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.