Big Ted's, Little Ted's.

Dedicated to my wonderful friends D and J.

I like bears. I like bears in all forms; anything remotely fuzzy makes me feel tickly. 

The Spirit of the Bear - A lone, courageous, nails, wedge of blubber that likes to roll around a lot and climb up stuff, and looks ace when fully erect and waving their paws about. They get to sleep loads when the weather hits indoors lock down. 

Super Ted.

Now to bears in the gay community: You can further break them down to Daddy Bears and Cubs. I love chunky gay bears - that’s a Daddy Bear, I get drunk off the futile arousal. Cubs are their younger, most often slimmer twinks. Twinks are young gay lads who mostly like lycra. Lycra is a combination of space matter with 15% Ford Capri.

Controversially I would like to add an addition to Bear Camp - The straight bear as yet undefined to my knowledge. Man Bear. A tad Daddy Bear, but less likely to dig lycra.

     

He works in meat or creative guff or something involving calloused hands. He likes ale, practical fashion and old-fashioned ways. He also knows his beardy face looks like a reassuring and comfortable saddle. Temptresses! He has some control, but not enough to like cake and pie and real ale. You know? The good stuff. Probably overweight by about 2 stone. Might ride a bicycle and would definitely buy you an ice cream.

Gentle Ben.

In studying facial hair I have to say I am a great fan of the neat beard-tash set. It’s less try-hard than some more playful adornments. But just enough to not be one of those bushy unkempt beards able to hide salmon or suggest you should be CRB'ed.

But that brings me to polar form of the dreaded spiv thin moustache. I had a conversation with someone who had one last night. I could not take to him at all, solely because of my newly recognised phobia of bum fluff topiary.

You know what? Thin stuff is weak. From a practical perspective, thin stuff dies first and it can't lift a barrel of ale. Go to a farmers show and see the size of those marrows and tell me a streaky pissy one looks appetising? Models live on champagne and fags, and would survive a maximum of 2 months if the shit hits the fan (unless they shag for spam), so you can kiss my fat arse - I’ve got at least 5 months because of my massive buns. You can bet I’ll be hitchhiking to Disneyland on my resources.

It’s the floating form of the waif tasche I can’t abide, Sigmund. It’s just wrong, aesthetically, logically and fashionably. Thin lip framers do nothing for the wearer. They’re as self-conscious as their fashion conscious owners. It’s a half-arsed attempt at manhood and the boys need to be told. Big bears you need to tell them. Hold off a while and wait till you’re a Man Bear.

I collared two young 'uns the other night; one baggy, one wedge haircut. I knew wedge haircut was more susceptible to the possibilities and I butted into their conversation demanding a debate on the thin moustache.

They agreed they looked shit - I made Haircut promise he wouldn’t grow one, and they returned to talking about Stoke City. Well one of them did anyway. Haircut just dropped in filler.

Boy love.

I don’t have a problem with men who can’t grow decent beards at all, to be honest I don’t seek Beard Utopia (though actually....), and it’s all superficial nonsense but it’s quite a boon in my world. The bears in my life make things so much more stronger, fuzzier and ticklier.

And don't ever let them tell you you look like a paedophile.

The Sloth Bear - probably endangered due to immobility and honey. 

Some may have paedophilic tendencies that remain unrealised due to lack of motivation. Found in India. 

Dead Dad Club

I’m from a single parent family. I never knew who my dad was, I asked my mum once. Mum, who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad?

The guy who played the green giant wasn’t quite what I was looking for, yet on appearances it could be plausible. I'd met him in Safeway's in the Spring. 

I wrote him a letter. Well I wrote a sweetcorn distributor a letter.

Dear Jolly Green Giant

I think you might be my Dad

RSVP Victoria McGlynn, 4 Manor Drive, Blackpool.

P.S. How tall are you?

Quite a formal letter for a 5 year old, but I met the balance by sending a Roland Orzabel and Curt Smith of Tears for Fears a drawing of us watching telly together. We were having so much fun!

If you’re going to write one letter to a giant and contain one question you’re not going to waste it on asking him why he’s green are you? Well that might be question number 2, but certainly height is the top answer.

1 How tall are you?

2 Why are you green?

3 Do you struggle to find shoes in your size?

4 How big are your feet?

5 Erm...Can you lift a fat man?

I was once chatted up by a man who was half Dutch, half stilts. His head was as big as a window, and he was so tall he was bent over me like a lamppost. I thought if he could invade my personal space any further he’d have absorbed me. 

I didn’t get a reply from the Jolly Green Giant, but as a surrogate he remains rather admirable; he hits his veg, laughs a lot, and has a general pleasant demeanour. Plus he could stamp on any adversary with his passive joviality, claiming it to be an accident, again. 

Oh Dad!

And this is the reason why I maintain my brand loyalty to Green Giant. Damn those marketeers and their fictitious male role models. 

Ho ho ho. 

Sorry Dad.

Dumped from a great height

I have just met an alpha male, at least that's what his faternity top said. No I don't like overly dominant men, I've been thinking about a gentle ex of mine - he was a lot smaller than me.

It worked. I wore the trousers, he wore little trousers. When we went shopping, I’d get the top shelf stuff, and he licked my boots.

If he stepped out of line, I threatened him with the papoose.

But the sex was amazing, like a chimp in an adventure playground.

It was like what Michael and Bubbles got up to.

The Goofy Dominatrix

I don't dream of my teeth falling out. If you do, it's related to death. Deal with that and let's move it along.

Have you ever encountered simultaneous tooth ache and ear ache whilst being tattooed? More on that pain to come.

I have a love hate relationship with my teeth, I have the same with sugar. I'm in a lot of pain right now, due to a mint selection binge, and though my fresh breath is faux fresh, the right side of my face is useless, I can't smile and my right eye is running.

Add to the mix several accidents involving my face and a skateboard, my face and a pavement, a pinch of bruxism, being a thumbsucker and good old hereditary variables, and I know where my mouth is headed. Don't be surprised if in the future I'll be glory holing for cash inbetween showcasing my collapsed face at gurning festivals throughout the land (there's one in Egremont, Cumbria - let's go!).

To start with accidents involving teeth. I was only 4, and I walked the short distance between my Aunty's and Nana's house, and did so with my hands in my pockets. Though my balance at this age was undeniably skillful, I fell over and pretty much bit the pavement, resulting in my tooth going through my lip and a pint of blood exiting my body via my nose.  The tooth didn't fall out, but it went brown and died. A poo tooth if you will. Fortunately it was a milk tooth, like all young nature, the best teeth.

I found out pretty early on the tooth fairy was my mum, I held my newly fallen poo tooth in my hand and claspsed it tight, refusing to sleep until the fairy arrived. She wouldn't elude me, my bravado knocking this whimsical collector of rubbish enamel. My Mum came in, searched underneath the pillow delicately as I pretended to be asleep, and she retired, but not after leaving a shiny twenty pence piece.

Free booty!

It worked for one more night, until she noticed my sweaty tense arm and loosened it from my deceitful  wrestling grasp; scored forty pee out of her though...that I spent on penny sweets. Having forty of them, was better than getting one model aeroplane. Damn marketeers and their quantities. My favourites were Mojo's because they were half a penny (remember those days, Peter Kay?).

I often have a Chuppa Chupp in my mouth a) to shut me up b) sharpen me up and c) distract me from the evil in this world. I sometimes have a spare for someone I like/love/see who's a bit sad, but my personal enjoyment of lollipops was only investigated further when my friend told me that she scored her husbands attention by placing her fist in her mouth at a party. I am not going to stop licking lollipops because it looks - to you - I'm lizard deep in fellatio. But I think it would be naive to not acknowledge my obvious oral fixation.

I have had three teeth removed in the last 12 months. I don't do private because I pay taxes. I have a great dentist now, but his predecessor was a dreadfully condescending intolerable being who spoke very slowly. I would gladly cough "knob head" at him in the street. Horrible man. He should be working in an abattoir as he clearly can't communicate with the living.

So I return to the most pain I've ever been in. It was a beautiful day in Sydney. Temperatures of 23. Perfect. And I cried all the way from Double Bay to Paddington (I couldn't bear the thought of using public transport and confining the pain, and this was serious pain) to firstly go to hopsital, and then keep my tattoo appointment I'd waited 3 months for. I was openly weeping and grumbling and couldn't help but say to distressed observers that I was on my way to hospital and I would be fine. But good god, was I wailing; red faced and wanting my mum for all the tooth fairy wedge in the world.

At the hospital, I was given the nearest thing to Morphine and sent on my way. That day, I was tattooed off my face. He had to finish it early. And I swore never again to spend my money on rebirthing tattoos when I had other priorities. Nah, my defiant rebirth was worth it.

I have joked that I expect I'll have no teeth by the time I hit my fifties, by which time I'll be some sort of tragically shit cabaret act where I impersonate my pet bulldog and we do a dance together to 'In the Mood'. But in this unstable world I have thought about turning to the oldest profession to bridge gaps. I mean, obviously everyone has their price. I work with Chris, he'd do bum for £80 in that classic game 'How much would you let someone bum you for?' - try it at your next dinner party. But I don't want to do that willy sticking-in business, no, I would use what I've got, and that is the stature to be a shit-kicking dominatrix who would delight in the absurd and being faux mean to men who quite like it. Win win. It's just theatre after all.

Queen of Hearts drops one

But then my flippancy with the dominatrix idea became solid when I discovered online that there was a legitimate dungeon in Sydney offering a Mistress apprenticeship. Reading in to this further and thinking how easy it would be to fufil one forum posters wish to sit in a room with him and smoke a cigarette - nothing else -  I started to think seriously about wanting to stay in Australia, and this might be my only way.

I wrote an email to the Extreme Mistress, making sure the tone was neutral and there wasn't too much pleading, and gave her my stats. However, it seems our antipodean buffsters aren't really in to bigger chicks, and I was informed that their largest dom, a size 12, found it difficult to score work with the punters, and she mostly wrestled men for wedge.

Great. So that was that impulsive dream pissed on before someone got a chance to be pissed on.

Having had a long interest in the exploits and rights (or lack of) of sex workers, I have returned to the idea of being a Dom, but the reality wouldn't work for me. I don't live the lifestyle, and many of them are very serious about what they do. They do it well. You have to commit to something to be believable if you're going to offer these chaps what they want. And to be honest, the lack of sunlight might be a deal breaker. But my god, the stories...I'd like to do it just to gain the insight more than anything.

Imagine some crazy kinky shit here, multiply it by 12,000 and add an egg. Anything goes.

I did wrestle a guy recently, but that is a story for another time.

Now you must excuse me, I need to listen to something angry to address the despair of my ailing face hole. At the end of the day, everything concludes with holes.