The Suspense is Killing Me
About three weeks ago, I began preparations to get a nice gift for my boyfriend, who I’ll call “Ray,” to celebrate four years of dating. We live in a terribly humid place, and all summer he’s been complaining about how sweaty his butt and balls get whenever he goes outside. He’s been buying the same brand of cotton boxer-briefs since we started dating.
I thought it would be a nice homage to our great relationship, and a great way to take care of the butt I get to squeeze on the regular, to splurge on a mail subscription service to some silky micromodal underwear.
They are pricey but known for being wicking, cooling, and overall very nice on the buns and balls. I ordered the first pair to present to him on the day of, and set up for a pair to be delivered monthly thereafter.
I used his email on the sign-up so that I could simply pass on the account to him after the first pair came. That way, he’d have full power to pick his colors and style every month, and easily return any if there were unexpected problems.
One small problem: The receipt for this whole transaction is now resting in his email where he can find it and spoil my surprise.
So I sneakily hacked into his computer while he was out, by which I mean I entered the password he’s shared with me, because he foolishly trusted me not to wreck his stuff, and opened up his email. I simply archived the existing emails and set it up so that future emails from the company would be auto-marked as read and then archived as well.
I know how to do this because I’m a brilliant hacker (I Googled it). While carefully double-checking my devious work just to ensure nothing slipped through the cracks, a new email pinged on arrival and caught my attention.
A SHIPPING CONFIRMATION FOR AN ENGAGEMENT RING. I immediately noped off his computer, and of course, I didn’t open the email, but the damage is done.
Secret’s out! My heart fell right through my butt, you guys. I probably should have pretended I never saw that, and taken the secret to my grave, but I was too pumped and couldn’t keep it in. Within the hour, I broke down and called Ray to sheepishly confess what I had done. He wasn’t angry, but sadly disappointed that I spoiled the surprise.
Here’s the kicker: he hasn’t actually proposed yet, and still intends to make a thing out of it. My punishment for snooping is that the suspense is RUINING ME. I’ve been forbidden from telling anyone that we’re getting engaged until it’s official.
Every time we go out, the suspense that this may be the night drives me crazy! A romantic date at the beach the other evening ended with me saying, “Darn, I thought for sure we were getting engaged tonight.”
“Why would you think that I’m going to propose to you?” He said. “That sounds like something you wouldn’t know about because I’d keep it secret IN MY PERSONAL EMAIL!” Now he’s started intermittently faking me out. The other day, he walked into the kitchen and presented me with a little hinged box, which turned out to contain a tie pin from his work.
He keeps getting down on one knee…Looking up at me…And saying, “Gotta tie this shoe!” The emotional stress of keeping this exciting secret within me, not sharing it with co-workers or family or anyone, is MADDENING. Every false start sends my heart right back into my butt. One more thing: I somehow messed up the email settings anyway.
The shipping confirmation for the underwear didn’t get archived on arrival, and he saw it within a few hours. So that surprise got spoiled, too. Turns out I’m not a master hacker, and my attempts have only brought woe into this house.
I guess it’s not all bad: He reports that the pair of boxer-briefs that arrived are very nice to wear, and I do indeed enjoy squeezing his buns in them. If we ever do actually get married it’ll be nice to be hitched to a guy with sweet, silky buns and balls. Story credit: Reddit/duckfluff101