I got off the bus, tired. I had just finished up a full day of work and essays for my courses. That morning I woke up at 6 a.m. to take a run and finish up some last-minute assignments.

I hadn’t eaten anything but a granola bar and some Rolos the old lady in the office had set out to share.

I walked the two blocks between the bus stop and the apartment I’ve shared with my girlfriend for almost a year, unlocked the door and went inside.

Roxy, my girlfriend, was sitting in a chair, a candle lit on the table beside her, wrapped in a satin robe from Victoria’s Secret. I gave her a kiss and told her that she looked beautiful.

Any other night, I would have dropped my things on the carpet, ripped my clothes off like button-up warm-up pants, picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. But tonight, I just didn’t have it in me. I told her that I would like to get something to eat and relax.

She agreed.

At this, my thoughts stumbled. I thought to myself, why is she cool with that? She’s dressed like this, her hair looks like that and she’s just fine with me eating Taco Bell and falling asleep with my clothes on?

I panicked. Maybe she’s cheating. Oh God, this is it. This is how it ends.

Nearly a year we had been together. We lived together. We adopted a cat. We went halfsies on a toaster oven. Who the hell is going to get the toaster oven?

I forced a smile and made my way to the bedroom to change into my gray, elastic-waist sweatpants, as is custom for a man who’s just been cuckolded by some dude named Brent Oakley who probably rides a longboard and has a recording studio in his basement.

That’s when I saw the vibrator. Sitting there, leaned up against the pillow. It might as well have been smoking a cigarette and wearing my bathrobe.

I felt a little defeated. I walked back into the living room and calmly said, “I didn’t know you had a vibrator.”

She could tell I was concerned, because, truthfully, I was worried about the competition.

Roxy just laughed. She stood up, hugged me, gave me a kiss and said the three most reassuring words I’ve heard from her.

“Are you serious?” she said.

She took me by the hand, led me to bed and the rest is history.

It was then I saw how dumb my moment of self-induced inferiority was. I wasn’t being passed over. I’m the starter. I’m the one there for tipoff and whose number’s called to take the last shot.

But every star has a counterpart — someone to make up for everything when the man of the hour isn’t available.

So to those with girlfriends. Don’t be intimidated by things like that. Relationships are about two people sharing those moments together, and that can’t be duplicated by a toy. It’s too valuable.

I have respect for the little man. He’s my associate. A fine player off the bench. And in the grand scheme of things he’s my teammate. But the fact is, when the light’s bright and the timing’s right, I’m the man of the hour.

Or half-hour or so. Give or take.

Dylan de Wit can be reached at [email protected] or @DylanTdeWit on Twitter.