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Almost all of the bears packed up and left when Bear Week officially ended. So I found a cheap place to stay and extended my stay for an extra night. Maybe it wasn’t just about bear space the whole gay community might be more accepting than I’d imagined, at least in Provincetown, a generally relaxed and welcoming place. I wondered if I’d been unduly concerned about people’s reactions all this time.
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I felt sexy, desirable, confident in my own skin in a way I rarely had as an adult. Some guys actually made approving comments, gave me a wink, ran their hands over my chest as they walked by. Nobody pointed and laughed or made rude remarks for me to overhear. So I took off my shirt on the dance floor. During Bear Week, any time I felt embarrassed or ashamed of my body, I kept hearing that advice I’d been given on my book tour. I had always gone to tea dance on my Provincetown vacations, but kept my shirt on, no matter how much I sweated. It turned out, on the street that day in 2006, not to be a fluke. And I changed my mind about the whole thing. Then, in 2009, a younger friend of mine said he wanted to check out the event. I went back to Provincetown the next summer, and the next, but not during Bear Week. Why build my identity around my facial hair, or my waistline? But I wasn’t a Bear with a capital B, joining bear groups, going to bear events, getting bear tattoos. If someone asked if I was a bear, I might say yes-it was a useful shorthand to describe my appearance. I was bearded and hairy, with a belly, and I liked guys with similar physiques I just wasn’t much of a joiner. I’d spent years on the margins of the bear community. And more importantly, it worked: Men started taking my flyers. I got one whistle, a few smiles, a nod here and there. On Commercial Street, I met no such judgment.
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I hadn’t done such a thing for years-not since I had, in rare moment of exuberance in my twenties, taken off my shirt in a dark, seedy sex club, only to hear someone ask in a stage whisper: “Why is it always the wrong guys who take their shirts off?”
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It was only fitting, I suppose, that I was wrestling with my own longstanding body issues while promoting Hard, a book whose protagonist battles similar demons about being overweight before finding a surprising glimmer of acceptance in the nascent bear community of the 1990s.
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If there was one thing I liked less than handing out flyers, it was taking off my shirt in public. One burly bear offered me some unsolicited advice: “You’ll have better luck if you take off your shirt.” Drag queens pushing bawdy cabarets and body-glittered porn stars advertising bingo games were stealing the show. I was not particularly comfortable doing self-promotion, so I stayed quiet, holding a small stack of black-and-white paper flyers I’d photocopied at my office. So I stood on the side of Commercial Street next to more experienced hawkers who were louder, cuter, more aggressive, and dressed to attract attention- wearing either elaborate costumes or skimpy outfits, whichever might turn the most heads. The best place to do this was outside the Boatslip at 7 p.m., when hordes poured out of tea dance, making plans for the evening. But I knew what people had to do to promote their events: I had to stand on the street, handing out palm cards. I was just there for a quick overnight-enough time to give a reading and head back to New York the next morning. The place itself wasn’t new to me I’d been going every summer for many years. On my first book tour in 2006, I found myself in Provincetown.