K.D. Lang Bear

K.D. Lang Bear didn't get sick of dick, but he got sick of men. I mean bears. He got sick of bears. So he did that lesbian thing that many bears do in middle age. They stop. They stop all bear activities. No more bear bars. No more bear retreats in the woods. No more scouting for cubs or bigger bears who can wrap their arms around them and still have miles of arms to spare. They take up a decent lesbian activity like television. Or tennis. Or television tennis. Or ikebana. Sometimes they write a book about an admiral or a water plant. They visit countries where the admiral visited or where the water plant migrated. They have failed at being a bear. But they have, to their credit, become a successful lesbian. And if you think one is better than the other, you are a terrible Snob and should be beaten about the head with your silly double dong. K.D. Lang bear rediscovered the purity of childhood at the heart of chastity. And he did it without cutting off his penis. Like the Heaven's Gate people did. Which is an even greater feat. K.D. Lang Bear didn't let himself go. He still appreciated things like cold green beans in a pot from last night, eaten one at a time with a fork. K.D. Lang Bear would practice zazen sitting in the middle of his kitchen. In the middle of the night. Bearsex was like an orchid that denied it was a pussy even though you could clearly see the clitoris. That clitoris like an elevator button. And the mad impatience of bears when they're waiting for the elevator to come. Push. Push. Push.