The Dungeon Wild

When we enter a dungeon space, we voluntarily leave the rational mind at the door. We enter the Wild, a dark jungle where instinct and pack dynamics reign. When we retreat, we often can be left with fear and confusion.

"I looked at my back and I could not believe what I did last night," wrote my boy after an intense impact/flogging/single tail scene. In the dungeon space, he had given himself to me with abandon. "I want to do this for you," he said in deference to my Dominance. And baring his back in the bar hours later, he beamed with pride beside me. However, at home before the mirror before going to bed, he contemplated the welts on his back and his logical mind countered the remnants of our scene. His mind puzzled over the darkness of his instinctual self.

Understanding that logic does not exist in the dark wild, we try to balance the experience with a discourse of consensuality. We often reason why we do these activities using psychology or spirituality to validate our involvement. These are but feeble attempts to understand the animal inside, the instinct that encourages us over and over again to play in the dungeon.

In the last ten years we have witnessed the acknowledgment of puppy play, and of animal play in general. Using fetish, we conjure up the animal within to enact power dynamics that are as real as our cultural interactions from day to day. As Leathermen we revel in animal play, delving further and further into its depths. Rather than basing the success of our play on technical prowess, arguing kink into the cultural discourse, we continue to invent new forms of play that probe the instinctual depths.

A Family Gift

We often talk about "family" in our Tribe. Most often we use this referring to those Leathermen and Leatherwomen who we have chosen to be part of our intimate group. Or referring to those who have chosen us. During the Holiday season, many of us also think of our birth families. For many, this can be a challenging subject.

I do not delude myself into thinking that my parents and siblings are happy that my sexuality is far left of "normal." And the fact that I accept this fact as much as the air that I breathe is not a cause of celebration in my family. I find this amusing, as my sexual proclivities and appetites are very much a biological inheritance.

In spite of my family's conservative religion, the sexual discourse is never absent in our private conversations. From these conversations, I would guess that there is no middle ground when it comes to sex in my family. Either a celebration of carnal pleasures within their relationships or a denial of them.

And as far back as I can remember I have been inquisitive about my body. Even before my first ejaculation, I knew how to make myself feel good physically and had no qualms about exploring pleasurable experiences with peers. I believe most of us acknowledged our "dark" side long before our first adolescent sexual experience. Hereditary predisposition?

I am a sexual adventurer, an explorer of the body. And I acknowledge this as much part of my heritage as the color of my skin, my physical build, and my Gayness.

A family trait, a gift, even if they do not celebrate it as freely as I do.

Get Ready for -

Photo by Travis Hughes

Honoring Steve Hines

Almost twenty years ago I was approached by Lee Willis with Guy Baldwin, and Jan Lyons. A boy still wet behind the ears, Lee told me about his pet project, a memorial plaque honoring those "fallen Leathermen and Leatherwomen."

"Would you help me plan a dinner for the presentation of the plaque?" he asked.

I felt quite humbled to be approached by these Elders of the Tribe and asked, "Why me?" I did not feel up to the task.

They explained that they wanted something "classy." A dinner with a performance of high caliber. With decades of experience as a professional ballet dancer, they knew I would do something worthy of the occasion. "I believe that the Leather community deserves the best," added Lee. "Don't worry. If you need help, just ask. We can do this together."

A few short weeks later Lee invited me over his house. "I need help," I said, as I helped him stretch the large piece of leather over the plaque's background. "I do not know how to go about planning a dinner. I know how to organize a show but not a dinner."

"Steve Hines," was his curt reply. "He will do a good job."

Steve was a friend in the community, handsome with a brush of a mustache and a quick smile. As the weeks flew by and the presentation of the event grew closer, I barely heard from Steve. And whenever I would ask him how things were going, he would simply say, "Everything's fine."

On the night of the presentation, I recall opening up Seattle's Russian Hall with Steve. As I unloaded boxes and boxes of food with him, I realized just how much he had done in preparation for the event. Diligently he had worked without fanfare. No paper plates and napkins for this event. He had prepared a high calibre meal that one might enjoy in a fine restaurant.

That evening, Russian Hall was filled with Leatherfolk not only from Seattle, but also from other cities. An evening as memorable as the plaque. After the dinner, the presentation of names, and the performance, I stood in the front of the hall as people were filing out. I looked over to the kitchen, Steve Hines still working in the kitchen.

"Quiet dignity." Two words that Guy Baldwin had shared with me many months before from a book by Geoffrey Mains. "A Leatherman has 'Quiet Dignity.'" As I watched Steve that night, these words returned. I realized that he exemplified these words in his service to the community.

Today, I remember Steve as a man who was always there providing help without complaint. As I look at the plaque hanging on the wall of The Cuff, I see Steve's name. He died three years after its presentation in 1994.

"Steve Hines, Seattle Daddy's Boy '90 - '91."

A man of service. A true Leatherman.

For more about The Memorial Plaque.

A United Effort Always Guarantees Success

I would like to thank those who helped make Spanksgiving and Heart of Darkness successful. Lady Lydia and Tony Buff were exceptional Thursday night together with my co-titleholders, Dan and Scout. Not to mention the spanks peddlers who did a magnificent job.

I cannot take credit for the impressive sum of $1000 that was raised over the Holiday weekend. This was a united effort. When we work together, we create stronger bonds within our community.

Celebrate the Holiday Weekend with Northwest LeatherSir/boy/Community Bootblack

If you are like me, you welcome the Thanksgiving Weekend with mixed emotions. I always enjoy the bountiful family dinner, although I am not crazy about turkey. And in spite of its heterocentricity, I always enjoy hearing all the new tidings regarding my family. But after the turkey, yams, and blueberry pie, I find myself missing my Tribe.

This Thanksgiving, the Northwest titleholders offer you Alternative Family Fare. Together with special guests, we will be busy at Spanksgiving on Thanksgiving evening. And at a men's only dungeon party on Saturday night directly following Seattle Men in Leather's Daddy/Daddy's boy contest.

Proceeds from both events go to the Tony Deblase Scholarship. Come celebrate the Holiday with us and help us reach our goal of one thousand dollars this weekend.

See the Events section on this blog to learn more.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Why I like Wescos

My bootpig boy lay flat on his back, the heel of my Jobmaster placed firmly below his right nipple. Rolling the flat of my boot on the meaty part of his pec, I watched as he writhed in pain, his groans punctuated by the affirmative exclamations of my other boy standing shoulder to shoulder with me. Taking my foot away, I admired the red imprint of my Vibram soled boot on his flesh.

Jumping up, I grabbed the suspension rack above and hung over the piggy boy. My two boots now hovered over both of his thighs and I watched him tense up in anticipation of my full weight. Slowly at first, then more firmly, I eased myself down until I felt his quadriceps roll outward. Then I stood still and looked down at my bootpig boy's anxious face.

"Uh" was all that he could say, a signal that he was nearing the edge after one hour of bootplay. Reaching up to the rack again, I lifted myself off and paused momentarily before I dropped to the floor, barely missing the boy's torso with both boots. I nudged my boot right up to the boy's cheek. And, as if to give an architectural structure to the scene, he turned his head toward the boot and began licking it, just as he had done at the beginning of the scene. His tongue worked the instep and slowly worked around the hard toe to the lateral area. Then up the sides of the boot until he had drawn himself up to a fetal position around it. That was my cue to untie his hands from his thighs. I wanted to give him a moment to caress my boot with both hands before finishing the scene.

"Help me untie him," I commanded the boy who had been looking on. "Help me because this bootpig needs to get fucked!"

Moments later I stood in ecstacy, one boy by my side and the other, curled up around my right boot with a big smile on his face. Gently, he rubbed his cheek against the shank, almost rocking.

"I'm ready to be fucked, Sir," he said.

No other boot in the world like a Wesco!

Taking Responsability

The first Leatherman that I played with as a young Gay man in 1986 was Billy Jefferson. With my cock in Billy's talented mouth, an onlooker told me that Billy advocated safe sex in a very active way. I soon learned "Sargeant Safety" had no qualms about demonstrating the tenets of safe sex.

For Billy, being pro-sex was not contrary to safe sex. In fact, he led by example, one man at a time. He was not shy about talking about safe sex either from his knees or from the rostrum as the first Mr. Seattle Leather.

Twenty-five years later the discussion continues primarily because of the feel good practice of bare backing. As a Sir that loves to fuck, I vouch for the fact that I prefer feeling the skin of my cock inside a man's ass rather than through a latex barrier. However, as a Leatherman I also value the health of others in my tribe as much as I value my own health. And I am mindful of the need to protect those in the next generation, not only from HIV but also from Hep C and other infectious disorders.

Proudly, I recommend this article by my Clan brother, Tony Buff. He is a TitanMen exclusive and the originator of the TitanMen series, Rough. Thank you, Tony, for continuing to uphold Seattle's tradition of safe sex, as advocated by Billy Jefferson. His articulate stance mirrors my own feelings.

See Tony's article at http://tonybuff.com/posts/a-more-nuanced-position.

Running Home

What a great weekend at the International LeatherSir / Leatherboy / Community Bootblack in San Francisco! Fraternizing with old friends and connecting with new ones renewed my resolve to serve the Northwest Community.

As in years past, I return home with mixed feelings. I am always sad when a Leather run comes to a close and with it, that feeling of Tribe. I always find it hard to describe that feeling of solidarity and power that one feels at a run.

On the other side of the coin, I return to Seattle invigorated and confident as your titleholder.

I was so proud of our Northwest titleholders during the weekend. Thom's amazing stage presence. Dominic's disciplined yet natural protocols 24/7. Diamond Jack's moving speech on Saturday night that brought the audience to its feet. These are the memories I bring back along with a new sense of pride at being from the Northwest.

For those of you who have not shared in the excitement of a run, I recommend it highly. Runs reinforce our bonds as Leatherfolk. And they renew our souls so that we can better serve our community back home.

The Exchange of Power and La Forza Italia

Many of us accept play as a paradigm of life. We see power as an exchange that goes beyond the play space and into the broader field of citizenship, a role that each of us plays in our respective countries. This view of the praxis of power was promulgated by late twentieth century philosopher, Michele Foucault.

In Italy many refuse to vote, feeling that it is futile to engage in the political dialogue. Yet there are others that continue to participate in the process, despite the disheartening electoral results of the last decade. And as they continue to push against the formidable wall of Berlusconi's "Forza Italia," they grow stronger, louder, more resilient. Resistance training, Italian style.

If we embrace Leather as a lifestyle, a set of principles that infuses our own day to day existence, then we must acknowledge our role in the exchange of power. We must educate ourselves on the issues. We must take a stand and be engaged in our political process. Finally, we must vote.

To translate the words of Mussolini's nemesis, Antonio Gramsci:

The person who truly lives must be both a citizen and a partisan. Indifference is apathy. When one is possessed by it, one becomes a parasite, a coward. Indifference is not life.

"- and entertain guests tonight."

When I was younger I recall a TV advertisement that depicted a housewife. Dressed in stiletto heels, a pinched waist dress, a perfect bob hairdo, and a big smile, the effervescent woman walked around the tiled floor squeezing out floor wax. Effortlessly she squeezed out liquid cleaner on the floor and spread it around with a shiny mop. Silent and always happy, she was the icon of the early 60s wife. Such advertisements were common.

During the last two decades in the community, I have observed Sirs who seem to believe in a similar paradigm relative to boys. They chastize their boys openly if they are not always pleasant, well-scrubbed, silent, and busy. They reason that boys exist only relative to Sirs, icons of service in the community. Always ready to drop to their knees or to lay back with legs in the air.

A number of years ago during a lecture at the release of his latest book, Armestad Maupin suggested that older Gay men display a form of displaced misogny when they treat young men as objects. A feminization of young men, always passively sexy and ready for action. I would extend that observation to include men in positions of power.

In Leather we talk about the EXCHANGE of power in our play, a dialogue between Top and bottom, Dom and sub, Master and slave, or Sir and boy. Understanding this, the majority of experienced Sirs work with negotiated protocols that provide security to their boys and facilitate this exchange. Their boys are free to express themselves next to their Sirs within these parameters, even to "misbehave" at times. Otherwise, without an active exchange, boys become nothing more than parodies of the perfect, pre-liberated wife.

Unmasking the Dottore

I keep a framed print of Il Dottore always sitting close at hand. Sometimes I wear a small, golden Dottore mask around my neck, made for me years ago by a craftsman in Venezia. During this period of my life I recognize the emergence of the Dottore from time to time, that classic Commedia dell'Arte character who personifies the absurdity of the mature, educated man. The fact that I have lived for an extended period in Bologna and obtained part of my education at that city's university further validates this recognition.

As a LeatherSir with decades of experience, I often find this mask placed firmly on my face when I allow myself to act without fully comprehending my boy's situation. Bushy eyebrows leading down to a red, bulbous nose, my judgment can be marred by the inebriety that comes from the belief that I always know best. When this happens, my words become as ineffective as the scatalogical prescriptions of the Old Fool. I must proceed cautiously.

In short, humility is the key to judicious behavior. And often using logic based on experience is not enough to understand what is best for a boy. This is true not only in play but in life.

Without an open mind and heart, extensive experience alone can often mask the Sir.

Miss Manners and the Old Guard

Before leaving town for the weekend, I invited my alpha boy out for coffee. Along the way he walked respectfully by my left side. He held the door open for me to enter the coffee shop, He stood behind his chair until I was seated. And he listened attentively as I spoke, inserting his own astute observations during the discussion. When we left he thanked me for sharing my time with him, and I thanked him in return.

I have often been asked how I train my boys. What protocols I use. "I wish that I was taught 'Old Guard' protocols," one sir exclaimed wistfully a few months ago. "You are so lucky to have been a boy twenty years ago when the Old Guard was still around."

I laughed.

The truth, both my boys appear well-trained because they understand good manners. They say "please" and "thank you." They respect their elders in the Leather Tribe. They defer to those who have more experience. And they are always willing to help when they are asked.

There is no great mystery to protocols. No secret "Old Guard" rituals. To crack the code of the Elders, I recommend that a sir buys a copy of Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior, the Rosetta Stone for training a Leatherboy. The sir should begin training in the common courtesies, elucidating his verbal instructions with his own behavior. When the boy has learned the basic rules of etiquette, the sir should then move to more challenging "protocols" such as showing respect for those in the Tribe with more experience.

Using Miss Manner's tome and demonstrating her rules of etiquette by his own example, any sir can train a Leatherboy in the tradition of "Old" Leather.

There will be blood!

It has been almost ten years since I have engaged in bloodsports. After the passing of my friend, Al D, I have not been able to entertain the idea of wielding needles or knives. I have conceded to others that it is no longer my thing.

"Whenever you introduce something foreign to the body, you must remember that you are entering that person and it is sacred." Al reminded me of this again and again. And having been a participant in a number of his piercing rituals, I can vouch for his words. In fact, bloodsports took on such a heightened meaning with Al that I reasoned that I could never again participate in them after his death.

Blood is the life force. But for Gay men it is taboo, especially for the men of my generation. My generation has witnessed the loss of too many Leathermen taken in their prime by that dreaded pathogen, HIV. To pick up a knife and begin to play again forces a confrontation with death far more than the immediate. The knife and the needle conjure up the memory of these men.

For years I have told myself that I have avoided these tools out of respect for Al D. But what better way to show respect than to indulge in this type of play? Perhaps my excuse has been nothing more than the romantification of his influence in my life.

In Leather we tend to romanticize our past. For decades we have conjured up the "Old Guard" like gods on Mount Olympus. We have created a Golden Age of Leather that thrived on Folsom Street and in long forgotten New York clubs. And we talk of our mentors with a contrived reverence, mistaking nostalgia for respect.

Perhaps the most important step as LeatherSirs is to understand that the play we do now is the best play, that the people who surround us now make up our true Tribe, and that our mentors prepared us to build on their legacy, not resuscitate it in rococo style.

The Title Scene

I felt proud to stand on the 12th Street Stage with other titleholders at the Folsom Street Fair. "Here they are! Your leaders."

Leadership is an interesting word, a term that often provokes snide comments by many who question the role of those men and women who hold titles. Are titleholders truly leaders?

In the years that I have been involved, I recall a number of titleholders who have amazed me, Leather ambassadors who have worked to raise money and awareness for outstanding causes. And I have known others who have lacked the fortitude to complete their title years. Their motivation seems to have been nothing more than to win the notorious glory of a sash and a free trip to Chicago or San Francisco.

I opine that winning a title is much like stepping into the playroom as a Sir. The toys have been prepared. The limits of the scene, negotiated. The potential players, ready. But, as those of us who play understand, toys and preparation do not guarantee a hot scene.

A good scene, like a good title year, depends on playing without compromise. It requires an investment of the person unlike any other activity. A widening of the senses so that one can play in the moment. It also requires an infectious confidence in one's role as Sir, a strength that serves as a foundation for all activity in the playspace.

Throughout the years I have met men who have made substantial financial investments without any idea what to do with their newly purchased equipment. They believe that their acquired possessions qualify them to be instant Sirs. Often they will list their toys on personals sites in an attempt to convince others of their self-claimed status. But unless someone knows how to play, the toys have little value. I have done scenes in hotel rooms with improvized items purchased in convenience stores. Common for those of us who travel often. These scenes can often be the most fulfilling as they depend on ingenuity rather than equipment.

The night before Folsom I was the guest at the new home of an elder Leatherman. The handsome gentleman related tales from New York in the early seventies, of legendary bars and cruising areas. And he spoke of how he entered the scene with nothing other than an inexplicable desire. No expensive toys. No fancy chaps. Just a man with a hard cock and the balls to be part of the brotherhood of Leather.

A title year is a scene. And in keeping with my role as a Sir, I plan on playing hard. Happy Folsom 2010!

Fast Forward to Folsom

I went to my first Folsom Street Fair in 1991. A much smaller event then, yet still overwhelming, especially for a boy who could not get enough play.

One of my favorite memories of that occasion was the dungeon party the night before. To celebrate the evening's festivities, the International Mr. Drummer Contest, a group of us gathered at one of the bars along Folsom Street.

I stood nursing my drink in an attempt to look nonchalant about the invitation to remain after hours. "Just stay close to the back of the bar and don't say anything," I was told. Honored to be considered, I grabbed my beer and headed for a dark wall.

After the patrons had finished filing out and the doors had been locked, I looked around. Approximately twenty-five men total, all dressed in formal Leather gear. I recognized luminaries in the community, men that I had idolized for years in magazines and in person. And a bevy of titleholders, all known to be serious players.

My Sir told me that I would feel the flogger of the current International Mr. Leather that night. Then he tied me to an open beam and told me to wait, my back exposed to the center of the room. Suddenly, I felt the teasing of those first strokes, a warm-up for what was to follow. As the leather soon began to sting, I felt the rise of endorphins in my body, the flowering of a different consciousness. With more force now, the intensity gradually blossomed until I felt my entire body shake with each blow. More force than I had ever felt. Blow after blow for about an hour, until I knew that my skin had finally split open. At last, I felt the blood slowly drip down the curve of my back.

"You're bleeding," he said in a deep, quiet voice, shoving his ripe armpits in front of my face to service. "You know the safe word if you want me to stop," he taunted quietly .

"No, please Sir," I answered respectfully. I could tell how much he was enjoying the scene and I did not want to disappoint. I wanted to take as much as he would give me. "I can take more," I replied.

The next morning I walked shirtless under a glorious, San Francisco sun, proud to be a Leatherman. I felt privileged to bask in the brotherhood celebrated the night before. I walked in quiet protocol next to my Sir, turning around when beckoned to show off my wounds. In passing, another Sir ripped open the back of his boy's tank to display lacerations like my own. We compared wounds.

Almost twenty years later, I head back to Folsom with my partner by my side. I am thrilled to represent the Northwest Community of Leather/SM/kink men. As I carefully prepare my Wescos and my gear, polishing and oiling each piece as I was taught twenty years ago, I smile to think of my first Folsom. And, in spite of the fact that the Fair is no longer just for those in the Lifestyle, I anticipate it as much as I did in 1991. Still making new friends in the community and bursting with pride at being a Leatherman.

The Scholarship and the Psychophants: Why raise money for the Tony Deblase Scholarship Fund

During the next year, I have consented to whore myself to raise funds for the Tony Deblase Scholarship, a Pride Foundation scholarship that supports students entering the field of sex education, sex therapy research, or studies that further the understanding of sexuality, especially alternative sexuality. With tongue firmly in cheek, I am willing to work the streets for this cause, propositioning you both for financial support and for your participation at fund-raising events.

Recently I was asked why raise funds for a scholarship fund whose seed money already exists. This is an excellent question. Their are many in the community who helped raise the initial funds for this scholarship. Perhaps some may feel that the job was completed at that time. Others question the value of sex research, given the political and financial upheaval today. Finally, many flatter me with false kudos followed by such phrases as "you would be so much more effective as a titleholder by spending your time raising money for [name of esoteric non-profit organization]."

Ten years ago I returned to school and spent the next few years as both a student and a working professional. I understand the costs of higher education. My experience has shown me that for a scholarship to be truly viable, it must be able to alleviate this financial burden. Funding must be robust. I realize that this is especially true when I read of recent budget cuts in higher education, cuts that have caused tuition to rise at an alarming rate.

I also understand that obtaining money for sexual studies is not easy, especially funds to research the Leather/kink/alternative community. This research is extremely important not only because it helps us understand ourselves, but also because it helps diffuse the prejudice in our country against those who exist outside of society's approved definitions.

I have observed over the last two decades that Leathermen and Leatherwomen have long been the harbingers of sexuality. I am constantly amazed at the introduction of terms and fashions that we once guarded as our own. As a humorous example, a few months ago I happened to hear a conversation in the office. "Damn," said a married, heterosexual co-worker after a difficult telephone encounter with a client. "That wasn't even safe, sane, and consensual. I didn't even have a safe word!" Everyone laughed.

I was stunned. Terms introduced by Leatherfolk more than two decades ago now part of the mainstream discourse.

As I see it, Leatherfolk have long played an integral part in creating the discourse of mainstream culture. Our historic role for the last few decades.

Therefore, expect me to use the pedestal of my title to ask for your support. Join me in supporting the education of the next generation of Leatherfolk as they build on the foundation laid by those who came before. And if you can't donate, the least you can do is to tie someone up and hurt them in Tony's memory (plagarised without shame from the Tony Deblase Scholarship brochure).

Find more information about the Tony Deblase Scholarship at www.pridefoundation.org/scholarships/scholarship-funds/.

The Sexual Wild

Shakespeare posits in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" that society's sexual mores do not exist in the wild. As the four lovers fumble through the darkness, Robin Goodfellow, a satyr in British guise, opens up the lovers to a realm of relative possibilities that only exists outside the boundaries of their civilized world.

My sexuality is always heightened on the wilderness coast of Western Washington. After the first twenty-four hours, I feel more animal than human. I eat when I am hungry. I piss where I find a spot. I shit under a tree and cover my scat. And I always want to fuck. I feel comfortable in the wild.

This weekend I spent two glorious days on Second Beach near La Push, Washington. A special place to me not only because of its beauty but also because of its relation to my Leather lifestyle. I discovered it twenty years ago with a close friend in the Tribe, long before the trail was well marked and groomed. With its sea stacks, needles, and dramatic sea arch, there is no other beach that can compare in scenic drama. It is also a special place where my partner and I reconnect emotionally and physically.

Prior to leaving on Friday, I threw five pounds of clay into my pack. The next morning I sat looking out into the void of the Pacific Ocean and I felt the urge to work it. I connect with the malleable earth in a very direct way. The clay exposes my internal state. My karma.

The forms that emerged hours later were unabashedly sexual. A male torso that draws the eye down to his semi-erect cock. And two headless bodies merging in a power fuck with the Dominant straining as his rod penetrates the asshole of the recumbent form.

What a challenge to hike out with two clay forms in the "hard leather" stage! Over rocks, across a log strewn beach, and up the trail through the rain forest. And what fun to watch the faces of the day hikers as they came to pay tribute to "Twilight" (the book and the movie), passing me with full pack on my back and two forms held carefully in my hands.

This morning as the clay figures sit in my office drying in the sun, I am reminded that Leather ignites this same animal when I am in the city. An honest sexuality felt when I cover my body in hides. As Leatherfolk we pay tribute to the animal within when we invoke eagles, panthers, wolves, or dragons as totems. And we recognize our instinctual selves when we speak of Tribe. To invoke Geoff Mains, we recognize ourselves as "Urban Aboriginals."

What is a Leatherman like ME doing in a contest like this?

For twenty years I have dismissed title contests. "Not for this Leatherman!" I often said. As a professional performer who traveled extensively in the nineties, I had no time. In subsequent years, I reasoned that I was too old. "What is the big deal anyway?" I asked myself.

Also vying for the Northwest LeatherSir title, my Clan brother John, one of the newest members of the Dragons. A person that I did not know very well until this past weekend.

A title contest pushes contestants to the edge. After days and often weeks of preparation, contestants are asked to move quickly from one arena to another, from the very social Meet and Greet to the intensity of an interview facing a panel of judges. And then on stage in the spotlight, challenging even the seasoned performer. With limited time to eat and sleep, the weekend becomes a whirlwind of activities that continue almost non-stop until the Victory brunch on Sunday.

As energy wanes, contestants face challenges that are not apparent to those who have never participated in title contests. Questions arise within. Self doubt surfaces. Physical and emotional limitations come to the fore. And contestants find they must overcome the subsequent demons often while facing the unforgiving gaze of a bar crowd.

This pressure cooker brings contestants together for support. Exactly what happened this past weekend with John. As we walked back to The Cuff following our interviews on Saturday, I listened respectfully as he shared with me his personal feelings about Leather. And I answered his questions regarding my days as a rebellious and hard-playing boy. This was the beginning of a number of discussions that day that culminated in a greater understanding between us. A new bond between brothers.

While some may argue that titles no longer serve a purpose in the Leather community, I argue that they are worth it if only to bring contestants closer together. The bonds created are real. They are formed in the refiner's fire of public competition.