The Price of Admission

By Jack Rinella

Issue number 45 Sunday, October 24, 2004

These past several weeks have brought me experiences that sent my mind pondering the substantial changes the subculture of Leather has seen over the past twenty years and more especially over the last ten. Initially provoked by a young man who came to me for some training those thoughts were further brought home by remarks and observations at a recent contest/convention.

I must admit to feeling like a cranky old curmudgeon, the left-behind grandfather not quite able to live with the changes in his once comfortable neighborhood. In fact it frightens me that I feel this way --- my favorite places are long gone, the mores, customs, and styles that attracted me to Leather are less acknowledged, the secret's out, and I feel old-fashioned and out of touch.

Many, with good reason, could remind me that I have been an active part of creating those changes. After all, more than ten years ago I wrote The Master's Manual, which hardly hid what we were up to. More reasonably though a wide variety of changes in society in general and in leather in particular have transformed the quiet, hidden, and secretive practices of BDSM into dumbed-down Internet fare.

In trying to put an intellectual handle on all of this, I can only conclude that what has most dramatically changed is the price of admission. This price is more important than we think.

My friend Steven recently reminded me of seeing guys pace outside the famous Gold Coast Bar on Wells Street, obviously afraid to enter. I once had the same kind of experience outside Jewel's in New Orleans. The darkened, un- signed doorway was hardly inviting. In fact I had a hard time believing that behind that grungy shuttered facade there might be anything but a warehouse. Only when a couple of ruggedly-clad men exited to the street did I realize I had the right address.

I know you'd never think of me as being shy and reticent to venture in but I was.

Now, lest you think that the price of admission was in dollars, let me be quick to note that there was no doorman (it was during the week and early in the evening at that) and there was no cover charge, no minimum, and no entertainment. What met me was a dark, dirty, narrow bar area, the smell of stale beer, and a friendly bartender.

The price to get in was a psychological one: I had to work hard to find out that the place existed and then I had to confront my fears and walk in. Before even doing that I had to make sure I was properly dressed and looked the part, which for me was jeans, a flannel shirt, and dark work boots. I can't even tell you how I knew what to wear, though it was probably more a desire to fit in and be un-noticed by wearing what I saw on the men pictured in Drummer Magazine.

Added to the price of admission, there was the cost of continuing. I had to conform to the culture I wanted to join, not only in looks, but in attitude. Yes, I admit that I no longer feel the need to conform and have been known to spend entire weekends at kinky events wearing my sneakers. For better or worse I, too, have in some ways changed with the times.

It is an understatement to say that things are different in the twenty-first century. Access to kink now most often begins with an anonymous search on the Internet, leading to porn sites and personals, chat rooms and newsgroups. There is no need for courage, just assume a persona and you're through the cyber door. You don't have to change your clothes, brush your teeth, or walk down darkened streets past dumpsters and drunks.

There's no need to show ID or take hardly any risk at all, unless the risk is that your room-mate, parent, or significant other will look over your shoulder and see what's on your monitor.

Even when you screw up the courage to meet in real time, it's more likely to be at a Denny's, a Holiday Inn, or a well-lit community center. The folks you meet will look like the people at church, school, or work, though there might be touch of leather here and there.

Paradoxically the price of getting further into the scene is more expensive. Now you're going to be asked to bid on contestants' baskets of goodies (a far cry from the attractive baskets [read crotches] one might have seen at Jewel's or the Mine Shaft) and/or to pay some $75 or $100 for a weekend pass to an event, plus hotel, travel, and food. In the good old days you were simply invited back to someone's home for a one-on-one session or a very private party.

The difference in admission fees is important because in former days one needed courage and commitment. I would be loathe to say that such isn't somewhat needed now but the need is obviously lessened and the current ease of access allows less-psychologically prepared neophytes to easily join our midst.

One can applaud that we are a warmer and more welcoming community but we are also one with lower "entrance fees" that has led to a lowering of standards, especially when it comes to acculturation, which is a fancy word for education.

OK, I'm a writer and my writing has contributed in some ways to this ease of access, as have the hundreds of books published in the past twenty years. When I came into Leather some 21 years ago, there were barely five books on the subject, if you ignore the psychological and medical tomes that warned of the peril of what we do. Today information about even the most obscure fetish is readily available on line.

The idea that having a mentor, becoming apprenticed, or starting as a bottom has been too often replaced with the myth that a few seminars or an orientation meeting will earn you the right to the title of master or slave. If neither of them fits comfortably, just tell them you are Sir or Lord or boy or boi. Don't worry what the word means, as you'll be free to define it for yourself without any challenge about your knowledge of our common vocabulary.

I admit that I may sound a bit like Livy complaining about the downfall of Roman mores as I write this essay but I do so to provoke some serious thought about where we are going and how we are to get there. I am not willing, as attractive as the thought is, to retreat to my basement dungeon and let Leather go to Hell. Instead I want to find new forms, or perhaps reinvigorate the old ones that lead to the successful transmission of the joy, excitement, and intensity of our play.

Becoming a pledge to a motorcycle club or going home to bottom to a local expert were rites of passage that equipped those lucky enough to experience them with the tools for developing an incredible sex life and become an integral part of a real family of choice. Without meaning to be sexist, it was for me the entry way into an intimate and satisfying brotherhood.

Have a great week. You can leave me email at mrjackr@leathermail.com or visit my website at " http://www.LeatherViews.com ". Copyright 2004 by Jack Rinella, all rights reserved.