by Bill Tiepelman
Tear of the Pump: A Moisture Tragedy
The Dry Days The pump had seen better days. Once proud and upright on the bathroom counter, he now sat half-slouched next to a flickering “Sensual Aloe” candle, oozing self-pity and the occasional drop of aloe-infused regret. He wasn’t just any lotion bottle—he was Greg. And Greg had one job: to moisturize. But no one had pumped Greg in weeks. Not since the house’s new skincare obsession arrived—a smug, overpriced jade roller named Jasper who whispered words like “lymphatic drainage” and “de-puffing” in his infuriatingly smooth tone. Greg, once the alpha of the vanity lineup, now sat exiled to the dusty desk near the laptop, where he’d been forced to watch humans fondle cacti on YouTube in weird ASMR videos titled “Moisturize Me: The ASMR Chronicles.” It was cruel. A literal prick tease. Watching bare hands stroke a cactus—dry, spiny, chafing—and not reach for Greg? It was a personal attack. “I could fix you,” he mumbled to the screen, a single tear of unsqueezed lotion sliding down his cheek. “You don’t need that prick. You need me.” On the desk, a motivational book titled “You Deserve Smoothness” mocked him. Greg had once gifted that book to a half-used body butter named Sheila, hoping it would jumpstart her confidence. She ghosted him. Literally rolled under the bed and never came back. Typical. Tissues lay strewn about the scene—some from emotion, some from Greg’s unfortunate habit of spontaneous leakage. It wasn’t his fault; he was sensitive, emotionally and hydraulically. He sighed, audibly. No one heard him, of course. Lotion bottles have no vocal cords. But if they did, Greg’s sigh would’ve sounded like Barry White after a night of bad decisions and cocoa butter. Then it happened. A sound. Footsteps. The soft slap of bare feet across laminate. The human. She was coming. Maybe today was the day. Maybe she’d pick him up again, feel his curves, give him one last pump for old time’s sake. Greg straightened his cap. Tried to look moisturizable. Tensed every ounce of remaining SPF 15 inside his soul. The door opened. She entered. She reached toward him— —then stopped. Her eyes wandered. Her hand hovered, hesitated… then slid past Greg and grabbed… Hand sanitizer. Greg deflated, dramatically. “Seriously?” he muttered. “That basic bitch?” In the distance, the YouTube video looped. The cactus was getting caressed again. And Greg? He just watched… leaking slowly into oblivion. The Rubdown Redemption Greg lay in a puddle of his own despair (and half a pump of aloe), questioning everything. Was it his viscosity? Had he gone too heavy on the shea? Maybe he shouldn’t have added that “tingling menthol” to his formula. People said they liked surprises, but apparently, not when their thighs were involved. “I used to be the whole routine,” he whispered to no one. “Post-shower, pre-date, mid-winter emergency hand relief. That was me.” The candle flickered mockingly, its label—Sensual Aloe—now a cruel inside joke between Greg and the void. Even the tissues had dried up and blown away. Greg was alone. Unused. Unloved. Untouched. Until a miracle arrived. Her name was Becky. The new roommate. She moved in like a chaotic whirlwind of velvet scrunchies, faux-fur slippers, and an almost erotic amount of body glitter. Becky brought moisture energy. She burned incense. She bathed for sport. She had a drawer labeled “Emergency Lubes (All Occasions).” She was, in every way, Greg’s dream user. Greg first saw her during the Great Shelf Reorg of Tuesday Night. She found him while digging for a missing charger. Her hand wrapped around his bottle like destiny itself. Greg swore he heard a choir of tiny, scented angels hum a slow jam. “Oh my god,” Becky said, examining his dusty label. “You’re the good stuff. Why did no one tell me we had an aloe-based emotional support dispenser?” Greg shivered. Or maybe that was just a bubble of air stuck in his pump nozzle. Hard to say. Emotions and physics blurred. That night, he returned to glory. Becky didn’t just use Greg—she used him. Post-shower, mid-TikTok skincare breakdown, even once during a date prep where she declared, “Nobody's getting this peach dry tonight!” and slathered herself head to toe while humming Mariah Carey. Greg had never felt so alive. Every pump was a symphony. Every squeeze, an affirmation of his purpose. He wasn't just lotion—he was foreplay in a bottle. He met the others. The squad. Becky’s holy trinity: a coconut scrub named CocoNutz, a peppermint foot balm called Toe Daddy, and an inexplicably seductive facial mist everyone just referred to as “Mistress Hydration.” Together, they were the Skincare Avengers. And Greg was the comeback kid with a slippery past and a creamy heart of gold. But even in paradise, cracks form. One day, after a long, steamy lather session, Becky brought home a new bottle—sleek, curvy, matte black with gold lettering. The label read: “Midnight Musk: Hydration for the Hedonist.” Greg felt the shift. Midnight Musk was everything he wasn’t. Sultry. Fragrance-forward. Built like a cologne ad with six-pack abs. Greg was more… reliable. Functional. The kind of lotion you introduce to your mom. “Don’t take it personally,” Mistress Hydration whispered. “She likes variety. You’re the one she trusts when she’s sad and watching true crime in bed.” Greg nodded, but deep down, he knew: he had entered the poly-moisture phase of the relationship. Still, he was content. Happy even. He had a place again, a purpose. And on lonely nights when Becky reached for Midnight Musk, Greg would whisper to himself, “She’ll come back. You can’t beat aloe and unconditional love.” As the candle burned lower and the tissues piled high once more (for different reasons now), Greg smiled to himself. He was no longer just a sad little bottle with a pump problem. He was part of something bigger. Something smooth. And he’d never forget the dark, dry days that made the creamy nights all the more satisfying. Somewhere in the background, the ASMR video still played—hands on cactus, whispering, “moisturize me.” But Greg no longer watched. He was living his best life now. One pump at a time. Epilogue: The Last Pump Greg didn’t last forever. No lotion bottle does. One day, after an especially aggressive thigh application following a tragic waxing incident, Becky pressed his pump and… nothing came out. She tried again. Nothing. Not even a pathetic dribble. Greg was empty. She held him for a moment, gently shaking him like a fallen comrade. “Damn,” she whispered. “You were the real one.” She didn’t toss him immediately. No, Greg earned a place on the “empties shelf”—a little shrine above the toilet where Becky displayed her favorite used-up products like war heroes and emotionally significant candles. He sat beside a dead mascara wand named Sir Smudge-a-lot and a bath bomb tin that still smelled like grapefruit orgasms. And there he remained, dry but not forgotten. A quiet legend. A bottle who gave until he could give no more. Who absorbed awkward silences, comforted chapped elbows, and brought lubrication to the parts that needed it most—physically and emotionally. Sometimes, when the bathroom was still and the candlelight flickered just right, you could swear you heard a whisper from that shelf: “You deserve smoothness.” And everyone who heard it… believed it. Take Greg Home (Without the Mess) If Greg’s journey tugged at your dry, cracked heartstrings, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of this moisturizing masterpiece into your own space—with zero chance of leakage. Whether you're building a shrine to emotional hydration or just want your shower curtain to raise questions and eyebrows, we’ve got you covered (literally). 🧺 Tapestry – Dramatic wall vibes, for when you're feeling extra lotionally unstable. 🖼️ Framed Print – Class up your space with highbrow hydration tragedy. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Cuddle up with Greg. He promises not to squirt unexpectedly. 🚿 Shower Curtain – Let your guests question your bathroom priorities. Moisture is temporary. Art is forever. Treat yourself (and your thighs).
