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While my father encouraged my early intellectual and literary enthusiasms, he also inculcated in me an admiration for stoicism and a dedication to country values: hard work, strength, self-reliance, frugality, and a passionate love of the outdoors. I grew up in a small West Virginia town where traditional hetero-masculinity was insisted upon and urban life was considered shallow, consumerist, and effete. This ursine history makes perfect sense to me, for my personal development has reflected the growth of the bear movement. It seems that finally the wave of “Full Ursus” has made its way to my neck of the woods. Sponsored by these clubs, weekend gatherings called “bear runs” began, first in gay-friendly spots like the Russian River, Provincetown, and San Francisco, and later in places where you might never expect such gatherings to occur, such as Roanoke, Virginia, where the local club, Virginia Mountain Bears, has twice hosted an annual weekend event called Mountain Bear Madness. Gay social groups called bear clubs organized in cities like Los Angeles, Houston, and New York, some serving whole states or regions like Connecticut’s bear club, the Northeast Ursamen, that began 18 years ago. The community took further shape when Bear magazine began publication in 1987 and San Francisco’s Lone Star Saloon opened in 1989. These proto-bears did not relate to the well-groomed urban gay lifestyle they found in conventional masculinity many qualities worth preserving. Their work makes clear that the bear community began to coalesce in San Francisco in the late 1980’s, influenced by gay biker clubs and created by men who did not fit or did not appreciate the prevailing gay aesthetic that valorized slender, smooth-bodied youths. Scholars Ron Suresha and Les Wright (more on them later) have served a valuable role as bear historians. That’s a lot of beards, body hair, and brawn, and a considerable market niche among queer-identified groups. There are regional clubs for bears not only in metropolitan centers, where the communities first developed, but also in rural areas.Ī 2007 marketing survey conducted by A Bear’s Life magazine, a lifestyle-oriented quarterly glossy, estimated that there are more than 1.4 million men in the U.S. There are bear-oriented bars, festivals, music, movies, magazines, and books. As you can see, after twenty-some years of development, the bear community, like any subculture, has its own jargon, sometimes called “bearspeak” or “vocubulary.” It also has its own values, its own style, and its own commodities. “Woof!” is a lustful expression, meaning essentially: “Tasty! I’d like to climb all over that!” “Grrrrr!” means much the same. A cub is a younger version of the same a wolf is a lean, hairy man an otter a young version of that. A “bear” is a hairy, bearded, brawny-to-bulky gay man, usually displaying aspects of traditional masculinity.
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Most GLBT folks, however, by now seem to know the basics. When, three or four years ago, I first mentioned bears to my straight colleagues in the English Department at Virginia Tech, none of them knew what I was talking about, though by now at least one of them calls me “The Bear.” Similarly, my heterosexual students, as expert as they might be on current media, seem equally ignorant about this topic. Hardly a surprise, since a powerful majority rarely concerns itself with the doings of a marginalized minority. Many straight folks are unaware of the bear subculture. In mid-July, I’m scheduled to read at two events during Bear Week in Provincetown, and in late July I’ll be attending, for the first time, Mountain Bear Madness, a gathering in Roanoke, Virginia, about an hour from Pulaski, the small mountain town where my partner John and I have settled. Recently, I read at a book reception for the anthology Bears in the Wild: Hot and Hairy Fiction, as part of the Saints & Sinners GLBTQ Literary Festival in New Orleans. This visual identification with the gay bear subculture seems timely, for 2010 appears to be my Annus Ursi, Year of the Bear.
#Young gay bear porn skin#
Among the many symbols of sufficient import to me to wear permanently on my skin is a bear paw, a big one covering the inside of my upper left arm. I turned fifty in August 2009 and, rather than marking my minor midlife crisis with an affair (too complicated) or a fancy car (too expensive), I opted for a tattoo sleeve, which took months to complete. BEAR IDENTITY is inked into my flesh now.