glued to sports highlights, yelling at the screen, or, more often than not, snoring on the couch.

It wasn’t a bad life. It just wasn’t... living.

So, what happened, you might ask?

Well, it all started two years ago, with a woman named Stacy Wills. Stacy had just moved to my tiny town and somehow ended up with a desk next to mine at work. We were about the same age, but that’s where the similarities ended. Stacy was bold, confident, and unapologetically herself—everything I wasn’t. I couldn’t understand why someone like her would bother trying to befriend someone like me, but she didn’t seem to notice the distance I tried to put between us.

She was persistent, though. And in her own odd, infectious way, Stacy started chipping away at the walls I’d built around myself.

Then, one day, during a casual conversation, I let it slip that my birthday was coming up in a week. Stacy’s face lit up, and she immediately asked if I had any plans or if my husband was doing anything special for me. I shook my head, almost embarrassed. My birthdays were always the same: come home, order takeout, and watch a movie—usually alone, since my husband never cared much for celebrations.

Stacy looked genuinely horrified when I told her this. Before I could even protest, she was already planning a night out for my birthday.

“We’re going drinking,” she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. “A real bar in the city. Not one of those dives.”

I remember nodding, unsure what I was agreeing to. The only bar I’d ever set foot in was the dingy one my husband frequented, where the floors were sticky, and the jukebox never worked. But this place? It was nothing like that.

It was sleek and buzzing with energy, the kind of bar you see in movies. The music was loud but exhilarating, the seats plush and inviting, and in one corner stood a mechanical bull—a guaranteed source of both entertainment and humiliation. Naturally, Stacy decided to give it a try, and to everyone’s surprise, she was actually pretty good at it.

That night felt like a glimpse into a different world, one I hadn’t realized existed.

But then came the real surprise. We were sitting at a table, about to do another shot—probably my third of the night and the fifth of my entire life—when Stacy suddenly pulled out a tiny cupcake from the bar and started singing “Happy Birthday.”

I wanted to crawl under the table from embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop smiling. It had been years since anyone had done something so thoughtful for me, and despite the flush creeping up my cheeks, I savored every moment of it.

Then, as if the cupcake weren’t enough, Stacy reached into her oversized bag and pulled out a gift bag, sliding it across the table with a mischievous grin.

“This is one of the best ones out there,” she said, her tone full of playful pride.

I hadn’t received a gift in years, and the sight of that bag made me feel like a kid on Christmas morning. My hands trembled slightly as I opened it, pulling back the tissue paper to reveal… well, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking at.

I reached into the bag to pull it out for a better look, but Stacy stopped me, her hand darting forward to halt mine.

“What? Don’t pull it out here!” she whispered, half-laughing, half-horrified. “At least wait until you get home.”

I nodded, smiling awkwardly, and pushed the bag to the side. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until later that night, when I got home, that I finally decided to see what was inside.

I pulled the item out of the bag and froze. There in my hand was a sleek toy that vibrated, sucked, and—judging by the flashy buttons on the side—probably did a few other “nifty” things I wasn’t ready to think about. My reaction was instant and visceral: I dropped it like it was burning hot, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

What was I supposed to do with something so… taboo? The thought of it alone felt scandalous, like it might somehow condemn me if I dared to linger on it too long.

After a moment of stunned hesitation, I hurriedly scooped it off the floor and shoved it back into the bag, cramming the whole thing into a drawer where my husband wouldn’t find it. I told myself I’d throw it away in the morning, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was a gift, after all, and Stacy had gone out of her way to make my birthday special. Tossing it felt wrong, somehow.

The truth was, I didn’t think of myself as a sexual person—at least, not until that moment. I’d only ever been with one other person before my husband, and that was, frankly, disappointing. As for my marriage, we only had sex once or twice a month, and even then, it felt more like a chore than anything else. Masturbation? That was something I thought only happened in movies and TV shows, a plot device to make life seem more interesting—like cars exploding when they go over cliffs.

I didn’t realize it yet, but that gift was about to change everything.

It was about a month later when curiosity finally got the better of me. Almost every night, I’d gone to bed with the toy lingering in the back of my mind. At first, it was just idle curiosity—wondering what it actually felt like in my hands. Not in use, of course, just… the toy itself. Then I started wondering about the features it boasted on the box. How strong was the vibration? What exactly did the “sucking” function feel like? In my head, I half-expected it to have the same raw power as my husband’s garage vacuum. That thought alone was enough to scare me.

It was a cold night, and my husband had fallen asleep in front of the TV again, snoring loud enough to rattle the windows. I was curled up in bed, book in hand, trying to stay warm, but I couldn’t focus on the words no matter how hard I tried.

Eventually, I gave in.

I slipped out of bed, tiptoeing into the living room to check on my husband. His snores confirmed he was out cold. Satisfied, I crept back to the bedroom and stood in front of the nightstand for a moment, staring at the drawer where I’d hidden it away like some forbidden artifact.

With a deep breath, I opened the drawer and pulled out the box. My hands trembled as I held it, half from the cold, half from nerves.

I climbed into bed and pulled the covers entirely over me, creating a little cocoon-like I was camping out in a secret tent. With my book light still on, I carefully began opening the box.

As I pulled the toy from its packaging, I marveled at how smooth it felt against my skin. The surface was firm but velvety, a surprising contradiction that intrigued me even more. My fingers brushed over the small opening where the “suction” was supposed to happen, and a shiver of curiosity ran through me. I was dying to turn it on, but for some reason, I savored the slowness of my movements, the way each moment heightened the anticipation.

My mind began to race. I thought about running it across my body, about the way it might feel, about… kissing it. The thought should’ve embarrassed me, but I was too lost in the moment to care. There was something thrilling about holding it, about letting my imagination run wild without restraint.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, I pressed one of the buttons. A soft, rhythmic vibration came to life in my hand, catching me completely off guard. I jumped a little, a startled laugh escaping my lips. I hadn’t expected it to turn on at all—surely, the battery would’ve been dead after sitting in the box for so long.

But there it was, humming gently in my hand, a promise of something completely unfamiliar.

I pressed another button, and the suction kicked on. Curious, I placed my finger over the small opening, feeling the gentle pull it produced. It was soft and delicate, almost soothing—not at all the intimidating force I’d imagined. It didn’t seem strong enough to do much, but then again, what did I know? At the very least, it wasn’t the terrifying garage vacuum scenario my mind had conjured.

I began experimenting with the settings, cycling through them one by one. Each click brought something new—different rhythms, intensities, and pulses. When I turned up the vibration, the strength of it startled me, a deep hum resonating through my hand. I couldn’t help but be captivated by the sheer power of it, marveling at how something so small could feel so commanding.

The room was cold, the thermostat set at a modest sixty-five degrees, but I felt warm—almost feverish. Somewhere between my curiosity and my growing comfort, I began peeling away layers of clothing. At first, I told myself it was just to cool off, but before I knew it, I was down to a cropped shirt and panties, my skin tingling in the chilly air yet radiating heat from within

I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, the toy now off and tucked away in my nightstand drawer to charge. For a brief moment, clarity struck, and I stopped myself before going any further. Shame crept in like an unwelcome guest, settling heavily in my chest. What was I doing? Why was I so caught up over a toy?

I had a husband just down the hall, someone I could turn to for this… so why was this thing dominating my thoughts? I tossed and turned, trying to will myself to sleep, but the questions lingered, twisting in my mind. Frustration welled up until I could no longer ignore the pull.

Eventually, I gave in.

I opened the drawer, my hands trembling slightly as I grabbed the toy. Setting it to the lowest setting, I began running it across my skin. The vibrations were soft and steady, like a gentle massage melting away the tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. Starting at my neck, I let it ease the tightness there, the soothing sensation quieting my racing thoughts.

Before I knew it, the toy had traveled to my chest, the hum against my skin awakening something deeper. My breath hitched, and as I let the sensation guide me, I found myself giving in completely.

What happened next defied words. The euphoria that followed was unlike anything I had ever known. My body felt like it was unraveling and coming together all at once. I bit down on my bottom lip so hard I drew blood, muffling a scream into my pillow as wave after wave of pleasure consumed me—not once, not twice, but again and again.

When it was finally over, I lay in bed, my body hypersensitive to every little sensation—the brush of the sheets, the cool air on my skin. I thought I had experienced an orgasm before, but after that night, I realized I had no idea what one truly felt like until now.

After that night, something changed. I wanted more—I needed more. The pleasure was addictive, and soon, my little toy became a regular part of my life. A week later, when my husband and I had sex, I found myself lying under him, staring at the ceiling, and wondering why it didn’t feel the way I craved.

It wasn’t his equipment—that wasn’t the issue at all. He was more than adequately equipped. The problem was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Determined to figure it out, I started researching ways to make our love life more exciting.

That rabbit hole turned into a months-long journey of discovery. I learned things that piqued my curiosity, things that made me blush, and things that outright terrified me. Some ideas stuck with me, but others were immediately filed under "not for me."

I was nervous about sharing my thoughts with my husband, especially about the toy and some of the things I wanted to try. But eventually, I found the courage to bring it up. To my surprise, he was open to it—at least, to some of it. Over the next few months, we explored new things together, and I started to notice something about him. And, I think, he started to notice it about himself.

He really seemed to enjoy watching other men.

Almost a year later, we were getting a divorce. It wasn’t a messy split—quite the opposite. My husband came out as gay, and we both agreed it was best to go our separate ways. I was devastated, but only on the inside. Outwardly, I kept it together.

I blamed myself at first. I thought that if I hadn’t started using the toy, we might still be married. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. The toy didn’t make him gay—it just brought things to light we’d both been avoiding. And, okay, I’ll admit, I regret not trying to convince him to have a threesome with a guy we might both like. Unfortunately, that ship has sailed.

It’s incredible how one little thing can set off a chain reaction of events.

Fortunately, I’m telling you this from a much better place, a year later.

 I decided to stop wallowing and find someone who could give my favorite toy a run for its money. So, I dove back into the dating world—and, let me just say, OMG, sex can be amazing!

I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but I did go through a bit of a “wild phase.” I dated a lot, had fun, and fully embraced life. My plan was to enjoy myself for a couple of years before settling down, but then something unexpected happened.

I met someone who made the whole world stop.

I fell in love, hard. I tried to play it cool, but it was obvious to everyone around me. And, according to Stacy, he was even more in love with me, which felt too good to be true. But just the other night, while we were out celebrating my birthday, he popped the question. It was a shock.

That’s my story and of course, I said yes. I mean, I did promise this would end on a good note.

Oh, and for this birthday? Stacy upgraded me to the 2.0 version of my favorite toy. Some things never change.