Don't get me wrong, I'm not squeamish about sex toys. (OK, maybe a little when they're big, anatomically correct and have names like "Hot Rod," "Butch" and "Randy.") I'd simply never gotten around to shopping for one. And if I had, I wouldn't have bought one that looks like an oversize lipstick from Walgreens. But that's just me.

So here I am with this humming hunk of hot-pink love given by a husband eager to help me reach new heights of sexual ecstasy. Being a good sport, I gave it a go. But the toy and I weren't a good match. Yes, the girlie color was a turnoff, but so was the overall effect. It looked cheap, tacky, unreliable. When I used it, I felt like I was starring in a low-budget porn flick where most of the action takes place on a faded rose-print couch with a seascape hanging crookedly above it. And the variable speed control was a joke. The best way to lower the speed, I discovered, was to turn it on and let it vibrate on the nightstand for a while until the batteries went low. Clearly my frugal husband had rejected the deluxe models in favor of an inexpensive "starter" dildo. Or, most likely, he dug it out of the sale bin.

It didn't take long for the pink plaything to wind up in the back of my nightstand drawer. Because it was a gift -- given with the sweetest of intentions -- I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. And giving it to a friend seemed inappropriate somehow. So the dildo lived quietly in the back of my drawer for a couple of years, until one November night.

We came home to discover our front door had been pried open with a crowbar. We immediately ran next door to call the police, who cautioned us not to go inside until they showed up and secured the scene. Two cops arrived within minutes -- a no-nonsense woman about my age (mid-30s) and a balding older man who resembled my father-in-law.

Private Life Romance, relationships, and the personal side of Table Talk