Avon calling: Thoughts following Seattle Pride 2011

This year as I marched down Seattle's Fourth Avenue with whip in hand I could not help but ask myself why I was marching. Second in size only to the Torchlight Parade, Seattle's Pride parade plodded its way through downtown, stretching for more than a mile behind me. Corporate logos flanked both sides of the street as vendors hawked popcorn, Mardi Gras beads, and stuffed animals. Large groups of “out and proud” employees from banks and credit unions marched in close proximity, handing out advertisements as they passed the cheering crowd. What did my Leather have to do with such blatant capitalism? After pondering this question for a few moments, I realized soberly that in buying a spot as a “Corporate Sponsor” the Leather contingent had bought its place at the table. It had aligned itself with gay groups from Microsoft, Boeing, AT and T, and numerous clubs and retail outlets. I also realized sadly that that this classification was appropriate, given the entrepreneurship prevalent in contemporary Leather in the United States, men and women anxious to profit from an endless appetite for new and improved fetish products.

Many Leatherfolk today find themselves burdened by the constraints imposed by the recent financial climate. Some are out of work. Others struggle to overcome the downturn in retirement investments. Not to mention the costs of medications that many shoulder who live with HIV, some without the security of medical insurance. In spite of this, Leather runs continue to focus on profits as a measure of success. And workshops and publications abound like pests on a healthy plant. Turning inward, I must face the question, “What role have I played in this infestation?”

As a child I watched my father sever limbs from apple and pear trees infested with tent caterpillars. He gathered the limbs together in the middle of an open space and burned them. I was always horrified to see the vestigial appendages that remained of the once verdant foliage. “It's the only way that I can be assured that I these pests are gone,” my father explained.

Is such eradication necessary in U.S. American Leather? The art of personal gain has so infested the Community that the idea seems almost absurd. Indeed, many Leather “leaders” have become expert at charming money from our pockets. We, in turn, accept such behavior as inherent to our fetish. In short, we have become a microcosm of society at large.

As I ponder this concept, I am forced to ask another question relative to our History: Did the push to organize as a Leather Community in the mid-eighties facilitate such rampant capitalism in Leather? By asking this question, I do not mean to suggest that producers and organizers should not ask a fair price for services rendered. Or that all workshops, and books on SM should be avoided. Rather, this question points to a delicate balance that exists between financial profit and the nature of service.

No where is this balance more exposed than in Leather awards. It seems that service awards are often aligned more with the recognition of monetary gains than altruistic endeavors. Efforts by individuals that do not show immediate profit usually go unheralded or ignored. And even though few would argue that monetary gain does not necessarily equal service, Leather organizations in the U.S. continue to award prestige solely to those who possess a penchant for fund-raising, individuals whose zeal for making profits is equaled only by Mary Kay ladies and Amway salesmen.

Gay Leather in the United States hearkens back to renegade clubs, hidden brotherhoods, and unspoken sexual acts. Until the mid-eighties it has always been relegated to outlaw or Outsider status both by its adherents and by mainstream society. Wearing our sexuality on our sleeve, we both attract and repulse many within the mainstream Gay Community. Rather than mimic the corporate tactics of this mainstream, we must develop strategies that benefit the group rather than on tactics that aggrandize the individual.

Frankly, I am growing tired of answering the call to support my “Community” only to hear waiting once again at my threshold, "Avon calling."