Castration in Hibernation
TESTICLES, Surprisingly Fine Dining
*****
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It was fags versus pigs as the limp wrist met the long arm of the law.

The bears were tweaking the bare-ass tweeks.

They were bruising while they were cruising.


John LaBatt apparently wasn't into twat. His beer company was the main sponsor
of the gay pride parade down Yonge Street, Toronto, said to be the longest
street in the world.

The vote was still out on the average length of bear and tweek.

Some said the average hairy monster had less-than-average and often-grissly
gonads. Some said the average tweek was never meek in manhood, the sleek
physique being the antithesis of his penis perfectus.

But why fight about dick size?

What was the reason for this Great Canadian Cock Fight?

In a shell of nuts, the reason is that there are some great Canadian cocks
worth fighting over and onto. Usually this country goes out of its way to be
neutral, but when it comes to dick, they get down and dirty.

Angered in the extreme, they can even go from neutral to neutered.


It all came to a head at Remington's.

Steel-eyed, the bartender topped off the ice-cold LaBatt on tap, but
straightening the frosted mug for the last splash near the brim to give a good
head. For $200 Canadian you can give one of the big-cocked lap dancers some
good head.

But don't tell the steel-eyed bartender.

Or the cops.


If you want to see naked bears, don't go to Remington's. Go to Naked Night at
one of the bear-on-the-menu bars.

Remington's and their customers don't go for the full-body fur-rug look.

The delightful dancers are not all tweeks, but they are always damn sleek. I
can hardly speak.


Naomi went to high school with Donna and Stephany in Scarborough. When they
were in high school, they had cocks. Now they have graduated to tits, but they
still have those nice cocks.

The four of us were in the upstairs bar at Remington's. As Mr. LaBatt's brew
put us at ease, we had an easy view up the ass of each dancer prancing on
stage.

"Nice cock and balls, but he didn't get all the hair off his left ass cheek."

It was fun to critique.

They were professional. They could take it.

And damn, they could give it too. Those back room lap dances at $20 Canadian
got your finger up inside the same view you had earlier while you were just
pointing your finger.


But John LaBatt gave too much.

The proud bears drank too much. And after unshowering for the first four days
of pride week, they stank too much.


Those Canadian cops really know how to royally mount. They always get their
men.

They herded those stinking bears into one of the home-away-from-home homo
spas.

Everyone into the pool.

But then that glorious, invigorating pool had a floating scum of cum. Bear
cum, mixed with bear grease and oil.

Pride week was spoiled.


While the pool was drained and prepped for steam cleaning, the pooped bears
finally needed to hibernate. By police order, the spa rented them rooms at $8
Canadian.

And while they slept it off, the outraged manager decided to take compensation
for his loss. He would take it right off the top by playing his cards off the
bottom.


As the awakened bears kick-started their Harleys, because they had been kicked
out of town, they noticed that the seats were a lot more comfortable.

Had the June sun heat-molded the leather to a perfect fit?

Does a bear shit in the woods?

No, it was John LaBatt's cousin, the spa manager. (Both cousins used to have
their shit packed in the woods).


Christopher LaBatt Pope was proud of his spa. Every non-bear gay place is a
model of cleanliness.

Mr. Pope crept while they slept. The bears thought they were in a sylvan
siesta, a nap in the woods. The scalpel fell, and they didn't hear it.

They didn't even feel it. John LaBatt's brew has that anaesthesizing effect.


And the bear balls were not all that bad.

Now they had to be marinated for like a week in WD-40 to de-grease the damn
things, but once prepped at The Keg near Cartlon at College, they were quite
delightful.

With a lot of Merlot, down they go.


And what bear will ever miss his balls? Hell, they're so damn fat they haven't
even been able to see them for the last 20 years.


Classy Bitch runs from bears. She lives in fear, but a fear that is a might
erotic, that someday a bear will be able to read. He might find this and her
other stories on eunuch.org -- but the Classy Bitch would snarl and bark, and
chase him up a tree. A Maple tree.

  

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