Some like it hairy: A trip to the International bear Rendezvous
SAN FRANCISCO — Joel Plata parades down the runway in a white chef’s uniform, looking like the Spanish incarnation of a certain South Park character. With feigned seductiveness, he removes his coat, revealing a necklace of raw sausage links. Then, BAM! He tears his pants from his body and struts around in nothing but a leather thong and a studded chest harness, spinning his sausage links into a windmill for the jeering crowd.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2008 International Bear Rendezvous, where I am sitting stage left surrounded by a hoard of men who between them have enough hair to braid a bridge to China. It billows above their upper lips. It cascades down their faces to their chests. It blankets their ass cheeks and makes pillows of their shoulders. It tangles with their nose and nipple piercings. Most important, it unites them for one weekend a year to choose the biggest, baddest, hairiest gay dudes in the world. So what is a tiny, timid, hairless lesbian like me doing knotted up in this mess?
It’s one part anthropological exploration, two parts penance. Several months ago, I wrote a column that apparently offended members of the bear community when it referred to them as “big, fat, hairy gay men.” I might have also made a whale reference. Regardless, it was enough to provoke Mr. New England Bear, Dean Bruno, to invite me to follow him to San Francisco in his quest to win the title of Mr. International Bear — and perhaps to change my impressions in the process.
I’ve since learned that bears are simply big, hairy gay men. You can only call them fat if you yourself are fat. I’m like a lesbian snack to these giant beasts as I prance among hundreds of them in the lobby of the Golden Gate Holiday Inn. Catching sight of the occasional kilt does nothing to quell my anxiety. They bark and growl at one another in a unique mating call. When lazy, the bears sometimes pile atop each other, forming hairy mountains on the lobby couches and causing unsuspecting hotel guests to pull away their children.
There’s also some bizarre bear language that I try to decipher, but everyone seems to have his own subjective interpretation. Here’s the gist of it:
Polar bear: an older, white-haired gay man.
Grizzly: the most broadly interpreted bear category. Depending on whom you ask, the grizzly could be big, fat, very hairy, old, powerful, spiritual, or muscular.
Otter: a bear with less hair.
Cub: a young bear.
Ginger bear: a red-haired bear who feeds reporters gingerbread cookies.
Chasers: gay men who pursue bears; might also be referred to as “admirers.” Also, the liquid used to wash down the shots required to endure this event.
Daddy bear: an older bear revered by younger bears. Often used in the sentence, “Who’s your Daddy?” or “Come to Daddy.”
Goldie Locks: me as a blonde, wondering whose bed I’m going to sleep in tonight.
With this year’s theme being “Bears in Uniform,” a girl can get confused. On more than one occasion, I ask for directions from security officers who aren’t real security officers, silly. And how am I supposed to know that the tutu isn’t part of the official San Francisco police uniform? With all the denim and Dickies in the place, you might think you’ve stumbled into filming of America’s Next Top Redneck Trucker, until the chaps are broken out.
In the packed Emerald Ballroom, with its foam handcuffs dangling from the ceiling, the pageant unfolds like most beauty competitions do: with cries of “Take it off!” and “Show us your asshole!” erupting from the rowdy audience. No, no, no, boys. The two hard and fast rules in this race are no sac and no crack.
The contestants enter in orange prison jumpsuits and make their way to the stage as a chain gang. They look like your goateed uncle Roy after his stint for assault and battery, except hairier and slightly more gay. Contestants hail from Boston to Australia. Some have full heads of hair and mustaches, while others are bald with beards. Some opt for leather, while others sport dirty denim. And some, like Mr. East Boston, represent our city by wearing a chainmail top and latex hot pants that wouldn’t fit a toddler. (Even Eastie doesn’t excuse that one, darling.)
After introductions, the Bear Minimum round begins, during which contestants perform sexually leading personal ads that reveal clues about their characters.
The naughty biker bear contestant: “I’m stopped on a deserted road by a big hairy park ranger. Forcefully, he pulls me off the bike and throws me over him. He rips down my riding pants and ... Has. His. Way!”
The chef bear: “A hot bear, ready to offer the finest in homemade sausages. Would you like spicy Italian sausage, Spanish chorizo, or Portuguese linguiça? After you’ve filled your bear appetite, get ready for dessert. Are there any hungry bears out there?”
The dirty landscaper bear, Dean Bruno: “Hairy landscaper looking for other contractors to help pull a job together. I work well with seasoned talent and am always eager to learn traaade. I have the tools. Measuring tape ... not needed.”
Up next is the Cruisewear round, during which scantily clad contestants tell the audience about their community service. Thank God for this or I might’ve chalked up these folks as a bunch of self-indulgent whores. Now I know they’re self-indulgent whores with a cause! Though it’s hard to focus on things like special-needs children and the homeless with all those hairy asses in my face, I discover that the bears raise tens of thousands of dollars for various charities when they gather as a pelted mass. That’s a hell of a lot more than my hair has ever accomplished (minus that chili cook-off back in ’92).
As the winners are announced, I feel a swell of hometown pride as Bruno takes home both the hospitality award and the title of Mr. International Grizzly. (Rub that one in some smug New Yorker’s face the next time he makes fun of our Super Bowl loss.)
As he leaves the stage with his new leather plaque, draped in a leather “Mr. New England Bear” sash and a rainbow ribbon, Bruno finds me in the audience and wrestles me into a bear hug. Then he whispers in my ear: “What the heck is a grizzly?”
Looks like I’m not the only clueless one, after all. @
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer still coughing up the occasional fur ball. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.
[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]
Leave a Comment
(required)
(optional)
(required)
Most popular:
