Adonis Arises

"Mr. Barbaro," the sign read at the end of the gangway.

Paul hobbled slowly off the plane, white knuckling his eagle-headed cane. Each step sent a pain across his upper buttocks, an electric shock that traveled down his right leg. A living anachronism, his gym-built frame hunched over the cane. The red eye flight across the span of the United States had taken its toll on Paul, causing his inflammatory arthritis to flare up without mercy.

Paul felt helpless before the onslaught of his genetic condition. He felt old and worn.

"Mr. Paul Barbaro?" the service attendant asked as Paul hobbled up to the wheelchair. "I am here to get you. I was told you might need assistance to baggage."

Paul turned and tentatively sat down, balancing his cane on the armrests. "Thank you!," he responded, glad that he had reserved assistance the day before. "I really appreciate this."

 The attendant wheeled Paul to the terminal and past the other passengers. A couple that had sat in front of Paul shook their heads as if to doubt Paul's need. And who could blame them. Paul sat upright, his muscular thighs bulging through his tight, black jeans, his arms filling out his black leather jacket,  his well-defined pecs still lifted with pride.

The service attendant wheeled Paul quickly through the maze of hallways to the baggage claim. "Welcome to Newark Liberty International Airport," Paul read as he lowered his cane and stood slowly, looking around. He knew his friend would be on time. His friend was always on time, always reliable. They had been friends for almost twenty years, and they had always been there for each other. Brothers.

Carefully grabbing his case off the carousel, Paul heard a voice call as if on cue. "What the Hell happened to you? You look like you have been through a damned war. The last two years haven't been kind to you," his friend exclaimed with brutal honesty.

Paul turned to see his friend, arms stretched out to welcome Paul back to the East Coast. Paul grabbed hold of his friend in a tight embrace, and did not let go for almost five minutes. "Hey, Joe. It is so good to see you. I have missed you so much. How is your handsome husband?"

For the next few days that followed, Paul recounted the events of the last two years, spewing forth a stream of consciousness account of his relationship, the delusion that had been Paul's marriage. The view from the Jersey side of the River seemed unchanging as he confessed his follies to his friend, Joe He felt both penitent and foolish. Paul was a dominant man by nature. How could he have been so gullible as to believe in the empty, public proclamations of his spouse. For the first time, Paul shared with Joe the cycle of unbridled anger, followed always by a suffocating silence. Month after month, this cycle continued until Paul felt trapped by the wrath of his boy. "I don't know why my boy is so angry," Paul said. "I don't understand where it all went so wrong." And Paul felt ashamed, ashamed to admit that he had been rendered helpless, so blinded by his deep love for his boy, unable to see what had to be done to repair his damaged relationship. Love demands commitment against all costs, Paul reasoned with his friend. "How could I abandon my boy?" Paul posed the question without expecting an answer. Paul felt weak, totally dependent on Joe.

Joe simply sat and listened, extending his arms in comfort every now and then. "You are going to be OK," Joe assured Paul every once in a while. "You are strong, and I am here for you; both my husband and I are here to help."

For the first time in years, Paul felt safe.

Finally, after two days of confession, Paul fell asleep.

On the third morning, Paul arose from the sofa bed in the sitting room and wandered to the window. Joe and his husband had already left for work. He was alone with his thoughts. He looked out at the city and realized that he had not left the apartment all weekend. He gazed at the Hudson River below, shimmering in the spring sunlight, and thought of another time many years ago when the water of San Francisco beckoned silently below the Golden Gate. Paul had stood that day, seeing nothing but a bleak future ahead. On that day many years ago, he had found himself in a similar bleak situation. Paul had been the trusting boy then, trapped in a bond that left him helpless to move forward. Sadly, he realized that, in spite of being the dominant in the current relationship, he was exactly where he had been twenty years before.

The distinctly hollow sound from his cell roused him out of his self-pity. Paul had not answered his messages since his arrival on the East Coast. "Come fuck me," the message read. Looking at his texts, Paul noticed a long list of messages, invitations to fuck, to play, to participate in a local bator group in midtown.

"I am still alive," Paul thought. "I may be numb, but I am still alive and desirable. What the fuck am I doing wallowing in this shit?"

Paul looked at his reflection in the window. His unshaven face graced a defined, muscular body that denied his sixty years. He sensed his man smell, an acrid aroma following three days of neglecting the shower. He felt his aching body, sore from the days absent from the gym since the overnight flight from Seattle to Newark. And he felt his cock stir as a reminder that he was still hot, the quintessential Daddy, the object of fantasy for so many horny Leatherboys.

"Yes, time to see the city," Paul said aloud. "Time to clean up, catch the bus, and rejoin the living. It's time!"

Paul reached down and slid his hand into his pants. He felt his cock grow hard, its ample size pushing against the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms. On cue, blood rushed upward to his pecs, causing his nipples to protrude against his t-shirt. Paul reached further down his pants. Beginning at his taint, Paul slowly traced the outline of his member with his hand, fingering the engorged head of his penis before returning again to the base of his scrotum. He stroked himself again and again, slowly at first, and then building steam. Finally, he yanked his pants to his knees and thrust his hips forward, presenting his cock to the outline of the City, a proud masturbator.

Paul edged for an hour, bringing himself over and over again to the point of cumming. He felt a warmth descend upon him, the dopamine rush of sexual excitement gradually taking over his brain, his body, until he felt unable to control himself. "Fuck! I need this" Paul said aloud. At the same time, Paul's physical discomfort caused by his arthritis melted away, responding to the dopamine and the adrenaline in his aroused body. "Penis! Penis! Penis" he chanted over and over again in tandem with the uncontrollable rhythm of his masturbation. "Fuck, yeah! I need this" he exclaimed. "Time to fuck! I need to fuck! I need a hot, firm ass to breed. I need a firm, hot ass."

Twenty minutes later Paul sat on the bus to Midtown, feeling his swollen cock in his jeans. He dropped his hand to his crotch discretely every now and then, when he knew no one was looking to feel the engorged shape of penis. He threw his head back against the seat, and his eyes rolled back in his head. "I am not dead," he mumbled. "I am horny as fuck, and I am going to be OK."

Paul smiled broadly. "I am going to be OK," he repeated to himself over and over again.

Young Man Blues

As a LeatherSIR, I am constantly asked by new boys entering the scene about what to expect in their first Leather encounter with a dominant man. The answer to this question is difficult, as each circumstance varies from man to man, from one situation to the next. Perhaps a better question might be, "What should I NOT expect during my first scene?"

First and foremost, Leather and kink is not porn! And anyone who believes he can learn how to play by watching porn is an idiot. Porn is make-believe, the fodder of masturbation. Porn is not real life. Even online, self-produced porn clips do not show the actual context of the scene. Use porn to get off to, and to fantasize.

SIR Hugh's guidelines for a curious boy's first scene:

1. Do not submit to a new play partner without a face-to-face discussion first. I know too many men who have made online connections to engage in bondage, and then later regreted it. "He tied me up, and put a mask on me. Then he began doing things to me I didn't like. I had to struggle to get out of there." One young man told me that the self-proclaimed "sir" bound him, and then forced fucked him, against his protestations. The rape, for that is what it was, stopped when the young man finally was able to knee the "sir" in the balls. Any top who believes a boy wants to be raped is a predator.
   
   If the potential top does not ask you questions, leave. A good top will always inquire regarding the boy's interests, fetishes, and fantasies. A selfish top will not care about you or what you desire, and will use you as an object. There are other words for selfish tops such as "bastard," "asshole," and, as noted above, "rapist." Play is about the consensual involvement of all parties.
   
   Parties should also share any information about health issues that may affect the play. Know the status of the parties you are playing with, including all STI's. Prior to doing this, educate yourself about playing safe, including the use of condoms, PrEP, and Treatment as Prevention.
2. Always have an out. You must have a safe word or a signal to let the top know that you are not enjoying the scene. This is play. It should be hot, not something you are forced to endure. No merit badge is given for enduring an unpleasant or nonconsensual scene.
3. Do not submit to anyone if you are drunk or severely hampered by substances. If your senses are compromised, you are in no condition to play. Serious injury and death have occurred due to play, and, sadly, a few out there have no qualms about leaving the scene of the crime.
4. Keep play light. Ease into play slowly. For example, if you have never engaged in bondage, you may not want to submit to full mummification. Covering the eyes during bondage, while fun, leaves you completely vulnerable. If you think you would like to try flogging, keep the session shorter and ease into it. Any top who begins at full intensity in a flogging scene is inexperienced. Remember, this is fun, hot, playful. This is not a rite of passage, although it may seem to you at the time.
5. Some practises are more challenging, and are best left for another scene. As a LeatherSIR, I have a fetish for whips, single tails. There is nothing I love more than single-tailing a boy's back, leaving it welted and bloodied. But I avoid such play with new boys. The intensity of the whip can be overwhelming, and I have had tough players nearly faint at the searing slash of a single stroke. Not a beginner's scene.
6. Being into Leather does not necessarily require S/M. If your fetish is Leather and you have never worn it, ask to try on a vest or a piece of Leather clothing. I love dressing up a new boy in Leather, and allowing him to wallow in the soft, restrictive Gear. Sharing Gear, whether it be Leather, rubber, or sports gear, can be very hot. Play is not always about S/M.
7. Tell a trusted friend if you decide to go off to play for your first time. This just makes good sense. You do not have to go into detail about what you are doing. A simple location and possible time of completion are enough, with an arranged check in. "I am going to go with Sir John who lives at 69 Main Street. I could be gone until morning. I will text you when I am back home."
8. Finally, you don't have to like playing. If you do not have fun, perhaps play is best left as fantasy. You can still be part of the scene, wear hot Gear, and enjoy yourself sexually. Give yourself permission to not like play. Never do something that you feel is not fulfilling.

In 2009, I decided to run for the Northwest LeatherSIR title. After decades in the Leather scene, I did not like what I saw. I did  not like to see boys mistreated, and I decided to do something about it through example. In 2010, I won the International LeatherSIR title, and I vowed to myself I would continue to set an example as a caring SIR and MASTER.

As I re-enter the scene following five years as a devoted husband, I am contacted again and again by boys who have been treated poorly by men who claim to be experienced tops. Nothing makes me angrier than to hear how these cowardly men have treated those curious about what we do in play. As boys, be responsible for yourselves and be cautious. Value yourselves and be responsible for the fulfillment of your pleasure.

Don't walk away from your first scene having nothing more than "sweet fuck-all!"

"Rebel, Rebel"

Paul tore off his Leather shirt and growled, "Boots off, now!" A low, snarling growl that only the boy could hear.

Paul's handsome boy knelt before him, offering Paul his shoulder for support as he removed first the right boot, then the left.

"Now the breeches, boy!" Paul growled again. "Take off the breeches."

the boy peeled Paul's breeches down past Paul's taut ass, sliding them down past His muscled thighs, and finally, over His rounded calves. Without hesitation, the boy bowed low between Paul's legs, sniffing the sweaty crotch of Paul's breeches. In response, Paul drew His thighs together, a tight grip around the boy's head.

the boy squeeled with delight. "SIR, please, SIR. Tighter, SIR. boy is Yours, SIR."

And Paul squeezed His thighs even tighter, making it nearly impossible for the boy to move, to breathe. Grabbing the boy's shirt tails, Paul pulled the boys' Leather shirt up, loosening the tight grip of His thighs to allow Him to tug the boy's shirt up past his head and armpits. The shirt bound the boy between Paul's legs.

Paul heard the boy's muffled sighs rising, and bent down to encourage further response, rubbing the boy's back from nape to buttocks over and over again. Rubbing becoming frictive stroking, and, finally, double fisted pounding on the boy's muscular back.

"SIR, I serve only you, SIR. I am your boy, SIR" the boy cried from inside the outside of his Leather shirt.

Without hesitation, Paul reached forward, separating the boy's two perfectly sculpted ass cheeks and probed inside the boy, first one finger, then two. "Let's open you up, boy," Paul said. "Let's get your asshole ready."

the boy struggled to be free from the Leather shirt, to grab at Paul's pecs, to at least hold fast to His thighs, but Paul clamped His strong legs once more around the boy's head.

Bowie blared over the loudspeaker. the boy squirmed between Paul's thighs. Men looked on from the shadow's edge in awe and ecstasy, a scene that would inspire their masturbation for months. On cue, the bartender turned to the gathering of men, and nodded to the darkness that cloaked Paul and His boy.

"SIR is going to fuck you right here," Paul growled. "Right here in this crowded bar. Get ready boy!"

Turning to the next Leathered man at the bar, the bartender smiled broadly in ignorance and approval.

Honourifics and the Codification of Desire

Last Monday night, I sat across the table from a friend with whom I have chatted for years, at a restaurant by the Hudson River. A late April breeze blew over the water, with just enough chill to warrant ordering soup. I sat over a bowl of beef barley soup, complimented by my friend's chicken noodle. Two handsome, older men meeting face-to-face for the very first time.

After half an hour of cordial conversation, my friend said, "Hugh, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," I replied. I found my friend's directness refreshing after living for years in the consciously courteous society of Vancouver, British Columbia.

"You are a respected LeatherSIR, but you have never asked me to call you that. Why have you never asked me to address you as 'SIR?'"

This was not the first time that I had fielded this question; I never introduce myself as "SIR Hugh" to anyone in the Leather Community. I responded to my friend with the same answer that I have always used. "SIR is a title of respect, and respect is given, not demanded. If a person decides that I am worthy of respect, that person will use the honourific "SIR.'"

I went on to explain that my spiritual path has been Buddhist, and that upon entering that path I accepted precepts that guide me. "One of those precepts says, 'I vow to abstain from taking things not given.' To demand that someone address me as 'SIR' is a violation of my vow. When someone calls me 'SIR Hugh,' I accept that as a sign of respect. It is a gift."

My friend sat for a moment, thoughtfully looking down at his chicken noodle soup. He then raised his eyes and looked directly at me. We sat almost motionless, silent. After a long pause, my friend said, "SIR, thank you for explaining that, SIR."

I sat overwhelmed, and, continued to gaze into the eyes of this man, now transfixed before Me. "Thank you, boy! I am honoured by boy's gift." I smiled. For those versed in Zen lore, the transmission of respect to the SIR was not founded in words. Rather, the transmission was a flower held aloft by a boy, received by the SIR. (The seeming reversal of roles in this seminal story is intentional.)

Over the last few decades, many in the Leather and Fetish community have made an attempt to codify the roles of SIR, boy, Master, slave, dominant, submissive. Numerous classes and workshops have been presented, defining these roles of desire together with the standardization of these roles. Such attempts are contrary to my experience in Leather, and even run contrary to their institutional definitions.

A boy cannot be defined. For some, a boy is a temporary role that is assumed during fetish play. For others, a boy is an apprentice, a student learning the ropes, that follows a pedagogy leading eventually to the bestowal of the laureat, SIR. For a rare few, a boy is a life long identification, an integral part of the person's identity aligned with sexuality. For many people, definitions are simply not possible; their hearts dictate fulfillment both as dominant and submissive individuals. At best, the word "boy" is an approximation of desire, a suggestion of a primal drive.

I am a SIR. My self-identification acknowledges dominant traits that extend outside the confines of sexual expression, traits that find their fulfillment beside a man with complimentary submissive traits. And, even here, definitions fail; the words "dominant" and "submissive" are only approximations.

In the movie "Enter the Dragon," Bruce Lee paraphrases a sutra commonly used in Zen (Chan) training. "It is like the finger pointing at the moon." The intent of his words is simple: do not mistake the finger pointing at the moom for the radiance of the moon itself. In a similar fashion, definitions are often mistaken for the actual objects being defined. As a result, the true nature of those objects is lost in semantics.

I owned a slave for years who could intuit what I wanted. the slave knew what I wanted, and ministered to my desires. At times, the slave would provide protection. If the slave knew I was tired at a public event, the slave ensured that I had the space necessary to relax while continuing to be present. One friend in the community remarked at an event that the slave was part-watch German Shepherd. I laughed. When Master and slave, or SIR and boy, are in tune, the terms "dominance" and "submission" fade.

Essentially, desire has no definition, and the expression of desire varies from person to person. The manifestation of desire is personal, and the fulfillment of that desire falls outside institutional recognition and imposed rituals. While definitions have their place in discussing what we do as Leather and Fetish folk, definitions have pragmatic boundaries. I am a SIR, not because I seemingly mirror the definition of "SIR." I am a SIR because it is at the core of my primal self.

Which one is the correct MASTER?

For the last four months, I have sat on my meditation cushion in the morning, and contemplated the following case (koan) given to me by my Zen Teacher:

Master Song Am Eon used to call himself every day, "Master!" and would answer, "Yes?" 

"You should keep clear!" "Yes!!" 

"Never be deceived by others, any day, any time!" "Yes! Yes!"

The paradoxical questions that follow the case have answers that require hours of meditation. The first question, "What is the meaning of Master?" appeared almost instantly to me when asked. The answer to the second question, however, continues to elude me. "Song Am used to call himself and answer himself. Which one is the correct master?"

For the last six years, I have been without a boy or a slave. Although I can easily define what is the meaning of "MASTER," I cannot answer with certainty, "Am I still a "MASTER" without a slave?" If I am still a MASTER, what characteristics identify me as one worthy of owning another person?

I believe there is a characteristic that both MASTER and slave share: discipline. To command another, a MASTER must be able to command HIMSELF, to show a mastery over HIS body. The performance of self-discipline is one of the defining features of every MASTER for whom I have respect. For this reason, I feel I am a still a MASTER because my self-discipline is recognized by those who wish to have this trait groomed within themselves.

In essence, a slave recognizes a MASTER by the model that HE has set. An honourific that is given, not asked for, "MASTER!"

Tomorrow morning, I return to my zafu and hold the question in my mind, "Which is the correct master?" And while sitting, I will call myself "MASTER," and I will answer, "Yes! Yes!"