Bear Pride Report: Prologue

The past three mornings,
morning after morning
self-ornamenting,
the water-lily flower—
this morning it has not opened.
(Tsuchiya Bummei)

Bear Pride Report #1: The OWGAs

1. Terry from WI: I actually met this cutie at the last Bear Night. Or at Gay Pride last year. (I asked him, "Didn't I have my picture taken with you at Pride?" and he replied, "That must've been my cute day. I had my picture taken a lot of times.") In any case, he said he'd be at the Boxer Party at Buck's--and he was. But he barely said "Hi" as he went past and, later, when I came up to him, was distinctly cool. This has happened to me enough times already, I shouldn't be as put out as I'm trying not to be. He doubles as Biggest Disappointment for this year.
2. Bill from WI: Ran into him on the last day at Sidetrack; he asked if I remembered meeting him there last year and I had to say no. I wouldn't've thought I could forget such a cute smile, but somehow I did. I also bungled my come-on: I cruised him hard for a bit, but didn't get much response. He came over, but walked past without stopping. Only minutes later did I realise that he had stopped just behind our table and was waiting for me to speak first; by the time there was an opportunity, he was back at the bar. I eventually got my hands on his very, very furry back, but then he was put off by my nails. Oh, well; some people love me for 'em, some will never sleep with me because of them; in that sense, they're just like every personal trait.
3. Steve from OK: Here, as before, I forgot the first rule of pursuing older bears: They rarely come to you; you have to go to them. You'd think it would be easy to remember, but it contradicts a more basic rule of gay life: It's the less attractive man who speaks first. Fortunately, my new buddy Hector either doesn't know that latter rule or ignores it, since he bounced on up to this big ol' truck driver in coveralls (and not a helluva lot else). Then I strolled nonchalantly by and visions swirled in his head of what he could do with the two of us. (Or so he told me. More than once.) He's a fluffer for IML! How awesome is that? I teased him about becoming a consultant, a freelance Leather Eye for the Vanilla Guy. (More on that later.) When I left, Hector looked well on his way to a damn good time and I hope he had it--mostly because he's a great guy, but also because I wouldn't mind a report.

Past OWGAs in attendence included at least one I've written about, a daddy from OH who just got dumped; the Human Carpet, who seemed to be everywhere; and this guy I sidled up to at the dance last year but never even learned the name of. Will I ever see any of this year's again?

Less profitable
than writing on the waters
of a flowing stream--
such is the futility
of unrequited passion. (Anonymous)

Intermission #1: Irreality intrudes

Sunday night, I had bourbon and dreamt of having sex. Last night, I stuck to gin and dreamt of French postmodern philosophy texts. I had one that was printed on a fruit. I had to eat off about a quarter-inch of fleshy pulp to expose the writing, which wrapped all the way around; it seemed familiar and I thought Didn't I already read this and find it all a load of hooey? It wasn't exactly a nightmare, but, lord, it was no sex dream either!

This morning, one of my co-workers dropped three rush books in Arabic on my desk since I'm the only one who can even fake it. aadroma, do you want to come over and tell me what the hell they say?

Bear Pride Report #2: Nutts to Butts

Sunday afternoon, I tried to nap but sleep wouldn't come, so I dressed and went over to monshu's in order to send off an e-mail to my dad before he left for China. (He should be boarding around now, if he isn't in the air already.) One REALLY FUCKING AWESOME hour later, we ordered in dinner and I sent the e-mail. At that point, we had downpour, but I crossed my fingers and hoped it would blow through.

By the time I hooked up with Hector a little after half-past-nine, it had. We cabbed it to the Metro and--to our surprise--saw a line of bears heading up the block. There's no way it could be this full less than an hour after it started. Or did we have the time wrong? Nope; word came down that the previous all-ages show had run over. There were a lot of teenyboppers milling around where we were in line. (Later, someone related the story of how, last year, two young women had cruised the entire line without getting any response. Finally, they crossed the street, turned, and yelled out "ARE THERE ANY STRAIGHT MEN HERE AT ALL?" The answer was a resounding "NO!" Ha!) We eventually realised the reason was that we were standing right near the trailers for the band.

Which band? That's a good question. Some gangly young studmuffin with a vague resemblance to Ashton Kuchner was getting a lot of attention. "Is that the guy who won American Idol?" one of the men ahead of me asked. Finally, I queried two sixteen year-old tarts. "Oh, the Matches!" I looked around at the bears in earshot but everyone shrugged. "I've got some dj friends I can ask," I said. Once we finally got inside, I saw some t-shirts for Matchbook Romance. So, she was like using the fan nickname with me? Like I totally like know who they are? As I said at the time, once I hit 30, I officially abdicated my responsibility to keep up on any aspect of pop culture. I need only know marginally more than the men I date so I can play interpreter; anything else is gravy.

At first the music was 100% Gay Cliché. "Relax" (so canonical it was used in The Simpsons to telegraph homosexuality) was playing when we came in; then a Madonna song followed by...damn, I can't remember any more, but it was really obvious. Pet Shop Boys-obvious. I didn't care; I danced like a madman. Not with Hector; he apparently doesn't dance and my attempts to teach him (by dragging him to a dark corner and literally tugging on his waistband in time to the beat) failed. At one point, I drifted near twnchicago; at another, near e_ticket and his circle of shutterbugs. But I never really danced with anybody but aadroma. A lot of the people I normally would--drubear, grunter, etc.--either weren't there or weren't on the floor. (When grunter asked how I was, I said "I haven't spent seven hours at Wet 'n' Wild, so I'm feeling pretty fresh." He feigned indignance while replying, "It was only four!")

I'll save the other names for my Namedropping entry. I saw some beautiful men, but I didn't talk to any of them. (Wait, that could be taken the wrong way. I didn't talk to any that I didn't already know. Well, one, but that hardly counts.) Apparently, I missed a golden opportunity when I saw Hector chatting with a gorgeous--and I mean outrageously so--leather daddy that I've had my eye on literally for years and decided not to horn in. The next day, when I asked if they'd gone home together, he told me "No" and added, "He's really nice, though. You should've come over." Conscious of the fact that I'd need my legs for Sidetrack the next day, I decided to be conservative and left before two a.m. It was lovely out and I walked almost half the way home, so deafened I could almost believe I was in a leafy suburb instead of the heart of Wrigleyville.