:: Edgeliving: Master Jim and slave marsha ::

:: Sunday, December 21, 2003 ::

What Is a Leatherman? Master Dean Walradt: A Tribute

Many of our readers may have known Dean Walradt of Dallas, Texas. Master Dean passed away on December 15th after a lengthy illness. I knew Dean for a long time. We served together on the National Leather Association- Dallas Executive Committee, we co-founded and produced both the boys' Training Camp and the Masters' Retreat. Master Dean and Leather by Boots sponsored me and slave marsha in the International Master and slave Contest. Most importantly, we were friends. This post is written as a tribute to Dean Walradt.

Developing a definition for the term "leatherman" may best be done by process of elimination. One does not become a leatherman by buying and wearing leather, although leathermen do wear leather. One does not become a leatherman by assuming a certain identity in the community -- Master, Daddy, Top, bottom, boy, slave, or switch -- for a leatherman can be any of those. One does not become a leatherman by frequenting the local leather bar or leather events, although many leathermen do both. One does not become a leatherman by developing and using SM skills, although many leathermen are accomplished practitioners of the art of SM. And one certainly does not become a leatherman by self-proclamation, for leathermen have no need to tell others who and what they are.

Being a leatherman is a state of mind, an identity, a being. Just as the wearing of full leather---combat boots, chaps, harness, vest, and, if appropriate, a Master's cover--- does not make one into a leatherman, taking off those leathers does not take away a leatherman's identity. Once one becomes a leatherman that is who he is whether he is wearing full leathers, a simple leather vest over a black tee-shirt with 501s and boots, or a suit and tie as he goes on a business trip.

Being a leatherman means that one is "old school." A leatherman has a knowledge and sense of leather history. He acknowledges and honors the traditions of the past, without being tradition-bound. He is attracted by formality, order, and discipline. He knows who the leather forefathers were, he knows who the elders in the community are now, and most of all he honors and respects his history and those who made it. He know the leather pride flag, the hanky code (even if he can only remember a few of the colors), and what IML stands for. He understands what protocol is and what it is not. He knows that the "old guard" is both fiction and reality.

Being a leatherman means that one has an awareness and understanding of the leather community. A leatherman knows that he is not alone, that he has leather brothers and sisters who come together to make a whole that is far greater than the sum of its individual parts. A leatherman knows that in some way he must give something back to the community through his involvement in it and that he cannot live in isolation.

Being a leatherman means that you have been accepted by the leather community, for it is the community that defines a leatherman. A leatherman demonstrates through words and deeds who and what he is and the community takes him in.

Who then was Dean Walradt? As we all are, Dean was many things. He was a father, grandfather, partner, lover, friend, and mentor. He was outspoken, bullheaded, and ornery. He was kind, friendly, and quiet. I knew all of these sides of Dean Walradt and I called him my friend, I called him my leather brother, and above all else, I called him what he was and still is --- a leatherman.

In leather and with respect,

Master Jim

:: 11:01 AM [+] ::
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Per a Request

This past weekend, i gave the keynote speech at the Southwest Leather Weekend in Phoenix. Master Jim received a few requests for the text of my speech, so i've posted it here. Just look to the left side of the page, where all of the links are posted. Master Jim's keynote address from the Master's Retreat also is linked there -- if you read both of our speeches, i hope you see that they are intended to echo one another.

As always, thanks for reading...

--slave marsha

:: 8:30 AM [+] ::
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And Now, For Something Completely Different -- Bootblacking, Butches and Femmes

i don't do a lot of creative writing, but recently i wrote a very short piece about a bootblacking session. The piece doesn't speak to Mastery and slavery, except in a very peripheral way -- but if you enjoy bootblacking or the butch/femme dynamic, you might find it interesting.

Just a couple of notes about the piece.

First, i got the idea for it from something the bootblack in the story wrote to me. This is essentially a companion piece to what he wrote to me.

Second, for those of you not familiar with the butch identity, the bootblack/butch in this story is, indeed, a woman. He, like some other butches, prefers to be referred to with male pronouns.

i hope you enjoy it... and rest assured, we'll return to the regularly scheduled program of Mastery and slavery very soon.

--slave marsha

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Boots to Flirt With

i watch him as he blacks my Owner's boots. Hands sure, intimate with polish and brush and cloth. Not one of these new "bootblacks" who do it because it's trendy -- oh, no. This is a Bootblack, one who has studied and reveres an old and honored tradition.

And he's a butch.

How few there are in my community. And even fewer who still hear the song... the song that calls the femme to dance.

i watch.

Soon, my Owner turns to me and says,

“There’s time for your boots, too.”

Oh god. i panic a little inside. For while i am a femme i am also a slave... no tight corsets to support and flaunt my breasts... no skin tight skirts slit to my thigh... no heels, high, higher, highest, to help me walk like the woman i am. No plumage to attract and announce to the butch... here i am. Come to me. Join with me.

Just me. Simple black blouse, plain black skirt. And boots. Combat boots, as my Owner requires.

Maybe this butch, this bootblack, will understand.

Suddenly, i am embarassed by my boots. No matter how hard i try to keep them nice, the toes are usually scuffed from kneeling. Mentally, i shake my head. This is a bootblack. And a butch. Maybe he will understand.

i slide into his chair. He lifts my feet to his thighs and smiles a little. Inside, i give a sigh of relief. i feel his hands on my feet through the boots. Thank god... someone who understands that bootblacking is about more than shining the boots -- it's about a connection. A physical connection. He touches my feet through the boots... and my whole body, too.

i watch him as he works on the boots, trying to follow the technical details, because i do love bootblacking. i know i'm not very good at it, and so i love to watch those who have the gift and who have honed it. But i keep losing track... because this is a bootblack... and a butch.

We talk a little. And i surprise myself by saying,

“You are an old school butch.”

He is, after all. It's so clear to me. Far away, i hear music.

He says, “You like butches.”

Oh yes, i want to say... i like butches. i like the way they look and feel and smell and taste. i like the way they offer me their hand and open the door for me. i like the way i feel delicate and precious and strong all at once when i take their arm.

my mind snaps back. i realize he is telling me that he has no partner. What? This butch, this rare and priceless butch has no partner? Are all the femmes in the world blind?

He begins licking my boots and i give up. i lean forward, crooning into his ear... nails on his back, fingers in his hair. Smell and sound and sight of a butch. The music grows louder in my head.

He brings my booted foot to his chest. Then his crotch. my mouth is dry....

Too soon, far too soon, he is done. i know people have been staring, walking by... i don't care. Does no one in the world honor the music of the butch and the femme anymore? Is that sound so... strange... even discordant... in our community?

i don't care. i hear it. And i know he does, too.

i rise from his chair, knees weak. How do i thank him? How do you thank someone who has given you back your essence? Who has taken you as you are... and in everything he does, tells you that what you are is good and right and has a place in the world.

i try to offer him the traditional tip for a bootblack... for he has performed his art and craft beautifully on my boots. And his butch magic on my soul.

"No, ma'am," he says.

Then a kiss is all i have. All i can give this butch who has given me so much.

And so, with my femme soul on my lips, i kiss his cheek. i can hear the music again, swirling around me, calling me. my feet in my beautifully shined boots want to move in time to it. A femme dancing in combat boots... yes... i am a femme in boots.

Boots to flirt with. Boots to dance with.

:: 11:59 AM [+] ::
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