We stand in the street at Tacoma's Pride event, collecting friends for a play party afterwards. It is a warm, balmy day with many interesting people and several food options. We openly cruise the crowd, hungry for fun. Good music plays and people dance. As we stand, a collection of nuns walks by and they bless me (something that makes me laugh because I am an atheist). We feel assured that the days spent getting ready for the play party will all be worth it once we begin to play. Cakes, tarts, pasta, fruit, cold beer, a magnificent spread for the anticipated guests.
Two men who have been invited previously arrive and join our group. I have wanted to play with one of these men for about two years, as he has an amazing anatomy. Then, suddenly, the spirit of the group changes. The partner of one of the group has decided to compete for an upcoming Leather contest. As usual, the producers waited until the last minute to find men, turning up rocks to find anyone they could call a contestant. I want to help him prepare and I begin to ask him questions. “How much time have you spent on stage? Have you read the common Leather books to prepare yourself? Are your clothes ready? Do you have a plan for your fantasy? Have you been practicing your speech?” And if he wins, “Do you have the money to wear the sash for a year? Is your partner ready for the next year without you?” These questions are basic questions that every contestant must ask. They are not the challenging questions that can arise later in the interview.
Our organic group of friends anxious to play quickly turns into an unscheduled workshop on titles. Three of the men decide to go elsewhere, no interest in Leather contests. They had hoped to play but realize quickly that they have no interest in the “unity of community” discussion. And, unfortunately, this means that there will be fewer players in my home this evening.



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