The prettiest gift

It’s amazing how the innocent act of strolling past the lingerie department can send any man—one with even the faintest inner whiff of femininity—into something that closely resembles cardiac arrest.

I can only speak for myself, and my own personal experience, but there exists an undeniable biophysical reality at play here. It would be near-damn impossible for me to believe I am the sole beneficiary of this… gift.

And yes—gift is the right word.

Not one made of material.
Not one that can be held.
In fact, it can’t even be seen—by anyone, including the recipient. In this case, me.

I know this may not be reading clearly yet. Stick around. Keep reading. Help me unwrap it. I think you’ll be surprised—though not shocked—to realize you already possess the very same gift.

I’ve just tied a ribbon on it for you.

You find yourself casually strolling through a department store. No destination. Just wandering—aimlessly. And suddenly, like so many strolls before, you notice you’ve somehow drifted into the women’s department.

Odd, you think. I am not a woman.

Still, you continue. Past the pajamas (yawn). Beyond the business attire (yuck). Then it happens. Your Stephanie senses begin to tingle. Your heart quickens. Your face flushes. Your mind floods with what ifs.

Links in a chain—once tightly shackling your secret—now lie scattered on the floor. No match for the emotional rebellion otherwise known as liberation.

You are exactly where you feel most alive.
Free from expectation.
Shielded from the glaring eyes of the misinformed.

For the next few steps—twelve at most, if you shorten your stride—your inner feminine self is swooned by lace, satin, nylon… and quietly grateful for the gift you finally allowed her to open