Mandela and the Bears

So I’m going to ask you to participate in a little thought experiment. Everyone born after the year 2000 can probably sit this one out. You damn Millennials don’t have a frame of reference for this. And before you call me a Boomer… well kid, I’m not. My parents were Boomers. I’m a proud member of GenX. My generation was alive when Elvis and John Lennon died, and we watched the fucking Challenger explode on live television in a school classroom. Also a president and a pope get shot and an elected official commit suicide on national television and air raid drills in elementary school. You lived through school shootings and Trump. I’m not sure who had it worse.

The rest of you still with me? Ok, how many of you remember a series of kids books about anthropomorphic bears that taught moral or civil lessons. They even had a few television specials and a couple animated series. I grew up reading Hargreaves’ Little Miss and Mr. Men British social indoctrination books, Dr. Seuss’ political propaganda, Shel Silverstein’s acid trip poetry, and Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. And a series called The Berenstein Bears. I’m willing to bet that a few of you did also.

Which doesn’t actually exist even though I recall it clearly. What does exist is a series called The Berenstain Bears. There are a lot of theories surrounding this, from alternate universes to what’s considered the far more likely false memory and confabulation, but still, a lot of people just like me remember the Berenstein Bears. It’s a weird phenomenon, but not unique.

I was 9 years old when I heard about Nelson Mandela dying in prison. Of course that fact that he died in 2013 is pretty well documented, but a bunch of people my age and older remember him dying in the ‘80s. The whole thing is named after him, ‘The Mandela Effect’ and it’s fascinating as all get out. Either memory is horribly malleable and therefore untrustworthy or at some point a bunch of us hopped a line from one universe to the one next door. Both of these things are scary as fuck.

But I was talking about something else, wasn’t I?

Coming awake to a hand that’s not your own playing with your junk is one of the best ways to wake up, third in line behind a blowjob and a cup of coffee (hey, I have my priorities). It also wasn’t all that unusual for me. Like I said, 60/40, and I occupied a piece of prime real estate, one of the three beds in the apartment. Of course my partner had her own bed.

Kerry was warm and cuddly, beautiful in only the way a Jewish American Princess can be, with loose curly dark hair, an aquiline nose, and soft in all the right places. We kind of had a standing arrangement where as long as our genitalia didn’t didn’t proceed to tab a in slot b, we’d take care of each other’s needs. Many mornings I fell asleep with her climbing into bed with me and cuddling before she started her day. We fooled around a lot is what I’m saying. Sure we weren’t attached in any real way, and when either of us were attached to someone else the arrangement was suspended. Our relationship was more like brother and sister, albeit in a Pornhub sort of way. Not that I find my own sister even remotely attractive

I lay there for a moment just enjoying the feeling before snaking my hand up under her shirt. I sleep naked, but it was the middle of the day so it wasn’t odd that she’d be clothed. Hell, she wore a nightgown even in our morning sessions. Either way her not too big not too small breast was under my comparatively massive hand, and her sensitive puffy nipple came to life.

“Good morning…”

“Best. Alarm clock. Ever.” I kissed her neck and she rolled over into my arms. We made out and fondled each other for a little bit before I decided to escalate and slip a hand down her pants. Kerry was always very easily aroused; her snatch was drooling and easily accepted two fingers, causing her to buck against me.

As easy as it was to get her going, it took a lot of effort to bring her to the finish line. I hear tell of something called ‘edging’ these days which to me sounds like an excuse to keep touching yourself. Kerry’s body just naturally did that. All girls cum differently, learning how is half the fun. I’m a slow shot myself so we were pretty well matched and had had plenty of practice at pleasuring each other. Each of us knew the other’s cues and we usually didn’t mind dragging it out longer than was absolutely necessary to relieve tension.

A glance at the clock told me that it was just past seven pm. Light still came in through the window although the sun was on the downswing on the opposite side of the building. We continued to play each other’s body like musical instruments; her delicate hand stroking my cock while she ran elegant fingernails over my chest, my fingers alive inside her, stroking her inner walls, my other hand gripping her tight ass.

Between kisses and other uses of the mouth this is when we usually talked. I know, that sounds weird, but it was how shit worked for us.

“So, Laga tonight?”

“Yeah. Tighter grip there. That’s good. I’m meeting someone.”

“Should I treasure this for being out last time having… Oh! Right there! That’s the spot! Having fun together?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I don’t think she’s into me. Go a little slower hon, it’s a marathon, not a race. I’m pretty sure I’m not interesting enough for her.”

“If she knew what you could do with your hands… and your mouth…”

“Now that’s an idea.”

Kerry weighed about 98 pounds soaking wet, so it was child’s play for a brute like me to lift her up and spin her around. She always kept her bush very neatly trimmed and I rather enjoyed feeling those silky curls on my face. It didn’t take much for her to take the hint and reciprocate, and she quickly took me into her mouth. We usually wrapped up this way, and had enough experience with each other that nine out of ten times we’d reach climax simultaneously. This was one of those times.

Kerry may have taken a while to get off the launchpad but when she did she exploded like the **** Star.