A picture of a happy polar bear after a night getting his globes warmed in the sling at the Black Eagle. If only it was this easy to save the polar bear, I would provide slings for the entire Arctic but no one is listening to me. YET! Good night.
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5 comments:
Like children, polar bears are only cute when they are sleeping.
or when they're playing
That is pretty cute!
Dearest Buddy,
How lovely it is to see you and hear from you again. Oh, how I've missed your perky missives. You're my only social outlet at a time when slings and ice caps are desperately shrinking here in the far north...nothing could be worse.
Being hoisted into the sling at the Black Eagle is equal only to the ecstasty I feel each time I waddle (my form of foreplay) through the bar on a Friday or Saturday night knowing all the gathered Cubs, Chubs, Chasers and Otters can't wait for the chance to "have a go at me" or as they say, make love to me in the sling.
Well, at least that's what they tell me. "It's making love, BiPolar, they say, not simply a quick dip in the crisco". I have to belive them, Buddy. I'm one of the few BiPolars I know. Life is hard. There are choices to be made.
The Black Eagle makes me moist, Buddy. And you know I'm into water sports. What other choice do I have but to stay moist while I see my forebearers and siblings suffer so, in the watery remains of the Arctic Ice.
I'm surprised to see the snapshot you captured of me resting after a night of phisting in the sling at the Black Eagle. You've outed me Buddy. All of my friends with benefits now know I'm Bi and working the scene. Some have abandoned me, others call me a Bi-Polar Whore! The Black Eagle IS a male-only bar, afterall. My Polar parents no longer want anything to do with me. They worry for my siblings and claim I set a bad example for the young Cubs who may follow my lead.
I have always tried to protect myself from gossip and STD's. I try to set a good example, Buddy. Now, thanks to you, every bear knows I'm a Bear Bottom. They now know why I venture into the heart of key Urban Cities. I carry a wack of dental dams in my waist pouch for those extreme moments, of course. I always have. It seems to work for the Lesbians.
To the curious onlookers, I tell them my dental dams are philo pastry wraps yet to be rolled. So far it's worked. Until you published my photo, Buddy.
You can see from my picture I've been rejected to lay out my days in dry dock and on dry rock. Momma and Papa Bear have been very blunt with me. They have said they are saving whatever amount of Ice surface remains for themselves to float on and for my siblings. They have no time for a BiPolar in their midst. They claim I'm no longer worthy of even the smallest piece of ice to cool out my ever so steamy and worked-over lobes.
When I tried to deny I am Bi, but they were quick to point out the Black Eagle does not allow females (I use the term, loosely, Buddy). My argument that I am as straight as, say, Yogi or BooBoo, has taken a turn for the worse. It's dead in the water. I'm totally exposed.
The rush of goodness I feel in my lobes at the very sight of the number of anxious horny furry Bears, Chubs, Chasers and Otters waiting for a "go" at me is undeniable. I can no longer conceal my zest for being a BiPolar. So many at the Black Eagle are only too eager to get into my love lobes, Buddy.
Life used to be so simple, you know. The odd sea bass or salmon or lake trout was all I needed to survive. Now at the first wiff of Moose Meat, I melt quicker than an ice cube in boiling hot water.
To walk into the bar and see so many standing in such a long line ready to help themselves to my ever widening gap, is beyond my wildest dreams. They claim they want to help save my population. I'm not sure what that means. But that's what they say.
My testostorone meds had me so down and tired, I said to them, ok Bears, here's the bottom line. Bring me your good, your bad and since I'll be tripping anyway, your ugly.
Life is very hard with this BiPoplar's extreme Ups and Downs. Now when I go down, I really go down hard. Often I'm drooling in a pool of saliva (at least I think it's saliva) from every open pore of my being.
I'm now well trained to know the Black Eagle bar doesn't get playful until after the liqour serving hours have past.
I always still get there early, usually around noon, to reserve my peronal place in the only sling at the bar. I'm usually beside myself until almost midnight. Those damn shadows.
Once you've tasted the love bite, you always want for more. I'm literally wet under my furry arms in anticpipation for the opportunity to meet other BiPolars. It's such a miserable disorder to suffer alone. I've seen Bear Nights advertised here in the local area, but had no idea they meant it literally until I spotted your blog.
I've often thought to myself of the surprise and delight the other BiPolars would receive from this BiPolar's velvetty, albeit bumpy, well hung tongue. If only one of them would show some interest in a simple licking or an LTR, i'd be happy. Until then, my thunderous thighs are open for business.
So here I lie at Dawn's early light, motionless and exhausted from the previous night. Head stuck to a rock like fresh cotton from a new sock, left longing for days, weeks and nights I can let'r rip again at the Black Eagle Bar. Many thanks, Buddy.
Well Bipolar aren't we a wordy bear. I haven't heard such a diatribe from a member of the ursine family since Richard Hatch begged me to let him join the family here at ewe. Don't worry. I said no. Don't worry about being outed here as a lesbian bipolar. Most bears I know are lesbians or at least act like it. You sound like a real man even if you are a woman. Thats' the whole point of ewe. Welcome. Pull up a berg and remember that 9/10ths of it is invisible the next time you feel obliged to use ten words when one will do. This is not a rebuke even though I have a feeling you'd love it. Buddy Cole
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