I am experiencing man-opause. I was overheated, lightheaded, dizzy, and queasy When I went to bed last night. This lead to some fucked up dreams. The only one I remember portrayed all of my ex’s as zombies. I would try avoid them but around each corner they appeared. Every glimpse told me they were gaining on me. I knew I needed to run but my feet felt like two tree trunks rooted to the ground. The few times I did break free and bolt, I wouldn’t get far before I’d start to laugh which forced me to stop. I woke with a start, crawled to the dresser, found a flyer for some Puppy Play event and wrote on it “X’s & Zombies.” Somehow I ended up back in bed because the next thing I saw as my head turned on the overstuffed pillow was daylight peeking through the heavy, black-out curtains.

As I lay in bed, I contemplate the night before and try to remember some of the small details about the strange zombie dream. As I turned my head I discovered a random person in our room cuddled up with Michael. I sat up and stared. My immediate thought was ‘plushy sex’. Michael is a tall, well built guy with an ample amount of chest hair and a big mustache. While he may look like a furry and cuddly bear, he is most certainly not – except for when he is.

Smiling to myself, I hopped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. It was then, that I realized that this stranger was indeed, a stranger. At first, I thought it was San Francisco Jay’s friend Robert, but oh! How mistaken I was. This guy was the archetypal piece of rough trade. His torso was covered with jail-house tattoos and I could imagine him lifting rusty weights in a prison yard somewhere in Kentucky. His angled jaw was covered with what would have been a five o-clock shadow 3 days ago, and his nose looked as if it had been broken, repeatedly.

In other words, he was H-O-T.

Apparently, while Michael was at a small room party with the guys from Troublemaker Magazine, Spike, the depraved ringleader of his substantially debased crew, introduced him to this random porn thing. He’s not blind, so when the random porn thing asked Michael if he could crash in our room, he said yes. After the random porn thing left, I turned to Michael and told him how impressed I was that I didn’t hear them.

“Isn’t a porn thing, even one who is random, supposed to make an excessive amount of noise for every little thing that touches his body?”

“Sweetie, all we did was cuddle. Tea?” Michael shooed at my comment while preparing his morning cup of tea.

“Yes, please. How sweet. I didn’t know random porn things cuddle like real people. You don’t think this has anything to do with the likelihood that he lacks his own room?” I said as I placed a tea bag in one of those unpleasantly wretched Styrofoam™ cups.

“Oh, whatever sweetie. I certainly didn’t mind!” He ended the conversation with complete indifference. I laughed and shook my head.

Michael was still drunk from last night, so he swore off vodka. For today, he’d be drinking beer. Bless his little Bavarian heart. At some point along the way we did breakfast. I drank some orange juice and ate a $2.00 banana I bought from a kiosk in the hotel lobby and Michael had a Bloody Mary.

“They don’t count, darling” He said while chewing on a celery stalk.

“ahem…yes…” I winked at him

Our morning constitutional was brief as all we had to do was stand up and walk about 15 feet to the front door for our first cigarette of the day. While we stood in the cordoned-off smoking pen, we saw John from the Fort Gutter booth. With his bleacher jeans and its back zipper blown out, his furry little ass-crack exposed, a pair of red rubber bracers over his shirtless torso, and thoroughly trashed 20 eyelet Doc Maartens boots, which were held together more with duct tape than leather, he was ready to sell his wares. All the while looking quite fabulous in a ‘rode hard and put away wet’ kind of way.

“Darling, you look like you’re about to go fag bashing, how perfectly degenerate!” I gave him a hug.

John looked a little startled at my speech and behavior. “What’s going on?” He asked nervously.

I realized that I was playing up the ‘I’m a screaming faggot’ routine, so I dropped my voice really deep and said, “Oh nothing, just pulling your leg. Heh, heh, heh… Hey can you hold a pair of bleachers for me?” Then I punched him in the shoulder to show my brute strength and hyper-masculinity.

“Ow! Sure. Hey, where did you get that Lonsdale™ shirt?” He covetously eyed my shirt while rubbing his shoulder.

“Ah, that is Ancient Chinese Secret.” I stated in my oh-so politically incorrect yet terrible imitation of an Asian accent.

“Oh. Okay?” John stepped away and looked a bit wary of me at this point.

“Youth!” I exclaimed, “You just don’t get it do you?” I took a drag off my cigarette, feigning exasperation. “Oh fine, I got it in Munich at Michael’s shoppe.” Michael smiled, nodded and waved his hand.

“Darling! Your hand must always clutch the pearls before touching the tiara!” I exclaimed to Michael. Who seeing the error in his ways stiffly corrected himself.

“Much better!” I praised while smugly flicking an ash off my lit cigarette.

At this point John excused himself saying he had to go to work as the market was about to open. I wished him good luck and that I would see him in a little while.

As I was putting out my cigarette, I heard someone say, ‘Hey.’ Not knowing that it was intended for me, I turned around, ready to ask Michael if he wanted to go in the lobby and wait for the rest of the boys, and was a bit startled when I discovered Michael had wandered off and currently filling his spot was the same Ricky from last night. Caught, I was subjected to a brief albeit painful and tragic conversation.

Apparently, he moved to New York to be fabulous and/or a porn thing. I already don’t remember or care. It was obvious that his dabbling in drugs years ago had turned into a serious habit since he left Seattle. Lucky for him he was hanging out with the Rutting Boar crew. These people were perfect to help feed his deep-rooted addiction. I learned that he was working it at the Rutting Boar booth in the vendor mart. I made a mental note to avoid said booth if I decided that the required $5.00 ‘donation’ for the LA&M (Leather Archives and Museum) was worth it. Poor Ricky was so strung out that talking about the weather even felt sketchy. The moment I found a way out of this heartbreaking dialogue, I was gone. Of course after I wished him luck. Even without physical contact I still considered bathing to remove the residual layer of sketch his proximity left on my skin – much like I do after being subjected to the entire œuvre of the Velvet Underground and Lou Reed.

After a brief debate about whether my money would be better spent on crack that I would immediately flush down the toilet, than the LA&M, which I believe is a front for money laundering and not an actual nonprofit organization, Michael offered to buy me one of the new Neoprene 900™ cockrings if I came along with him and Leonhard. Quicker than one can say, leather lifestyle I found myself in an empty ballroom, walking a serpentine line so that I too could pay the ‘suggested donation’ of $5.00 for shopping.

Paying money to spend money … this organization has us handing them cash for our sexuality. I will never understand their insistence in referring to this $5.00 charge as a donation. If you don’t pay it, you can’t get in. Therefore it is not a donation, it is a FEE – and that is a big difference.

Michael and I waited at the entrance of the Leather Ikea, or, if you wish, the Cavalcade of Carnal Corruption. Moments later Markus and Leonhard showed up. As we wandered inside, I started laughing at a tragic piece of drama going on which required a vacuum, a cube frame, some kind of plastic or rubber material, and a very angry soon-to-be-ex boyfriend/partner. Turning to Michael and the boys to point this out, I was confronted with a larger-than-life sized poster of Eve doing something depraved, yet somehow, pathetically common. It’s just such a pity that Eve doesn’t photograph well. Every image ends up appearing flat and thick. I winced, and immediately Michael turned and saw the offending object.

“She is not a good person.” He stated with his typical Germanic succinctness. Michael had already experienced the unctuous, obsequious yet cloying attempts to get something with empty promises and flattery. Eve’s skills were, how to put this nicely … disappointing.

While Michael was telling me about his run-in with Eve in grizzly detail, Markus and Leonhard were discussing where they wanted to go first, Benny, another boy from Munich I met last year, appeared. He was promoting Dark Alley, a burgeoning porn company. He was wearing nothing but a towel and smile. He always brings to mind that kid who sits on the porch in Deliverance. Benny’s especialidad involves inserting very large objects in a specific orifice. It might not be my bag but I must say I am impressed since he is 5’3” and weighs 105 pounds sopping wet.

After a quick hello and a peck on the cheek I excused myself and headed to the Fort Gutter tent about 30 feet away. Talented with multitasking, I found John, fondled and groped his furry butt, located the bleachers he held for me, and picked up a new black flight jacket. After our brief and trashy interaction, I let John go back to work. While I stood in line to pay for my goods, Falcon, the owner of Fort Gutter was quite animated about my Lonsdale™ hoodie and mentioned that he was attempting to get Lonsdale™ in his shop. I mentioned my Lonsdale™ wrestling shoes which gave him even more of a thrill. I find a strange elation when stoic men, who often have an unfriendly demeanor suddenly switch into unbridled excitement over something simple. Much like how a 12 year old boy at Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch would react.

Alas I did not bring the shoes…

I said bye to John and headed back to the room so that I could drop off the loot and launch into a rather unpleasant depression that would last the rest of the weekend. Most of the people here behave like sheep. Thus, apart from respiration, dilation and pulse I have little in common with them. Although I am here to see specific individuals, the other acquaintances I know from this annual event cannot bring anything to the table. Eventually I lose interest, and they lose the ability to keep me engaged. It is tiresome. I am lucky that I have meine deutchen Jungen with whom I will spend my time. Although I wonder how much time I will have with them. They are busy. They know many other people and have plans that do not involve me. This is reasonable and I shouldn’t feel snubbed, but I do. The only person I can blame is me. My damaged inner child immediately surfaces once I indulge myself in a toxic loop of the blame game. Unfortunately, once he grasps hold of the reins to my reality and common sense, he will. not. let. go.

All is grey- and it’s only 11:30 A.M.

Eventually, I snap out of my mood for long enough to head back to the throng which, not surprisingly, isn’t happening at present. Most of the men are still sleeping, hung over, participating in a bareback porn shoot in someone’s room, or shopping. Apart from the diehard alcoholics who are positioned like vultures as they lean over the banister, the lobby is empty. All the chairs have been removed because faggots don’t know how to take care of other people’s furniture, For many of us, this is fine. After all, the hotel is setting up a small bar so that we can get drunk faster. How considerate.

I’ve just finished talking with my partner who wisely stayed home to wash our cats. I tried to give him the lowdown of IML so far, but I didn’t have a lot to say IML is the same old same old: too much dead cow on too many thick hides.

I did mention the number of young boys wandering around the hotel. In my bitterness all I could judgmentally describe them as was Smurf.

As a group, they are 18, blonde, natural or otherwise, rail thin, with what I lovingly refer to as ‘skinny fat’, and pretty and tanned, naturally or otherwise. Collectively they have horrid fashion sense, currently wearing flip flops and/or bedazzled white leather belts. I guess if some men have a fetish for plushy sex, then some men have a fetish for Twinkies, Hostess™ or otherwise.

Part of me wants to spend the afternoon writing, but I didn’t come to Chicago to sit in front of my lap top and be antisocial. Granted there are plenty of things that I would like to work on, but I also know this idea is just another wall I can erect to keep men away from me. If I am going to be miserable, I want to put some goddamn effort into it.

However, for the past four years, this has been the one annual event that I enjoyed. I should try to make the best of it. I could take my laptop down to the atrium and do some writing there; however, that seems unfriendly. Certainly no one is going to chat with me while I am frantically writing and donned with noise-canceling headphones.

As a collective, we are damaged. All these clothes, roles, attitudes are merely smoke and mirrors protecting us from being hurt – not only from the Christianists out there, but from each other in this sexually charged setting. I can’t be the only person who sees this. However, at this present moment perhaps I am – such a sad and isolating realization, and one in which I cannot take comfort. It certainly doesn’t help that I am trapped behind my own walls and barriers which were created decades ago for my own self-preservation. Yet, I look around and I see ruins of men, young faglings, midlife crises, and all those in-between, and I realize our egos are so fragile. Just one word and they would shatter. I don’t know what that word is, and I don’t think I want to.

Speaking of egos, I am contemplating rubber attire this evening, but it depends how much I eat over the course of the day. Nothing causes me to quickly avoid rubber or latex more than feeling bloated. Currently, my fat kid is raging inside. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin; hence my permanent expression of ‘Fuck you.”

I am back in our room. The hotel lobby and atrium is overflowing and I don’t really have much desire to hang out with the masses, however, I will attempt to be one with Ovine and stand around with other men who look just as bored, desperate, and lonely as I feel. Maybe I should eat something. Isn’t it strange that the banana, orange juice and bites of chocolate I ate for breakfast didn’t have sufficient calories. Hmm…

I bumped into Mister Hunde and Eli in front of the lobby’s coffee kiosk. I always enjoy seeing Mister Hunde. He is simply delightful, witty, well spoken and thoroughly depraved. After chatting for a few moments and saying some rather snide comments about those around us, Mister Hunde and Eli headed back to their room for a disco nap.

Meanwhile, I bought another $2.00 banana. $2.00 for a Banana! Can you just imagine? Two dollars? For a banana? Well, bless my heart, I knew better, but I was just faint with hunger.

Multitasking, I decided to eat while I walked. As I headed to the front of the atrium to sit in one of the oversized sofa-chair-things, I bumped into Travis and Mitch from San Francisco. Scooping me up from each side, they carried/dragged me to the cordoned cancer cell out front where the cold and damp wind blowing off Lake Michigan was turning me into a block of ice. Being that I was in so foul of a mood and the weather was abominable, I announced to Travis and Mitch that the cold air was completely unacceptable.

“The cold air is completely unacceptable.”

“Yes, Dearie. Let me go get your shawl.” Mitch rolled his eyes. Then, after throwing his arm out in Travis’ general direction, but not looking at him, Mitch said, “Gurl, Travis is wearing a lot less than you and he isn’t cold!”

I looked at Travis who, I believe, was showing the first stages of frost-burn as he hopped from one Wesco leather clad foot to the other and blew into his cupped hands. His chest looked like a plucked chicken; white, bumpy, hairless. As I nodded to Mitch in Travis’ general direction, he turned and Travis gave him the ‘have pity for me’ expression.

Exasperated, Mitch stubbed out his half smoked cigarette and sighed, “C’mon, let’s go.” He turned toward the lobby doors and headed back in. As Travis and I thawed out, they invited me to dinner with Marlena, Jay, Shawn and his boyfriend, Philip. Before I could answer Travis had taken off in pursuit of a bright shiny which had, moments ago, walked by.

I turned to Mitch and said, “I’m not sure … I am not feeling very outgoing or chatty.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and patted me, “Well, if you change your mind, call Jay and let him know. We’d love to have you with us.”

As I wandered toward the elevators, I saw Krieger. I met Philip, AKA Krieger, during my first IML. He is from Berlin, and covered from head to toe in black-line tattoos. When I first met him, we spent most of our time being antisocial, discussing his fetish art performances, music and DJing. That was 4 years ago. Since then, he has become a relatively well known porn thing for Raging Stallion. I can never remember his stage name but I think it has something to do with Wolverine and/or the X-Men. He is such a sweetheart, I hope the porn industry doesn’t ruin him.

Krieger spotted me first and shocked me when he came up and said hi.

“Hi!”

“Whaaaa…” Jumping, I turned around. “Oh mein Got! You scared me. How the hell are you?” I gave him a big hug.

We caught up for a few minutes, while his, I am assuming, boyfriend stood behind him looking very put out. I learned that he is still DJing, which I was thrilled to hear about. Although he moved to Dresden, he often finds himself in LA participating in porn shoots.

“I thought you said you would never do porn? Are you still performing the fetish act on stage?”

“Oh, the porn is for fun. It is not part of my life. They fly me to LA, I fuck or fist some guy and then they fly me home where I am Philip or DJ Krieger.” He explained in a very typical German succinctness.

We tried to figure out some time to meet up over the weekend but he was quite busy working the Raging Stallion booth this year. So we hugged, kissed and said our goodbyes. Rich, one of the event photographers captured our happy reunion on film.

I saw the 80′s pop star again. Clearly, he is here for the weekend. Clearly people aren’t acknowledging him. This makes me wary about walking up to him and saying anything trite.

I have to smile as I am thinking about Bryan’s text message to me regarding Herr Rensfeld’s LA&M suggested donation. I completely understand why Bryan is not here and I don’t blame him for staying home to pet the cats. The bloom is off the rose for me and this event.

IML has many more women in the crowd than it has in the past, which is neat. What is messing with my head is the number of Smurfs in flip-flops, bleached faux-hawks and leathery tanned skin wearing madras shorts, Gucci Sunglasses, and white belts. Of course, the crowd is also teeming with the desiccated and reanimated husks of men who still think the year is 1978. They wear the same clothes they wore in 1978 – showing everyone else that their outfits staved off time’s erosion as well as their bodies had.

My intuition tells me men are staring at me. I am not sure exactly why, but I have a hunch – they know I am not one of them. I won’t, inflate my ego regarding this, because they could be looking at someone behind me, next to me, or silently criticizing and evaluating me. As long as they remain silent, I am fine with the low opinions others may have regarding me. Unless a guy comes up and says hello, I must assume that he is not that interested or I am not the object of his lust. Trust me, I can do more damage to myself than anything they could possibly say or do.

All this is so silly in a tragic kind of way.

Michael and I went to the Rubber Party, but we were in our casual clothes. So off we headed to our room and donned our rubber and latex gear. I felt foolish, but by the time we returned to make our grand entrance, the party was winding down.

While wearing our glistening and slickery latex, we wandered to the Puppy Party. Neither Michael nor I understand it. Apart from my partner’s suggestion of role playing puppy and veterinarian in a scene that involves the vet putting down the dog because it is rabid and trying to bite others, I just don’t see the thrill watching a bunch of men wearing knee pads and mitts crawling around barking. That isn’t drama, its men crawling around on all fours.

After being bored and annoyed witnesses to that 5 minute scene of sheer disappointment, we found ourselves at the Gear Party. Joined by Jon, the three of us stood at the periphery and felt like chaperones at a high school’s typically awkward dance. For those unfamiliar with the concept of a gear party at IML, close your eyes and imagine this. A DJ who didn’t realize what he was getting into when the hotel booked him for a ‘Gear Party’, two ethnic-minority bartenders who are very nervous and utterly confused with the scene unfolding around them, and a large number of men dressed in more padding, gear, or gadgets that would make any Transformer™ jealous, while rubbing up against each other. That lasted for mere moments until Jon, Michael, and I decided we were in desperate need of a cigarette break.

Eventually, we found ourselves in the ebb and flow of men in the lobby. We were accosted by a couple friendly guys from Kansas City and Benny. We chatted for a while and watched beef on the hoof walking by. Many of the cattle, and their chattel, know Michael. While he talked with various acquaintances, I stood in the background and watched all the interactions. Eventually the topic of redheads came up with one of the friendly guys from Kansas City. He explained to me that the term ‘ginger friend’ is an anathema for his boyfriend that also had been talking with us. While the boyfriend was waiting in one of the interminable lines to get a $10.00 cocktail, his partner explained to me that one mustn’t say, ‘ginger friend’ to get a good rise out of him. One must say it in a childlike way, ‘gingafwen.’

I was entertained. We all have those words that are not acceptable. Mine is: moist. After tormenting his boyfriend for a few minutes, Michael and I excused ourselves and wandered over two another group of Michael’s friends.

A few moments later, Michael, Benny, Chris, and Daniel wanted to check out the San Francisco Party, so we walked down to the ‘brown level’ of the hotel so we could make the party without crossing the street outdoors. The party was in full swing. The room was dark. Enough that the floor was packed with guys dancing and, most likely, doing other strenuous activities. I decided to look for Jay.

While I didn’t find him, I was upset to find Eve Harrington on a big screen doing porn. Then, I was even more disturbed to find Eve flag dancing on a small stage. Imagine going to a party and expecting to see the talented Helen Lawson performing on a small stage, but instead getting the tawdry Neely O’Hara – that brand of disturbance. I cringed at the messy spectacle and decided that I was done. I know when I’ve had a decent sufficiency.

I headed back to the lobby, thinking I would do a quick lap then off to my room. Of course nothing so easy as that can happen at IML so it came as no surprise that I bumped into Chris and Daniel who insisted that I needed to stay down in the lobby, and that I was to not go back to my room alone. However, I was over wearing the rubber, extremely tired, extraordinarily hungry and completely depressed. I caved, and returned, showered and wearing comfortable clothes. I hung out with one of the Kansas boys and we dished about the event for a little while. Unfortunately, his friends wanted to head over to the SF party, at that point I knew the night was over.

While typing this, Michael and yet another boy he has been snogging, darted into the room for a quick costume change. As Michael was pulling up his leather, thigh-high Wesco™ boots, he informed me that I should be glad I left when I did. There have been many more Eve Harrington/Neely O’Hara sightings since I came to the room. At mention of this I immediately imagined myself shoving those fucking fans down his throat and just doing away with him. However, a larger part of me wanted to cut out my heart and stomp all over it. I wanted to flatten that little piece of symbolic muscle. I wanted it dead. I wanted to become cold and soulless. I wanted to etch my psyche with the acid of my bitterness. I wanted to flick the switch of my emotional center to ‘off’ and never turn it on again. While just a few feelings whirled about inside my head, my face was expressionless and blank.

I am an emotional wreck, and I think I should go to bed. Maybe I will sleep well and have pleasant dreams.