Leather Bound #26

After winning the Mr. Philadelphia Leather 2008 title, I was given some great advice by both the contest producer, Jim K-Z, and the contest sponsor, Jim Madden, owner of the Bike Stop bar.  The advice was simple: Have fun!

Pretty easy, huh?

Within days of the contest, I received invitations to events where I could “represent” the community and support (or organize) fundraisers for various causes.   And initially I wanted to do it all… to “represent” as a goodwill ambassador in badass Nasty Pig gear, yes, but also to show off the medal and title vest.  

In fact, not being one who believes in moderation, within days of the contest I not only had my title patch sewn onto a vest, but I put plans into motion for a Scott Daddy bobble head doll… well, it was either a bobble head or a Pez dispenser, and I would have been disturbed by the image of people giving me a tracheotomy for a sweet and tart treat.

When the bobble head doll arrived around the holiday season, my mischievous boy, eryc, aptly remarked that it was especially ridiculous, given that my head doesn’t generally bob up and down.  We all had a good laugh over that—things are funny when they’re based on truth.

But I love the outrageous silliness of the doll, which was modeled on one of the victory photographs taken at the contest.  It is a fun thing to have and, I think, shows that I didn’t take myself so seriously all the time. 

In hindsight, I probably moved so quickly in my celebrations to convince myself that it all really happened.  Talk about reversal of fortune!

When I attended my first leather run with my boy, we were completely rejected.  The event was the American Brotherhood Weekend 2003, held at that time in the Washington Plaza, the same host hotel for Mid-Atlantic Leather (MAL).   The lobby was filled with titleholders and their friends and their chasers.  I distinctly remember how it felt to extend my hand out to these leather folk, to introduce myself, and to be ignored or disregarded.  Some folks acknowledged me and my boy then turned away; others wouldn’t even accept our hands for a simple shake or say hello.

Our experience there was that only titleholders were truly welcomed.  I questioned whether it was worth exploring the community at all.  Would I need to be a titleholder to be appreciated?  And if I did, what did I have to offer (besides being someone a little more friendly than what I’d encountered)?

Luckily I made friends in the Philadelphia area—the first being Jim K-Z, who at the time was the reigning Mr. Philadelphia Leather.   Through email correspondence, get-togethers at the Bike Stop and at friends’ homes, he showed me the unique spirit of brotherhood that the Philadelphians MC and their friends fostered. 

Although I didn’t think that their club was right for me—they were too drag-centric and not nearly kinky enough for me—I genuinely enjoyed their company when I attended their events.  Who wouldn’t get a kick out of watching leather men recreating Dreamgirls or a poolside tribute to the films of Esther Williams with synchronized diving?  It was absurd and surreal, which I could appreciate more in others than in myself.

When Jim first contacted me about participating in a kinky carnival fundraiser, I agreed to do some violet wand play.  It took a little bit of time (and liquor) for folks to warm up to me, but shortly after 11pm there wound up being a line!   I began to build a reputation for electro and, later, fire play. 

Although I never really developed great social skills or the ability to schmooze, it was quite exciting and a boost to the ego to have people waiting in line to take off their clothes and get zapped by me.   Now this was community service that I could get into!

Later I was asked to offer a little lecture and hands-on demonstrations for the kids at the University of Pennsylvania.  How could I resist?  I couldn’t.  (But I did refrain from asking them to remove clothes when I realized that not only could I be their Daddy, but I was old enough to be their father.)

One year Jim invited us to a Halloween party being held by friends of his.  As it turns out, the couple were college professors in the field of human sexuality… and before I knew it, we became close friends and they asked my two partners and me to speak to their class about polyamory and life in a triad relationship.  Of course, that invitation came after they, as qualified subject matter experts, informed us over dinner that size really does matter. 

According to the experts, girth is more important than length.  My husband and boy agreed and felt validated.  I had been wrong on this matter, but was happy to hear the news. 

At any rate, suffice it to say that prior to being a titleholder, even though I still wasn’t in with the “in crowd,” my feet were already wet when it came to leather play and public presentations.  Right or wrong (and it’s probably wrong), I felt validated in my win. 

I was ready to enjoy the rewards that come along with the pageant circuit.  I was ready to kiss hands and shake babies and judge chili cook-offs.  And I did… well, except for the babies. 

So where did the fun go? 

Well, being someone who is prone to take himself entirely too seriously, I managed to forget the sage words of advice by my double dose of Jims.

Instead of continuing to enjoy the fun that led me to the contest, I discovered a sense of obligation to participate in events and to get involved, to organize, to make financial contributions, etc., even where no obligation truly exists.   Ironically, this sense of obligation came primarily from other titleholders, not from the greater community. 

It seems so many title holders out there—at least, some of the more vocal ones—have a profound sense of purpose.  They act as if their titles were received through divine providence and not awarded by a panel of judges; as if their perceived popularity and appointment represented some kind of calling by a higher power and didn't simply represent popular reactions to enthusiastic crotch-nuzzling during 50/50 sales. 

In short, many titleholders feel an unrealistic sense of entitlement and, consequently, inflated self worth and importance.  Some forget that there is no inherent power or worth that comes with being a titleholder, and that the only true value to a title comes from what the titleholder brings to it.

There is a danger here not only that titleholders come off as arrogant (which may or may not be true), but that we lose our joy in how we work with our respective communities because we take this self-importance so seriously as we crusade for whatever our particular cause might be.

On their surface, the actions of many titleholders seem completely altruistic as they take on their mission to build community, to educate and to raise funds.  

I applaud these noble aims.  I know it is hard work and, admittedly, I haven’t been terribly successful in my mission.

But since becoming a titleholder, I have found that most of my interaction has been with other titleholders, and not my local community.  Instead of playing and teaching and learning along with my comrades, I listen to bitching and pontificating from folks not involved within my local community.  We get so wrapped up in high pursuits that we sometimes lose patience with each other and resort to our more base natures.

In truth, I've heard some real wisdom from some titleholders.  But also lots of proof that superegos are usually super damaged egos. 

And it didn’t take long for me to perceive (rightly or wrongly) that many events that appeared to be about fundraising or community building, were really only platforms for self promotion and aggrandizement, and opportunities to build up friends/supporters’ public personas while dismissing others.

Such a waste of energy.

It may be a slight exaggeration to say that if a certain titleholder farted at a public event, there is a class of titleholders ready to send a note of congratulations on a yahoo group proclaiming it was the most beautiful music ever heard.  And, inevitably, another titleholder who proclaims himself (or herself) a dinosaur will chime in and quote his (or her) self about another crap in the woods that took place 18 years before.  And then another dialogue will start about how life was so much better 18 years ago, how the community was so much tighter then, more fun, more this and more that… 

Reading these threads makes your head hurt and your heart ache. 

I've heard complaints that attendance at leather events in general seems to be going down, and that it’s getting harder to find people to compete these days in leather contests. 

Perhaps that’s because it’s just not fun being around many of these people, unless you enjoy laughing at the pathetic. I don’t (unless I’ve had one too many Kettle One with a splash of cranberry and a dash of lime.)

There is often a sense of righteousness among titleholders about serving the community that borders on (and sometimes crosses the line into) rude.  I don't know if it's based on overflated egos or over emphasis on the importance of building community, etc., but you quickly get the sense that if you don’t do as much as they do, if you don’t know as much as they do, if you haven’t raised as much money as they have … then you are nothing. 

And if you try to speak up for yourself, you’re called a hypocrite for having values different than their own.

Does that sound like a fun crowd to you? 

Egad, I’d rather have a full-body 40-year-old virgin wax job – including on my furry crack -- than to hang out with most “leather leaders” these days. 

(This is not to say that I’m opposed to all title circuits or all titleholders.  In fact, there are several friends that I love as extended members of my family who happen to be titleholders or past titleholders.  But I love them for who they are, not what they are or what I think they should be.)

It’s clear to me that there is a disconnect between many titleholders, who want to tell their communities what to do and what really matters to them, and the people that they ostensibly represent.

According to Wikipedia, the word community is derived from the Latin word communitas, meaning the same, and communis, meaning “common, public, shared by all or many.”  Today when we refer to social communities, we mean people who share similar characteristics or values. 

If we follow that definition, it seems to me that there is a community of titleholders and there is a general community of kinky and leather folk, and that they are separate.  There may be overlap between us, but there are also plenty of values and mores and attitudes that keep us apart.

It was a revelation to discover that I was always a part of the leather community, whether I felt like a part of it or not.  And that simply being a titleholder doesn't necessarily put me in that titleholder community.  I share more in common with the leather man on the street than a sash queen who believes he has the right and obligation to tell others how to think or how to feel or the self-important diva behind a microphone who insists on her own importance (and who insists that others are ignorant if they don't accept her importance).

We know what happens when so-called leaders decide what to do and don’t listen to the people that they are supposed to be serving.  The results can be disastrous.  One need look no further than Washington and Iraq to see the consequences.

Fortunately in our case, the results of bad leadership in the leather community are not fatal.  But they may be killing off what's been so special about our community. 

The trick to leadership is actually listening to those around you, considering their wants and needs, and then determining how to help everyone to get where they want to be.  The trick is not strong-arming or shaming others to do your will.  That is, and always will be, bullying.

And the punchline of this tragic comedy is that, for the most part, the general leather community—those folks who share common interests and values—aren’t looking to be led.  They have no need to be led.  Where would they be led to? 

At best, perhaps, a play party (although probably not in Philadelphia).  And at a play party, a pretty titleholder would probably be a cock blocker. 

But when you consider the common interests and values of the general leather and kink community -- we like to get geared up and to get off -- there's not a lot of important stuff that "leaders" are needed for.  So while a community at large might appreciate efforts by leaders to educate the courts and the hospitals and the police about what is abuse and what is consensual BDSM play, that’s not why they themselves come together. 

For most leather folks, getting together is not about lobbying for legislation or promoting programs for organ donations.  By and large, leatherfolk just want to have fun.

If my observations and perceptions are not completely off-base, it’s reasonable to ask how did leather leadership community come to this state and how can we get past it?

I have a theory that will probably be considered controversial and offensive.

The leather community can be proud of its response to the AIDS crisis in the 1980s and ‘90s.   We lost many great leaders and potential leaders, and survivors often were heroic in their support.  But AIDS transformed the leather community from motorcycle clubs and the burgeoning leather bar and bathhouse businesses (where sex and sexuality were indulged in hedonistic glory) to an environment where we got together as caregivers and as fund raisers to support those in need. 

When AIDS was decimating our community, urgency by leather leaders to respond was great, and the community response appropriate. 

We came together to bury our fallen and to organize politically and to cook nutritious meals, not to celebrate our sex.   We didn’t have time for sex in many cases.  In some cases, we were almost apologetic about sex.  And in still other cases, folks who didn’t contribute to the fight against AIDS were considered to be aiding and abetting the enemy. 

Unfortunately many of the folks who remember those dark days, and folks who came out into leather later but were mentored by folks who remember those days, are still fixed into that same groupthink.  The desperation to teach, to lobby, and to raise funds is still there-- and it turns our social gatherings today into work, into events with purpose, into causes.

Although the socio-political climate and health crises have changed, our community dynamics have not.  When you get a call from a titleholder or leather bar, you can pretty much expect it’s about a fundraiser.  This is now how we relate.

It is as if, collectively, we’re afraid to emotionally let go of our history.  Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting, but it seems like so many of us won’t stop looking back for fear of dishonoring our dead.

Do you need proof of this?

Consider that among the 2008 Pantheon Award nominees were a number of candidates that aren’t even alive—in at least one case, a nominee hasn’t been alive for over a decade.  And as I understand it, at least one of the dead nominees actually won over the living.

What does this tell us about how the nominating community and Pantheon judges view the scene today?

And frankly, when the non-leadership community (non-titleholders and the leather-curious) want to do something leather oriented, they are looking for fun and games, not work and not a cause that will tug on their heart strings.

The pioneers of the modern gay leather world—men who left the service after World War II and joined travelling motorcycle clubs rather than returning home and living conformist lives—did not congregate for irritable bowel disease fundraisers.  They came together as a group because they enjoyed each other’s company.  Whether their play was public or behind closed doors, they got together because they wanted to be with each other, because they enjoyed the company of like-minded men.

There’s a lesson here that we can learn (or relearn) from them.    

 

It’s not that I disapprove of fundraisers.  They are needed, necessary, and are occasions to bring us together.  But every public occasion does not need to be accompanied by emotional baggage.

And I’m not necessarily talking about returning to Old Guard values or comparing them to New Guard or The Next Generation. 

What I’m talking about is our need to understand or remember why we get together.  Our forefathers appreciated one another because it was rare to find kindred spirits.  With the growing popularity of kink and fetish images in popular media (like Madonna’s Hard Candy album) and adult entertainment and adult online communities, we take acceptance of our kinks for granted.  Instead of being grateful that others are out there, we’re annoyed that they’re not perfect in meeting our expectations or hopes.

If we’re going to look back at the old days and theorize what made the advent of leather clubs and bars so glorious, it wasn’t the arrogance of a title system or the dollars raised for a charity.  And, yes, education took place back then, but not by formal groups that sought to offer globally recognized certification programs.  What made the good old days good was the bond that we created with each other, and the joy that was to be found just by experiencing each other’s company in whatever way felt good.

Somewhere along the line, we seem to have forgotten that stroking each others’ egos is not as much fun as stroking each other, and that striking emotional blows to one another is not as fun as other kinds of blows. 

Blood play is exciting to some, but verbal bloodletting is not cool when safe words are not established.

When most of us think about what it means to be a member of the leather community—whatever tribe or clan we happen to think we fall in—I doubt that most of us think in terms of fundraising or education.  But that’s what brings most of us together these days.

The owner of Chaps in San Francisco doesn’t allow fundraisers at his bar.  He won’t even allow a microphone there.  No announcements are allowed.  He wants to preserve a space that’s sexy and exciting for the men who enter, and no distraction from the purpose of cruising or enjoying the company of other masculine and like-minded men.  

Could that be the right direction? 

Some like to think that the golden age of leather is over because there is a golden haze of nostalgia over the 1970s and early 1980s.  But time moves on, and we have no choice but to move along with it.  It’s up to us to make another golden age.

It’s time for us to remember why we all came together in the first place—because we enjoy the company of other people with fun fetishes and kinks. 

It’s time for us to leave our egos at the bar doors, at leather runs and events, and within online communities and lists. 

It’s time for us to realize that if it’s not fun, we’re either doing something wrong or doing the wrong thing.

As we enter into the dog days of summer, I hope that we can start to put away the pettiness that has dominated so many leather discussions, not only locally but nationally. 

Let’s forget about past successes that might make us gloat and about past gripes that might make us resent one another.  Let’s just enjoy the heat, the exposed flesh, and the opportunities to connect with other another. 

We don’t need fundraisers as much as fun raisers (or flog raisers); we don’t need lectures about negativity as much as we need lectures on and opportunities to play more safely and more creatively.

 

If we channeled our energies in this manner, we might just find that our communities will build themselves; that responsible play will organically grow as educated players share their experiences by playing with newcomers and others; and the support that we sometimes find ourselves struggling to find through various dramas will come to us on its own accord and in generous bounty, like good karma.

Enjoy your summer.  Get out, get hot and get off, and reconnect with why you came out into leather in the first place!