A Reminiscence on Bear Magazine
Story by: Luke Mauerman
January 1, 2022
AS I LOOK THROUGH MY FEEDS THESE DAYS I SEE great thirst for an array of body types that were clinically undesirable—and even laughed at—thirty years ago. Certain male body types used to be relegated to the trash heap. Now, finally, traits like a hefty frame, body hair, a beer belly and a beard are being celebrated.
Count me among those for whom facial hair is a near-necessity. I can think of no man whose features cannot be improved by the addition of a beard. When I see a clean-shaven male my initial response has always been, “Dude. Where’s the rest of your face?”
For sake of argument, I’ll call 1969 (Stonewall) the beginning of the modern gay era. And for the first twenty years we were force-fed a steady diet of but one meal: the skinny, young, blond boy toy… Eww.
Well into the ’80s that type was foisted upon us. The collateral damage being that anyone over the age of thirty was considered done for: Time to resort to camp, drag and bingo, because you’re now null and void. Like some bizarre reincarnation of Logan’s Run: Turn thirty and you are literally on Last Day. From now on you’ll only be able to pay for sex. Get used to it.
That’s gone now. Not only is there acceptance of men into their 40s, 50s and even 60s, there is actual thirst for it.
Bear Magazine played a big role in this. A man named Richard Bulger, anthropologist and human sexuality major, first stumbled upon the idea around 1987. He was further encouraged by a man named David Grant Smith, who, as he lay dying of you-know-what, suggested a magazine called Daddy Bear. Richard took the idea but truncated it to just Bear. He knew instinctively that adding “daddy” would set up a further zone of exclusion, preventing a section of very lovely meat from seeing the light of day.
Richard understood the value of bringing everyone to the table. Cliques, strata and rating systems were counterintuitive to something that belongs to everyone. The minute you’re celebrating a certain niche, you’re automatically excluding everyone who doesn’t belong in that particular niche. And that was not Richard’s way.
Most importantly, it would have hurt sales.
I was honored to be there for a huge swath of it and witnessed first-hand the hunger for reality-based sexuality. Bear was proudly, vibrantly gay. Naked Hairy Homo Smut was literally our byline.
Issue One was a badly xeroxed, quarter-fold ‘zine. Original press run? Forty five copies sold at A Different Light Bookstore and with a few ads in Foreskin Quarterly and the Big Ad. To say it took off is an understatement. The press run when I left in 1995 was 25,000 copies.
Straight people now know what a bear is. Even SNL did a skit with John Goodman overlaid on the actual Bear cover, on national television, and I just about fell off the couch in shock.
Richard Bulger was the man who saw the need and filled it. He was a brilliant, insane mess. He and I became very close. In a way, it was a deep unrequited love; I haven’t since found anyone who intrigued me the way he did. He was a businessman, but his heart and soul were in this thing. We would have lattés and chocolate croissants together and talk about it at length. He always told me, “Picture the man buying this magazine. He’s out to get a jar of Ragu, some light bulbs and cat litter; he rushes to the bookstore with a thumping heart to see if the latest issue of Bear is out so he can hurry home and get a boner.” That was thirty years ago, when we were all young and fresh and stupid.
Richard’s dead now. Lymphoma. Now we’ve grown older. And you know what? We’re still good. In fact, we’ve gotten better. It’s fucking glorious!
Beards are sufficiently mainstream right now…and I thank God every day. They could once again fall to suspicion and scorn, as happened from the 1920s through the 1950s, when they simply weren’t done. I’d like to think they’re here to stay for a while.
Bear Magazine was a broadening of our sexual tastes that, for the first time, celebrated reality. It allowed for men to age and ripen and still be considered desirable.
In 1994 Bear Magazine was sold. Richard cashed out, crashed out and barricaded himself up in the hills doing blow until the county sheriff had to come roust him out. He went into recovery and became a hero and helper to many on the same difficult journey.
The elephant in the room is that this is all based on physical appearance. And some people simply aren’t invited to the trough. It’s a genetic insider’s only club, and as one just on the outer extremity of it myself, let me tell you how vexing that can be.
We all like pretty people. And of course that means different things to different folks. For us, “pretty” is a man with some sort of facial hair, not overly thin, and has (hopefully lots of) body hair. Beef—and all that that conjures in your mind. (Although I must tell you, having sex with a thin man is an altogether different experience: how they can bend and swerve! It’s like suddenly driving a Ferrari. Discount them at your peril.)
Frankly, I’ve enjoyed a fair number of veritable gods of the bear world: porn stars, and well-known A-Plus specimens. Don’t ask me how; I still don’t know. I’m woefully average, and only peripherally in the “bear” category. But I learned some interesting things. You can have the very model of bear perfection splayed out in front of you, specifically, at that moment, for you to have your way with. There was beauty, right in my hands. And yet each time I’d come away with a feeling of loss. The beauty was absolute, and as Prince once said, fucked so pretty you and me… But often there was no connexion, no heat.
Then one day in Maui this man with battle scars, all careworn and rugged and older and imperfect, laid me down for some lovin’ and I’d find myself whacking off specifically to his imperfections long after. Like, your actual sproing and spurt, quickly and achingly—you know the ones: You’re up and at it and pop within seconds—at the image of his scars. And at the line below his belly, still creased by the elastic waistband of the shorts he’d just taken off.
Naked Hairy Homo Smut was literally our byline.
The beautiful ones never left me with a sproing. They never left me with anything. Just bragging rights I could never tell anyone about. Gloating is never a good look.
Richard Bulger was all about breaking the mold, celebrating real men. Something attainable. Someone you can actually keep around, as opposed to just borrow on loan when their friends aren’t looking.
Bear Magazine is and was a broadening of our sexual tastes that, for the first time, celebrated reality, not Photoshop. It allowed for men to age and ripen (and to be ripe, which is a whole n’other thing—don’t get me started) and still be considered desirable.
Finally we have something eternal to hope for.
Real men, flaws and all.
God knows there’s plenty of ’em.
