What is it about Leather?

  I admit it:  I'm vanilla.  For me love is about being absolutely who you are -- not someone else.  It's about laughing and doing and being physical with another.  It is sex, which can be very nasty, you know. 

I'm vanilla when it comes to role playing, leather, S&M, bondage and the whole gamut  of bed play that goes on between consenting adults.  I don't disapprove, not in the least.  I think it's just fine.  I simply don't have the chromosome that allows one to experience such things with a straight face.  To me it all seems silly, silly, silly. 

I mean, how does one not chuckle just a little when a 50ish balding overweight accountant dons a studded leather harness (which leaves plenty of space for his ample gut to spill forward) and a pair of butt cheek revealing leather chaps?  I don't get that it's sexy at all;  it's just silly.

But then, alot of guys do get into it, seriously into it.  The closest I ever got to a Leather relationship was with Robert #1 (may he rest in peace), who was quite the afficianato of such things.  He loved to get done up in his ripped jeans, leather jacket, big boots, chains and gloves.  And, come to think of it, I guess that's what he was wearing when I met him.  But really, after about a month together, we knew each other too well, we spent way too much time laughing and playing . . . and it just seemed . . . well, silly.  He had to seek that adventure, that persona, that fantasy elsewhere. 

I remember him telling me that it was just another form of drag.  He said we were all drag queens one way or another, and if you drop by just about any gay bar in American on a weekend night, you'll probably agree with him.  There are the aforementioned Leather guys, the bears, the cowboys, the preppies, the twinks, the queens and on and on.  I remember the last time I was single.  There was a period where I felt like I was dating the Village People:  I had a cop, a contruction worker, a leather guy . . . and all I wanted was a human being.

I think this whole role playing thing must be less obvious in hetero places . . . but I don't know; have you ever been to a straight cowboy bar?  or a Biker bar? or a Sports bar? Maybe we are all in drag.

Anyway, I saw my pal H. last night.  I'm using an initial and it's not even his real initial because I want to respect his privacy.  H. is one of my good friends.  He's a smart technical sorta guy, writes computer programs for top secret satellite projects.  He's also seriously into Leather in a slightly B&D (bondage and domination) way.  He has a complete arsenal of straps and slings, hand cuffs and immobilization boards and so on.  He even has an electro-muscular stimulator like some chirorpractors use, with all the attachments to connect it with his latest boy's . . . well . . . most sensitive areas (inside and out).  I can only imagine. 

H. has been a lone wolf queer his whole life.  I don't mean he's a loner; I mean he has never coupled.  For him it's all about pursuit, conquest, domination and pleasure.  He's had fellows he played with for several months and even years, but these were play pals, not spouses.  I don't think he's ever lived with anybody in a romantic sense.

Oh, I can hear you now.  You're thinking somewhere in the back of your brain, 'Oh, what a sad thing . . . a life without love.'  Well, that's a judgement that our culture has taught you.  We've been programmed from the time we were wee to be looking for that beautiful princess or handsome prince, to be swept away and live happily ever-after (oh, by the way, more of us live happily ever after divorced than married).  H. is like quite a few gay men I know, Leather guys and not.  He has his life, his friends, his freedom.  Sex is a very pleasurable game to him.  And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that as long as it's honest -- and with H. it is. 

I often meet him out at one of the neighborhood dives for a beer.  We chat a bit, get caught up and then, invariably, some stunning young champ will catch his eye.  I can't tell you how many times I've watched him walk out of a bar with a new lad in tow.  Sometimes I get a call the next day telling me all the spanking and tying up and hot wax dripping that was done. 

I usually just laugh and laugh because it's all so foreign to me.  The thought of inflicting pain on another while having sex or receiving pain in the same situation would be like me sitting down to eat an ample portion of raw goat liver.  I can't even imagine it.  It becomes absurd.  Like I said:  I'm vanilla.

Here's where this is going:  about three years ago, H. met S. (also not his real initial).  S. was a mid-west transplant, new to town and just as cute as he could be.  Mid-twenties , slim, trim and built (H. is an old fart, like me:  mid-40s -- but you'd never guess to look at him).  H. immediately latched on to him and soon had him handcuffed to this bed, giving him ever increasing doses of electric shock.  S. loved it.  And this one seemed to last. 

I suspected it was turning serious when S. who had sported a full beard, showed up at a bar-b-que clean shaven wearing a baseball cap.  At first I thought it was just a new look.  But when the cap came off, he had no hair up there either.  H had shaved him, every inch of him.  It's one of those . . . leather things. 

Of course I assumed the infatuation was mostly on S's side.  I mean H was not the coupling kind.  Imagine my surprise when he pulled me aside over his chicken and beans and waxed on and on about being 'together' with S!  H in a R-E-L-A-T-I-O-N-S-H-I-P???!

Well, it wasn't long before H's house was for sale.  He and S had bought a newer, bigger place together.  Of course, 'together' in this case meant that H had put up all the cash and gotten the loan and S's contribution would be something he termed 'Sweat Equity.'  They moved in and went about that most gay of domestic tasks:  remodelling. 

But then, something came up back in the mid-west.  S had to go back to take care of business.  And he was gone for a couple of months.  He was back with H for another few months and suddenly there was something else that took him away for several months.  This rootless and unpredictable pattern became so constant that S was never in one place long enough to get his remodelling business off the ground.  He had no money except what H gave him and paid for nothing.  Face it:  he was a kept man.  Which was just fine with H. 

The other day I got a call from H.  'Hey, Jim!' (he's the only person on the planet other than my former spouse and best friend who calls me that).  Why'nt ya meet me up at the Loft for a beer?'

'Sure' I said, and headed out the door and down the three blocks to the neighborhood pub. 

We chatted and caught up.  I've been gone so much lately that we had lots to say to each other.  He'd been fishing 8 miles off the coast at night and caught 5 giant squid, 6-8 feet long.  I'd had a couple of memorable adventures in New Orleans . . . That kind of thing.

'Oh:  what do you hear from S?' I asked.  He was gone again last I'd heard.

'Well, glad you asked,' he half smiled, half sheepishly.  'He's been back a week.'

'Great!'

'Yes.  But he's been very distant.  I didn't know what was up until yesterday when we had a very . . . pointed conversation.'   I could almost smell what was coming.

'Seems S met this big leather daddy online and has been chatting with him for weeks.  He wants to go down to Atlanta next week to meet him and enter into a permanent Slave relationship with him.'

'Hhuhh?' I stammered. 

'Yes, and from this guys picture I can sorta understand why.'

H maintained his half smile but the pain was all over his face.  I waited for the rationalization.

'He's absolutely huge, totally ripped and frankly gorgeous.  Almost anyone would be interested.'

I could think of at least one who probably would not. 

'How's he gonna pay for the plane ticket?' I asked, bitch that I am.

'I sure don't know . . .but he's resourceful.'  H grew somewhat somber.  'I just don't understand . . . I did everything I know how to do to make a home with him . . . he told me the only time he's ever been happy in his life was when I was making all the decisions, calling all the shots and telling him what to do every day of his life.  And he wants to throw it all away for some guy he met . . . on the internet??'

'I'd say that says alot,' I said. 

'I guess it does,' he replied.

'What do you mean, permanent Slave relationship?'

'He'd basically be this guy's dog.  He'd live to serve him and be disciplined by him.'

'OoOhh . . . I see. . . You know I think there's a little bit of housewife in all of us.  I mean, sometimes I think it would be nice to have someone make up my mind for me and tell me what to do,' I said sarcastically.

'You don't understand,' said H.  'That's just who S. is.  He wants to be subservient to a domineering guy. . . I just thought I was that guy.' 

'These two have never met?' I asked.

'No.  Not until next week.'

'Well, if he's like most internet dates, he'll turn out to be 52, balding, fat and unemployed.' 

'Hey,' called a slightly sloppy drunk at the bar. ' I met a guy on the internet once.  He said he had a big 8 inches.  When he got to my place it was about that big,' he said, holding his thumb and forefinger about 4 inchs apart.'What the hell is that?' I asked him, and you know what he said?'

'No, what did he say?'

'That's an internet 8.'  And there were broad Haw Haws all around. 

I know:  despite my statements to the contrary, I am judgemental.  I don't understand leather, bondage, domination or volunteer slavery.  And I don't understand how S, who seems about as useless to me as tits on a boar, could get to H like this.  I mean:  although H and I are completely different, I admit that somewhere, way down deep inside, I admire him, am strangely envious of his totally-in-control, different-guy-every-night life.  It's not me  . . but a boy can dream, can't he? 

And here he was, having finally risked being 'together' with someone, broken, wimpering in the back of the corner bar.  We'll get him through this and I'm sure he'll be fine.  But it's things like this that can turn a good guy cynical and mean.  He'll have a good reason to spank the next boy he takes home. 

Like I said:  I don't understand leather . . . . but, hey:  there's nothing wrong with it   

Happy Valentines Day