By Justin Hayford
But today he’s worried about being seen with me. Having a scrawny, bookish fellow at his side may detract from his overall “leather image,” he explains, hurting his chances in Sunday’s competition. “They don’t tell us who the judges are,” he apologizes. And though the official competition isn’t for two days, he’s being judged from the moment he sets foot in the hotel.
Kevin won his title last October. The competition was held at the Gay Nineties, a multistory mecca in downtown Minneapolis that occupies almost an entire city block. On the day before the show Kevin, like all the other contestants, had to meet one-on-one with the judges for his personal interview. “They asked me what I thought of drugs in the leather community, what I thought of women in the leather community,” he recalls, stretching out on his bed and lighting a cigarette. “Then they asked what turns me on sexually. At first I was a bit like, ‘Leave me alone on that one.’ But I realized what they want to know is, can you be open and honest about sexuality? That’s part of what an ideal leatherman is. So my answer was ‘power exchange.’ And they liked that.”
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How does someone prepare for a contest that seems to involve little more than wearing leather and marching back and forth across a stage? “Last year’s Mr. Minnesota told me, ‘It’s all about outfit,’” Kevin says. “He told me, ‘You have to wear a different outfit every time you walk out of your hotel room.’ Of course, he didn’t even make the first cut, so forget that. Instead I spent three months in the gym, slamming down protein shakes, going to tanning salons, all that nonsense. But most of my preparation has been mental, thinking about what I value in the leather community, about what I want to represent.”
“And it’s the only community I’ve been part of that isn’t ageist. I mean, some of the stars of this community are in their 60s. It’s great because, well, I love older men.” He smiles the smile that made all the women in our college dorm swoon. “But it also gives me hope for a future. We can create a gay community that doesn’t end when you turn 30.”
A few minutes after the doors open, the theater lobby is thick with cigar smoke. On the sweeping staircase, the pretend police laugh over beers with the make-believe gestapo. Against one wall a photographer has set up a mottled brown backdrop in front of which leathermen pose, prom-style. A California Highway Patrol officer and a hulking man in a black leather breastplate and skirt and a painted-on latex mask stand before the camera. Two gray-haired men behind the photographer smile enthusiastically, like parents encouraging their children to venture into the deep end of the swimming pool. To the photographer’s right another couple dissolve into laughter when their photo is handed to them.
