Bear Hunting

Chapter 1: Bear Blog, March 28 Where are all the gay bears hiding in this city? And what length do I have to stretch to find one? Tell me, because I want to know. Let me rant, if you will. I go to the Rocoll Museum over the weekend in search of bears. The museum is busy in downtown Templeton because the weather is nice. Spring is here early along Lake Erie. Pennsylvania is lush with green and fresh smelling. There is no more snow. The sun is out. The wind is light and comfortable against my face. Bustling comes to mind, without all the Christmas s**t and snow. Bears like museums, right? Well, smart, savvy, and artistic ones do? Mostly right-brainers, I’m sure. I’m on the prowl for a masculine, aggressive, hairy thug with biceps the size of Smart cars and wavy abs like a professional wrestler’s. I prefer blue-eyed ones over brown, but I’ll take what I can get, because I’m horny and want some d**k. Truth is I just want to be pawed and clawed, and that means I want to be thrown on a bed, or over a sofa, have my jeans and T-shirt ripped off with a bear’s teeth, and listen to him growl as he enjoys some rocking s*x with me. It’s mating season for bears, right? Yes, it is. Don’t even think of convincing me otherwise. I find out that the Rocoll Museum is filled with uppity, well-dressed twinks with narrow and tight asses more than bears. Flannel isn’t anywhere to be seen. Beards and massive male frames aren’t present. Accountant-like queers or paper pushing queens are present, which disturbs me. I’m the only bear in the place, to speak honestly. A cub more than a bear, but whatever. Skinny male bitches with clean-shaven faces hit on me, and want me. Sam, a librarian. Mike, an insurance salesman. Philip, a lawyer. Theo, a pianist. None of the white collar men know what I’m in the mood for—a guy with a hairy chest, a beard, a massive splay of back, and a giant (uncut or cut, it really doesn’t matter to me) d**k. I push the skinny bitches away. Out of my way. Go away. Be gone. And I want to hang a sign around my neck that says No Trespassing and wear it when bears aren’t within my vicinity. So where are all the bears in Templeton? At Cliffy’s Cafe? At The Bear’s Den? At My Independently Owned Bookstore? At The Whiskey Bar? At the YMCA? At the Templeton Zoo? Tell me, because I want to know. —Toby Cartwright * * * * He takes a break from clicking the keys on his laptop, rubs his chin, and thinks, Did I forget anything? Did I ramble too much? Toby thinks his headshot on the website needs updated. He has longer brown hair in the picture and now it’s short. Plus he has narrow sideburns now that he didn’t have when the pic was taken. His eyes are a dark foggy blue, which never change. He’s a handsome twenty-one year old on the screen in front of him, but now he’s twenty-four and runs his own blogging business, which is paying his bills. The picture definitely needs updating, not that he has changed much. He reads his work again, recognizes his rant as somewhat flavorful with some spice, and decides to upload the piece to his blog, which is called Bear Blog. The upload takes a minute. No biggie. He looks at the time and sees that it’s almost midnight. He yawns, decides to skip a shower, and heads to bed, dreaming of a chateaux in Aspen filled with bear models and three New York City photographers.