On Belonging

OR The Thing I’ve Always Written, But Never Written

I have one hell of a backlog. Hopefully all of which will see the light of day eventually, but there’s always something missing, some stone left unturned that I feel I’m neglecting that keeps me from feeling it’s worthy of sharing so publicly. And as I comb through it all, read back both what’s been shared to the world thus far and what’s yet to be, there’s certainly a through line that seems to underscore every thought I have about the Leather world. The notion of “belonging.”

I don’t know what it is, really, that’s causing me to view every aspect of our community and the complex relationships we all have within it through a… dare I say cynical lens. Because on its surface, such a view is unfounded, right? The notion of “Old Guard” thinking, this idea that there’s some unspoken trial that all who enter must undertake in order to have a seat at the table, a spot in our spaces, has been debunked time and time again. Acceptance and love is at the center of what we do, and yet I constantly have this… apprehension, almost, to accept that as my personal gospel. At least for myself. I know that I don’t hold these same standards for others in my life. I’m more than happy to, say, help my friend navigate finding gear that works for their body, yet I know I would not be so willing to help myself. My own stubbornness is misconstrued in my head as a demonstration of my self-reliance and rugged individualism in a culture that thrives on trust and mutualism both in the dungeon and out. 

I think part of it is the circles I’m in. I’m very much predisposed to being around older people, in Leather or otherwise. And while automatically equating age to experience is certainly fallacious, enough cross referencing eschews such notions. Whether it be through mutual friends, or online content, many of those I’ve been privileged enough to meet have been quite remarkable. And I’m thankful for that, you know? I’m in a fairly admirable position, having access to treasure troves of history and knowledge about a world so important to me. But there’s always a part of me that feels… not left out, but not on the same wavelength. It’s hard to explain, as while my passion is certainly there, not having the lived experiences to back up said passion, the backlog of sordid encounters and lessons learned that have colored the lives of my predecessors, has me feeling almost inadequate and ill-equipped. 

Obviously this is wrong, right? If those around me didn’t see something in me worth keeping around, I don’t think these relationships would last. They wouldn’t entertain my conversation, welcome me into their lives, if there was nothing I had to offer. Hell, I have this sash and its beautiful accompanying vest that I had earned through getting 5 people I had never met before the weekend to see something in me worth bestowing such a title on me in the first place. All of this has to stand for something. And yet why do these feelings still crop up? Why do I always enter Leather spaces feeling like I have to be “on,” that I have something to prove, and yet I am more than happy to pass on volunteering info for one of the largest Leather events in Southern California to a close friend whom I haven’t seen in years? Why am I not allowing myself the same courtesy or grace. A welcoming environment for thee, but “you need to prove yourself” for me?

There’s this podcast, called On Guard Cigar Salon, and two years ago the hosts, a group of well traveled Leatherfolk, recorded an episode on the notion of “imposter syndrome.” It’s comforting, in a way, to hear that this isn’t a unique experience, and that EVERYONE “fakes it till they make it,” to an extent. A little bit of that apprehension, the kind that makes you ensure that your I’s are dotted and T’s are crossed, isn’t unhealthy (quite the opposite, in fact.) Once it becomes debilitating, freezing you up and taking you out of the moment, imposter syndrome turns monstrous. Most importantly for our conversation those feelings of being out of place, especially when you’re first starting out, are incredibly common.

But here’s the thing: am I still “starting out?” Sure, two years is significantly less than, say, twenty, but how do all of the events, the people, the things I have learned and experienced in those two years factor in? What about the years before that pair of patrol boots ever showed up to my dorm’s mail room, where my interactions with the Leather world was merely voyeuristic, and those men I had yet to meet, the places I had yet to explore, and the experiences I had yet to have, were merely fantasy? I’d like to think it wouldn’t be bigheaded of me to say I’ve grown significantly in the short amount of time that I’ve been an active participant in our neck of the woods, and yet these feelings still surface. 

You can see this endless cycle in action, where I continuously doubt myself despite being told I have nothing to worry about. That I’m doing just fine, and perhaps even more than fine considering my personal timeline. And in these spaces, and surrounded by these people, I should be honored that this community sees something in me. And at times, when my mind is perfectly clear and I’m living in the moment, I know I can see it too. 

I just need that self-assuredness more often, is all.