Leather Is the Fashion Statement at Beauty Contest for All Sexes
It was just like any other beauty pageant. Except there were no ball gowns, no tiaras, no tears.
But still, the contestants were padded, wore false eye lashes, and appeared to have spackled on their make-up.
The Contestants for the “Miss Leather” crown, at any rate.
(Who weren’t, some would say, actually misses, but at this contest, that was a minor detail.)
The pageant at the Bullet Tavern in North Hollywood was to crown winners in three categories: Miss, Ms. and Mr. San Fernando Valley Leather 1995. The Bullet is a gay bar wedged between a martial arts studio and a mini-mart, and the Ms. title contestants were lesbians and straight women, the Miss crew were men dressed as women, and the Mr. entrants were men dressed as men who like men.
Got that straight?
More than 85 people--most in leather jackets, or shirts, or chaps (these people really love leather)--had packed into the narrow, humid tavern to watch the contest, with the proceeds going to charity.
The winners won no more than the black and silver banners they wore out the door. And, although perhaps lacking the star power of some of more conventional beauty pageants, the leather contest was light-years ahead in political correctness: Women (“real women, biological women” as the organizers insistently clarified their meaning) are referred to as Ms .
“Miss just does seem like a dismissive way to address a woman,” said one organizer, his large Adam’s apple not quite hidden by his feather boa.
“I mean, I don’t think I’d like it if I were . . . well, you know.”
That left some of the men (transvestites, cross-dressers or female impersonators--they differ on the preferred term) to vie for the title of Miss.
Impressively balancing their boxy bodies--beefy or angular, poured into leather dresses every one--on stiletto heels, they strutted across the tiers of beer boxes that made up the tiny makeshift stage. Using names like Alexis and Christine and Tammy, they describe themselves as “gender gifted” but insist this is a fantasy they do not want to actually come true, courtesy of some surgeon’s knife.
“I have no desire to be a woman,” said “Christine.”
Whips were brandished and leather harnesses displayed, but not all sense of practicality was lost. “Have y’all ever tried bending over in one of these things? --Yeow!” the emcee quipped, modeling a minimalist outfit studded in brass and steel.
Contestants were judged on four criteria by five judges well-known within the leather community, as they call themselves. As contestants strutted and pseudo-lip-synced to recorded music, judges graded them on appearance, composure, audience appeal and--just like conventional beauty contests--how well they answered a question designed to show wit, class, depth, education, good breeding and sterling character.
Like the best pageant girls, the contestants smiled nervously as they awaited their question, nodded intently at the emcee as it was asked, and delivered their answers with the coy confidence that beauty pageant victors practice for hours.
Even those who failed miserably at transforming their baritone voices into at least a Demi Moore huskiness spoke unwaveringly; even the ones in the scariest-looking leather domination queen outfits batted their eyes at the audience in that traditional head-cocking, lip-biting sort of way.
Of course, “I plan to become a university professor and work for world peace” was not a conceivable answer to any question asked on this particular evening. Contestants instead were quizzed on the niceties of sadomasochistic romance, such as recognizing signals that a trussed-up loved one has had enough.
‘There is no such thing as enough ,” was the succinct and--even to this crowd--oddly disturbing answer from one contestant.
Most difficult challenge by far was to move such a diverse crowd. Mixed in with all the eye shadow exotics was a handful of tractor-cap-wearing, gruff-talking beer drinkers whooping and bidding in a porn videotape auction. There was the articulate and soft-spoken, middle-aged professional in head-to-toe leather, so bashful he was sneaking peeks at the stage out of the corner of his eye.
“I bought these leathers a long time ago,” he explained. “They were a real treat. But I never know where I can wear them around other people.”
There were a couple of straight women out with their gay male friends.
“God, it’s such a relief to be in this environment,” one explained. “Not getting hit on, not weighing your mind down with who the cutest guy is and how you can get his attention.”
In between contestants, leather everythings were auctioned off, from soft leather briefcases to masks that lace up the back, zip over the mouth and snap down at the eyes. The auctioneer attempted to peddle some less-popular evening bags by referring to the tiny tassels that adorned them as “itsy-bitsy elephant whips!”
By the time the three winners were picked, the bar had pretty much cleared, but who won didn’t really seem to be the point anyway.
The new Ms. Valley Leather, her wavy auburn locks just brushing the spaghetti straps on her leather and lace (“Yes, I am both”) romper, needed to get home to her husband (“He wanted to be here, but had night school”).
Miss Valley Leather was absently annoyed that he had put a run in his shiny new stockings. (“This whole place and not one person has clear nail polish. Can you believe?”)
And the newest Mr. Valley Leather, who sang “I’m too sexy” in both English and Latin, was busy promoting the script of a play he wrote to all who would listen.
Just like any other beauty pageant.
