I am just a blue and yellow can of WD-40, the small, convenient sample size. I have a thin red plastic straw held against me by a rubber band. I love my little red straw, and she is everything to me; her close contact keeps me in a constant state of arousal. I love to feel her smooth, cool surface pressed against my steely body.
Mine is an extraordinarily pleasant existence.
It is a day not unlike any other. I lie in darkness, and the click-clack sound of Celeste's computer keys fills the drawer with its pleasant rhythm.
I listen patiently, and there are muffled voices, of Celeste and her husband, then more typing, and then the phone rings. The voices continue.
But there is something different about this day. I can sense it in the tone, in the electricity in the air. I am alert. I am ready. Something is going to happen.
And all of a sudden, my drawer flies open and I am bathed in light. I am grabbed, with desperate, trembling fingers, and an electric current blasts through me. For an instant, I can see the scene, and Celeste holds my body and stares at my cylindrical form, her eyes full of lust. I know she admires my body, my perfect 4-4-4 figure. Her eyes sparkle and dance.
And I am unceremoniously tossed away.
I roll along the floor, around and around, and finally settle to a stop. And I can not see a thing.
I have been rejected before, but I hold no grudges. I know Celeste needs me. More than anything else, I know she needs her WD-40.
But it sounds like Celeste is having a fine old time. Lots of grunting and cussing and farting.