"Can we, as a country, all
: December 2002: Loaded
has brought a refreshing change to Portland. Not only
has the foliage become more colorful, but so has my
sexuality. I am now in touch with a deeper, sweatier
part of myself. My soul now fondles the giant hairy
package of The Great Bear Spirit.
one of the two Lifetime Members of the Northwest Friends
of Lesbians Social
Club (see "Dyke Like Me!", Exotic July 2002),
my buddy Dave and I hailed the changing season
with a change of our own. In other words, we had a change
of our own to hail the changing season. One thing that
has weathered the seasons is our unwavering desire to
do kind things for people. We care so much, it hurts.
We care way, way too much. We care so much, we want
to blow our fucking heads off. In our past "Live Actions,"
we have opened our musky, tattooed, pheromone-slathered
arms to the most unfortunate of society's undesirables.
sadly, the noble seeds we've sown have only reaped a
Harvest of Grief. This was the case during our recent
First Annual Teach a Dyke to Read Festival. It
all started just as we planned--cupcakes and home movies.
But the night marched steadfastly into an open yawning
pit of Tragedy and Other Bad Shit.
know, it's a funny thing--upon first inspection, your
average bulldyke might seem tame and somewhat respectable.
But get a little liquor in her...or say something that
pisses her off...or make a loud noise that unexpectedly
startles her...and she transforms into a bloodthirsty
she-goat bent upon your humiliation and destruction.
sock puppets, Young Dave was trying to show the dykes
how to act like ladies. He included songs 'n' everything
as part of his presentation. It seemed that the sock
puppets had a bewildering effect upon the lesbians.
Dumbfounded by a talking sock, one carpet-muncher tried
to touch it. Dave recoiled in fear, drawing his hand
back in an instinctually maternal gesturetoward the
imperiled sock puppet.
was then that the lesbian attacked.
ran out of the hall without a scratch. But Poor Young
Dave wasn't so lucky.
lacerations, puncture wounds, bone fractures, and head
trauma will one day heal, but the emotional scars will
linger like the smell of ass in a public restroom.
tried to "understand" and to "get over it," but we were
a mess. After being mauled by those fat, ungrateful,
slobbering, biscuit-munching dykes, we even considered
throwing in the
and abandoning the Northwest Friends
Dave checked into AA meetings.
checked into the Male Survivors of Sex Abuse, where
they're teaching me to"embrace my scars."
a bushel of ups 'n' downs, and a whole bale o' hay's
worth of tears, Dave and I--the core committee of
Northwest Friends of Lesbians--are back and stronger
than ever. Our desire to help others and to heal the
community have reached a fever pitch. We just can't
fucking wait to foment sex-positive social change.
if the lesbians don't want us...then who?
Obviously, the lesbians
don't deserve good friends like Dave and I. In fact,
they deserve to be rounded into small slaughterhouses
where they are chained to walls, fed lentil soup,
and beaten routinely, or something cool like that.
If not the flabby legions
of cabbage-stinking, carpet-munching sows...then WHO
do we help?
The solution came to Dave
and I one morning while we were downloading pornography.
Without much direction in our lives, Dave and I purchase,
view, and utilize a LOT of pornography.
really like that fag porn best of all. We like to
watch it while pulling "boner checks" on each other.
We never fag off or anything like that, if that's
what you were thinking.
stumbled upon a Gay Bears website. Fat, bearded cocksuckers
unashamedly displaying their Tater-Tot-sized wing-a-ding-dings,
bending over and spreading open their pasty pimply
milky buttcheeks to reveal assholes that appear to
have been plowed by oil drills. Lumberjackish gluttons
carpeted by greasy hair.
and I had found our cause. We would be the Willamette
Valley Protectors of the Bears. These fat hairy
homos could count on us if the shit ever went down!
sitting on the toilet reading Exotic, several
striking similarities between bears and lesbians occurred
They both enjoy the comfort and durability of flannel.
They both proudly display their well-groomed facial
They both have their own bars with jukeboxes featuring
dance music catering to their specific lifestyles.
who's normal and not some kind of sick queer has a
healthy, well-reasoned, murderous hatred for bears,
lesbians, and all Sodomites. If they be mocked and
ridiculed, my only wish is that it be more often.
In fact, I encourage and WILL
the parade into their private "Bear Dens" and "Dyke
Huts," and in the good-natured spirit of the Beer
Hall Putsch, I will march them all to camps
where Dave and I will serve as their Reeducation
Tutors, forcing them to watch naked fag wrestling
videotapes for days and possibly months until they
suffer an ultimate mental breakdown and act like
Proper Normal Heterosexual Men and Women of This
Great Nation of Ours.
in the kinda communistic spirit of my much-loved
lesbian costumes for the Great Dyke March of 2002,
I scratched my chin for a moment and then decided
to adopt Gay Bear Fashion sensibilities.
was in rehab...again...so I was forced to wander
into Bear Country alone.
didn't want them to think I was some kind of sissy-bitch
people-eatin' Nancy Boy from Fagtown...rather, I
sought to project the image of a rugged, cocksure,
woman-hating Homo Fireman who KNOWS the evils of
especially when they're on their "monthly time."
I wanted to portray myself as a REAL man, rather
than what I suspect and fear I am.
imagined the wild lifestyle of this Burly Gay Elite:
monster-truck rallies, tall cans of Australian beer,
Lynyrd Skynyrd CDs blasting in the background, and
everybody sucking cock as if those cocks were guns
that would go off the second they stopped being
sucked. The Bear Lifestyle is ideal...and, I daresay,
appealing to me. It's oddly warm and welcoming,
like a Cinnamon Pop Tart you threw in the microwave
for fifteen seconds...I'm talking about a hot, sweet,
sticky feeling...the aromas of pickles and feces
entice me further into the Bear's Den...so put on
your leather jacket, my fat, furry friend, and let's
wander into Bear Country!
it comes to Bear Bars, look no further than the
mighty Eagle (1300 W. Burnside), a meaty
barbecue pit of raw male sensuality that recalls
the taste sensation of Hot Mongolian Chili Oil.
I walk in, the first thing I notice--besides the
faggots--is a menacing, ominous,
sorta-socialistic stuffed eagle hovering behind
the bar, looking straight at me like it wanted
to suck my cock or something.
were round tables everywhere, just brimming with
queers. Every kinda queer you could imagine...leather
fags, drag queens, gay ice-cream salesmen, professional
arm wrestlers, pillow-biters, bondage fags, bony
old fags, and skinny young cocksuckers.
A complete and total Hungarian goulash of Fag-a-Trons.
of course...the bears loomed larger than the other
species of queers. Bigger. Hairier. Smellier. Scarier.
Get me out of here. They're going to rape me. Please
get me out of here. They're definitely going to
to what the bears are "all about," I almost thought
about talking to them. That's what kind of
dedicated journalist and dogged reporter I am. Unfortunately,
as I was dressed rather bearish myself, I decided
not to directly approach the bears, fearing they
might corner me and do something dastardly.
shuddered with the blank, cold realization that
the Eagle's notorious, legendary, really-like-talked-about-a-lot
"upstairs" section...where there is no lighting...no
safety...no boundaries...no grease...loomed over
my frightened scalp. Dare I ascend the stairs? Or
would they somehow know that I was a Poseur Bear?
Would they cradle me in their mighty arms and hoist
me upstairs? Would they undress me with the lights
on, offering candid comments during each stage of
my disrobing? Would they entice me with the fleshy,
hairy megatonnage of the entire bear clan? Would
I feel the mass of bearflesh rubbing on my Joyous
Bits and the occasional painful jab of their reddened,
swollen bear cocks? Beard to beard...belly to
belly...hands exploring and discovering...man touching
man with firm-yet-adequately-moisturized hands...man
touching man as only man can touch man...simple
men simply enjoying the simplicity of manhood's
enjoyment...playfully rubbing the eager-to-please
head of ME, their newfound baby cub...all of us
laying around post-orgasm, enjoying one another's
simple, pungent warmth. Would they accept me? Would
they call me the next morning? Would they hold me
in their strong arms like weak women could never
asked myself these questions...and forty-seven other
questions which I won't recount here...as I watched
television and realized I'd become enchanted with
the Gay Bear lifestyle. I at times find it hard
to choose between what we all know is right
and good...and what I know would feel so
right and would feel so fucking good.
left the Eagle without having spoken to any Bears...without
having attempted to go upstairs and witness possible
Bear Sex in action...but still expecting Exotic
to pay me the full amount for this supposedly
sure wish Dave had been there to shirk some of the
journalistic responsibility with me, too.
a little bear in us all.
that I want a little bear in me.
that I wouldn't mind it.
not that I wouldn't mind not doing it.
it's not like it isn't that I wouldn't enjoy some
huge bear raiding my ass like it was a picnic basket.
think you know what I mean.
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