San Francisco, December 1996
It was Christmastime, one of the years when I couldn't make it back to the Midwest, so I was even more depressed than usual. To cheer me up, my friend David dragged me to the Bear Party (for husky guys and their admirers) held every Saturday night in a house South of Market in San Francisco.
As we wandering through the upstairs lounge area, where guys were chatting and eating Christmas cookies and drinking egg nog to "Jingle Bell Rock," David exclaimed "Look -- it's Santa Claus."
The guy he pointed out did look like Santa Claus, except for the jeans and red suspenders -- in his 60s, tall, thick muscular arms going to fat, a chubby belly, a white beard, his chest covered with white fur. He was sitting on a leather couch, talking animatedly to a friend.
"Come on, let's go sit on Santa's lap!"
David was 43 years old, recently out, and anxious to try everything with everybody, but I was a little more picky,
"He's not into it!" I exclaimed. Some guys came to the Bear Parties just to socialize with friends. If you wanted sexual activity, you went down to the basement, where there were three rooms of mazes, mattresses, and dungeons. "Besides, my idea of Santa Claus is a little younger, with a bodybuilder's physique."
"Don't tell me you never fantasized about Santa sliding down your chimney!"
"No, I can't say that I have."
"Scrooge!" David dragged me across the room and knelt in front of Santa like a supplicant at an altar. Smiling, he unzipped -- a very thick Kielbasa. The friend made himself scarce.
While David worked, I sat next to Santa and fondled his chest and nipples. He put a thick arm around me and drew me into a whiskery kiss. It was all I could do to stifle a giggle as the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played in my head.
David pushed my hand down onto Santa's penis, but I was a little weirded out and moved away.
After a few minutes, Santa zipped up and drew us both into bear hugs.
"Thank you, young man -- I had resigned myself to no erotic activity tonight -- you see, my knees aren't what they used to be, so I can't make it down the stairs. But such things are forbidden in this part of the house. Would you and your friend care to come back to my apartment? By the way, my name is Bearnárd, with an accent grave.
"Well..." David never felt that a Bear Party was a success until he'd been with at least five guys.
"I have wassail, and spiced apples, far superior to the Safeway gingerbread they're serving here. And condoms," he added with a wink.
"Sure, why not."
I didn't feel like going, but you should always bring someone along on a hookup. I followed them out the door.
On the way home, Bearnárd told us that he majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and his twin brother Mordred, one good, one evil, locked in an apocalyptic battle.
"They sell very well -- I've been called a new Tolkien, if that is in fact a complement."
"Any gay characters?" I asked pointedly.
"Oh, tons. Of course, they didn't have the concept of gay in the Middle Ages, but there are many languorous looks between comrades in arms."
Bearnárd's apartment in the Castro was completely Medievalized. There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds, and heavy oak tables. He told us that he drew inspiration from the king's room in the Tower of London.
He did have a wassail bowl, full of hot apple cider and sliced apples, peaches, pears, and raisins, which we drew into bowls and ate like soup.
Bearnárd changed into a red silk bathrobe which made him look even more like Santa Claus, and invited us to get naked, which made sitting on hard wooden benches rather uncomfortable. He told us about the pagan origin of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."
I had already heard of most of it, but Bearnárd acted as if it was an amazing revelation.
"And Saint Nicholas himself was no Madison Avenue marketing ploy, but the Wild Man of the Hunt, revered throughout Europe from prehistoric times, gone undercover when Christianity took control."
David and I exchanged pained expressions. Who knew that Santa Claus was such a talker?
Trying to change the subject, I said "I know a guy in L.A. who went to Harvard. My friend Fred's ex, Matt. He majored in French and German."
"Matt, you say? What's the surname?"
I told him.
"I may have tricked with him. I go to all the alumni events, you see. Cute boy, but completely insane!"
Time to take the bull by the horns, as it were. I walked across the room, knelt, opened the red silk robe, and went down on Santa Claus.
He pulled my head up. "My boy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of time for that later! We must listen to some music first. I have Charpentier's
Noels por les instruments."
We left the Bear Party at a little after 9:00 pm. It was after midnight when we finally got into Bearnárd's bed. And then it was mostly watching and fondling while David went down on him.
It took an hour to finish. Several false starts.
But at least I can now say that I've been with Santa Claus.
The next day I called Matt and asked if he knew Bearnárd.
"The fantasy writer? Sure -- we dated when I was a senior. Well, not much of a date. Not a lot going on in the bedroom. And talk, talk, talk. That man,
il est tout fou!".
See also:
8 Harvard Yard Hookups;
The Slave Boy of Market Street.
