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Thursday, October 12, 2006
Do these chaps make my me look fat?
No, it’s your ass that makes you look fat. Actual
dialogue from backstage at a leather contest. And no, it wasn’t from
me. It’s kind of when I decided that maybe, just maybe, this whole
leather thing wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Before
I go any further. Let me say that these are MY observations and MY
feelings. I don’t mean to piss anyone off in the leather community by
painting with a broad brush. I’m just saying that in my years being
involved with the community, the decline I witnessed, and that I will
be speaking of is my own sense and vision.
I first got
involved with “leather play” at the ripe old age of (again, younger
than legally able to serve our country). A married guy that I was
“dating” asked if it would be OK if he tied me up. Sure, what the hell.
And it sort of snowballed from there. I didn’t become involved in the
“leather community” though until 1990. This was a transforming time for
it. Many clubs were changing from pay and play to community activism.
Many members were dying at a much too young age from AIDS and no one
seemed to give a shit. The leather community mobilized and many clubs,
at least the ones I was familiar with became key players in fund
raising and assisting those affected by this horrible disease, no
matter what their orientation. I jumped in both feet first. It was fun.
I got to do a lot of good, and I got to get a lot of good sex. For
several years, I was proud to be a part of the community and didn’t
mind working my ass of for it, and the good works it was doing. I even
made the decision, that surprisingly went over fairly well, that I was
going to start doing drag as a way to earn more funds for the community
services that assisted those with AIDS. I was fab-u-lous. A big guy,
turned into a big gurl. I was Iona Trailer, Queen of the Doublewides.
At first it seemed like I was Sybil. Leatherman by day, Drag Queen by
night. Reality was though… I wasn’t a leatherman. A good, close friend
of mine who was a LEATHERMAN asked me one time if I considered myself a
leatherman. He had a way of reading your mind, and not once did I ever
try to bullshit him. I said no, I wasn’t. He said he knew. He said I
was a pig, and leathermen just looooooooved pigs. But I digress…
In
the late 90’s something happened. Leather became more of a fashion
statement. A lot of the clubs began holding local, regional, state, and
national leather contests. It became less and less about the character
and quality of a person, and more about how well he filled out a pair
of 501’s and chaps. There were several title holders about that didn’t
have a clue as to what the history of the community was, where it began
and came from, or even the most rudimentary skills required for
flinging a flogger correctly, or dripping hot wax without causing
serious damage. Also during this time, some members f the community, on
the local and national level began to raise themselves up as pillars of
Leatherdom. Some deserved it. Some did not. Some earned the respect
they commanded, and others felt it was their destiny, by doing nothing
other than pointing out their own importance. My LEATHERMAN friend
listened to my compalints and concerns and told me that the only thing
that was important was for me to stand up for my own ideals. That if I
was willing to bear the brunt of some serious backlashes, in the long
run it would show my character, and theirs. So I did. I tried to
integrate our club to the leatherwomen who had been so supportive of
our club. I tried to insure that the pledges coming in had an idea of
what the history was. I tried to point out that leather was not, and
should not be about being pretty. And I paid a price. And I didn’t
care. I could look at myself in the mirror, and know I was standing up
for my ideals, not bowing to the pressure of some self adulating, self
appointed keeper of the status-quo. I left the leather community and
never looked back. I didn’t wish them ill will. I wished them success,
and continued growth, but without me.
Since then, most of the
clubs I had known have since seen their ranks shrink. Leather contests
are fewer, and a feeling of lets get together, party and fuck is slowly
returning to the community as it was in the pre 90’s. I wish them well.
Now, less serious… Hankie Codes. Could you just scream? When I
first came out, there was Black, Grey, Red, Yellow, Dark Blue, Light
Blue, White, and Brown. Very easy to distinguish. You’re in a bar,
sucking on a Bud (the beer, not the guy… or, well, maybe the guy too…)
and you see a hot number that’s just your style walk by. Jeez, I wonder
if he’s a top or a bottom. One gander at his ass and you’d know not
only what he was, but what he was into. Red left meant you were going
to be sitting on his lap playing Charlie McCarthy. Light blue right
meant you were going to probably have to pull your dick off his
tonsils. Grey right meant you were going to have to stop at Home Depot
on the way home and pick up some clothesline. Then it came to pass, we
started into shades. Like, uhmmm, I’m color blind. I can tell red, I
can tell brown. I can’t tell the difference between apricot, orange and
coral. We won’t even go into the fuchsia, mauve, lavender, purple, dark
pink, magenta family. And wash a yellow hankie once and POOF, it’s
light yellow, and someone spitting in your face, instead of pissing in
it. DON’T JUDGE ME 
And I’m sorry, but apricot is the most stupid color of all. I don’t
have to wear an apricot hankie in my left pocket to let everyone know
I’m a chubby. And that skinny little man chasing after me with a 50
count box of Dunkin Donuts Munchkins does not need an apricot hankie in
his right pocket to let me know he’s chubby chaser. (Goddess bless his
soul) And the worst mistake of all. NEVER, EVER wash a green hankie
with a black t-shirt. It turns brown, and the next thing you know you
got some guy wanting to do to you what you yell at the dog for doing on
the carpet. Now it’s moved into objects. Toothbrushes, teddy bears,
cupie dolls, sandwich bags. SANDWICH BAGS! Puh-leeeza Gibbons… Here’s a
nice idea. You see a hottie. You walk up and offer to buy him a drink.
You talk. Jeez, no I never considered having someone put both their
hands up my ass and clapping. Havta go now. No dark red hankie needed.
Or, yeah, I really would like to fuck you for 6 straight hours, my
place OK? No dark blue hankie or toothbrush required.
If you
want to pee yourself, read this little anecdote. My best friend and I
were attending a leather run. The guy I was dating at the time (the
aforementioned confused gay/bi/top/bottom guy) decided he was going to
enthrall the after hours party with a display of his topping talents.
My friend and I assumed the position and he began to flog us with his
200 dollar black leather gold lame trimmed flogger. My friend was
attempting to light a cigarette because he was so bored, so I lit it
for him and handed it to him during a break in my flogging, which he
began to smoke and blow smoke rings. I fell asleep. Yup. Fell asleep
while being flogged. Not only that, but I snored, and drooled. My
boyfriend was furious. My friend had to wake me up, and the playroom
sounded like a night at the Improv. It wasn’t much after that when my
boyfriend became my ex… oh, and a bottom.
I do miss those fun
days in the leather community. Some of the funniest things happened in
my time there. The time I got my head stuck in a window on the 11th
floor of the Holiday Inn, Thomas Circle in Washington DC being a
wiseass, wrapping my head in Christmas twinkle lights and singing Don’t
Cry For Me Argentina out the window and had to have maintenance come up
to remove the pane. The time I knocked a tooth loose when I was rimming
a guy and my hand slipped in some lube and my face hit the floor. The
time my best friend and I discovered we were blowing each other in a
massive pile of men. The time I actually decided to top someone and in
the dark reached for the lube and discovered a half an hour later it
was Bacitracin. Or the time I got totally shitfaced, picked up what I
thought was a really hot trick, broght him back to the hotel room and
proceeded to schtook like bunnies all night, only to wake up and see
Quasi-Moto laying there. Well, not Quasi-Moto, but a defintate
departure from the man I had seen the night before through my Bacardi
soaked vision. My best friend laying in the next bed, non-chalantly
smoking a Marlboro, at seeing my distress calmly said “Honey, ugly men
have penises too. You just increased your Karma 10 fold”. Luckily for
me, he was an extremely nice guy, someone I’m glad I got to be friends
with, and someone I still see once in awhile to this day. And while he
may not be the most attractive person on the planet, just like me,
Quasi-Moto he is not. My Karma did raise 10 fold because I got to have
him as my friend. (luv ya, H.)
Be happy
Posted at 11:57 am by energyball
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