I Want to Be Where the Bears Are

Writer Randal Mason shares his experience of discovering the bear community and examines what it is that keeps him here.

It was 9:45 a.m. when the thump-thump-thump of dance music started. I groaned, suddenly questioning the wisdom of reserving a poolside room. But the DJ dropping the beats motivated my partner and me to get up and head down to the International Bear Convergence (IBC) festivities. After all, you don’t travel to Palm Springs to hibernate.

This was a California bear event, which means pool time is required. There’s always a pool, which quickly transforms into bear soup as enough guys wade in. Amusingly enough, the water never got deeper than 3.5 feet. You had to hunker down to be more fully immersed and escape the desert sun. Otherwise bellies aplenty rose proudly above the water line.

The shallowness (of the water, dear, not the people) made it easier to approach and chat with other IBC attendees. My significant otter was in extrovert heaven and quickly connected with other men, polling them about the pros and cons of various other bear events like Lazy Bear in Guerneville or Spooky Bear in Provincetown.

LA suffers from an embarrassment of riches when it comes to things to do and people to meet. And that’s part of the problem. You can interact with interesting folks and then never run into them again in the wild. LA County is larger than the states of Delaware and Rhode Island combined, after all—a geographic reality that makes spontaneous reunions unlikely at best. And while the LGBTQ community is huge here, it can also be dispersed, West Hollywood aside. My partner and I decided to put our marker down with the bears and see where it took us. 

We started out by going to Bear Happy Hour, where we found a welcoming and relaxed vibe. Each Thursday, the event migrates to a different LA venue—sometimes it’s Akbar, sometimes the Bullet, or elsewhere. There are regulars, or semi-regulars like us, and we’ve made some genuine connections. But soon we were ready to branch out from these weekly watering holes to a full-fledged bear habitat.

Our extended weekend continued with obligatory pool time, a dance each night, and perusing vendors hawking everything from plus-plus-sized t-shirts to spicy leather gear. There were enough attendees to feel festive, but it was also contained enough that we could interact with the same folks multiple times. We got to know a bevy of Palm Springs Bears who’ve since become our friends, and we meet up with them when we visit PS.

At its best, bear culture is a celebration of body positivity and a way for queer men to reclaim masculinity on our own terms. It creates space for different body types, where aging isn’t inherently seen as bad, but rather where daddies can be venerated and lusted after. Salt-and-pepper fur is not just tolerated but celebrated, a refreshing counterpoint to youth-focused mainstream gay culture.

And yet, for all of the diversity in Southern California, bear events here and elsewhere can often be pretty damn white. Just last week at karaoke, a white bear asked my partner, who’s Middle Eastern, if he had gotten his citizenship yet. (Spoiler: He was born and raised in LA.) The interaction was an all too recent reminder that even in spaces that pride themselves on inclusion, work remains.

Around pool parties, we would occasionally see a big boy sporting a muumuu or a festive, floppy sunhat. And painted toenails were all the rage at one event. But these expressions were fairly rare. Which forces me to ask, when does a celebration of masculinity exclude others? Can we as bears cultivate a community that is, in the words of Charles M. Blow, “wide enough and deep enough for all men”—including those who might express their masculinity differently or challenge its traditional boundaries?

I don’t expect perfection from any community, and the bear world is continuously evolving. What I can say is that to date, my partner and I have been encouraged by the camaraderie and conviviality we’ve experienced across multiple bear settings. You don’t have to necessarily build community from scratch. Sometimes you can find those waiting for you with open arms, ready to give you the biggest bear hug—a welcome embrace and a space where more of us can feel like we belong. 

Randal Mason writes about culture and community from West Hollywood, where he lives with his partner, books, and possibly too many houseplants. His writing has appeared in The Huffington Post, Barking Sycamores, and Chelsea Street Magazine.