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!"

Notes from Bologna (Part One)

Watching my spouse learn Italian in Bologna this week reminds me of my experience immersing myself in Italian many years ago as a young man. Learning a new language requires that a person deconstructs oneself and then, consciously, puts oneself back together again in new way.

Words are simply movements of the lungs, throat, tongue, and mouth that collaboratively make sounds associated with language. Our parents taught us through example how to make these sounds. The sounds specific to speaking a language are not instinctive, not like walking or standing. Instead, our ability to manipulate sound to produce language was learned when we were children. Over the years, our learned patterns of movement that we call words became the foundation of our world and formed our identity.

Immersing in a new language forces us into childhood once again. Our words, those inherited movement patterns, no longer serve us. We can no longer rely on our learned method of making sound. To speak a new language, we must retrain our mouth and our tongue to move differently in conjunction with the lungs, throat and vocal cords. In Italian, for example, the tongue becomes quite active against the upper palette and front teeth, and the throat becomes more relaxed. Essentially, we become young children again learning to vocalize.

Dance, sports, exercise are all languages. Like speech, they all require collaborative movement patterns. To be successful in any of these languages, the body must be retrained slowly and carefully. As a former ballet dancer, I trained daily to produce movement fluidly and efficiently. It is not a form that can be picked at randomly. Like a second language, ballet requires constant training of the body.

I chose to be a personal trainer, not to help people lose weight quickly or to muscle up for the next beach season. I want people to retrain their bodies, to find a new language of movement that is beneficial to staying strong and healthy beyond age fifty, sixty, seventy, or even eighty years of age. This language may not be based on the learned movement patterns of childhood. It may require a slow catechism of physical forms to train the body. For this reason, I encourage my clients to set goals in the short term, but to think in the long term.

Exercise is language.

Location:Bologna,Italia

Elections, Immigration, and Order (An open Letter)

To my friends to the south,

The recent United States election has many of you in the Leather community looking northward. Many have proclaimed, "I am going to immigrate to Canada!" Having recently immigrated to Canada, I can vouch for the expense and the difficulty in moving to this beautiful country. I can also attest to the fact that Canada is not the United States; this country has its own culture and its own values. Whereas the principles of "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness" guide the compass of America, "Peace, Order, and Good Government" are the foundational values of all Canadians. In the United States, an individual's freedom is held aloft as the ethical measure, but in Canada, "The Charter of Rights and Freedoms" emphasizes the importance of living together in harmony and peace.

Sadly, I am overwhelmed by the intolerance within my community. Many people seem so focused on defining themselves, their titles, and their rights, that they forget how to be part of a social group. Often, their selfish statements are reserved for social media posts where the electronic device, like a mask, can hide the faces of these individuals. Emboldened by the mask, they berate others for not using the right words, the correct terms, the latest phrases, or proper titles. By doing so, these people undermine any sense of community.

Some suggestions regarding how to catalyze change. Kinder words will always hold sway over harsh ones. Showing patience and understanding will encourage better communication, whether in person or on social media. Anger will never convince others to change their opinions. And humility, that near absent virtue in contemporary society, will always introduce future dialogue.

My American friends, before you debate immigrating north, I would recommend that you understand the basic principles of the Canadian "Charter of Rights and Freedoms." Begin the immigration process by seeing yourselves as part of a greater community. Explore ways to encourage peace within that community, that is, our Leather community. And stop worrying so much about how you are labeled, defined, or addressed.

And to my non-American readers, the same principles apply. Support the Leather community by being less defensive about yourselves.

Sincerely,

SIR Hugh, an Ex-Pat Pollyanna!

BLUF is in the Details

Dressing in BLUF gear requires that a man surrenders to a dress code

that sets apart those who love Breeches and Leather Uniform. The strictness of the code defines the discipline that a BLUF man displays in relation to his second skin. Details regarding accessories to the requisite Uniform can take on extreme importance to a BLUF man: jacket type, boot maker, glove style, cut of the shirt, shape of the breeches' thigh, and, most especially, well-tailored fit of every Uniform piece. These details inform other BLUF men about the man who has respectfully surrendered himself to the code.

In a similar fashion, the upcoming BLUF events in Vancouver, British Columbia, include a number of details that will make participants' experience more satisfying.

• The Mitchells are hosting an "Cards Against Humanity" event on Friday night, November 11, for those who are participating in the BLUF events. This event will be at their home, a chance to socialize. No BLUF dress code for this event. Light refreshments provided. To learn more, contact either SIR Hugh or Doug on Facebook, or via email at: internationalleathersir2010@gmail.com. Please notify the hosts in advance; no exceptions!
• For those out-of-town gentlemen who go the gym, Denman Fitness is our gym of choice. Admission is a minimal $9 when accompanied by one of your in-town hosts.
• If you are arriving by bus or train and staying in Davie Village, Bus #23 is an inexpensive mode of transportation that takes you right down Davie Street. The buses run on a regular basis. The bus stop is located across the street from the station.
• If arriving by plane, the Sky Train from the airport takes you directly downtown. Get off at the "Yaletown - Roundhouse" stop, head up the stairs, and walk ten minutes to Davie Village. Or take the #23 bus that stops close by.
• If your Vancouver hosts can assist in answering any further questions, please feel free to contact us.

I am looking forward to meeting up with other BLUF aficionados in the area next weekend. There is nothing that I like more than going through the ritual of dressing in Gear in anticipation of an event: Boot socks, Breeches, shirt, boots, Sam Browne, tie, Muir Cap, gloves, and, finally, meticulously chosen items that subtly set me apart from other BLUF men.

To a great weekend of Fetish and Brotherhood here in Vancouver, BC!

In Leather,

SIR Hugh

Exposing fetish (The Intimacy of Leather Uniform)

The first time I put on a pair of Leather trousers, I felt my cock immediately become engorged. The feel of the Leather against my legs, my ass, and my genitals elicited an automatic sexual response that I could not control. I knew immediately that Leather was not simply a fashion choice, but something far more powerful. Against my skin, Leather amplified my sexual desire. No longer an object separate from myself, I bestowed the Leather with life; the Leather became a catalyst for physical transformation. Crotch bulge, ass cheeks, thighs, even the muscular curve of my calves, each in turn was transformed into a nexus of pleasure, to be caressed and worshiped either by a lover or by myself.

In tandem with the purchase of my Leather trousers, I purchased a pair of heavy, black Leather Boots. And shortly after that, a fitted shirt, tailored to show off my chest and trim waist. My Leather Uniform grew until, fully realized, I had become the very man that I had feared years before. With Leather necktie tight as a noose around my neck, and Sam Browne over the right shoulder, visually linking my bulging crotch to my rounded ass, I felt complete.

Fetish is the amplification of sexual desire, catalyzed by a particular object. For me, that object is the aggregate Leather Uniform. Although I feel that I look my best dressed in Breeches and Uniform, I do not wear it to look pretty. Rather, I wear Leather Uniform to conjure my darkest feelings. The interaction between flesh and hide literally transforms me, bringing the inside, outside. Covered in Leather from head to toe, I feel exhilarated, exposed, sexually honest.

In a spiritual sense, fetish is an object that is used in worship for its apparent supernatural power. Usually, the fetish object contains foreign matter such as bone or bodily fluid that imbues it with this power. In a similar fashion, my Leather has been sanctified through perspiration, piss, semen, blood, and tears. My heavy boots and my Leather trousers have been baptized by the cum of numerous boys; my shirt has absorbed the sweat of many evenings of heavy play and the blood of my own submission many years before. My Leather Gear shares the very fluids that bestow life.

In Gear, my sexual play extends far beyond the acts of flogging, fucking, and fellatio. My Fetish Gear becomes a creative medium that animates both me and my sexual companion. Sex becomes an unpredictable, shared journey. The discovery of the extent of my dominance is not dissimilar to that moment when Stevenson's Doctor initially encounters Edward Hyde. The dark side has emerged into the light. Finally, when sexual play has come to its organic conclusion, my companion and I are usually left prostrate, unable to move, much like Saint Paul, ecstatic and exhausted. More than the culmination of a hedonistic encounter, our shared Fetish has transformed us and, in the process, has reinforced our shared bond.

I am not shy in exposing the personal nature of my Fetish. My Leather is not theoretical. It is not an academic subject to be studied and inanimately discussed. To understand Fetish I must include myself in the discussion. To talk about Leather without such intimacy is tantamount to removing its ability to transform, a power that draws upon the interaction between the wearer and the worn. I wear my Fetish, and to speak of it theoretically is to repress its true nature in my life, a denial thrice spoken before the cock crows.

The Iconic BLUF man (Calling all Northwest Leather Uniform men!)

Muir cap. Leather uniform shirt. Sam Browne. Tie. Leather breeches or formal Leather trousers tucked neatly into a pair of knee length, high-shine boots. Gloves. Leather patrol or Leather uniform jacket. The clothing worn by men who hold Leather uniform as fetish, commonly referred to as BLUF men.

Recently on the Saturday night prior to the Folsom Street Fair, BLUF men gathered at The San Francisco Eagle. The patio riser provided a perfect gathering place. Considering the number of men who descended on the Eagle that night, we were in a small number, just a few of us wearing the recognizable items that identified each of us as a BLUF man.

When I came out decades ago, the BLUF look was iconic. The artist Tom of Finland had codified the look through his erotic images, along with Etienne and other Gay erotic artists of the seventies and eighties. Muscular men wearing breeches, caps, and big, black boots graced the pages of magazines, bar murals, and posters. Often the men would be shirtless, their black, Leather patrol jackets forced open by bulging pectorals and erect nipples. Punctuating the fetishistic nature of the artwork, the men always sported large crotch bulges, their cocks outlined by the tight Leather of their breeches.

Decades later, the icon of the BLUF man continues to evoke worship, in spite of the dwindling number of actual men who wear the clothing. Even though other fetishes have joined the broad "Leather" umbrella, the muscular man in his tight Leather uniform and boots reigns over the clubs, gatherings, and online publications. In spite of the fact that the numbers of BLUF men are few compared to other Leather fetish types, popularity both online and in clubs continues. After midnight at the San Francisco Eagle, as I waded through a sea of puppies and young harnessed men, I was inundated with requests. "Be my Daddy!" "SIR, take me home. I will be good!" "Fuck, you're hot!" And standing next to my handsome husband on the dias, also dressed in BLUF gear: "I need to tell you guys that you are REALLY hot!" Such accolades, even if primed by alcohol, betray the fact that Leather uniform is alive and well in the fetish lexicon of younger men.

I would like to encourage those BLUF men in Vancouver, British Columbia; Seattle, Washington; Western Canada; and the Northwest United States; to join with us on November 12th, 2016 as BLUF men. If the thought of putting on a pair of breeches, a Muir cap, and Leather boots makes you hard, then you are a BLUF man.

• On Saturday, November 12th at 2:00 PM, BLUF men will meet for a Boots and BLUF Brunch at The Dish, 1068 Davie St, Vancouver, BC. For more about this local favorite, see https://www.facebook.com/DishVancouver/. Full BLUF gear is not required.
• At 9:00 PM, we will meet for a BLUF Pubcrawl, beginning at The Pumpjack, 1167 Davie St, Vancouver, BC. BLUF Dress Code.
• In addition, on Friday, November 11, a Cards Against Humanity get together is planned at a private home for those participating.

If you would like to join other BLUF men in Vancouver, send me an e-mail at internationalleathersir2010@gmail.com. Or find these events on the BLUF calendar at: www.bluf.com.

In Leather!

SIR Hugh

How I became a Leatherman

Decades ago, I came out into a world of confusion and loss. Although I had flirted with Leathermen over the years, I had never allowed myself the freedom to fully explore this world until the early 1980's. At that time, AIDS was beginning to take its toll on the Leather Community, and I felt as if I was emerging into a world that was fading rapidly. In spite of this, I was determined to explore the boundaries of man to man sex. A few years later, I would be "out" to everyone. My main focus, to find my soulmate. In spite of continued dalliances with BDSM, I dated men who were not part of the Leather scene. "I am not a Leatherman," I told myself. "I am just a man who likes Leather and enjoys creative sex.

During that decade, I played with many men. Being a professional ballet dancer, I enjoyed the thrill of the rough physicality that could occur between Leathermen. Unlike the staid and often guilt-riddled sex in the mainstream Gay Community, many Leathermen were deeply invested in celebrating sex while advocating safer practices. To offset my impetuous sexual behavior, many experienced men would take the time to instruct me in these practices. They would also show me how to wear clothes to accentuate my body, instruct me on the nuances of cruising, and teach me how to show respect for myself and others. These men were gods to me, beautiful men who exuded sex and confidence.

"A Leatherman must be invited to such exaltation," I thought. "I am not worthy."

Around this time, I met a handsome Seattle Leatherman with a tight, toned body, a perfectly groomed mustache, and a voracious appetite for sex. We met at the Triangle Campground north of Everett, Washington, and passed a long weekend in unbridled passion and hot sex. After returning back to Seattle, he called me up on the telephone, and asked me out on a date.

My response was immediate. "I can't," I replied. "You are a Leatherman. I am not. It wouldn't work."

I will never forget this man's astonishment. "WHO do you think you are?" he asked. "We have spent days having hot Leathersex, and you say you are not a Leatherman?"

To which I replied, "Sorry! It wouldn't work between us. I am not like you."

During the next couple of years, in spite of my growing attendance at Leather gatherings, I still did not consider myself part of the Leather Community. I wore my boots daily, always impeccably shined. I developed a reputation as a hard player. I hung out more and more with Leathermen. Still, I felt I had not earned the right to call myself anything but "Hugh."

One spring evening, I attended a Leather awards event. I listened as my friend, Wes Randall, presented tokens of appreciation to various members of the Leather Community in Seattle. Wes had a particular way of speaking that always made me smile. As he called out each name, I watched the person walk to the front, receive the award, and return to join the group of applauding Leatherfolk. After he had finished presenting the awards, Wes stopped, smiled, and said in his distinct voice, "I would now like to take this opportunity to recognize someone who does not consider himself a 'Leatherman.' He feels that he cannot assume this title, so I am going to give it to him. To Hugh, the best Leatherman I know."

I felt embarrassed, speechless, and I felt proud. I stood sheepishly as members of the Community looked on approvingly. After years, I had been invited to join the ranks of others that I had respected and revered. I felt validated, worthy to wear my Leather in public. I had become a Leatherman.

The world today seems to revolve at a faster pace than it did then. Leather is easier to obtain, as is instruction into Leatherplay. Becoming a part of the Community now takes days instead of years; there is a place for everyone in the expanding world of Leather and fetish. Still, I value the slow path that led me to become a Leatherman decades ago. Today, as I stand next to my husband, another proud Leatherman, I feel fortunate to have emerged from a generation of so many great Leatherfolk, a great number who are no longer with us. To them, I owe a great debt that cannot be repaid.

With respect!

Back to Black

After a painful and productive period in my life, I am ready to write again. Little did I know that such drastic changes would happen at this stage. Instead of contemplating my upcoming retirement I am beginning again. Saul has undergone conversion and Paul stands strong.

In the last few years I lost both of my parents, my thirteen year relationship, my Seattle home, and a number of submissive men who looked to me as their SIR and MASTER. I lost the respect of many men in the Community through my efforts to be honest with myself and others. I have angered others who feel that I have not continued to be as active in titles and events.

Rather than being defined by my what I no longer have, I feel defined by what I have found since the summer of 2012. I found a new appreciation for men who have demonstrated true brotherhood, my chosen family, outstanding Leathermen who have supported me in times of weakness and rejoiced with me during times of strength. I have felt the continued support of friends. Most important, I also found the love of my life, my perfect boy, my compliment, my husband. I am now a legally married SIR. I prepare to emigrate to Canada to be with my new husband and to begin a new life there. I investigate academic options that will enable me to build on my professional life in the United States. I feel as if I am just beginning to realize my potential in life.

Even though I attend fewer events I am more Leather than ever. Together with my handsome husband I play more and feel more liberated by the power dynamics of our relationship.

I am almost 59 years old, proud to live in accordance with the core values that I learned decades ago. I am a Gay Leatherman.

The Phenomal Bond

I hug my property in front of Reagan National after another Leather run. Six weeks ahead without the property's service. After my property, I walk away, dragging my suitcase to the check-in counter for Alaska Airlines. This is a job my property would normally do for his MASTER. I stand before the ticket agent and sense the absence of another body against mine.

I walk to the cafe and order my own coffee. I then sit down and instinctively look up to grant property the permission to sit beside me. A habitual act. I sit and drink my coffee alone.

I go to the restroom and pull out my cock, aiming my warm stream into the white, porcelain bowl. I think of the willing mouth of my property always ready to nurse out my piss until I have finished. I shake off the last drops, return my cock to my 501s, and button up my jeans. property is not there to serve as my valet and fasten up my clothing.

For the ensuing weeks I will do for myself what he usually does for me. Each simple action will remind me of the physical bond with my property, of its service when I wake, wash, eat, dress, urinate, walk, and cum. My body will feel incomplete without my property beside me. The bond between MASTER and property now realized through an awareness of absence.

Ownership of another creates an apparent paradox. Over time, my body as MASTER has redefined itself according to the service provided by the property. No longer can I as MASTER experience true independence in action. Without property beside me, I must do for myself what my property would do for me.

As participants in BDSM, we recognize the strong connection between our bodies and our identities. We define our roles by actions during play. Essentially, our movements or lack thereof establish identities that we feebly attempt to define by words. Without such action, roles do not exist. The dance of trust requires a minimum of two participants.

Given this, we must immediately dismiss the notion that a man can be a MASTER without a slave. One is defined by the other. It is not an abstract like a tenet of faith, a personal conviction, or a mysterious rapture felt in the bosom. Rather, both the MASTER and the slave carve out their identities based on physical interactions with each other. The MASTER understands this when the slave no longer is present. He must now do for himself what the slave usually does. Every physical need becomes a reminder of the slave.

Thus, the idea of independence as an attribute of strength is absurd when considered within the power dynamic of BDSM. Standing alone, the MASTER realizes that he is not Superman, Nietzsche's conceptual higher being beyond duality. Without his slave, the MASTER realizes that he is very much connected to the worm of the body which the slave addresses through diligent service.

For What It's Worth

Today I sat looking at my doctor as he showed me the images of my left ankle. "Your decades of dance have taken their toll on your body," he said showing me an x-ray. "I am surprised that only your left is giving you trouble."

I sat quietly taking it all in. I thought of the accolades over the years and wondered if it was worth it: 1973 World Champion Scottish Highland Dancer; corps, then soloist, and principal with Ballet West and Pacific Northwest Ballet; successful choreographer; movement instructor; modern dancer; movement artist. I had destroyed my joints over the decades, pushing my body to the limit and then beyond.

I am a man who never backs down from a challenge. Being a masochist I have a huge pain threshold. This year, I have endured months and months of pain, refusing to acknowledge that I needed medical attention.

I thought of the 1000's of people who have applauded me over the decades. And the reviews of critics who celebrated my work. I never faced a bad review, either for my interpretations as a performance artist or a choreographer. Was it worth it?

The doctor explained possible limitations in the future. He recommended that I avoid running and jumping, putting undue stress on the joints. "The time has come to face the music," he said.

I thought of the many people who paid to see me perform, fans that even now recognize me on the streets of Seattle. And then I thought of those people who stand beside me today, supportive and concerned: my partner, my boys, my slave, and a few friends.

Was it worth pushing my body beyond its physical capabilities? This question remains with me as I write this entry.

In Leather we often push ourselves beyond our limits. And all too often we do things for the accolades of others. We want to be accepted, to be acknowledged, to be celebrated as a traditional, "Old Guard" Leatherman, a serious member of the Community. When all is said and done, we must face the music. We must ask ourselves, "Was it worth it?"

I have no regrets. My performance career included Highland Dancing, ballet, modern dance, musical theatre, avante garde performance, and even Leather events. I followed my heart and never held anything back. In spite of the recent diagnosis, I love the experiences that make up my life.

And it has been worth it because I have followed my heart. I have not done things for the applause, for the accolades. The impetus has always come from the inside, from within.

To invoke the Bard once again, "To thine own self be true." This saying hangs upon one of the walls of my home. And it is tattooed around the neck of my partner. The key to a happy life.

Mad boy's Love Song

(I think I made You up inside my head.)

Suited in dark gray with silver hair and starched, white shirt, I face You over a glass of fine, Italian wine. Your handsome, carved face denies the dark-scented perversion of Your Leather. You look at me and I look away, embarrassed.

I blink once, twice, and then look up as you loosen your tie. Your silver hair brilliant against the backdrop of the night. The stars try to warn me, but my thoughts go black. Like the Stones song, I am blinded but to the darkness of Your immediate need.

Tipsy now, you lead me defenseless to your bed, iron-black and stern. And you lay me down and remove my pants, my cock leaping helpless against Your confident mouth. Your lips and tongue work the hard shaft of my boyhood and I become helpless. And simultaneously You unbutton Your shirt to reveal Your hirsute, silver against the darkness of the moon through Your open window. More Werewolf than Man, Daddy takes me and I succumb, my innocence blurred by Your desire.

“How could I have been so trusting,” I thought, Your cock now hard and pressing against my thigh. “I have been deceived,” my thoughts racing. Then I feel Your kiss, soft against my shaft, my abdomen, Your mouth working its way up until it finally reaches my chest. Caressing each nipple between your lips, You tease each tender mound with Your experienced tongue. I sigh and look down in time to see You unzip Your tailored trousers. Your perfect cock surrounded by a wreath of black hair flecked with gray.

“Daddy, please take Your boy,” I plead. I am now helpless against You. You force me down head first and shove Your cock into my waiting mouth, and I realize that my saliva is the only lube that You intend to use when You fuck me. I try to slobber out some spittle and my mouth goes dry. You pull Your cock out of my mouth and move it down to my tight hole. And I close my eyes and wait for the burn of that first thrust.

My thoughts turn to the forced morality of Sunday School lessons, of David and Jonathan and stories of Old Testament fraternities. I wonder why I have been drawn to You, a man twice My age. My first steps beyond the apron strings, and I find Another to parent me, a Leather Daddy in suit and tie, a Gentleman now exposed by the drive of His perversion.

“Your type disappeared long ago,” I mumble, my desire meeting Yours halfway. You ignore me and I kiss You in return. Then I lift my legs to guide You deep within me. I feel Your cock shaft moving definite in and out and I ignore the pain. Instead, I give myself to You. You have moved into the silhouette of my darkest fantasy and I surrender. I close my eyes again and feel You cum deep within me. Your cock throbs, You arch, and I lie back satisfied.

(I think I made You up inside my head.)

Occupy Wallstreet (or Take Back Your Leather)

In the last month, hordes of people young and old are congregating on Wall Street and in every city of the country. They are angry, frustrated at the fact that banks and financial institutions have been bailed out by the government while jobs continue to dwindle. They are angry that one percent of the population is getting richer while the other ninety-nine percent grows poorer.

The powerful hide behind their corporations, entities now equal in rights before the law. This shift began more an one hundred years ago, when the highest court in the land declared that corporations had equal protection under the Bill of Rights. Although other cases laid the foundation for this ruling, it was Noble versus Union River Logging Railroad Company in 1893 that marked the shift. And continuing this trend toward the rise of corporate power, Randall versus Sorrel in 2006 opened the floodgates relative to elections and corporate political influence.

Today citizens are rising up and declaring that the fabric of this country is not built on corporate greed. It is built on the working men and women of this land.

As a Leather/kink Community, we seem to be a microcosm of society at large. And mirroring this trend, individuals are growing tired of "Community" being equated with titles and organizations. As if individuals without titles or affiliations are ciphers. Do we forget that our organizations were founded to serve the players of our Community, and not the other way around?

Local title organizations flock like flies toward the newest face in the bar, anxious to enlist him or her as a contestant in the next contest. And clubs sign them up as quickly as frat houses sign up pledges during rush week. Rather than emphasizing mentorship between individuals, these groups favor workshops and how-to books, the quickest way to not only learn the "right" way to play, but also the easiest way to charm the money from the pockets of these newcomers. Leather and Kink organizations insist that this is the way to build Community.

But there is another voice rising, the voice of those kinky fuckers who play, who value Leather Family more important than Leather titles and workshops.

In stating this, I do not wish to negate the title that I held as International LeatherSIR in 2010. Nor do I want to dismiss the importance of Leather clubs and runs. They have their place as a means of bringing like-minded people together. The danger lies when we lose sight of their purpose and begin believing that organizations are more important than the individuals that they are supposed to serve. As ILSb's Mark Frazier reminded me many times during my title year, "Family comes first."

In short, it is about people and what they do to each other. It is about fucking, sucking cock, beating a back bloody. About serving a MASTER and, in turn, caring for HIS property. About mentoring boys, providing them the protection and safety that they cannot find in society at large.

Perhaps it is time for us to occupy our bars and our clubs and declare with a loud voice that we are the Community. Long after the titles and clubs have faded, men and women will be playing and exploring the delights of BDSM. And just as those protesting in cities across the United States proclaim "We are the government; you work for us," we need to raise a similar cry in the Leather/kink Community.

The Dysfunctional Leather Family

Drama is the black hole of Leather. It draws almost everyone into its dark vacuum, robbing them of energy and the ability to mentor and assist others. Years ago I found myself drawn into one of these black holes. I fought the gravitational pull of such drama for a few weeks, finally protesting that my Leather had nothing to do with the foment of politics. And the response, "We are Family, and that means that things can often be dysfunctional. That is part of being a Family."

This is utter bullshit!

As adults we often form families in order to heal the wounds left by our biological families. Our goal in forming chosen families is to end the patterns of dysfunction that left us scarred in adolescence. Even though we protest that we do not want to reproduce these patterns in our adult relationships, we know of no other way to interact with others. As a result, we pass our dysfunction to our boys, our sirs, and our friends. A plague that manifests itself not only as physical abuse and emotional manipulation, but also as politics, drama, and gossip.

In the eighties I led parallel lives. I usually had a Daddy, an older Man who nurtured and guided me, and a man who was my primary partner, and with whom I relived the abuse of my biological family. A carbon copy of my childhood, a period of suspension between the night and the day selves. In 1990, both collided in a volatile relationship that ended in physical violence. At this time I realized that I needed a counselor to address the role of victim that I was playing out over and over again. I was unable to have a healthy, fraternal relationship due to the sexual and emotional abuse of my past.

At that time, my therapist said to me, "Abuse is not defined solely by an act. It is also the repetition of that act through emotional manipulation." I recalled the sexual abuse that I had suffered as a child and my subsequent manipulation by older brothers. And I realized that emotionally I was finding satisfaction from my abusive relationships.

Because Leather and kink lies outside of the hegemonic definitions of sexual health, we live in an environment where emotional problems can lurk undetected. For this reason, we must be diligent in our honesty, recognizing patterns of abusive behavior and dysfunction in ourselves. Any external attempt to police such patterns becomes ineffective without the willingness of both the abused and the abuser to cease such behaviors. No rules that we establish as a Community can stop the rampant abuse between dominant and submissive men unless they recognize the roles they play in the cycle.

Exiling abusers is no longer a possible tactic in dealing with this problem. With social networking sites, chat, and texting as the primary means of communication within our Community, expulsion is futile. Virtual space rather than physical place has become the nexus of the Leather/kink Men's Community. And it is impossible to flag the curious regarding potentially harmful men due to the myriad of online meeting sites.

I suggest a new paradigm. In order to root out the cancer, both the dominant man and submissive man must receive support and therapeutic intervention. We cannot simply exile them or deny them admittance to our bars. Rather, we must offer safe havens to those who need them, and to know to whom we can turn in the therapeutic and medical fields to assist those who need help.

As a Sir, I must acknowledge that the most I can do is to provide a safe haven for men who are trying to address this karma. I must recognize my limitations as a more experienced member of my Community. I can provide safety but I cannot offer therapeutic intervention. I can, however, help others find professionals who understand our issues as deviants and perverts. This is crucial in healing the wounds of abuse.

But first and foremost, before we can help others we must help ourselves. This is an indictment to all of us to boldly examine ourselves, to recognize the residual wounds from our past. And to obtain the counsel of professionals if we find ourselves thinking about these wounds on a recurring basis. This is the very first step in routing out the abuse in our midst.

Many shun therapy in the Leather Community, especially those men who claim dominance. They believe that they are somehow immune from the karmic effects of negative behaviors. Some believe that they can use SM in lieu of therapy. This is like saying that Leathermen do not need professional medical attention when they are ill. Many years ago Guy Baldwin spoke with me about this issue. He was quite direct. Play can have therapeutic effects but it is not a replacement for professional treatment.

There are a number of ways to find a therapist who is Leather/kink friendly. And while it is not the topic of this article, I would encourage anyone who is looking for therapy to put the question plainly to the mental health professional. Then ask for the opinions of others in the local Community. In choosing a therapist, one must be bold and discerning. This is very important.

About twenty years ago two women in the greater Leather Community offered me a place where I would be safe. Later, when my relationship dramatically ended, I was offered a place with my brother and friend, Al D Sowers. All three of these individuals did not save me. They did not coddle me. Rather, each expected me to put forth some effort to help myself. This is the key.

I remember the night that my life was threatened, talking to Al D at 3 am. As I spoke to him from a pay phone in Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood, he asked me if I could make it to his house a few miles away. "Do you have money for the bus?" he queried.

"Yes," I responded.

"Then come to my house. I will be waiting for you at the door."

About an hour later, I arrived at Al's house in Ballard. And sure enough he was there, standing at his door in his robe. He gave me a place to stay during those first months of therapy. And he continued to open his home to me whenever I needed a place to stay during my healing.

Brothers and sisters, we must help ourselves. Becoming the emotional police is not a permanent solution for ending abuse in our midst. We must first obtain help for ourselves in order to address our own unresolved issues. Only then can we help our brothers and sisters in the Community.

The Death of Tolerance?

During the recent panel discussion “Is Leather Dead?'” presented by the San Francisco Leathermen's Discussion Group in July, Guy Baldwin described the classic Leather bar as a a nexus of many groups: bikers, fisters, men who practiced S/M, men who wore Leather as fetish, and men who simply enjoyed the pervasive masculinity. Disparate groups interacted together in relative harmony. Men whose shared identity was negation, NOT part of the cultural hegemony in America and the rising Gay mainstream.

Today we gather on social networking sites. Many of us use these sites as a means of screening our future fucks and play partners before Leather runs. Others use social networking to arrange face-to-face gatherings including beer busts and dungeon parties. And still others have developed advanced techniques of cruising that rival the quiet art exercised in the Leather bar, leading to physical encounters and subsequent play.

There are still others who use the Internet as a mask to hide behind. These men shun social spaces and the mannered ritual of cruising. They prefer to use the Internet as a substitute for skill and social ability. These men usually use the anonymity of the web to make immediate connections with other men, claiming to be “Sirs” or “Masters” with a history of experience. Devoid of the checks and balances of actual place, these Web-doms often find it easy to write cruel remarks to submissives on line. Behind the mask of the website, inexperienced men feel emboldened. Sociopaths that take advantage of the curious and the uninitiated.

On the flip side, inexperienced subs often feed like predators on the earnest remarks of experienced Doms. Like the Hungry Ghosts of Buddhist lore, they strive to fill their stomachs in spite of the constriction of their throats, never content. They demand to meet the Dom immediately and usually release a litany of epithets when the experienced Man insists on meeting first to negotiate.

The efficiency of the language used in chatting, texting, and e-mailing adds to the volatility of the virtual place. Ignoring conventions of the spoken word that reinforce polite behavior, messages become direct, clipped, and often harsh. This compounds the need for personal interaction between potential players subsequent to on line cruising.

The cruising ritual of the Leather bar virtually eliminated such rude interactions, demanding politeness either out of fear of immediate retaliation from peers or out of respect for the feelings of others.

Many men of my generation have mourned the passing of San Francisco's Eagle. For me, this bar was more than a historical place of refuge. Its dark recesses facilitated the art of cruising, an art based on discretion and subtle interaction. I mourn the loss of this social art. Cruising is based on nuance and mannered restraint. And the subtlety of such interactions are often missed by the uninitiated, visible only to those who know how to read the signs. Because of this, the Leather bar operated on both esoteric and visible levels. Tolerance enforced by the phenomenon of cruising.

Since my late teens, whenever I am in Venice I have sought out the intimate space inside the Chiesa di San Sebastiano, a church in one of the furthest corners of Dorsoduro. Once inside the coolness of the church, I immediately go to the front of the sanctuary. Standing next to the altar I become part of the drama of Paolo Veronese's masterpiece depicting the martyrdom of the Saint. Glancing up to the farthest corner of the dark space, I become with Saint Sebastian the target of the archers. An essential part of the unfolding drama of his martyrdom.

Tourists inevitably stare as I stand in stillness before Veronese's massive canvas. In spite of the fact that they occupy the same space that I occupy, they are ignorant of the drama that is enfolding. The three painted archers take aim from the far corner of the darkness, pointing their arrows at both Saint Sebastian and myself.

My phenomenon remains hidden to those who are not privy to Veronese's visual interplay. Tourists come and go and I remain standing beside the altar and Saint Sebastian's painted body peppered with arrows.

This is the tolerance of place. The phenomenon of cruising. A tolerance that the Internet cannot replace. The actual space becomes a nexus of phenomena experienced on multiple planes.

The Leather bar as sanctuary.

The Death of Tolerance?

During the recent panel discussion “Is Leather Dead?'” presented by the San Francisco Leathermen's Discussion Group in July, Guy Baldwin described the classic Leather bar as a a nexus of many groups: bikers, fisters, men who practiced S/M, men who wore Leather as fetish, and men who simply enjoyed the pervasive masculinity. Disparate groups interacted together in relative harmony. Men whose shared identity was negation, NOT part of the cultural hegemony in America and in the rising Gay mainstream.

Today we gather on social networking sites. Many of us use these sites as a means of screening our future fucks and play partners before Leather runs. Others have learned how to use social networking to arrange face-to-face gatherings including beer busts and dungeon parties. And still others have developed advanced techniques of cruising that rival the quiet art exercised in the Leather bar, leading to physical encounters and subsequent play.

There are still others who use the Internet as a mask to hide behind. These men shun social spaces and the mannered ritual of cruising. They prefer to use the Internet as a substitute for skill and social ability. These men usually use the anonymity of the web to make immediate connections with other men, claiming to be “Sirs” or “Masters” with a history of experience. Devoid of the checks and balances of actual place, these Web-doms often find it easy to write cruel remarks to submissives online. The cruising ritual of the Leather bar virtually eliminated such rude interactions, demanding politeness either out of fear of immediate retaliation from peers or out of respect for the feelings of others. Behind the mask of the website, inexperienced men feel emboldened. Sociopaths that take advantage of the curious and the uninitiated.

On the flip side, inexperienced submissives often feed like predators on the earnest remarks of experienced Doms. Like the Hungry Ghosts of Buddhist lore, they strive to fill their stomachs in spite of the constriction of their throats, never content. They demand to meet the Dom immediately and usually release a litany of epithets when the experienced Man insists on meeting first to negotiate.

The efficiency of the language used in chatting, texting, and e-mailing adds to the volatility of the virtual place. Ignoring conventions of the spoken word that reinforce polite behavior, messages become direct, clipped, and often harsh. This compounds the need for personal interaction between potential players subsequent to online cruising.

Many men of my generation have mourned the passing of San Francisco's Eagle. For me, this bar was more than a historical place of refuge. Its dark recesses facilitated the art of cruising, an art based on discretion and subtle interaction. I mourn the loss of this social art. Cruising is based on nuance and mannered restraint. And the subtlety of such interactions are often missed by the uninitiated, visible only to those who know how to read the signs. Because of this, the Leather bar operated on both esoteric and visible levels. Tolerance enforced by the phenomenon of cruising.

Since my late teens, whenever I am in Venice I have sought out the intimate space inside the Chiesa di San Sebastiano, a church in one of the furthest corners of Dorsoduro. Once inside the coolness of the church, I immediately go to the front of the sanctuary. Standing next to the altar I become part of the drama of Paolo Veronese's masterpiece depicting the martyrdom of the Saint. Glancing up to the farthest corner of the dark space, I become with Saint Sebastian the target of the archers. An essential part of the unfolding drama of his martyrdom.

Tourists inevitably stare as I stand in stillness before Veronese's massive canvas. In spite of the fact that they occupy the same space that I occupy, they are ignorant of the drama that is enfolding. The three painted archers take aim from the far corner of the darkness, pointing their arrows at both Saint Sebastian and myself.

My phenomenon remains hidden to those who are not privy to Veronese's visual interplay. Tourists come and go and I remain standing beside the altar and Saint Sebastian's painted body peppered with arrows.

This is the tolerance of place. The phenomenon of cruising. A tolerance that the Internet cannot replace. The actual space becomes a nexus of phenomena experienced on multiple planes.

The Leather bar as sanctuary.

Reflections on the Hollow Men

"We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men."

When I fashion a Leather mask, I begin by casting the face. I carefully mold a negative form and from that, I create a positive. Then I stretch the Leather, hammer it, and rub it methodically for hours until a near perfect replica of the visage takes shape. A mask that begs to be worn. Without a person to wear it, the mask is dead, an object without life. Every actor knows this. An essential part of the professional actor's training is learning to interact within its hollow. Acting en masque.

Decades ago, many of our Leather organizations were formed. They were fashioned by men who understood the need to raise funds and awareness for HIV, for service to members of the Community, to defeat right-wing political agendas that threatened to drown us in intolerance. Although the shape of these organizations has remained the same over the years, the skill of those who knew how to animate them seems to be gone. What remains are the shells of organizations, masks of clubs and contests that once served a vibrant purpose.

While a few of these organizations have found revitalization through the efforts of a few selfless individuals, most remain evident but ineffective. They seem to have little direct association with their original purpose. And their affiliation with Leathersex, with play, or with the individuals who make up our current Community seems strained. Many of these organizations have become but facades of broken stones from another time, objects that are the focus of "Old Guard" incantations and fantastical rituals.

Groups that used to facilitate brotherhood now foment politics and drama. And their leaders, once essentially hidden behind the masks of their organizations, now expose themselves. The desire to be seen, greater than the call to serve. For it was service that animated these organizations, not the egos of men whose appetite for accolades and awards compels them to move the mask from the borders of its surface rather than from the inside.

I recently attended a symposium in San Francisco called, "Is Leather Dead?" As a Sir to boys of varying ages I can attest that kink and perversion is alive and well in the lives of the rising generation of Gay men. What seems to be dead are many of our organizations that have no context in the lives of these men. They belong more within the context of a reliquary than a vibrant Community.

So all hail to the "Hollow Men" who claim to lead these organizations. To them, I say -

"A penny for the Old Guy."