Bears, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
MR. BEAR’S BIRTHDAY BASH
INTO THE WOODS
LEATHER-BEAR APPETITES
CIRCULATION CUB
WHITE MEAT
JUSTIN GOLD AND THE THREE BEARS: AN EROTIC FAIRY TALE
LIONS AND TIGERS AND BEARS, OH YEAH!
CONFERENCE CALL
BEAR’S HEAD HALL: A SEMI-GOTHIC ROMANCE
AOOOOO
DIGGER
A GLASS OF COGNAC
BEAR-ASSED
URSINE KNIGHT
MAUL SANTA
SUBSTANTIAL TERMS
WAKING UP BEAR
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For Asa, my unBear. Woof!
INTRODUCTION: BEAR UNLIKE ME
So what makes a man a Bear? What defines a Bear? What is a Bear?
In the Winter 2007/2008 issue of White Crane—the Bear issue, subtitled The Bearable Rightness of Being—Andrew Ramer takes a spiritual tack: “…bears, even bear cubs, are men and not boys, their hair an indicator that they don’t worship at the shrine of Peter Pan or drink from the fountain of youth. Bears indicate possibility, dreamtime, and the journey to maturity and elderhood rather than a fear of them.” So it’s about spirituality and maturity.
Les Wright, in the same issue, reflecting on the men he was drawn to in the Castro in the early eighties, writes of “the ‘natural masculinity’ bears celebrated—hairy, husky, bearded, big-bellied, and other ‘blue-collar’ male characteristics gay men have fetishized as ‘real-man’ manly…. They embraced the flaws of male bodies and embodied (or evinced) a camaraderie…a spirit of erotic democracy.” So it’s about self-acceptance and community.
Jeff Mann—a contributor to this collection, as well as to the Bear issue of White Crane—traces his own self-description of “muscle bear” back to an Appalachian boyhood: “Where we grow up has a lot to do with who we become and what we desire. I grew up in the Mountain South, where there is a discernible masculine look I learned early to lust after.” So it’s about early sexual stirrings.
Frank Jackson, though confessing an enduring attraction to twinks, gets down to the fact that he likes being fucked by real men: “It’s about accepting that sometimes what I want is a man to take me, not a boy to take me by the hand.” So it’s about sex.
Of course it’s about sex. Thus, this collection of stories about bawdy, burly, bellied, bearded Bears.
But being Bear is about more than sex. “Bear” embraces spiritual exploration, celebrates a nonmainstream physical aesthetic, and has built a universe of Bear bars, Bear runs, Bear magazines, the International Bear Rendezvous…a community of Bears and Cubs (younger men), Otters (young, lean, and hairy), and Wolves (older, lean, and hairy), a clan where “Woof!” and “Grrr!” speak volumes.
I look like a Bear: bearded, burly; furry forearms. And bearded, burly, furry fellows have flirted with me for years. I don’t think of myself as Bear, though: my sexual/sensual self-definition doesn’t match my external appearance. My life was certainly eroticized with the emergence of a Bear community a couple of decades ago—who doesn’t like being thought desirable?—and I’ve slept with a full spectrum of types. I guess I don’t have the Bear gene. But the stories in this collection come close to altering my genetic makeup.
Richard Labonté
Bowen Island, British Columbia
MR. BEAR’S BIRTHDAY BASH
Doug Harrison
Abe is a bear, no doubt whatsoever. Even a cloistered nun, stumbling through her anointed copy of Webster’s—a surly, uncouth, shambling person—would become a true believer if exposed to Abe in all his hirsute glory.
Abe is a few inches taller than I am, which puts him at about six feet two or three. His massive frame carries at least eighty pounds more than my own one-sixty. And Abe carries it well. Broad of beam. Solid. Firm ass on massive legs. Arms that can pick up a man without a grunt or groan. I know, I’ve been there, slung over his shoulder like a fifty-pound sack. Abe’s bulk dictates a shamble, rather than the tippy-toed demeanor of a drag queen, or the masterful stride of a thin but packed leather-clad Daddy.
Of course Abe is hairy. Very hairy. Webster’s doesn’t mention that. Coarse black strands cover him from stem to stern. I’ve run my hands over his sculpted pecs and washboard stomach, but I’ve never seen his abs. Too furry. His back and his butt have not escaped the onslaught of sprouting hair follicles, nor have the tops of his hands and feet. A hug from Abe is like wearing a one-sided hair shirt.
Tonight is Abe’s birthday celebration. An important one. His big four-oh. So he picks the location, his favorite San Francisco house of perversion, and invites his male friends, mostly bears, to an S/M potluck play party.
We’re a close-knit group of guys, ranging from stockbrokers to shoe shine boys, from wealthy to penurious, and we share our common proclivity for kinky sex pursued with integrity and joie de vivre on a bimonthly basis.
The guys arrive from eight to nine, mostly in pairs, a few triads, hardly any foursomes—can’t fit four bears, their food and toy bags, into the average car. You haven’t attended a bona fide potluck until you’ve stuffed yourself at a Bear Potluck. I watch these chubs haul in food. Bulging grocery bags. Platters of cold cuts. Fresh home-baked bread. Buckets and pots overflowing with pasta, salad, spaghetti and ravioli. Casseroles galore. Dollies of drinks. And desserts, oh yes, the desserts, too copious to enumerate, not all of which survive both commute and transfer from car to kitchen.
They deposit their chow in the kitchen, change into their party outfits in the cloakroom, and disappear into the basement dungeon. There’s a lot of bantering and shoulder slapping. And some whispered plotting and knowing smirks, all of which halts when Abe arrives, alone. He thanks everyone in sight for showing up, eyes a pile of presents, changes into black leather shorts and boots, and ambles downstairs.
I’m hairy, but my shorn fur wouldn’t budge a balance scale compared to any of my friends’ pelts. However, my boy Shaun is shaggy. He’s short and solid, blond and blue-eyed, with a golden coat on his chest and legs, and curly fleece on his butt. A bear cub, beyond cute. We change into black leather jocks, mine studded and his plain, and lace up our paratrooper boots. I mark him with my locked leather collar before we too clomp downstairs.
On our way, we pass the hot tub. It’s full to overflowing with four bears passing a pipe around their tight circle. I wave, but my gesture doesn’t penetrate their wall of concentrated banter or the swirling blend of steam and smoke. We enter the dungeon, a murky world blushing with diffuse crimson, yellow, and cobalt lights. The aroma of man sweat hangs like a stubborn cloud, unmoving, but throbbing with a feverish disco beat that pulses through our bodies.
The crowded arena sports the usual early evening activities—posturing, negotiating, kissing, spanking, cocksucking, light flogging, and some simple bondage. But no heavy or lengthy nipple piercing, bull whipping, elaborate bondage, or protracted fucking. Abe leans against the far wall, one foot raised, pushing into the swayback partition. A few guys are talking to him. He motions us over.
“Happy birthday, Abe,” I shout.
“Thanks!”
He grabs me in his usual bear hug. Fortunately, my ribs don’t crack, although he tests their elastic limits. His grip slackens and I slither up and down his torso, reveling in the sensation of my erect nipples plowing through his coarse hair. He throws his head back and bellows.
“Once a slut, always the slut, eh, Brad?”
Abe steps around me and looks down at Shaun, who stands with his legs spread, hands locked behind his back and head bowed. Abe puts his paw under Shaun’s chin, lifts his head, and beams a toothy smile at Shaun’s boyish one.
“How’s my favorite cub tonight?”
Shaun shuffles his feet.
Abe chuckles, shoves his hands under Shaun’s armpits, and hoists him to eye level. “And what are you up to tonight?”
“Put me down, please, Sir, and I’ll show you.”
Abe grunts and quickly lowers Shaun, in fact almost drops him. Despite his strength, his upper body quivers from the exertion.
Shaun gleams up at Abe. “Happy birthday!”
“Why thank you, cub…what the hell?”
Abe’s shorts and jock are around his ankles, and Shaun is on his knees. He puts his hands together, spits between them, and grasps Abe’s thick cock. He rubs the shaft with both hands and licks the tip.
“Oh, Jesus, yes boy, yes.” Abe’s cock stiffens. I grin. Shaun inhales the ruddy head. I put my hands on Abe’s shoulders to steady him. Our mouths meet and I receive a wet, sloppy bear kiss, my favorite. Abe’s hips begin to pump, and I toughen my grip—my feet, at least, are planted firmly on the cement floor.
But not for long.
Two guys approach Abe and me from the rear and grab our waists. My jock is tugged and yanked down my legs, forcing them together. A hard dick probes the crevice between my upper legs and buttcheeks. Judging from the sounds coming from Abe, he’s receiving the same treatment.
Shaun reaches for my dick but doesn’t have to coax it into arousal; his familiar tongue performs its magic. I also groan. Our handlers nudge Abe and me closer together, but angled, so Shaun can take both cocks into his mouth.
Which he does.
Well, at least the tips and a few inches of each shaft. Even a well-trained boy’s throat has its anatomical limits. Shaun grasps the base of both cocks with
Our pas de cinq continues as Abe’s partner digs his fingernails into Abe’s nipples, and mine mimics his motions, while Shaun tries to coax simultaneous orgasms from us.
Which he very nearly does.
Our gasping and grunting increase in tempo and volume, an inharmonious duet of two soloists, each lost in his own world of lust.
A semicircle of bears encloses us, some silently encouraging through gestures, some cheering. Shimmering eyes staring from beyond the campfire. The crowd parts for three men, a quorum from the hot tub, Ted, Alvin, and Joe; I wonder why the fourth member of their quartet, Bob, is absent. A fleshy paw rests on my shoulder, another on my partner’s, a third on Abe’s partner.
“Sorry to interrupt fellows, but let’s save the squirts and spurts for later. It’s time for birthday boy’s special activities.” Stunned looks from the four of us, one more when cub’s mouth is empty. We collapse onto the floor. Five water bottles appear and we collectively gulp.
The crowd increases as the bears amble about, waiting. For what, I don’t know.
The ringleader, I think of him as Papa Bear, although his name is Ted, speaks. “Time to move to the cross.”
Our two partners, our invaluable assistants, help Abe and me squirm out of our clothes, and then they meld into the crowd. A spotlit, X-shaped cross, formed from lacquered three-by-six-inch beams, beckons. Bob waits, leaning against the cross, and watches as we form a single line to run the gauntlet: Ted, Abe, Alvin, Joe, cub, and myself.
We cross the space to cheers and clapping. A few hands meander toward Shaun’s ass, but retreat when they notice his collar. Or my glare. As we get closer, Bob moves from the cross, and adjusts his position slightly, as if to block something behind his back; several leather bags, unzipped but closed, rest near his boots.
A large beach towel, colored with bright rainbow stripes, lies before the cross. Strange, I think; not the colors, of course, but the towel’s placement. A small table, its black paint unable to conceal split and chipped wood, contains the usual assemblage of leather cuffs and carabiners. Abe walks to the cross, stares at the towel but says nothing, and holds out his arms.
“Eager, are we?” asks Ted.
“Yeah.”
“A little nervous, too?”
Abe glances at the towel. “Well, yes.”
“Calm down, you’re in good hands. Lots of them.” Ted waves Alvin and Joe over. In a flash they tighten black, fleece-lined leather cuffs about Abe’s wrists and ankles. They slide them up and down a bit and rotate them a few degrees.
“Comfortable?” they ask almost in unison. Abe nods. They snap four small brass padlocks into place. Abe glances at the master key on the table.
“You boys are serious.”
“Damn right,” Ted answers. “What’d you expect? Now, turn around and put your hands up. You know the drill.”
Abe complies.
Alvin and Joe cinch Abe’s cuffs to thick eyebolts with leather straps. Abe looks over his shoulder at Ted. “Not using the carabiners?”
“Don’t want you to move too much. This was your idea… well, some of it, anyway.”
Abe slumps microinches into his bondage. The gallery applauds. Abe turns his head, but can’t peer beyond his spotlit circle. He wiggles his hips. His dick flops into the space below the juncture of the two beams.
Ted looks at Shaun. “Here’s a pair of kneepads, cub. Continue where you left off.” Shaun looks at me; I nod approval, and pat his ass. He grabs the pads, utters a hasty, “Thank you, Sir,” to Ted, and bends over to cinch the pads in place. He scampers around the cross, kneels, and takes Abe’s soft dick in his mouth. Abe throws his head back and gurgles. Shaun’s cheeks expand like a chipmunk’s, and he wraps his hands around the cross for support. His body swings back and forth, his neck the fulcrum of an asymmetrical seesaw as his mouth slides along Abe’s hardening dick.
Ted waits a few minutes while Abe, eyes closed, enjoys his second birthday blow job, again administered by an expert, my boy. The gallery’s silence reflects my pride.
Ted, his left hand lurking behind his back, approaches Abe; he rests his right palm on Abe’s shoulder and whispers, “Time for your spanking.” Abe opens his eyes and shakes his head while Shaun continues his appointed task.
Ted steps forward and addresses the crowd. “There are fifty or so guests. Times forty years, that’s two thousand whacks!”
Hoots and hollers interrupt him, with cries of, “Yeah, go for it!”
Ted holds up his right hand like a traffic cop. “As I was starting to say, gentlemen, we don’t have enough time, so what we lack in quantity, we’ll make up for with power!” He punches his left hand into the air like a victorious politician, and waves a two-foot brown frat paddle. Its polished surface glistens in the bright light. “Let’s hear it for Alpha Pi Omega! Alpha male, our favorite pies, and omega fatty acids!” My ears ring with hoots, whistling, stomping, and raucous laughter. Abe twists his head, but Ted is outside his field of view.
Ted places the paddle across Abe’s butt and leans into it. He reaches around Abe and tousles Shaun’s hair. “Good cub, keep at it,” he urges. Shaun nods as much as he can with his mouth and throat so full.
Ted backs up and leans the paddle against the wall. A chorus of groans. He holds up both hands, a very serious cop, indeed. Silence, except for Shaun’s slurping. Ted cups a hand around his ear and pauses a few moments. He looks at me.
“Brad, our dedicated treasurer and buffed muscle bear, will warm Abe up with a few love pats.”
I’m not expecting this assignment, but nod acceptance and receive a few back slaps as I stumble through the crowd. I look at Shaun and toss my head. He stands, taps Abe’s dick, and backs away from the cross.
“Awww,” Abe moans. His rod bobs back and forth, searching for its benefactor.
I kneel behind Abe and blow on my palms, then rest them on his butt. Silence. I knead the fleshy but tight mounds, careful not to tug any hair. I almost succeed. He squirms, my ministrations morph into light pats, and he progresses to a slow shimmy. I throw more energy into my hands, but quickly pull back from each blow, producing a sharp sting, and Abe’s dance becomes a stationary hop. I stand and turn, so Abe and I are back to back. I swing my hands rearward and upward, slinging my weight into my double reverse slap. Abe bellows. I continue our inverse pas de deux for about five minutes until Abe’s bellows are lost in the shouts of the crowd, and the sweat from his butt and my hands becomes a slimy mixture.
“Genug,” I say, and stop. I flick my index finger against Abe’s ass, walk around, and whisper, “You doing all right?” He nods. Shaun holds a bottle of water to his lips. Abe drinks and lowers his head.
Ted hands me the paddle. I grin.
I hold the paddle up. “Look at me, Abe!” I order. He raises his head and blinks a few times.
“Now you get to see it,” Ted chortles. Abe again lowers his head, and couples the motion with a deep inhalation.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Ted laughs, and vanishes into the shadows.
I decide to employ my favorite stroke, a firm-wristed right backhand. I stand behind Abe, slightly off center, the planes of our bodies perpendicular, and take a few practice swings to get the feel of the paddle and make minor corrections to my location and stance. Satisfied, I give Abe’s butt a few exploratory taps. Good. The paddle lands flush on his cheeks. I put more power into my strokes.
He shakes his shoulders.
Thwap.
His fists clench the straps linking his cuffs to the cross.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Abe pulls himself an inch or two off the floor, and strains to move forward.
I pause till he settles down, close in on him, and smack the paddle against my palm. “Now that we’re warmed up…” I coo.
“Shit, man, go easy on me.”
“Why? You ain’t goin’ nowhere, and I got the paddle.” I smack my palm again.
