Into the Would(s)

Into the woods—you have to grope, but
that’s the way you learn to cope. Into the
woods to find there’s hope, of getting
through the journey.

—Stephen Sondheim

“Gurrrl, Frank and I are going camping near San Francisco in a few weeks. You should come!” said my friend Pui. “It’s a gay camping weekend, plus there’s a big dance. It’ll be fun! Come!”

As a boy, forced to join the Boy Scouts—which involved not only weekend camping trips, but also lengthy stints at summer camp—once I reached adulthood, camping was something I’d avoided like the plague. Akin to Eva Gabor from Green Acres, I too adored a penthouse view as opposed to nature.

But by 40, too many years of city life had worn me down—reviving a vague appreciation for a more tranquil version of wildlife. So while Pui promoted the attributes of the excursion, I thought to myself, hummm … camping? We'd be driving in a luxury car; it was entirely gay boys and I’d be with friends who addressed me as “girl.” How rough could it get? Thus, I decided to forgo my childhood
disdain and attend.

In the weeks preceding the “camp-out,” while gathering the necessary items (sleeping bag, tent etc.) from my more outdoorsy friends, by coincidence, while rifling through a local thrift store, I stumbled upon a Cub Scout neckerchief. This will be funny, not to mention the perfect accessory for a dance in the woods, I thought and bought it. Said event (formerly known as Sundance) arrived quickly, and before I knew it we were pulling our overstuffed Mercedes into the campground parking lot.

In the midst of unpacking the car, I was quick to realize our dwelling at the campground would be humble in comparison to most of the other campers. Ornate tents, massive sofas and daybeds, elaborate stereo equipment---it was the Boy Scouts I’d fantasized about as a child. While we settled in, the Northern California sun washing through the massive trees, the landscape was quickly overshadowed by a cacophony of gay anthems blaring a new brand of nature, not to mention camping. Then came nightfall and eventually bedtime. As I zipped myself in, the pitch-darkness soon became marked by animal sounds—some familiar (the rubbing of “sticks” to make “fire”)—and some not.

The next afternoon, the woods filled with animal magnetism, we hiked off to the dance. While I innocently twirled about the dance floor in nothing more than my Cub Scout kerchief and a pair of cargo shorts slung dangerously low, the oddest thing began to happen: between spins and gyrations, with each new song introduced, I kept getting trapped in the paws of various men. One after another, immense, hairy men kept appearing, eager and ready to…ummm…“fill” my dance card.

“What’s with all the big, hairy guys coming at me today?” I asked Pui, between songs and sips of beer.

“I don’t know gurrrl, but you sure are popular!” he replied, before disappearing back into the forest of bopping men.

Midway through another anthem, a voice from behind propositioned, “Hey little cub…are you lookin’ for a bear today?”

A scratchy thicket of damp body hair pressing against my back followed the question, then a tug on my kerchief.

When I twirled around, I was faced with a feeling akin, I suspect, to Goldilocks. Twice my size, papa-bear-man looked as if he wanted to eat me up. And I suspect, in a matter of speaking, that was his intention. But to be fair to papa-bear, he was handsome. His eyes, a crystal, husky dog blue; his skin, a luminescent porcelain, further accentuating the abundant amount of jet hair that covered the exposed regions of his burly body, and a comfortable way about his smile—which helped to minimize his size. Although his method wasn’t the romantic approach I was accustomed to, the whole cub-bear-woods situation held a certain uncomplicatedness that was refreshing.

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But once I’d finally understood my allure—although my intentions were based in a more fashionable, cheeky place—I got the joke. Sadly, only I got the joke. Thus, unless two people are laughing, it’s really not funny. So we danced for a bit, and I gave him my neckerchief as a consolation prize for my misleading, albeit fashionable flag.

Just on the other side of 40, that was my introduction into the world of bears and my finale to camping.

Fast forward further into middle age, a place where I’ve watched several of my sprite little fashion friends become heavier, hairier bears. So I suppose, in a matter of
speaking, camping with bears has once again become part of my life. And said transformation, has of late, had me scrutinizing the gay-middle-aged-clan-of-the-cave-bear. Thus, while out the other night, one situation in particular trapped me, filling my head with questions.

The porthole lighting that flanked the wall above the dance floor made me feel as if I were on a cruise. (Which I suppose I was) But, unlike what’s usually photographed dancing on the decks of gay cruises, this was a clan of heavy, hairy—if I had to categorize them—bears, dancing as if they were actually on a cruise. As I looked on from the “observation deck,” an old Sylvester song came on, evoking the largest man in the clan to freely pull his shirt off. If I had to estimate, I’d say he was probably 250 pounds. His friends hooted and hollered as he freely twirled—his stern and bow causing a rocky uproar.

While I took swigs of my beer, my stomach sore from too many sit-ups earlier (in preparation for my cruise) it got me wondering: Instead of cruising in stereotypical scrutiny, had they’d opted for the woods instead—allowing them to roam freely, truly embracing wildlife? And maybe it was I, caged in conformity, pandering to a particular category? Then I thought, if they can bear all,then maybe, so would I. So … I went into the would(s), I consulted one of my bear buddies.

“Would the bear community accept me since I’m not very hairy and lean toward the slender side?” I asked my friend Pete over a cheeseburger lunch one day.

“Well, I think pretty much everyone is welcome” he began. “But what a bear used to mean and what’s it’s evolved into … well, people have used it as a box to feel safe, a community where they’re not judged by their appearance. I like to call it the dumping ground. For me, I like it because it attracts the regular Joe. But there’s a whole bear code. You should check it out.”

Thus I went even further into the would(s). But instead of feeling free, I got trapped in a long list of categories, for which to “bear all.” According to the very specific breakdown, apparently I’m a B2/f-/t0/w0/c0/d/g /k0/s-/m/e+/r0 ... I think. Thus, I’m still stuck in my trap in the would(s) and wondering:

Are some men becoming bears when middle age leaves them camping without the provisions of youth— because it’s easier than following the rigorous requirements of our body-obsessed gay culture? And are the woods friendlier or just filled with a different type of trap? Bears—trapped or trail blazers?