Marjorie Struthers-McLachlan

I’ve mentioned IML several times over the past few months, but for the uninitiated, International Mr. Leather is an annual competition that takes place in Chicago during Memorial Day weekend. There are around 60 contestants every year, and at IML 40, I will be one of them.

I qualified for the contest about a year and a half ago (when I won the title of Mr. Firedancer Dallas, which is worth a story of its own one of these days), and at the time, I was like, “Nifty! I’ma go to IML at some unspecified point in the distant future. That’ll be a hoot.” However, now that the event is 10 weeks away, I’m like, “OMG OMG WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!” But hey, at least I don’t suffer from any kind of acute mental illness to make the situation even more terrifying, amirite?

[insert visual flashback effect and whimsical chimes here]

Psychiatrist: “So, what brings you in today?”

Me: “I just get a little anxious sometimes.”

Psychiatrist: “Okay, let’s talk about that.”

[flash forward 15 minutes]

Me: “…anyway, it turned out I was hyperventilating, not actually dying. Oh, and I’m afraid of elevators. And my cell phone. And the unstoppable impulsion of time.”

Psychiatrist: “Uh… yeah, your ‘anxiety’ is actually a full-blown panic disorder. But on the bright side, we caught it before agoraphobia kicked in and crippled you.”

Me: “Huzzah?”

[more chimes, aaaand we’re back to the present]

Right. Mental illness. Check.

My Misfit brothers, sensing the mounting tension, are doing their best to contain my inevitable histrionics. “It’ll be fine,” they keep telling me. “Just relax and be yourself.” And I’m like, “I can only do one or the other, so which is it?!” And since I’m aces at stress-related multi-tasking, I’m also freaking out over how I’m going to afford this trip in the first place.

The title I hold does not come with travel reserves, so I’m currently working on raising enough money to cover expenses. And this is where you, my loyal Marjorettes, come in: If you’re able and willing to help, you can donate directly to my travel fund through PayPal, or you can chip in through Ko-fi. Unfortunately, donations won’t be going towards purchase of the IML title itself, but they will be of huge assistance when it comes to flights and not living out of a cardboard box next to the host hotel.

And even if you can’t donate money, emotional support is just as appreciated and infinitely more valuable. So thank you guys in advance for that — I’ll bring you back as many souvenirs as I can fit in my carry-on.

Sea Rovers All Over My Harness

I am overjoyed to announce that Facets of Leather has received its first five-star review, from none other than noted leatherperson Vincent Andrews!

Vince’s take on the show: “Stimulating and comical at just the right moments. I enjoy the balance of laughs and opinions regarding our culture of Leather.”

And his take on me personally: “The little shit is quick on his feet.”

The little shit is your humble servant, Mr. Andrews.

This month’s episode focused on cultural appropriation and Adam Rippon’s Oscar attire (a.k.a. “Harnessgate”), along with another round of IML prep questions and random tangents about patron saints and gay pirates. There was a particular Cazwell song that we wanted to add to our playlist, but we ultimately decided it was too explicit, which of course didn’t stop us from reciting the lyrics on the air.

And then Robert dropped an F-bomb. I’m not really sure why we even try.

PS: Since we didn’t play the track in question during the broadcast, I’ve included it below for your consideration. The girl who paints her face like a disco ball is my new favorite superhero.

Throwing Schadenfreude

Customer: [to his friend] “… so I went home with some guy and spent the night at his place, and the next morning I threw up, and then I had to go to Nordstrom to buy a suit. It was the worst birthday ever.”

I wanted to ask if he threw up because he was hungover, or because the guy he woke up next to turned out to be a hideous miscalculation in the daylight, but I didn’t want to come across as meddlesome. I also couldn’t stop thinking, “HE BOUGHT HIMSELF A BIRTHDAY SUIT,” and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to speak without giggling uncontrollably, which wouldn’t have helped much in the “I swear I’m not a douche-fountain” department.

So instead I just pointedly ignored the both of them until they got self-conscious and left. It was really the only Christlike option available.

Dress Code Aberrations

Day Job Supervisor: “I like that shirt!”

Me: “Thanks!”

DJS: “And what kind of shoes are those?”

Me: “They’re actually paratrooper boots.”

DJS: “You know, my son would love everything you’re wearing. The only things he has that you don’t are tattoos.”

Me: “Well, at least none that show.”

DJS: “…”

And then she clocked me for wearing jeans instead of slacks, something she’s failed to notice for the past week and a half. This gives me a pretty good idea of how long I’ll be able to get away with facial piercings.

Advancing Fordward

[An excerpt from a conversation between myself and my friend Mike, who is, among other things, an award-winning author.]

Me: “I’m glad you liked the Eli Roth joke in my last post. I was unreasonably proud of it.”

Mike: “It’s funny, because you can immediately picture the girl. In the first scene, she’d be rummaging through her backpack at the hostel, looking for a scrunchie. An hour later, she’d be using the scrunchie as a tourniquet while her friend slapped her and said, ‘Get a hold of yourself, Madison.’

Shortly thereafter, he decided to write his own slasher film, set at a bear run, in which “every character will be named Tucker.” I feel like it’s safe to preemptively nominate him for Best Original Screenplay.

A Real Tough Cookie

It was when the straight girls started wrestling over a paddle that I realized I’d lost control of the situation.

The evening itself had been hectic as hell. Maybe it was just everyone trying to adjust to Daylight Saving, but my customers were surlier and more demanding than usual, and I endured the following interaction about once every thirty minutes:

Customer: “Do you carry [insert random product here]?”

Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t.”

Customer: “Why not?!

In some cases, I was able to give them a satisfactory answer. We don’t stock up on rubber apparel, because there isn’t a demand for it; we don’t offer a particular lube, because we can’t find a supplier with reasonable wholesale costs; we don’t carry that thing you want, because it doesn’t actually exist. And for the most part, the customers simmered down when given this information. That is, until a couple of fiery straight girls trounced into the shop and proceeded to lose their minds.

Straight Girl 1: “Oh my God, I love this store! This is a store for doms.”

Me: [nodding and smiling]

Straight Girl 1: “I’m a dom.”

Me: “Ah.”

Straight Girl 1: “I love being a dom. Do you carry deGiotto rope?”

Me: “I’m afraid we don’t.”

Straight Girl 1: “Why not?!

Me: [focusing on my breathing] “It’s… something we’re looking into.”

Straight Girl 1: “Oh, good. I love this place. I’m a dom, so I get really excited in a store like this.”

Me: “Clearly.”

Straight Girl 1: “Yeah, I’m such a dom. I hope I get to spank someone tonight.”

And this is where I should’ve just let her ramble on about how much of a dom she was. But my last nerve had been thoroughly worked, I was feeling territorial, and, goddamnit, I wanted to one-up her.

Me: “I’ve already spanked someone tonight.”

Straight Girl 1: *gasp* “Oh my God, really?!

I really had, although it wasn’t a scene or anything. I’d shown a friend of mine an aluminum paddle I’d recently purchased, and he was all, “Cool, let’s try it out.” So we did. But the girl in front of me didn’t need to know how academic the whole thing had been. I reached into the bag I keep under the counter and pulled out the paddle, and she cooed over it enthusiastically, then asked if she could use it on me.

I honestly should’ve said no, but I second-guessed myself. I can get so wrapped up in rampant heterophobia, that I automatically assume any straight person in the store is there specifically to appropriate my culture, and that makes me punchy. But maybe she really was a dom; maybe it really wasn’t that honking big of deal that she was running around a gay leather bar; maybe I was the one who needed to simmer down for a change.

I’m normally not much of a spanking bottom (no pun intended), but I have a background in performance and a surprisingly high pain threshold, so I can play the part, no problem. I handed her the paddle and bent over the counter, figuring she would give me several light swats as a warm-up, then gradually increase the intensity.

Instead, she beat the crap out of me. And not in a good way.

As I’ve said before, spanking has a lot in common with tennis: You’ve got to hold the paddle like you’re shaking hands with it, aim intentionally, strike firmly, and follow through with your swing. This chick, on the other hand, gripped it like a hammer and swung wildly, nailing me in the tailbone with the paddle’s edge before trying again and smacking me in the hip.

And then she was all, “Oops, sorry, I’m kinda drunk,” and this is when I should have dommed it up myself and taken the paddle away from her, because it is not okay to engage in BDSM when you’re intoxicated, much less participate in an activity that could result in bodily harm if you’re impaired and/or don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. But before I could do so, Straight Girl 2 yelled, “My turn!” and lunged at her.

Straight Girl 2 was dressed thoughtfully but ineffectively against the night’s chilly weather. In her summery, floral-print slip dress and wedges, and surrounded by racks of bondage gear, she looked… okay, I don’t know how else to describe it… she looked like a character in an Eli Roth movie. Like, I could totally picture her happily vacationing in a quaint European village, and an hour later stumbling blindly through an underground warehouse, screaming and missing an arm. In any event, she made a grab for the paddle and tried to yank it from Straight Girl 1, who wasn’t ready to abnegate and fought back. And this is when I decided I was no longer having it, cleared my throat, and spoke in the voice I haven’t had to use since I was a middle manager giving verbal warnings to insubordinate, Millennial employees.


Straight Girl 2: [freezing in place] “Um… you?”


Straight Girl 2: “Um… you.”


And I put the paddle away.

They poked around the store for a little while after that, with Straight Girl 2 much subdued, but Straight Girl 1 still needing to really make clear her dom identity. So when a third straight girl wandered in with her boyfriend, Straight Girl 1 leapt at the chance to share her affectation.

Straight Girl 1: “This is a such great place for doms!”

Straight Girl 3: “… Yes. I know. I’m a professional dominatrix.”

Leaving Straight Girl 1 stammering behind them, Straight Girl 3 and her partner browsed for a bit, then left without making a purchase. But you know what? If they’d so much as glanced at a paddle, I would’ve zeroed it out of the inventory and given it to them free of charge, as a heartfelt way to say thank you for the Deus Ex Machina.

An Open Letter to the Guy Who Came into the Store and Told Me He’s Going to “Revitalize” the Leather Community

Dear Guy,

First off, let me just say how much I admire your ambition. You’ve got pluck and moxie, and you are going to go far in this world. In fact, the further you go away from me, the better! Ha ha!

Seriously, though, you’re kind of a jerk, and here’s why: When people announce that they’re going to “revitalize” or “unify” a given subcultural community, what they really mean is that they want to be in charge of it. And I say this, because over the past couple of years I’ve met at least three other High Cow Messiahs who were going to “bring the community together” under their personal, benevolent dictatorship, regardless of whether the members of said community wanted or needed it. (Spoiler: We didn’t and don’t.)

I tried telling you about some of the nationally-recognized leather events in the Houston area that attract attendees from across the country (GLUE, LUEY, Spring Iniquity, etc.), but you were dismissive of all of them. “Nobody goes out anymore,” you said. “I want to change that.” Thing is, the most effective way for you to encourage people to go out would be to get involved in one of the events listed above, and use your drive as momentum for the function’s continued, exponential success. But I don’t think that’s going to fly with you. After all, every one of these wingdings has a captain firmly situated at the helm, and I suspect taking direction from higher-ups isn’t really your strong suit.

I’m sorry you find the Houston leather scene so lacking when compared to those of Dallas and Washington, D.C., but you’d probably be less aggravated about it if you, y’know, didn’t compare them. I’m not sure why you think Houston fails to “present a united front” like Dallas apparently does, unless by “present a united front,” you meant “hang out at the same bar.” Which is weird, because Dallas leatherfolk hang out at the Eagle and the Hidden Door, whereas Houston peeps only hang out at Ripcord. Ergo, we are much more unified in our choice of venue. No vote-splitting in H-Town, I’ll tell you what!

Speaking of votes, you mentioned that you’re planning on running for a title, so I assume this whole “revitalization” thing is part of your platform. Here’s the problem with that: It’s been done. Relentlessly. To the point where we literally made up a game about it and played it on the radio. And the fact that you’re unaware of such a long-standing joke suggests you might be just a wee bit out of touch with the community you’ve decided to save. I know the Wide World of Leather isn’t the same as it was when you were active in it however many years ago, and in another however many years it will look completely different than it does today. That’s because a community is an organism, not an organization: It expands, contracts, changes, adapts, and evolves. But if you don’t understand that, if you barge in going, “No no no, this is all wrong, let me fix it,” all you’re really doing is insulting the individuals and groups that did some amazing things while you weren’t around.

For the time being, maybe you could attend some events, hit up the weekly bartending nights, work on re-establishing old connections, and be on the lookout for ways you can serve your community, instead of blindsiding everyone with a futile attempt at a hostile takeover. Just as you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you’ll get more people psyched about leather by leading through example versus being a dick.

Regardless of the path you choose, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. I’m sure you’ll ultimately do what’s right for you, and that’s all anyone can really ask.

But trust me on the platform.

Hugs and air-kisses,


PS: Don’t be a dick.


[A conversation with my straight friend Brent.]

Me: “Where did you get that bruise?”

Brent: “What bruise?”

[I point to his arm.]

Brent: “Huh. I hadn’t noticed that. I guess I bumped into something.”

Me: “Oh! Funny bruise story. So you know how I’m in the Misfits?”

Brent: [skeptically] “You’re in the Misfits.”

Me: “Um… not the iconic punk band*. Misfits Houston. We’re a leather club.”

Brent: “What’s a leather club?”

Me: “Well, we’re mainly a social organization, but we do a lot of fundraising. And we wear matching leather vests. We’re basically a gay biker gang.”

Brent: “Oh. Okay…”

Me: “So we were bartending at Ripcord one night…”

Brent: “Ripcord?”

Me: “It’s a leather bar.”

Brent: [blank stare]

Me: “It’s a gay bar.”

Brent: “Gotcha.”

Me: “So anyway, we were bartending, and some of the guys had gotten hold of this flogger…”

Brent: “A… flogger…?”

Me: “A flogger is… uh… a tool for… well, flogging. Kind of like spanking?”

[awkward silence]

Me: “You know what? Let’s go back to talking about you.”

I’ve always sort of looked down on those willfully abnormal individualists who go around bragging complaining about how weird and different they are, and how nobody understands them. But every once in awhile, I’m given the opportunity to see myself through conventional lenses, and then I’m like, wow: At some point my life really took a sharp left.

*I once had to explain the same thing to the Village People. True story.

Dr. Marjorie Westheimer

Customer: [going back and forth between two different brands of lube] “Can I ask you a question?”

Me: “Sure.”

Customer: “I mean… a personal question. Just between you and me.”

Me: “Go for it.”

Customer: ” What would you recommend if you’re going to be… y’know, with a guy who’s… um… bigger… than you’re used to?”

Me: “What would I recommend?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “Patience.”

Customer: “…”

Me: “You’re welcome.”

I should totally give advice for a living, you guys.

Bottoms Up

Customer: [waving at the solvents] “You’re not supposed to drink these.”

Me: “No. That would be bad.”

Customer: “They make your mouth go numb.”

Me: “I… really don’t need to know how you know that.”

Customer: “And then you throw up.”

Me: “…”

Customer: “They don’t taste good, either.”

It’s moments like this that make me understand how the Tide Pod Challenge became a thing.