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. 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."
"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.
The rest of the story is too risque for Boomer Beefcake and Bonding. You can read it on Tales of West Hollywood.