The morning started at the reprehensible hour of 9 A.M. Out of separate beds Michael and I arose like undead emerging from their graves. Half dressed and with one eye barely open, I stumbled/shambled to the dresser-cum-junk pile and prepared two cups of tea as Michael plodded towards the bathroom. After our civilized morning tea drunk from those philistine Styrofoam™ cups, we dressed and took our constitutional to the roped-off smoking area near the hotel entrance. I was amused, but not surprised; to see Leonhard already dressed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in a cloud of blue smoke ready to go. In short order, Alex and Tobias arrived and we ventured forth to a Corner Bakery Cafe™ for breakfast. Markus joined us moments later.

As we wandered from the hotel we realized faggotry from across the country and globe were making their final descent onto Chicago’s downtown. Under a toxic pall of amyl nitrate, ethyl chloride, and chloroform, they circled the hotel with a collective mien of vultures clad in black leather and daddy hats, waiting for the young and willing prey to arrive.

This morning, before we left the hotel, Balcony Bingo was already in full swing along the mezzanine of the lobby. The possibilities for this ensuing combustible communion are often entertaining, typically adventurous and at times even shocking, however they are always sleazy.

Balcony Bingo works like this. First, one must have a balcony. Second, one must be in a hotel, bar, club, or gay cruise filled with men. Third, the men who are becoming more inebriated whilst standing at the balcony watch, nay, cruise every man who comes up or goes down the escalator who are also becoming more inebriated as the morning rolls into afternoon, then, evening and eventually night. Fourth, lather, rinse, and repeat 6 days in a row. Fifth, sometimes someone gets lucky – but usually not unless he has absolutely no standards.

Sadly sullying this manifestation is the natural order of all things free. Like carrion birds who incessantly squawk and caw over the lame and dying, thus attracting hyenas and jackals, so does faggotry when in congregate. Just beyond ground zero, the Christianists were already growling and snapping their jaws while holding all the typical placards we queers have been ignoring for the past 40 years. With the strength of life we carried within the very corpuscles of our beings, we responded to those who hate and fear under the name of Jesus exactly like those who came before us – we went shopping.

350 dollars!?!

Apart from spending WAY too much money on a single pair of jeans, I remembered something about myself. I abhor shopping. Only now do I recall why I have been wearing the same clothes for the past 10 years. Shopping wears me out, especially shopping with others. I thoroughly enjoyed the company and the conversation, but I am pooped. Not in a ‘brown hankie’ way, but in a ‘I need a disco nap’ way. After I blew my wad in Levi’s™, I was forced to shop in Abercrombie and Fitch. I lasted 3 minutes and 26 seconds in the crepuscular shop before I had to leave, lest I voided my breakfast through the wrong orifice.

Hint to shopkeepers and Faggots alike, fragrance is meant to be fleeting and subtle, NOT overpowering and looming in the air like a malevolent fog.

With my personal fetish for all things Fred Perry, Lonsdale, and Ben Sherman, I understand and appreciate the Germans and their desire for Aberzombie and Felch. Unlike meine deutsches Jüngen the designers of my clothing fetish don’t make cologne or perfume. This annual ritual for Mike and the gang was created through necessity. They cannot buy Amberflambé and Zilch in Germany because A&F don’t have any boutiques in Europe. To order on line would almost double the cost, so while they are here, and while the Euro is so much better than the American dollar right now, Mike and the boys are making out like bandits, of which I totally approve.

Finally, Michael and I broke away from the group and headed back to the hotel, which, by now, looked like a leather-clad beehive was buzzing with activity. The drones were courting and plying the queens with the hotel’s over-priced cocktails, while the worker bees vacantly stared out past the balcony and onto the mezzanine, drinking themselves into a stupor and quietly moaning to themselves, “Why do I keep coming here?” We dashed upstairs, changed into appropriate attire, and then returned to the lobby. Yay for hive mentality!

Time warps at ground zero. What might feel like an eternity has only been a desperate minute trying to come up with a pathetic reason to excuse oneself from an unpleasant situation. Events experienced in, what felt like, a matter of seconds lasted, in reality, 20 – 25 minutes. Thus, I would guess we spent nearly a half hour standing by the hotel’s main entrance saying hello to the numerous people that either know me, Michael, or both of us as we tried to step outside for a cigarette in the cordoned-off cancer zone.

Incidentally, after having accidentally won a beauty contest such as this in the past, when I still thought I was someone,

I learned quite a few things. Most of them were gilt-turds which had been self-referentially defined as knowledge from the leather elders throughout the ages. The only ones I will carry with me to the grave are the sentences, “It’s so good to see you, Sweetie!” and, “How are you doing?” These sentences cover the two mortal sins within this specific population: not remembering someone’s name, and not being sure if I, at another time, had my fist in his ass.

Just because one’s memory is faulty does not mean one can be rude.

When I wasn’t schmoozing I was busy avoiding eye contact with certain virulent and soulless individuals who I knew would be attending IML this year, because they attend IML every year. Like a warning rattle of a snake’s tail, they are a petrifying reminder that I too dipped my toes in a culturally void petri dish known as the inner politics of the leather community. It is clear from the occasional expressions that I caught from a few of those within that shark infested cabal ruled over by men and women who will never go further in life than ‘middle management’ that my presence is a mutually unhappy occurrence. Right now, I feel jaded and old.

I eventually met up with a close friend from San Francisco in the atrium. After chatting with yet more people, we went for an early dinner to catch up on the dirt and gossip. We dished for an hour over some decent food, and then headed back to his room so we could meet up with his friend, Mr. Self-Involved Crumpet 2007.

Unfortunately, as conversation led to Eve Harrington, I predictably began to spew vitriolic epithets for, what I believed was only a couple minutes. I did mention time warps, right? Over 15 minutes passed before I realized I was being tedious. Embarrassédly, I caught on to this bit of self-awareness in the middle of a well-memorized and emphatic boorish rant, but I couldn’t stop, as much as I wanted to. Alas! Buttons were pushed, my raw nerves were exposed and I responded exactly as would be expected. Remember, Agita and I – the musical?

Shortly after I left Jay’s room with my head hung in shame, I wandered to the cordoned cancer zone for a cigarette and saw a tragic and tired ex-bartender from Seattle. Years earlier, my partner and I had described his aesthetic as ‘cute for doped-up trailer-trash.’

Our past classification does him no justice today. Now, a sordid ruin, he is either associating with the depraved Troublemaker Magazine crew or with the vulgar, yet hot, barbie junkies that make up the Rutting Boar staff. Clearly, he recognized me. Clearly, he knew I knew who he was and where he comes from. In the shiny yet silly outré sub-genre of the leather community, this is dangerous knowledge. The past is sacred. One cannot come across tough or depraved if people find out one’s name is Ernest or Meuslix, or that one collects spoons. Without his past, he is stripping himself of it; thus becoming something akin to pop-culture except without its glamour or dubious raison d’être. Once upon a time I might have cared, but today, I don’t.

I suppose I should feel resentment since he didn’t acknowledge me, but again, I don’t. The proper etiquette of acknowledgment could not have penetrated his cracked-out glassy stare. Clearly, I had nothing of value to offer him, except perhaps a Purell™ caked hand-job.

The Bavarian Boys went to the Opening Ceremony/Meet & Greet The Meat portion of the contest. I am staying in the room because I have a headache. I really want a shower, my feet ache and my boots are getting on my nerves. Can I get some cheese with this whine?

People are polite but cold. It’s been a year since I wore leather and I’m uncomfortable in this crowd. It’s apparent I have nothing to say and can’t imagine anything that they would willingly offer me. However, I am trying to find my inner sleaze – if at all possible.

Eve Harrington has yet to make an entrance. I am sure he is spending all his time at the Inferno Clubhouse. Oh, Agita? There you are, I was growing concerned.

After a well needed shower, some Tylenol, and a clonazepam, I walked once more into the breach. Surrounded by dead flesh donned in leather and still ill at ease, I decided to have a cigarette. Presently, smaller crowds are less intimidating.

While standing in the cordoned cancer cove I talked to Leonhard, who was permanently surrounded by a haze of tobacco smoke. While he told me about the Opening Ceremony, mock-horror crept across his face as he mentioned the sound technician accidentally playing the East German National Anthem instead of the German National Anthem. All I know about the German National Anthem is “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles…” Apart from that, I don’t think I would know the difference. So I grimaced and looked wide-eyed in appropriate horror.

As I turned my head to politely exhale smoke away from Leonhard’s face, I saw someone leaning against the wall: short, strawberry blonde hair, bleachers, probably in his mid 40‘s, looking haggard and a little tired. Then it clicked. I was standing five feet away from an infamous pop singer from the eighties. I wanted to say something profound, but all I could come up with was, “I-just-want-you-to-know-that-your-song-was-the-very-first-song-I-ever-danced-to-in-a-club-and-thank-you-for-the-music-that-helped-me-through-my-teens-and-early-20’s-and-OHMIGOD-what-happened-to-you?!” However, this seemed a bit … trite. Instead, I basked in the knowledge that he was standing five feet away and that we kept making eye contact. Furtive and haggard, but contact nonetheless. I could have kicked my heels in the air! I didn’t, but I could have.

I headed back up to the bar on the second floor and ran into many people that I vaguely recognized including John who works at the Fort Gutter booth in the vendor market. He and I have been flirting with each other for the past 3 years. I introduced him to Michael, Leonhard, another Michael and Misha. As John was quite interested in my Lonsdale™ shirt and $350.00 Levi’s™ the flirting picked up from where we left off last year. All the while I kept thinking to myself, ‘Someone should have stopped me from buying these jeans!’

Being bold, which is uncommon for me these days, I asked him if he would like to hook up sometime this weekend. I warned him I was not looking for anything heavy or kinky, just some fun with the remote possibility of someone sticking it in the other. His eyes twinkled. Out of curiosity I asked his age. He’s 22:

After more introductions were made and banal conversation was had, time had come for me to go to bed. I asked John if he would like to stay the night. He hesitated, but did ask if we could sit talk somewhere without needing to shout at each other. He and I were feeling quite over-stimulated with the crowd’s constant movement, the noise, the high level of testosterone in the air, and the general hoopla surrounding us.

Back in my room, John played me some songs from a band called Tiger Army. It was good; reminiscent of The Cure (Faith and Seventeen Seconds Era) early New Order and Joy Division. The singer is hot, tattooed and has a lazy eye. As I always reciprocate, I played a couple tracks by bands that I like. John was receptive.

Moments later, bad touching occurred, which lead to someone’s something being stuck in the other someone’s something. Again, John was receptive. I think we both enjoyed ourselves.

Having been at this event for the past four years, I am well aware that interruptions happen. I was not too upset when Michael interrupted us, as he needed to piss. Thus our tryst ended. We dressed and headed downstairs. In part to walk him out and say goodnight, but mostly to smoke my last cigarette for the evening.

On my way back into the hotel, I found a wad of cash on the ground in front of the revolving door. The guy in front of me saw me pick it up. I asked him if it was his, he said no, so I asked him if he wanted to split it. We each walked away with $40. Faggots in minimal clothing should pay more attention to their money.