Ha, I wish.
For a while now the dreams of big burly bears have overtaken my fantasies. The sunshine dreams of Sebastian Flyte in a sunlit park and liberated Jeanne Moreau running through the crowded streets of Montmartre were exchanged for the strong arms and hard bellies of bears.
As someone who has preferred the more aggressive, don't confuse me for a sadomasochist; the idea of being pinned down by a man with experience and weight behind him has sent me into convulsions of erotic fantasy.
The search for a bear able to find me, a younger, colourful admirer, attractive has been arduous and dispiriting. They have proven themselves to be vain, narcissistic, judgmental and cliquey. A friend – who is also enamoured by the idea of a bear – and I attended bear nightspots across the city only to be scoffed at, dismissed and ignored.
At first we waited to be pursued. Surely being older, bigger and stronger men they would approach, when they found us attractive. They would see two young men smiling and being happy amongst so many hairy chests and want to know why we had attended, why we were happy, why we wanted to know them. I again scoff at this assumption.
So we became the pursuers. Summoning what courage we had we smiled pointedly and said hi only to experience cold shoulders and sarcastic replies. The next technique to play was the game. Pretending to be totally uninterested we acted the nonchalant, which was a lie but gained meagre attention. Staying in a tight group like teenage girls, the use of peripheral vision scoped out the occasional eyes our way.
And there it ended, just eyes, some smiles but that's it. Enter the arrival of an exuberant friend whose personality is comparable to nuclear radiation and some of the bears began to smile a little wider. At one night spot a dreadfully intoxicated bear with a lisp commented on how we – the ‘dancing trio’ – were the talk of the night. Our reply was: don't talk about us, talk to us.
Do bears own balls or are they castrated? Surely they can't be scared by a trio of twenty-somethings dancing and being happy and having fun? Can they?
That same night I proceeded to be followed by an older – not old, just older than me – man around the venue like a puppy dog. Not once did he open his mouth. I acknowledged him and smiled; he did nothing and after half an hour it began to seriously piss me off. The venue had lots of very hot bears, but hearing a cacophony of lisps and a flurry of limp wrists whilst a contradictory show of muscular bravado was being played had me searching for the sick bag. Where have all the men gone?
The search on the World Wide Web had proved fruitless until the reply. Having spread the seed far and wide I got a seedling. A muscle bear who would like to go for a coffee. Apprehensive but excited I organised the meet. Conversation was hard going, with little if any wit, but a softness that disarmed me. Not what I had dreamed of but the second meet would hopefully unveil their inner man.
Ha! A selfish lover, but then proceeding to rock me as a child in big solid arms – nice for some but not for me. Where was the butch strongman who would pin me down and devour my person as the tussle for supremacy ensued? No Oliver Reed in front of an open fire.
Next! And fortunately a new reply. A proper bear – belly, salt 'n' pepper beard and short hair. A wrestler too. Now I was ready to be grappled. Drinking our pints, I caused a raised eyebrow when I suggested that bears must really stop judging. Their conversation was again minimal and uninspiring. This was obviously only going to be sex so back to mine it was.
Amid soft kisses and gentle caressing I felt confused. I hadn't experienced such delicacy since being with women and I was rapidly becoming bored. I tried to spice it up but to no avail. And to make matters worse, another selfish lover. All for them and little for me. The 45-minute cuddling post had me commenting on how female the whole scenario was, they replied it was a bear cuddle, like a teddy. The wrong type of bear, I'm sorry.
My limited experiences with bears have revealed them to be cliquey, queeny, selfish and vain, lacking masculinity and proving themselves to be a bunch of women. I'm after Jeanne Moreau again – now she had balls.
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