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Lady About Leather: A Folsom Retrospective
WWW.JUSTOUT.COM
OCTOBER 7.20)1
Trips out of town aren’t appealing only be
cause they afford chances to escape monotony
and routine, although anonymity is rather al
luring—as is the opportunity to fire up Grindr
outside Portland. I love travel because of the
possibility of the spectacular (even if it doesn’t
always happen). Say, for example, you plan a
trip to New York City with your best friend at
the tail end of your four-year relationship’s
abrupt disintegration. While there, you meet a
boy from West 1 lollywood and—cue fire
works—you find temporary bliss. Your trip
ends, you stay in touch, said boy visits Port-
land. That things eventually fizzle doesn’t mat
ter much—sometimes the adventure is more
important than the ending.
In all of my travels (I say that like I’ve
rounded the world a dozen times), I’ve never
really picked a destination because of some big
must-see event. I’ve yet to see, say, Halloween
in New York or Pride in West Hollywood. IJp
until now, I’ve been perfectly content with
events close to home—and those to our slightly
bitchier north. (Hello, Seattle.) That changed
last month when I went to Folsom Street Fair
in San Francisco, the notorious leather and
bondage festival that regularly caps the city’s
annual Leather Pride Week—an event that
boasts hundreds of thousands of visitors.
Be it on public transit, the city"s streets or at
lady about town
BY DANIEL BORGEN
the airport, San Francisco was teeming with
gays of virtually every shape and size, into every
fetish. Oh, what those hapless TSA agents must
have seen while tending to their X-ray ma
chines—eyes wide, permanently scarred. And I
had no idea until Folsom weekend that manu
facturers made luggage with giant leather
“Nasty Pig” tags. “Guess what’s in that faggot’s
suitcase?” was one of the more amusing games
my traveling companions and I played.
The street fair itself falls on Sunday—like
Pride here—so everyone is, obviously, (not)
fresh-faced and rested after weekend-long
parties. My cohorts assembled relatively early
that morning—once everyone found their way
back home—and after going face down in
brunch, we made our way to Folsom Street. In
my many gay years on this planet, I have seen
some things. I have watched some adult films.
Having been briefed by many an experienced
traveler about this particular event, I felt pre
pared to see some new things. That said: Con
ceptualizing fetishes and watching them live
are very different things.
Admittedly part of the sightseeing-only
contingent, the most scandal we achieved was
hellos morphed into obligatory offers to catch
up, overtures which were quickly dismissed.
As my old flames are usually wont to do, he
hurried away, fleeing at top speed. Later on,
thanks to Grindr’s homing beacon, I ran into
John—best friend to my former partner of
four years. That one-two punch reminded me
that no matter our physical locations, we’re
just a random occurrence away from revisiting
and reliving emotions we thought we’d safely
shelved and stored away.
Upon my return home, a married straight
male friend opined that homophobes aren’t
actually disgusted by homosexuality; they are,
rather, turned off by the fact that our lives
seem more intriguing than theirs. While
meant in jest, there’s certainly some truth
there. Being queer forces us to write our own
handbook, make our own rules—for living,
loving, fucking, all of it. I loved Folsom not
just for its shock value; I loved that, to all
those thousands of people, things were per
fectly normal—the result of years of redefin
ing identity. And while we’re rewriting all the
old rules (and enjoying it), there’s little time or
need for the futility of regret. J*]
my plunging V-neck T-shirt. From the mo
ment we passed the gate, I felt like a habit-
donned nun from a convent in the Midwest.
Live sex acts, impressive (and clearly difficult)
feats of bondage and f amous (naked) porn stars
on every sidewalk were just the beginning. I
was shocked by how many porn stars my
f riends, ever the supporters of the arts, knew by
name. I’ve never been that committed.
We saw testicles stretched to their limits
with saline, rivaling cantaloupes in size.
Leather masks of every shape, size and ani
mal-likening, paired with whips—festival
participants were eager to show off their vast
skill sets to passers-by. (Lucky friends back
home received play-by-plays; 1 was dedicated
to documentary filmmaking with my camera
phone.) Sadly, days of studying hanky code
beforehand didn’t bear the fruit we expected.
Then, in the midst of the snapping of whips
and the loudest, welt-inducing of spankings,
surrounded by all that newness, I barreled
right into my past. I came face to face with the
old lover I met in New York, new boyfriend I truly regret any shocking images I inadvertently
on his arm. All I had on mine was my friend sent my nana that Sunday afternoon. Email
Ryan and his brightly colored pants. Awkward danieldPjustout. com.
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