I gift-wrap it, give it to her on Sunday dinner. She’s over the moon: “Oh honey, you’re such a thoughtful boy!” Fast-forward to yesterday. I pop by to drop off her groceries and she’s sitting in her armchair like a queen, eyes half-closed, this black torpedo-shaped thing buzzing LOUD against the side of her neck.

She goes, “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten. The vibration goes so deep… mmm, right there… I use it every morning and every night. Sometimes twice if my shoulders are tight.” Then she tilts her head and moans — actually moans — “It hits all the right spots.”

I felt my soul leave my body. Because up close I finally see the shape. The realistic veins. The flared base. The little clit-stimulator nub on the side that she’s currently pressing into her trapezius like it’s a goddamn pressure point.

I just stood there, face burning, stomach doing cartwheels, while my brain screamed “THAT’S A RABBIT VIBRATOR, YOU IDIOT.”

She looks up, smiling like an angel: “Want to try it on your neck, sweetie? It’s very powerful.”

I mumbled something about being late for a fake dentist appointment and sprinted out. Haven’t answered her calls since. Every time my phone rings and it’s “Granny ❤️” I get flashbacks of that buzzing sound and her little blissed-out face.

I’m 29. I will never recover. I’m seriously considering changing my name and moving to another continent.