Overwhelmed by crowds of geared-up men at my first leather event, a Tom of Finland “Butt Boy” party in Hollywood, I escaped to an outdoor patio for a cigarette. I was in my late 20s, in the mid-1990s, wearing gear I’d purchased specifically for the event: a harness, armbands, a classic leather cap, leather shorts, and boots from an army surplus store on Santa Monica Blvd. With my naked back against a cool brick wall, I watched as men drifted between rooms while I pulled casually on my cigarette, hoping to look like I belonged.
Apparently, I did.
A beautiful shirtless blonde guy around my age, in jeans and boots, caught my eye and walked toward me.
While I was still trying to figure out what to say to him, he got on his knees, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head, causing an intoxicating wave of sexual arousal to wash through me. I discovered a new reality. Clouds parted. The skies opened. The leather gods smiled down upon me.
At least that’s how it felt.
Instinctively, I reached out and stroked his short-cropped hair.
“Thank you, sir!” He said.
And then…I had no idea what to do. No. Fucking. Idea.
I honestly don’t remember what happened to that guy. All I know is he disappeared. And that scene played itself in my head repeatedly for over a decade.
Searching for answers on my own got me nowhere, so at 41, I entered my first leather contest because I wanted to know what to do if that opportunity presented itself again.
For the non-leather-folk “muggles,” it may be necessary to give some context to these rituals. Just like the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, the Leather World has its own press, its own houses, and its own politics.
Each contest (each “house”), from Eagle LA to International Mister Leather (IML), sets its own rules for who is allowed to compete, the criteria for winning, and the responsibilities of the winning titleholder.
Each house has its own special magic and wants to know if their contestants have the magical qualities that their house values. The judges of the contest act as the sorting hat.
If I sponsored a contest, I’d let the judges know I’m looking for men who like sex, power exchange protocols, dancing, empathy, directness, self-reliance, respect, loyalty, and honesty. I’m not great at all those qualities, but I would enjoy being with men pursuing them.
A different house might focus on people who like quoting leather history, fundraisers, hyper-inclusivity, etc.
Every house (club, organization) gets to be exactly what they want to be. The contest doesn’t care. Go ahead and put it in the blender. We’ll see what comes out.
Most contests follow the same format, which I have come to respect as a ritualized liturgy: Meet and Greet, Interview, Speech, Bar-wear, Jockstrap, and Announcement of the Winners.
The liturgy provides a structure for us to sort out what’s important to us individually and collectively.
It provides an arena for confronting questions like: Who are we as a community? Who am I as an individual in this community? Do I belong here, or am I just trying to fit in?
It’s the kind of self-reflection that happens in private therapy sessions, meditation retreats, or when laying awake at 3 a.m. wondering, “What’s the purpose of my life?”
Most often, a sense of community, meaning, and purpose is evoked, which is why we keep doing it.
However, sometimes the message from the contest is, “You guys are not aligned on what’s important, and you’ll suffer until it’s sorted out. You have work to do!”
Even when contests have melted down, the leather community has learned important lessons. Do our judges reflect our values? What are our values? Are we curious about new ideas? Do we have limits? Are we communicating our expectations?
My personal relationship with the contest has fluctuated wildly from joy to contempt and back again. I won three competitions and enjoyed being famous, thinking it would fix all my doubts regarding my sexuality and self-worth. It didn’t.
The contest taught me that I had work to do. I had to decide for myself who I am and find the organization where I belong instead of petitioning organizations for membership that require me to change something about myself to fit in.
I also learned, and I’m not sure where, how to accept the gift of a beautiful sub kneeling at my feet. I can leave my hand there on his head, neck, or shoulder while I finish my cigarette. No words are n
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