Home for the Holidays, and Other Deceits

As I prepare for a Christmas celebration together with two special boys, I ask myself why I observe the season. Far from "Peace on earth, good will to men" Seattle is filled with people bustling through stores. The tone of the city, far from festive, is dark, most shoppers harried and cantankerous.

The Leather Community touts a distinctive assortment of relationships that we consider "families." Most have little semblance to the heteronormative "family" that traditionally defines Christmas. And the majority of us do not boast of being Christian. Rather, we are also Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, Pagan, and Atheist. As a Buddhist I celebrated Buddha's Enlightenment Day last week in a simple Zen ritual. Others have already lit the menorah as Hanukkah begins.

I recommend that as a Community we always retain our sense of diversity this season. While many of us enjoy the Holiday season as an excuse to dredge up childhood memories, others face the challenges of a season without loved ones and friends. For me, it is particularly challenging, the first season without my parents and without a partner by my side.

As I write this post I realize that the childhood memory that I cherish most hearkens to another challenging Christmas season when I was six years old. It was a day of fear, of confusion, and a great deal of happiness at simply being together. That Christmas Eve I woke to the smell of smoke. "Get up quickly," my mother said as calmly as she could. "Quickly, out to the car!"

Together with my brothers and sisters, we were herded frantically into our Volkswagen bus. We sat shivering in the New England cold as my mother rushed back into the house. Minutes later the firetrucks arrived and my father with my mother by his side, stood at the front door. I remember sitting in fear as watched the firemen enter our house, passing my mother who headed toward us waiting in the bus.

My mother drove us to friends who lived a few towns away. That night I recall my concern about my father who had not followed us. He had remained behind with the firemen. My mother assured me that he would be joining us later in the evening. I lay awake that night waiting to the sound of his footsteps and fell asleep deeply troubled. Would my father be OK? What has happened to our house? Had our house burned completely down? Hardly visions of sugarplums!

Christmas morning dawned and I awoke with a start in a foreign bed. I slowly made my way downstairs and took a deep breath. I was certain that there would be no Christmas for us and realized that at the end of the day, there might not even be a place that I could call "home." To my surprise, there were the same presents under our hosts' tree. My parents and siblings soon joined me.

"There wasn't much damage," my mother explained. "Only in the kitchen. We can go back home in a day or two, don't worry!"

As I think back on that Holiday I remember both the fear and the joy. This is the Christmas we all remember in my family, the Christmas fire. On that Christmas we learned that being together was worth far more than the deceit of stockings hung from the mantle. We were safe and our home was spared.

This Holiday I am thankful that I have a comfortable home where I can invite my Leather Family to celebrate the season. Once again, I return to that Christmas spirit many years ago, of gratitude for my relationships with family. The fact that I define "family" in a different way as a Leatherman does not dull the glow of this important lesson.

Boys, property, Leather brothers, close friends, and a nephew, this is the family I celebrate this season.

Negotiating the Body, Negotiating the Self

I have just returned from an arms workout at the gym and I feel great. I am 57 years old and I have never been in better shape.

"It's easy for you," some have opined due to my extensive background as a professional dancer.

I laugh to myself when I hear this. I think about my dietary habits and about my workout regimen. I think about my general avoidance of alcohol and party drugs. I think of my strict daily schedule. And I answer, "Nothing is easy! I have simply made the choice to live fully in my body."

Negotiating the body serves as the primary means of negotiating identity. I think of my brothers who have undergone gender transition. They negotiated their bodies as an integral step in their identification. I do not understand this exact process and yet I understand my own negotiation every day. I realize that I am empowered with the ability to choose how I live inside my body, my body, an artifact of identity.

People born into medically identified male bodies often complacently pass as men. In other words, most biologically born men, including Gay men, do not feel the need to negotiate their bodies relative to their own gender identity. This complacency often leads Gay men to approach physical aging, for example, with that same sense of submission that they approach the gender assigned to them at birth.

I hear many peers bemoan their bodies. To them I say, if a man cannot accept his own body proudly, he needs to do something about it. Our brothers who have faced gender identity issues have set a powerful example. Given this, I suggest that each Leatherman assess his physical body and actively do something about it if he does not like what he sees.

During the last three months my body has been the key to healing. I have cared for my body and in so doing, I have cared for myself. I invested in my diet and I exercised daily as a means of reminding myself that I have worth in spite of the hardships recently forced on me that suggested otherwise. I refused to be submissive to anyone's idea of me. I used my relationship to my physical body as a means of renegotiating self.

It feels good to move, to exercise, to kiss, to play, to masturbate, to fuck. I redefine myself daily by the choices I make relative to my body. I am a man because I have chosen to be a man through the way I negotiate my body from moment to moment. My relationship to my body forms the foundation of my identity.

Honesty as Nonconfession

"Honesty," a mantra that we hear over and over again when discussing Leather and Leather relationships. We invoke it at every title contest and every event without ever stopping to think about the actual meaning of the word relative to communication with others.

Honesty is not founded on confession. To confess one's deep secrets and desires feels good. It serves a function similar to our need to defecate and urinate. And, like urination, it can be used effectively as an element of play. But confession is not the foundation of good communication.

Honest communication is founded on effective speaking and active listening.

When we speak honestly we communicate in language that is concise and that can be clearly understood. We do not hide behind gnostic phrases or apocryphal statements that bolster an artificial claim to top-down power dynamics. We use words that will effectively deliver our message.

When we are honest we actively listen. We try to remove as many preconceptions as possible so that we can be receptive to the message of the speaker. We acknowledge the role of the other in the exchange, recognizing that each has a role of equal importance.

Listening is especially difficult for men who consider themselves dominant. We dominant types often believe that listening is a passive activity and reject our role as listener. "Shut up, boy!" Sadly this command is heard all too often in our midst. As dominant men, we simply want to believe that we have a more important role in the communication process. This is, to be plain, utter bullshit!

My owned property is a far more educated man than I am. I welcome his opinions and encourage him to speak openly with me in discussion. Rather than compromise our positions as MASTER and property, the honest communication facilitates a greater bond between U/us. At this point, he can literally read my thoughts when we are together.

I applaud the Community for invoking the word "honesty" in nearly every speech and essay. If we could put it to practice in our communication skills we would find ourselves rid of the petty politics and drama that plague many of our club events and title contests. What a great Community that would be!

Leather as Mid-Life Crisis

Right after coming out as a Gay man with an admitted propensity for deviant sex, I went for my first time to Club Seattle. In the mid-80s, I considered myself King of the Clubs and knew that I could pretty much have my pick of any man. I was handsome, successful, well-hung, and intelligent. I had no qualms about fucking hard and then exploring a deep, philosophical topic moments after cumming with my temporary mate. Sex was creative expression, far more than simply scratching an itch.

The early morning hours found me seated in the dark steam room, openly stroking myself and sizing up the available meat. I watched the slow parade of towel clad men pass by, a moveable feast of every conceivable shape and size. Suddenly I saw him, a silver haired gentleman with a perfectly toned body and a handsome face that exuded self-assurance. This was the first time that I felt a longing for a Daddy.

He moved past and I rose, threw my towel around me, and followed him around the corner and out the door. He glanced back and continued. 

"Didn't he realize that I was cruising him?" I wondered as I continued to follow him through the maze of corridors. 

After ten minutes of cat and mouse, he turned and re-entered the steam room. He went directly to the dark shower stall and turned to face out, his eyes directed at me. "Do you want something?" he asked.

"I want you," I replied. "You are the most handsome, older man I have ever seen." I stopped myself, realizing that my compliment hardly needed a qualifier. He was the most attractive man in the Club, bar none.

"Thank you," he said, and with a swift movement of his arm brought me against his muscled body and put my head against his firm pectorals.

I stayed with him most of the night, my first Daddy encounter. We made man to man love, conversed about classical music and the arts scene in Seattle, and then made love again. I came a second time while he abstained, focused instead on bringing me to a new state of arousal, finding ways to play my body hard like a Spanish guitarist beating out rhythms on his instrument.

Finally, I asked him how he maintained himself. 

His answer, one word. "Discipline." His self-assurance, his prowess, his muscled body, all could be traced to his mastery of himself.

Over the years I would meet other handsome Daddies, older men who cared for themselves both body and mind. These men seemed invincible, bigger than life. Unfortunately most are gone, early victims of that cruel plague that took so many of our great men in their prime. Their memory lives on in my heart and now, decades later, I aspire to be like them. I want to be one of those middle-aged men whose discipline, intelligence, and prowess left an indelible mark on their physiques. They defied the common Gay stereotype found in most publications: a young, smooth, boy-like creation with a smooth body and a Carvel hair-doo. 

Recently I have heard a number of men tell me that they came to Leather later in life because they were "too old for the club scene." Leather as mid-life crisis. Indeed, the Gay Leather Community seems to have become a holding tank of middle aged men who seem to believe that a vest, a pair of chaps, and a credit card are all they need to become experienced Leathermen.

Leather is a tradition. It is far more than clothing, clubs, and empty oaths and phrases. The foundation of Leather is discipline. Mastery of self is the true sign of a Leatherman. A Leatherman understands that for another to obey him, he must first learn how to discipline himself. 

Some may disagree with me and state that such a statement is elitist. Others may feel that by this statement I exclude many who have found Leather later in life. To them I offer the following example of how to become a Leatherman and a Sir.

A few years ago a handsome, local man asked me if I would teach him to single tail. He had been entering the scene as a Sir and felt that he would enjoy learning the art of throwing a whip. In response, I gave him two of my whips to throw for the afternoon with a few pointers on technique. Then I stepped back, way back. And I watched him as he methodically worked, a smile playing on his face whenever he was able to charm out an occasional crack or pop. After a while, he approached me again.

"Would you let me see what it feels like? I believe that I should bottom for a single tail if I am ever going to top with one."

I was very honored and what ensued was one of the highlights of my Leather, a bonding experience between brothers.

This is how one learns to be a Sir. This is how I was taught. This is how I became a Leatherman. 

"Oh, the wild joys of living!"

Almost seven weeks ago I received a telephone call from my partner of thirteen years. "I am romantically in love with someone else," he said. "I don't think I want you as my partner anymore."

The pronouncement abruptly changed my entire life view. I had believed that I would grow old beside this man. No matter what challenges existed in the relationship, I felt that we could have resolved them because we loved each other. Or so I thought up until that moment.

As my world came crashing down, I broke into frantic tears. How would I go on? Where would I go? I looked around at my home, a house that I had purchased together with my partner years before. I had spent many hours making improvements both inside and out. I walked to the back door and opened it to look at my lovely yard full of fruit trees and vines, and my annual tomato plantings still waiting to bear. What would I do?

More than twenty years before my friend, my brother, my mentor, Al D Sowers, had helped me through a difficult break up and it was to him again that I turned. In spite of the fact that Al left this life more than ten years before, I recalled his words. His advice came to me as if it were yesterday.

During the last few weeks Leather friends have asked what steps I took to recover from so great a loss, the loss of a partner, a home, and my plans for a happy life in old age. I simply followed the guidance that Al provided me years ago. The steps to healing are really quite simple:

1. Ask for help from friends. Do not be shy about stating your needs to others. During this time your true friends will emerge and others who you thought were "family" will fade into the background. A very important lesson.
2. Maintain sobriety. Avoid alcohol and all mind altering substances so that you can look at things clearly, so that you can see clearly the opportunities that will present themselves.
3. Avoid Leatherplay. Many years ago Guy Baldwin told me that play is not therapy. The inverse is also true. Therapy is not play. Play can be volatile during traumatic periods. Anyone worth playing with will understand and wait patiently while you heal. 
4. Resolve to care for self. Good nutrition, exercise, sleep, and meditation. If necessary, create a schedule of care for the next month. Self care is crucial during the first few weeks of a break up because it serves as a reminder of self worth.
5. Do not date. I am not recommending to avoid sex. Rather, I am stating that it is a bad idea to become romantically involved with someone while healing from the loss of a partner.
6. Enlist the help of a therapist. I worked with a therapist for six weeks. As she put it, "Therapy is like  car maintenance. Sometimes you need an engine rebuild. Sometimes, a tune-up. And sometimes, an oil change." I had an oil change. To not enlist professional help is not wise. When a person breaks a bone, he must go to the doctor for help in healing. When a person's heart breaks as a result of the termination of a long relationship, professional help is usually required to insure healing.
7. Do not make any rash decisions. Running away from issues simply means that you have left issues unresolved. They will resurface but in a different context. This is the principle of karma. 
8. Address your issues, do not run from them. After a few weeks, you will find that issues will present themselves again naturally for examination, and that the nature of them will be revealed. This can only happen if you bravely face the situation. Once again, sobriety is key.
   

Today I sit and look out the window of my new home, a small apartment on the south shore of Sesttle's Lake Union. My feeling this evening as I watch the sun set on the water, gratitude. I am so thankful to the wonderful friends who have helped me over the last seven weeks, and to my special alpha boy and my property. To them, I owe far more than I ever could repay them. 

At 57 years old, life feels like it is just beginning. I like who I am. My life has drastically changed and I look to the future with far more excitement that I could have dreamed. I wake every morning and look around at my new home. I smile and look back on a difficult period. I am glad to have endured it andbto have grown from the experience. And I want to proclaim with Robert Browning's protagonist, "Oh, the wild joys of living!" I feel good!

The Wolf spies Little Red Riding Hood

A photo from the Wolf and Red Riding Hood fantasy two years ago at ILSb. A great deal of fun!

The face and crotch masks were sculpted in leather, with carved bone teeth and African porcupine quills for eyebrows. The claws were laminated leather and were hardened to produce some nasty marks on the boy's back. The tail, pubic hair, and claws were made from cow hide with the fur retained.

Much thanks to Rich Stadtmiller for his skill with the camera.

Being a man - to my father

In 1986 I sat next to my father in a rental car parked beside the Seattle Center. We both sat screaming at each other. He had flown to Seattle to "straighten" me out. He had been silent during the separation from my wife and my divorce from his conservative religion.

"You are the only one that has ever talked back to me," he barked. Instinctively, he reared up in the driver's seat, flexing his well-developed arms. "Perhaps I should have been harder on you as a child."

"If you disciplined me any harder as a child," I replied, "I'd be crippled." My father did not spare the rod during my adolescence. He expected me to take my punishment "like a man." 

My father was Victorian. He saw things in black and white. A man was a man, and a woman was a woman. Men were masculine, and masculinity was defined according to the standards of gender and sexuality prevalent in the 1950's and 1960's. Homosexuals were men who were sick, men who didn't like being men. They were men who wanted to be women. They preferred dressing up in skirts and wearing wigs and make-up, affecting the mannerisms of Hollywood starlets. He was confused because I was not one of those men.

"Just because you have slept with a man does not make you a homosexual," he said to me. "You are a man; you are NOT like THAT!"

I realized that my father was struggling with the same thing that I struggled with years before. When I thought of the word "homosexual" as a teen, I usually thought of mincing men with limp wrists and feigned voices, men who fit the stereotype that grew out of the social discourse. I was not one of those.

By the summer of 1986, I had come out to everyone, and I had started engaging in Leatherplay with older men. I had gradually come to know that there were others like me, men who celebrated their gender in a hyper-masculine way. Gay men who did not fit the stereotype. Leathermen.

"Dad, being Gay does not mean I now dress in women's clothes," I explained. "In fact, I have met men who look and act just like you!" A statement meant more to hurt than to emphasize the veracity of my position.

Over the ensuing decade my father and I pushed each other away. We used our differences as validation for our distance. I resented him and vowed never to be like him. He, in turn,erased me from his social life, acknowledging me only when I spoke to other members of the family. During a visit in the mid nineties I discovered just how completely he had hiddenme from his friends. "Who are you?" I was asked upon answering the telephone. The woman was incredulous that my father had a third son. "I am calling the police. I know the familywell and your father has never spoken about you. He doesn't have a third son. What are you doing in that house?"

As my own children grew up, I began to see traits of my father in myself. I realized that, like me, he was an expression of his times. His values were common to those raised during the depression, especially to those poor folk from the back woods of Nova Scotia. And I began to re-examine my own understanding of masculinity based on values that I internalized during my adolescence. I realized that the expression of my gender and my sex had always been aligned with the notion of Gay Leather espoused by my generation. And even though Leather has expanded its confines to include Pansexual and Queer folk over the years, I acknowledge that I am a Gay Leatherman whose cock responds to the artifacts of classic masculinity.

A few years ago I went sailing in Maine on Penobscot Bay with my two older brothers and my father and mother. During the trip I caught my father watching me closely. We didn't saymuch when we were under sail. Nor did we say much during the trip from Rockland, Maine to Boston's Logan Airport. At the airport, I accompanied my parents to their gate and extended my hand to my father to wish him a safe trip home. Rather than the wooden response I had come to expect, he extended both his arms and hugged me. 

"I am so sorry for the way I have treated you all of these years," he said as fought back the tears. "I have misjudged you. You are quite a man!"

Holding him in my arms, I realized that I had worked through my resentment; that I felt only love for him. I knew that he longer saw me through the cloudy lens of prejudice. I knew that he saw me as a man, a Gay man who embraced values of masculinity similar to his own. And I gained a profound respect for him, a conservative Christian man who had the courage to deconstruct the comfortable stereotype that he inherited and on which he had based his morality.

"Dad, I have let all my animosity go." I responded as he cried openly in my arms. Such tears are the expression of strength, an outpouring of emotion aligned with honesty, a virtue that my father extolled during his lifetime.

As a Sir to Leatherboys, I sometimes am surprised to hear my father's words in my own voice. I encourage my boys to be strong, to face life's challenges with boldness.

During my stepdown speech as International LeatherSIR last July, I acknowledged that my mother taught me to be a Sir. Reflecting back on my father, I realize that he taught me to be a LeatherDad, a paternal friend to younger men. I am indebted to him for enduring years of difference, realizing that as father and son, we were very much the same.

Happy Pride! (Or Thank you, Judy Garland!)

As I celebrate Pride today I think about those who lit the brush fire that became the fight for civil rights for GLBT people. And I smile, because it was actually only one person who pushed the bar patrons of Stonewall to say loudly, "NO MORE!" Judy Garland. How often we forget that Judy Garland incited those men at Stonewall to confront the police and subsequently, the society in which we live.

Judy was the catalyst. She was the spark. The night of her funeral marked the beginning of the evening that we celebrate today. One woman who was both respected and adored by the older Gay men of my generation. Like me, they were raised on her movies and her ballads. They related to her hardships and her immense talent to communicate through song. Not even the influence of Lady Gaga or Madonna can approximate the affect that Judy had on Gay men growing up in the sixties.

Today each one of us must ask, "What can I do?" Some of the younger GLBT generation believe that they can exercise the necromancy of confrontation to bring back the spirit of Queer Nation. They feel anger and they believe that violent means can bring about change. Their cries distill the rainbow of individuals in our complex society into stereotypes. "The government is fucked! The police all hate Gays!" This is exactly the problem that we face as GLBT people when we try to open dialogue with conservative factions within our society.


One woman was the spark in 1969. One tiny woman with a big voice and an even bigger heart. 


Friday I was asked by a work colleague why Gay marriage was so important. "I support your right to marry, I honestly do. I just want to know what difference would it actually make to be married to your partner."

I turned to my colleague and started to tell her how not having the ability to marry has forced my partner and I to pay more in taxes in the United States; how it denies my partner the ability to share my prudent health insurance at work; how all of the benefits of my retirement package will not be available to him; how  the lack of marriage even has an impact after my death, giving the rights of my body and burial to my children and not to my life partner.

My colleague stopped and thought. "But that is just not right," she exclaimed. "I mean, that's not right!"

"Now you understand," I said to her. "It is not right. Practically speaking, not having the right to marry makes my partner and I second class citizens."

"I finally get it," she responded. "I have never thought of it like that."

As my colleague walked away I thought of that old shampoo commercial on television. The advertisement began with one woman shampooing her hair and then extolling the virtues of the product to her friends. "She told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on." And as the narrative continued, the image of the woman on the screen quickly reproduced itself in zygote fashion.

Perhaps it is my lingering optimism as a child of the sixties that encourages me to believe that one person can make a difference; that each of us can be a catalyst for change. I feel that if each of us shares the pragmatic implications of the denial of marriage with others, we can create meaningful dialogue and, subsequently, lasting change.

During the last decade of her life Judy Garland was loved because she continued to communicate on a personal level. A list of some of her most loved songs demonstrates the personal nature of her overall message: "I Wish I Were in Love Again,"  "I Feel a Song Comin' On," "How About Me," and the moving "It Never Was You." Her most famous rendition of the Harold Arlen song "Over the Rainbow" still resonates after more than eighty years, a message of hope sung beneath a growing canopy of storm clouds. Every person who heard her sing live says the same thing, "It was as if she was singing directly to me."

In the late nineties my relative Jim Bigney asked a simple question of the Human Resources Development Canada, "Why am I denied surviving spouse's benefits?" Together with others in Canada, he alleged discrimination based on sexual orientation (Canada (Attorney General) v. Bigney, [1998] F.C.J. No. 1336 (F.C.T.D.)(QL)). His lawsuit joined with a number of others in creating dialogue about Gay  marriage in Canada. One man joined by others like him, all relating their personal stories of how they were pragmatically affected by the denial of this civil right. (For more about this discussion in Canada, see: http://www.samesexmarriage.ca/evolution/billc23.html.)

We can make change when we shed the collective mask and speak honestly with those around us. "Gay marriage is an issue to me because - " We must be willing to speak openly about ourselves and allow people to see that we have a human visage before we assume the collective GLBT mask. We must "Come Out" again and share how the denial of our rights has affected us personally. While there is a time for confrontation, we must also learn the importance of speaking from the heart, of sharing our stories.

Thank you, Judy Garland!

Club Townsend (Act 2)

Paul stood outside the entrance to the Club Townsend. The ramp leading up to its main door switched back and forth on itself like those narrow, mountain roads that he had bicycled in Veneto years before. He wondered how he had arrived at this spot, a place so different from the heart of Vicenza where he had spent the last few years of his adolescence.

Back then Paul lived a life that was carefree, almost Bohemian. On the small, monthly stipend sent to him by his parents, he rented a small flat and was able to travel and eat well. He made friends along the cities that dotted the east - west rail, from Milano to Venezia. They were mostly older, married men with wives and families who enjoyed some cock on the side. He even enjoyed the occasional tryst with a local, handsome priest who demonstrated far too much expertise than one might expect from a celibate cleric.

Paul thought of that first blow job in a doorway off the Piazza del Signore in the shadow of Palladio's great edifice. The priest pushed Paul against the heavy, wooden door and almost tore off Paul's pants. Then he knelt in supplication to Paul's rising cock, as if he was conducting mass before the altar. Paul knew that his cock was impressive, nine inches. His trim torso made it seem even bigger, a phallus worthy of worship. The Sacred Eucharist. The priest paused for a moment, looked down to arrange his cassock on the cobblestones, and then ravenously took Paul's cock into his mouth. Paul could hear him stroking his own cock  beneath the folds of his black cloth. It took only a minute for Paul to explode inside the priest's mouth. Later, as they kissed deeply, Paul tasted the mild saltiness of his own cum for the first time.

During his time in Veneto, Paul enjoyed the adoration of many beautiful Italian men. He never felt lonely. What a contrast to the last nine months back in the States! After the initial two weeks as a collared boy, he began to feel taken for granted, neglected, nothing more than a trophy at the side of an older man.

More than twenty four hours had passed since Paul had sliced through his collar with a straight razor. For a few brief minutes, he had felt a rush of freedom, but that soon passed. Now he felt alone as he had stood on Folsom Street and watched the last few groups of men leave the clubs and backrooms. Without the collar, he felt abandoned in spite of the fact that he had removed it himself. He tried to imagine what his former sir might have said when he awoke alone with no one beside him.

For months now Paul had felt trapped. He had surrendered everything to his former sir: his apartment, his bank account, even his Leathers. In exchange Paul was given blue jeans, a pair of boots, a belt, and a leather coat.

"your Gear is Mine now. you'll have to earn it back piece by piece."

Paul liked the challenge, and he thought of the scenes that he won, rewarded not only with tangible Leather but also with a growing sense of self-worth. Scenes were more of a brutal sport than consensual sex to him. And when he played, he played to win.

Paul slowly moved his hand to the growing bulge within his jeans. He felt his cock slowly began to fill the left leg beside his hip pocket, the cock head slowly defining itself in indigo.

Paul thought of another man who had tried to tame him years before, a working class Vicentino who lived in the old section of the city. After moving to Vicenza, Paul bumped into this man about once a week. A coincidence, he first thought. But after an entire winter of chance meetings and furtive glances from his admirer, he realized he was being stalked. He met him in the Piazza returning to work after pranzo. He saw him at the market shopping for fresh produce. Paul even met him one day outside the Questura after renewing his student visa. This man was following him like a predator, driven more by instinct than intellect.

One warm June day Paul realized that this knowledge could be the catalyst that could reverse the dynamic of the hunt. Paul began noting the exact times of their encounters and the specific locations in the city. In anticipation, he prepped himself for these encounters dressed in tight t-shirts and tailored trousers cut close around the crotch to show off the bulge of his semi-erect nine inch cock. And he noted the growing look of hunger in the man's eyes as he nonchalantly said "ciao" and waved whenever they met.

After a few weeks Paul decided to follow his admiring predator throughout the maze of the old city until he discovered his lair down the crooked, cobblestoned lane of Corso Fogazzaro. From the recessed doorway of the latteria across the street, Paul watched the man in his flat on the second floor, and he planned his ambush.

The next day Paul dressed in his best trousers and shirt, unbuttoning it in the exagerated style of the Italian men to reveal the flair of dark hair that crowned his chiseled pecs. He walked to the flat at Corso Fogazzaro and knocked loudly on the old door.

Paul stopped suddenly in his reverie, moving from Italia back to the darkened streets of San Francisco. He smiled as he realized that he had been stroking himself through his jeans, and that a middle-age gentleman stood before him doing the same. The gentleman looked lost in his suit and disheveled tie. Obviously still tipsy from a night slumming for young men south of Market. "Blow you for fifty," he offered.

Paul nodded without hesitation and motioned across the street to the vacant ramp of Club Townsend. Fifty would get him home, back to Seattle. Together they crossed the street and Paul extracted his cock, already hard and dripping. As the man dropped to his knees, Paul's thoughts returned to the handsome, rugged Italian behind the door.

The handsome Italian man smiled at Paul. He was surprised to see him on his threshold. In an attempt to demonstrate that he was not taken off guard, the man stammered a greeting. Then he flashed a quick grin at Paul and invited him inside. Paul immediately felt his cock grow hard and he instinctively thrust his pelvis forward. The man's eyes moved down to Paul's crotch in response.

"Ga' fame?" asked the man in local dialect.

Paul nodded as he watched the man retreat to his kitchen to fetch a snack for him. Yes, he felt hungry. Italians were always gracious hosts even when taken by surprise. After a few minutes the man emerged with a plate of biscotti and two cups of espresso on a serving tray decorated with putti. He motioned to a half empty bottle of clear alcohol on the sideboard and Paul nodded. Paul enjoyed the local custom of serving coffee laced with grappa. Caffe' corretto.

The man set the espresso and Italian cookies on the sideboard and filled each cup with the volatile, sweet liqueur. Then he handed one of them to Paul. The aroma of the elixir beckoned and the man nodded to Paul as if in obeisance to the smiling cupids on the tray.

With one rude gulp, Paul downed the espresso. The quick rush of the alcohol mixed with caffeine made him more bold and he inserted his right hand into his unbuttoned shirt in a Napoleonic gesture. His pectoral felt round and firm beneath his hand. He carressed it gently until his fingers found their way to his erect nipple. His cock pulsed against the linen of his slacks. And Paul turned to face the man head on so that he could plainly see Paul's crotch bulge. The man cast his eyes down and his jaw dropped open slightly.

"Cazzo," he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on Paul's member.

Paul knew that he could wait no longer. Setting down the cup, he stepped toward the man, grabbed him firmly behind the head, and forced his mouth against his own. Paul grabbed the man around the waist and held him fast as he struggled to drive his tongue between the man's pursed lips. The man struggled, but not enough to push Paul away. A sure sign that Paul should continue. Paul felt his tongue push against the man's clenched teeth and he held the man even tighter against him, pushing his erection into the man's abdomen. Then Paul moved his hand down, grabbing the man's ass. His ass cheek was a hard mound of muscle. Paul felt the man suddenly loosen his jaw enough so that Paul could drive his tongue deep within, so that he could savor the still fresh taste of the grappa inside the man's mouth.

"No!" the man protested as he drew back. "Go famegia," he said motioning in the direction of the photo on the wall.

Paul looked and saw a woman and two younger girls in a gilded frame. The image of the man's family filled him with remorse and he drew back toward the door.

As soon as Paul drew away the man rushed to block his exit. Turning to face Paul, the man reached behind his back and locked the door. Then he looked directly at his victim, unfastened his belt, and stepped toward him. Paul immediately understood that he had no escape, that he had no choice but to submit. He smiled. This was far more than he had hoped for.

Without a word the man threw Paul up against the wall, yanked down his trousers, and shoved his hard dick against his asshole. Paul felt the man's uncut cock push against him and he tried to wrestle himself free.  But the man held him against the wall, pressing Paul's face against the white plaster. Then he heard the man spit and felt a searing pain, the pain of a cock entering his tight asshole. Like a hot poker, he felt the man's erect cock ram into his insides and he felt himself cry out. The man continued, as if Paul's cry was encouragement, and he forced his cock deeper and deeper inside Paul's ass. Finally Paul succumbed, a helpless victim.

Paul felt his cock throb and he felt his load well up deep beneath his balls. Without warning, he shot, his engorged cock head throbbing in synch with his stifled moans.

Then Paul looked down. The Italian scene was gone. In its place, the empty ramp of Club Townsend and the gentleman in the suit and tie kneeling before him. A ribbon of cum covered the man's nose and lips.

"Fuck, that felt good," Paul growled to the gentleman, pocketing the fifty still clasped in his fist. "Thanks, buddy! That felt fuckin' great! I needed that."

Paul smiled. He honestly felt good. And as he patted his pocket with the fifty he knew that everything was going to be OK.

Fucking boy! (Act 1)

Paul slowly unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his engorged cock. he felt that final pulse of blood that signaled his full arousal. Like a cat, he stood poised and ready to pounce on his prey.

“Now fuck ME, boy!” his Sir said sternly. “Fill my fucking hole with your cum!”

As Sir’s collared boy, Paul felt compelled to do as commanded. Spitting on his hand, he stroked the length of his hard shaft. Then he took a deep breath and shoved his cock hard inside Sir’s guts, not pausing to inquire whether he was too forceful. he rammed his cock in deep and pulled it out quickly. And he thrust it in again. Paul knew that his eagerness bordered on insubordination but he did not care.

“Not so fucking hard, boy!” roared Sir. But Paul felt Sir’s insides spasm, betraying the harsh reprimand.

Paul pulled his cock out of Sir’s ass, exposing the swollen head with admiration. he paused, and then he thrust it in again even harder than before. he felt his balls slap Sir’s taint and heard Sir groan in pain and ecstasy. he pushed against Sir’s shoulder blades and furiously fucked Him with abandon.

Earlier that night it was Paul who played victim. he had felt the flowers of pain bloom beneath the tails of a buffalo hide flogger. The flogger was wielded by a six foot two, muscled MASTER with dark eyes and even darker skin. A GREAT DARK MAN. Paul had noticed HIM at the Drummer contest hours before. It was hard NOT to notice HIM, HIS perfectly rounded pecs and erect nipples framed by HIS black leather vest. HIS enormous arms were as big around as Paul’s well-developed thighs. Paul tracked HIM all evening with a nonchalance that denied his visceral attraction to HIM. Paul knew that if Sir saw him staring, He would consider it disrespectful and would take him back to the hotel immediately. Paul felt Sir’s collar grow heavier around his neck, an albatross, a constant reminder that he was Sir’s boy.

During the Drummer contest Paul sensed that Sir was also drawn to this beautiful Black MASTER. he watched as Sir’s gaze devoured the broad back and muscled arms of this MAN sitting just rows ahead. Subsequently, Sir began paying less and less attention to the boy by His side. Paul could tell that Sir was scheming. Paul knew that Sir loved the chase more than the prize, and that He was looking for a way to attract this MAN's attention. But the MASTER's gaze was more rapt in the contest than in the sycophant Sir three rows back.

Immediately following the contest Sir and boy followed the MASTER out of the club, along Folsom Street and into one of the crowded bars. Sir entered the bar first, leaving the boy on the sidewalk as He surveyed the scene. Paul slowly entered on his own and worked his way back to Sir's side. Sir's eyes moved from the MASTER to other bar patrons. Busy cruising, Sir barely paid the requisite attention to His boy to insure that others would leave him alone. As the evening wore on Paul felt abandoned in spite of the leather band around his neck. he could have been a boy out cruising alone on a Saturday night. Paul had experienced other nights like this before and felt vindicated in his fascination with this handsome MASTER.

Last call, and Paul noticed a group of men stealthily moving toward the back of the bar while the rest of the patrons began filing out. he noticed that his GREAT DARK MAN also began to slowly move to the back. HE brushed past Paul and his Sir as they moved to the door.

“Where are you going, handsome?” HE asked Paul before noticing the collar. “Oh, excuse me,” HE apologized to Sir. “ I didn’t realize the boy was yours.”

Seizing the opportunity, Sir responded quickly, “Please, take him if you want him. Help yourself.” And he shoved Paul toward the MASTER. Sir knew that this constituted an invitation to an exclusive, after hours party during Folsom and He wanted to take advantage of it.

Minutes later the doors closed, lights flashed on, and the men began filling up the space once again. Ropes and bondage devices seemed to appear out of nowhere, and handcuffs were taken from belts and placed on wrists. Paul felt the powerful hands of the MASTER take his forearms and lead him underneath a hook in the ceiling.

“Thank you,” the MASTER said to Sir. “A hot boy, and I intend to use him hard. I like cute, White boys.” The MASTER then tied Paul’s arms together and hung them from the hook above. As HE approached, Paul smelled the heavy aroma of the MASTER, the smell of sweat mixed with well-conditioned Leather. Then he felt the MAN's lips against his own, soft yet masculine, and he felt HIS strong tongue force itself into his mouth. Paul realized that he would do anything to please this MASTER.

Drawing back slightly, Paul heard the MASTER whisper so only he could hear, “I am going to take you further than you have ever gone before. We will go together. And if you please me, I will let you suck My big cock. Is that what you want, boy?”

Paul nodded slightly and caught his Sir out of the corner of his eye, at the bar sucking face with another man. Paul turned his head away to give full attention to the MASTER’s orders.

Hours later back in the Best Western, Paul felt tired. his back was welted and sore. he could feel blood still wet on his skin. And he basked in the glow of endorphins caused by the beating he had endured at the hands of his GREAT DARK MAN. The sight of his Sir prostrate on the bed distracted him from what he really wanted to do, shoot his load to consummate his night.

Paul felt his cum well up deep within, his cock like the string of a bow taunt against the grip of his Sir’s asshole. he knew that Sir wanted more than a remedial fuck. he knew that Sir expected Paul to hump him until Sir finally came, a sign that Paul’s role would be over. Then Sir would roll over and Paul would be left on his own to stroke himself off as he had done many times before. Paul felt himself change rhythm, his thrusts stuttering and jerking as a warning that he was close.

Paul shot his load deep inside his Sir. his hot jizz exploded in tandem with the forceful contractions of his abdominals. Sir moaned in response as Paul felt his warm cum surround his cock buried deep inside Sir’s guts. Then pushing even harder on Sir’s shoulders, Paul arched his back and withdrew his dripping cock.

“I want more!” Sir growled. “GIVE ME MORE OF THAT COCK!” He commanded.

Without thinking, Paul rolled his Sir over and shoved his pelvis forward so that his cock was before Sir’s lips. Sir hungrily took Paul’s cock into his mouth and rolled over to suck it better. Paul watched as Sir slowly drew His legs up closer to His chest in a fetal gesture while He stroked His shaft, deep-throating Paul’s cock madly. Now it was Paul’s turn to groan. his red glans, still swollen, could hardly endure the attention of Sir’s mouth and tongue. Paul tried to withdraw his cock but Sir’s mouth held him fast.

After what seemed like hours, Sir finally came, shooting cum over the white sheets.

“UHHHHH–“ Sir muttered long and loud as He pushed Paul off and rolled over to the other side of the bed.

Paul looked at Sir. he thought of the hours spent in play with the MASTER earlier that night. he thought of HIS soft lips, HIS firm whisper, and the strong caress that ended the scene.

Paul swung his legs over the side of the bed. he walked to the bathroom and grabbed the straight razor that he always kept in his shaving kit to groom his Sir. he looked at its brilliant blade gleaming in the street light coming through the window. he took a deep breath and raised the razor slowly to his neck. Closing his eyes, he knew what he had to do. Paul grabbed the collar and held it. he cut through the heavy latigo and released it with its heavy lock. They fell with a clang on the cold tile at his feet.

Paul walked out of the bathroom and looked at the man who had once been his Sir. Paul had loved him once, more than he loved himself. He had surrendered everything to be with this man: his bank account, his home, even his friends. He closed his eyes and listened to the familiar harsh breathing.

Then he grabbed his leather coat and, still half naked, walked out of the hotel room and into the night, leaving his collared life behind him forever.

The Leather Burka

This week the new Folsom Streetfair poster was released. Pictured in the center of a group of naked individuals of various builds and ages, my friend Race Bannon wearing nothing but a smile. Race has been a clarion voice throughout the decades, a man respected for his expertise and intelligence. And, as can be seen on the poster, Race continues to be a handsome man who obviously is very comfortable with himself.

When I was a Leatherboy and received my first item of Gear, I was told that Leather was my second skin. Lee Willis, of StudWerks fame, instructed me that Leather was meant to accentuate the body. His work was always cut to show off the shape of the man wearing his Gear. His chaps perfectly framed the crotch, ass, and legs of the wearer.

Essentially, Leather as second skin points to that first skin that we were born with. Tom of Finland's images serve as perfect illustrations of this concept. Leathermen stand erect in full Gear, cocks outlined distinctly and chests puffed out beneath tight, black hides. Tom shows men who are not frightened of their bodies. These are proud men who openly celebrate their sexuality without reserve often in outdoor settings. These images continue to stir us in their depiction of Gay Leather sexuality.

During my travels in the United States over the last two years, I have heard a number of men in the Community state that dominant men should not show off their naked bodies. Indeed, some claim canonical support for this view by stating that a sir or master must always be covered up by his Leather. "Only boys should be naked," they proclaim.

With no disrespect to its religious use, Leather is not a burka. When worn as fetish Gear, Leather as second skin accentuates our first skin. It is not meant to cover or hide the wearer from the gaze of the viewer, or to act as a  costume. Leather Gear worn well does just the opposite. It catalyzes the gaze so that the viewer senses the heightened sexuality of the wearer.

My Leather exacerbates my sexual state. It creates a sense of power and freedom that usually culminates with me dropping my pants and fucking. At the end of play in a public dungeon, I enjoy stripping off my Gear to expose myself not only to the boy but to whoever else is watching. I enjoy it when the boy looks back at me with admiration and lust, and rubs his hands across my chest, down my abdomen, and along my growing cock. This is the logical conclusion of the narrative suggested by the Gear that I had donned just moments before.

As I man who loves Leather Gear, I have noticed that men who are proud of their bodies are also those who wear Gear well. They exude a pride that fills out their Leather. These are the men that make me look and take notice, leaving me nursing my engorged cock within my Leather trousers.

I salute my peers who demonstrate confidence in their skins, who do not wear their Leather as disguise. Together with them, I feel comfortable wearing only a smile.

Living in Darkness

This week the Huffington Post featured an article on the International Mr. Leather contest in Chicago together with archival footage from the 1986 event. This was the first year that I heard of IML. I recall fantasizing about being in the audience together with hundreds of hot, sexually liberated Leathermen. It became the nexus of many long, solo sessions late at night, a dog-eared copy of Drummer magazine usually by my side.

Drummer occupied a place of prominence during those first few years of sexual exploration. Stories, photographs, and classifieds graced its pages, drawing me deeper into a world as enticing as the Life magazine photo of the Toolbox that held me in awe many years before. A voyeuristic peek at a forbidden world where men masked themselves with the darkness of that place.

Until the mid-eighties, Leather was nothing more than a peepshow as far as the public was concerned. People knew that it existed and usually avoided its locales. Gathering places were primarily in industrial neighborhoods of the city, areas where men could be left alone to grope each other in the dead of night. Even though photographers and film makers occasionally invaded these haunts, Leather remained outside the  fabric of American life. To the uninitiated, Leather was nothing more than a source of shock and titillation.

As a young, married man in the late seventies, I knew exactly where to find Leather bars in New York City. I remember in 1979 standing outside the bars night after night. I longed for a tough Leatherman to force me to come with him, thus destroying any hope of returning to my wife and child. Even as a church going Mormon who avoided porn, I somehow knew where to find Leather.

After coming out in the mid-eighties, I began to see Leathermen away from Leather bars and cruising grounds. In 1986 I recall seeing the participants of the first Living in Leather enter Big Eddie's Vine Street Station, a Gay establishment close to the Seattle Center. As I sat eating my spaghetti and listening to the jazz singer in the adjoining lounge, I watched as these Leatherfolk chatted between themselves. I found it both confusing and exciting to see these men and women clad in full Gear beneath the glaring neon lights of the restaurant.

As I watched them closely, the waiter remarked, "You don't see THAT everyday in here!"

While I acknowledged his remark, I realized that I wanted something more than the occasional invitation to the Boxing Club or to the private sanctuary of an older man's bedroom. I wanted to be a fully acknowledged member of that self-identified group.

I learned later that this group of men and women had a primary role in forming the epistemology of Leather, that public discourse upon which the community would grow. They examined the activities in bars, dungeons, and clubs and codified a "dictionary" that defined not only the fledgling community but acted as a guide for its future adherents. Given that I was still fairly new in the scene, I felt that this made entering the community quite a bit easier, faster. And tenets like "safe, sane, and consensual" gave me the security to satisfy my hunger for the unknown with the ease of consuming fast food.

Perhaps this move was inevitable, like the early Christians attempting to preserve the teachings of their rebellious leader who had just been put to death, a means of retaining a way of life that was threatened by the casualties from AIDs. As the death toll grew, so did comments leveled at our community. Fringe sexual practices and those who engaged in such practices became fodder for the creation of a discourse on safe sex. By creating an epistemology of fringe sexual behavior, Leatherfolk could defend themselves in open forums. And, with the passing of so many handsome, sexually active men, Leatherfolk could facilitate the continuance of a lifestyle that was threatened by pestilence.

I recall the feeling among my Gay friends in Seattle at that time, that AIDS was a syndrome that afflicted only Leathermen and drug users. Many moralized on the perils of Gay promiscuity and the dangers inherent outside of "protected" sex. What they did not know was that their moralizing had the opposite effect on me. It served as a catalyst that drove me deeper and deeper into the Leather and kink scene in search of a world absent of the sexual mores I recognized as heteronormative.

In the late eighties, new Leather clubs and organizations were founded, bolstering this new epistemology. With a pair of boots, jeans, and an initiation fee one could become an instant member of the Leather community. Most founders of these clubs felt strongly that Leather should be openly accessible to encourage growth in the community. After learning to play hard and relying on older men to introduce me into the scene, I felt cheated. Essentially, I felt as if those long hours of play and perversity were devalued by an annual fee. In spite of my feelings, I joined the a club, too.

Many within these organizations felt that it was important to validate Leather through community service, thus, insuring a place at the Gay table. Although most service was primarily in support of those who were suffering with AIDS, a number of individuals began to move outside of this frame. Our drive to help our afflicted brothers soon changed the identity of Leather. No longer primarily defined by outsider sexual behavior, the community was transformed into a fundraising dynamo.

Weekend long events were an essential part of these clubs and organizations. The National Leather Association's "Living in Leather" grew from that small gathering in 1986 to a large hotel based event in just a few years, an event for both the initiated and the curious. LIL played a vital role in the expanding the epistemology of Leather by presenting experienced players in classroom settings who shared both effectual and safer practices. I remember attending my first LIL. After a weekend full of instruction and demonstrations, I felt that my slow apprenticeship could be considered over. I no longer had to rely on the slow progression of information obtained through my participation in play. Instead, I could attend a few workshops during a weekend event and pass as an experienced player.

At events like LIL, I found myself liberated from the light deprived bars and backrooms in order to find perverse sex. A quick flash of my bare ass cheeks in a jock at a sponsored gathering guaranteed that I would have sex. And, if I wanted more, I simply had to show up at one of the event's play parties and a dungeon master would play matchmaker to find a dominant person who could cater to my exact desire.

By the late nineties, I felt that Leather was no longer a gnostic tradition practiced within the monastic confines of dark bars and cruising areas. It was now an open sect with an established catechism based on practices believed to mimic those of an "Old Guard." Many sought to codify behaviors, creating protocols from the training that older men provided to us years before. These protocols did not reflect my own experience and I often wondered if I simply had not played with the right men.

I feel fortunate to have played with those men. They focused on sex, on helping me expand the canvas of my experience, on unlocking new erotic areas of my body, on new sensations. They advised me about safer sex practices and sexually transmitted diseases without moralizing. Their advise often went against the prevalent sexual discourse on the subject. In the mid eighties, for example, water sports and fisting were demonized. My mentors were quick to point out that these practices were considered unsafe simply because they were not accepted by the mainstream. They also considered it important to instruct me on modes of dress to attract hot, masculine men, and they showed me where to find them. On occasion, I felt like a young animal learning how to hunt, my mentor playing the lead in finding a sexual partner and then taking a back seat while I fed my sexual hunger.

Today I find myself blinking in the light of the public display of my fetishes. No longer hidden by the darkness, I am forced to ask what drew me to Leather. Was it the phenomenon of endorphin play, the desire to experience the high of extreme physical behavior? Was it the extreme masculinity that I craved that I could not find in the Gay world at large? Or was I drawn to Leather by the promise of liberation through the embracing of taboo? And what made me a Leatherman? Was it participation in clubs and organizations throughout the years? Or was it the paternal guidance of a select few who responded to my sexual hunger?

Every day on the Internet I receive invitations to be someone's "Sir" or "Master." Most present me with long shopping lists of activities they want to engage in, along with a firm list of things that they absolutely do not want to explore. When I read these invitations I reflect back on my own initial dalliances into the scene. I think of the excitement I felt when an older man would invite me to his home, or when he would ask me to accompany him to a private gathering. Then I think of the trust that developed slowly through play that allowed me to let explore my body without parameters. No Safe, Sane, and Consensual, or RACK prologues. No lists. Only the knowledge that I had been admitted to a world of sexual adventure that existed in my darkest fantasies, and the subsequent feeling of kinship that came from sharing that adventure with another, more experienced man.

Heart of Darkness

It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core. Joseph Conrad

As a Leatherman I acknowledge that the dungeon is an empty stage where anything can happen. The arena of the heart. A dark space waiting to be filled.

The dominant man often believes that he controls the situation. Indeed, the responses of the submissive man bolster this perception. This is the dangerous lie of Leatherplay.

At best the dominant man shepherds the responses that come from play, untamed beasts from the deep desires of the submissive man. One cannot control these responses. And while players may approach their interaction with a modicum of precaution, they realize that safe play cannot exist.

The interactions between players establish the exchange of power and, thus, become an invisible third in the dungeon. Together they become the echo that resounds long after the play ceases.

After decades of play, I recognize that I am one of the Hollow Men. And when I play, I revel in the void, that darkness that castrates the socially constructed phallus. This is the nature of my Leatherplay.