7. Ani
Ani
T he pink silicone penis is still on the bed.
It’s not alone. There are two ring-shaped devices I don’t understand, a bullet-shaped thing in pale lavender, a wand with an oddly flexible head, and what appears to be a handful of travel-sized lube packets in a little pouch.
Each box is glossy and slightly ridiculous, printed with soft fonts and confident promises.
Who does this?
Who buys a stranger a full set of sex toys?
Then again, who blurts out that they’re a virgin who’s never had an orgasm to a man they literally just met?
We’re a match made in hell.
It feels like some kind of horror version of a rom-com. Except instead of a misunderstanding and a grand romantic gesture, I got a plastic sack of pleasure products and the mounting certainty that I’ll never be able to make eye contact with Finn again.
He didn’t even seem embarrassed. Just grinned and dropped the whole thing like he was delivering groceries. Should I be horrified or touched?
Maybe both?
I’ve never owned anything like this. I’ve never even considered owning anything close to this.
My mother would faint. My aunts would start lighting candles.
The kind of woman who explored things like this was the kind of woman we prayed for.
Quietly and from a safe distance. Just in case her sins were contagious.
If they knew I had these… oh, boy. I’d be marched to confession, then therapy, then confession again. Maybe even some kind of special camp for “women like me.” And yet…
There’s one toy I keep going back to.
It’s smaller than the others. The label reads: Clitoral Suction Stimulator—discreet, body-safe, beginner-friendly.
Beginner—that’s definitely me.
I’m not just new to this—I’m blank, completely untouched. I know what goes where, obviously. I took health class. I’ve even watched a few videos, though never without an extreme amount of guilt and shame.
I know the mechanics. But knowledge isn't the same thing as permission. And I was raised on rules. I’ve always known what I wasn’t allowed to do. I just never stopped long enough to consider what I actually want. Or maybe I did, and just buried the wanting so deep I forgot it was mine.
My fingers hover over the box. Then pull back.
I shake out my hands. It’s something I do when I feel myself locking up. Then I count to five as I breathe in, and back to five as I breathe out. My hand still trembles a little when I finally reach forward and slide it closer.
The instructions are printed on a small fold-out card tucked beneath the molded insert.
The directions are clear and printed in multiple languages.
I read them three times before I touch anything.
The device itself is smooth, shaped to fit in the palm of my hand.
There’s a single button at the base. I press it carefully.
The hum startles me so much that I almost drop it.
I turn it off immediately and set it down with exaggerated care.
This is ridiculous.
I’m a full-grown woman. Most twenty-six-year-olds have had multiple partners. This shouldn't be such a mystery. It shouldn’t feel so embarrassing.
It’s not wrong to want to know what this feels like.
I was taught to wait, but no one ever explained what I was waiting for. Only that wanting was something to be ashamed of—something to hide, not explore.
But I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to live the life they planned for me; I want to live for myself.
And maybe that starts here.
I press the button again.
The device hums quietly. There’s a faint pull where the opening flares, a rhythm that seems absurd at first—like a mechanical heartbeat. I turn it off again.
I should clean it first. The instructions on that were clear: warm water, mild soap, circular motions, dry thoroughly.
I carry it into the bathroom after making sure there was no one in the hallway. I follow the steps one at a time. When I’m done, I dry it with the hand towel and bring it back into the bedroom.
Before getting back into bed, I lock the door and turn the knob to make sure the lock works.
I sit at the edge of the bed for a while, the device resting beside me.
Okay, I can do this.
I take off my sweats and panties because that seems like the right thing to do, and slip under the blanket. The mattress shifts beneath me, and every sound feels too loud. Do they know what I’m doing in here? God, I hope not.
The light through the curtains has dimmed a little, casting soft shadows along the walls.
I try to remember everything the instructions said. How to angle it. Where to hold. What not to expect right away. Maybe I should read through the instructions again, just one more time. But, instead, I screw up my courage and press the button again. That low vibration returns.
I hesitate, then shift slightly and let it settle against me.
The first touch doesn’t do much for me. It feels like it’s in the wrong place.
Too high. Too far left. I adjust, pausing between each attempt to breathe.
My hand starts to cramp from holding so still.
I move again. Slightly lower. A little toward the center.
There. I feel something.
It’s faint—barely anything at first. A tiny pulse that pulls at something deeper. My thighs tense. Not out of pain. Not even pleasure yet. Just...awareness? Anticipation? A part of me I didn’t know how to listen to, suddenly making itself known.
I hold steady, but the angle’s still wrong. I tilt the device, adjust again, this time slower. The hum changes pitch slightly. The suction tightens. A heavy breath slips past my lips.
Heat prickles low in my stomach.
The sensation builds in small increments, climbing with every shift. I don’t want to lose it. It feels fragile, like a thread I’m not sure how to hold onto.
Then something clicks.
I find the right spot. My body stiffens before I can stop it. I gasp and immediately worry someone may have heard me.
I press harder. Then the rhythm catches, and I forget how to think.
My hips twitch forward. My heels dig into the mattress. I can’t hold still, but I don’t want to move either. Every small adjustment increases the sensation. I don’t stop. I can’t.
It comes on like a wave with no end. One moment I’m holding it together, the next I’m somewhere else. Everything sharpens. Then blurs. Pressure builds and breaks, and when it does, I have to keep myself from crying out.
I don’t know how long it lasts.
I only know that when it’s over, I’m gripping the sheets and shaking.
I fumble to shut it off. My legs tremble as I drop the device beneath the blanket, keeping it shielded from view.
I cover my eyes with my hands, then drop them to the mattress, fingers splayed wide. My skin tingles all over.
That was…I still can’t quite believe it happened.
Everything inside me feels loose. Melted. Rearranged.
I shift my weight, still breathing hard, and stare at the ceiling.
I should be embarrassed.
I am embarrassed.
But there’s something else there too. Something new. It feels like a rush of heat and confusion, and I can’t tell if it’s power or panic.
The blanket is twisted around my waist. My shirt’s tucked up on one side, my hair sticking to the back of my neck.
What was I thinking?
Everything about this is too much. The toys. The man who bought them for me. The way my body reacted so quickly, like it was just waiting for me to open a door I didn’t know I had the key to. I feel exposed.
I sit up and curl forward, tugging the blanket across my lap. The sheets are wrinkled. The covers are pulled tight in places where my legs had twisted. I smooth them out with one hand, though it does nothing to steady the hum still echoing in my body.
This isn’t how I was raised. This isn’t what I’m supposed to do.
Good girls wait. Good girls don’t touch. Good girls don’t want.
That voice has been in my head for as long as I can remember.
I lie back again, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I want to disappear. Or sleep. Or rewind to a version of myself who never said anything on that porch and never opened that box.
Except, deep down, I don’t.
And that might be worse.
I roll onto my side, fists curled beneath my chin. The room feels different now. Warmer and too quiet. I don’t want anyone to knock.
I just want stillness. I also want the spinning in my head to stop.
My eyes burn but I don’t cry. I just breathe and let the weight of everything I did settle into the space around me. I remind myself that it’s okay to want these things.
Eventually, my muscles relax. My thoughts slow. I close my eyes, because keeping them open is harder now. Finally, I fall asleep.