Everyone has a reason to keep a slave. I’m kept as one by Master. He calls me a towel.
Please let me explain.
My parents were Scandinavian, but they moved to the US before they gave birth to me. Scandinavians are famously hairy (or so I think, since my dad was quite the fuzzball), hence why my body hair was the target of teasing for many years in high school. I tried to hide it by wearing long sleeves and changing quickly for gym, but that didn’t work, obviously.
This shame didn’t last long, fortunately. Behind people’s backs, I’d read through magazines and I’d be amazed at how many people lust for hairy bodies.
When I got into college, I decided to embrace the bearishness and sport a (very thin, compared to now) beard, I pretty much had the hair of someone more than double my age back then. My dorm mate noticed, and word quickly spread about me being a bear. To this day, I’m still nicknamed a bear by my friends, though it’s more a term of affection, and not of ridicule or for categorization.
Do Vikings hunt bears? If so, I hope my ancestors don’t try to kill me. Either meaning of “bear” applies, wink wink.