But everybody’s having a pretty good time, even the skinny guys who wandered in for the $3 Buds at the Sunday-night beer blast and find themselves outnumbered, and largely ignored, by the husky men around them-the bears. The place doesn’t smell much like gay men are supposed to, either: beery, sweaty, like a frat party gone on way too long-in some cases, at least judging by the bushy gray facial hair in the dank room, for decades. Gay men aren’t supposed to look much like the balding, hairy-belly-up-to-the-bar crowd at the Dugout in the far West Village.
