Harvey Buttplug

Harvey Buttplug  sat alone on the park bench, dejected.  A lone tear streaked down his face as he contemplated cruel fate.  He hadn't asked to be a butt plug, he didn't choose to be born this way.

Harvey wasn't even completely sure what people had against his kind anyway.  He sneers, the way other toys crossed the street when they neared, the muffled laughter he knew was about him.  He tried to rise above it all, was kind to all he met, overly so even.

There was a small group that did accept Harvey and his kind, but they were few, and even they would never admit it to their friends.  Harvey was always kept in the bottom drawer, way in the back, usually put in a box for a curling iron or some other device. 

Harvey tried not to be ashamed of what he was he knew he provided a service,  one his users appreciated, as ashamed of it as they were.  He was clean, against all butt plug stereotypes, and appreciated music and art.  But none of that mattered.  To the world, Harvey was his profession, and would forever be nothing more, nothing less. 

A pair of vibrators walked quickly by, whispering and laughing to themselves.  After they passed a fleshlight across the path caught Harvey's eye, giving him a rueful, knowing smile.