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.