Bear Skin: Hot Gay Bear Erotica

Body hair is making a comeback!

Move over hairless twinks. Stand aside waxed wankers and depilatorized dudes – your bodies look like plucked chickens. Once again, the hirsute look is making inroads into the gay community. Long live beards and moustaches. Here’s to the return of pubic hair and furry ass cracks. Let’s hear it for thatched tummies, chest pelts, and back hair.

In this bearotica anthology, bears, cubs, otters, and their admirers, rub hairy body parts in a myriad of fashions as only Barry Lowe can write them. There’s humor in a young twink who wants to top his best mate’s Daddy Bear; sizzling cuckoldry when a bear watches his mate triple played on their living-room floor; violence and retribution in a relationship gone stale when a battered partner finds his inner grizzly; love and hope when an older bear finds his cub; and the best kind of revenge when a young twink who is constantly belittled as an ugly hairy duckling discovers he’s really a swan.

Excerpt from: Carbon Dating the Bear

I’m as embarrassed as hell. Normally, I wouldn’t even consider appearing in public like this. Naked, except for handkerchief-sized red Speedos strung up between my ass cheeks like those Aussie lifesavers. I hope none of the neighbors is watching as I knock on the door to my best mate Robbie’s house, hoping he won’t answer the door. I’m praying it’s his dad.

You see, I have a problem. I’m 19, pretty good looking, not an ounce of body fat on my slim, okay, skinny frame. Long, black hair, which hangs seductively across my face. My dick is average size, between 6?”-7”, depending on which porn movie is in the DVD player when you measure. My body is twink hairless except for a clump of pubic seaweed, and my ass is smooth as butter and as bubbly as a balloon.

Okay, what’s the problem, you’re asking? The problem is I just can’t get laid. Let me rephrase that. I can’t get laid by the guys I fancy. I suppose two telling points I should mention here: I’m a bit on the, shall we say, less than macho side, nothing flaming, but you’d never mistake me for Russell Crowe. Plus, I’m a top. Sure, I’d love to reciprocate, but just the idea of a cock entering my butt hole sends my body into shutdown and sphincter central locks all entrances to the building.

Oh, did I mention my homme (yes, I’m studying French at college) of choice is a delicious, mature daddy with just a fleck of grey through his temples highlighting his desirability. Hair on his head is not essential. Hair on his chunky body is. The more fuzz that covers his body, the better I like it. The better I like it, the harder my cock gets. Alas, most men of that age either find it too arduous to douche or simply only have time to stick their dick in any available cubhole and squirt before racing home to the wife, husband or spouse of unspecified gender.

I usually satisfy myself with a quick fumble in a borrowed bedroom, a suburban shithouse, or a noirish alleyway, only occasionally going upmarket for a quick blowjob in someone’s Ute or family sedan with baby seat attached. Once I encountered a truckie, who was everything I ever dreamed of, until he took off his trousers and revealed he was wearing white stockings and a suspender belt.

No wonder then that last night I was running off at the mouth on meeting a gentleman of such proportion and charm that I was practically drooling. It was the occasion of a charmless party that I’d attended with mates Robbie and Viz. Unusually, none of us scored that night.

“There was no one there over 35.” I had moaned dramatically. Robbie and Viz in the back seat were indulging me, though not without a certain amount of eyes heavenward.

“And this was a problem why?” asked Robbie, the perfect straight man, in the theatrical sense and not in the sexual.

I put on my grandest voice. “It’s the same problem you will face one day when you realize you are no longer a Robbie and have become plain Rob, Bob or more pretentiously, Robert.”

He smiled. “Did that really answer my question?”

“There was a guy in the kitchen said he was 29, but he looked 40,” Viz said hopefully.

There was no stopping me. I was playing to the gallery. Actually to Robbie’s dad, known to me and Viz as Mr. Wardrop.

“Forty to me is like 12 in twink talk,” I said. “You should know that by now.”

Viz smirked. “So what is the age of consent for daddy bear lovers?”

I looked over at Mr. Wardrop and tried hard to ascertain his age. “I guess I’ll go as low as 45, if …” Damn! If only I had known Robbie’s dad was so hot I may have taken more interest and got strategic info, like his age.