Going Deep: A Gay Guide to Reality Mike Gerle

Easy to say. 
“You’re perfect.” 
“I see you as perfect.” 
All you need to do is let go of all the thoughts, beliefs, emotions, mental constructs, advertisements, comparisons on social media, and the tap tap tap of that nagging voice that says, “Don’t fall behind. You can still catch up. You can still win!” 
Just follow your breath. 
Well, notice it first. 
Can you? 
That thing you do every moment of every day. That very first thing you did when you slipped wet and cold into existence. That thing that will be the very last thing you do before it all ends or you move on to another plane of existence. That thing my father’s body tried to do even after he’d died. 
“Be here now.” Thanks, Ram Das. But how do we do that without trying? How do we try without judgment? 
How do we believe it’s okay to see ourselves as whole and happy? Unbroken. 
If I’m not seeking “healing” what is there left to do? 
Without trauma, addiction, and neurotic narcissism, what do I do with my day? 
Who will understand what I’m talking about? 
Unbroken. Whole. Complete. 
The red pill or the blue pill? Which one is the true fantasy? 
The earth, the moon, the stars. The sun that will be eclipsed by the moon today over North America. The galaxies, and clusters, and all the missing matter our current comprehension of math can’t explain. 
Without a creation myth, how do I cope with consciousness? To know I am, but little else? 
It’s not reason or math or science or myth that will bring peace. 
It’s faith. It’s jumping into the unknown, the unreasonable idea that I’m good and complete no matter what the other bags of muscle and bone and emotions helplessly tell me and sell me. Forgive their ignorance and my complicity. 
It’s an inside job. 
One bag of bones at a time. 



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Just feelings. That’s what this week is about. 
Preparing for an ayahuasca plant ceremony is an opening of the raw self. 
It’s day 6 of taking away most of the things that help me avoid feelings. Coffee, weed, alcohol, refined sugar, red meat, lots of other things… and, wait for it, ejaculation! Yup. 
Just sit there and take it bitch! 
Worried about your substack, your husband’s struggles, your relevance in gay men’s culture, your mom’s reality without your dad, your other mom’s torments, your sister’s well-being, your health, turning 59, your motorcycle’s dead battery, that pain in your lower back? 
Just frackin feel it! 
Being present is no longer masked by distractions; it’s full presence, moment to moment to moment. I’ve even taken the suggestion of staying off social media, well, except Grindr. Is that a social app? Sure. Look at all those bodies and be a tease, “Not today, sorry.” 
What’s left is, well, everything. ALL the feelings. This is what it is to be human, buddy. 
Is this what it felt like to be a hunter-gatherer? Before tech and know-how brought us all the fat, meat, and sugar we wanted? Tears of joy and grief while digging in the garden? Well, I guess they didn’t have gardens. They were on the move. 
But they were tied to the earth. 
And being tied to the earth is why I’m going back. That’s why I’m doing my third plant ceremony. After experiencing a mushroom ceremony, I learned about an ayahuasca ceremony in my new neighborhood, on the same communal soil where I bought a condo two years ago, the same neighborhood where I have always hung out with leathermen. 
Pacha mama. Mother earth. During the last ceremony, I met You for the first time. 
The morning after, in the cool, bright morning Silver Lake air, I touched the bark of a tree growing near a 1920s building. It spoke to me. Much clearer than any wonky telepathic crap Counclor Diana Troy ever used on Star Trek The Next Generation, I was, and still am, connected to everything the tree is connected to. Words fail. But let me try. The expanse of an all-knowingness, a knowingness that is experiential, not intellectual. The tree, the earth, the water in the sky and the seas, each heartbeat in Silver Lake and all those around the world, each being that moves, and all those that grow, and all the essence of earth and sun and stars that have brought us into being. I touched it. It touched me back, and there was no longer a separation between any of us. 
Oneness with everything. 
A sustained joy bursting from inside me and holding me safe all at the same time. 
I guess that’s worth skipping coffee and ejaculation for a week or two. 



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Moments after the door to my condo closed behind us, the stranger I’d cruised on the subway locked his mouth on mine. I eagerly accepted. The tension of 30+ minutes of eyeing each other in the train car, up the escalators, down Sunset Blvd., to this moment, piqued our primal need to engage. 
He pulled at the bottom of his shirt.  
I leaned away from kissing his scruffy face and said, “Hold on, can I get that for you?” and I slowly pulled his shirt up, revealing his bare skin, happy trail, belly button, chest, nipples, and finally, his masculine shoulders. The inside-out collar of thin cotton material moved up his throat while the bulk of the shirt acted as a temporary blindfold. As the shirt released from his head, I looked into his eager eyes – the t-shirt hanging relaxed in my hand. 
“Your turn,” I said. “Take your time.” 
Rather than ignoring all this erotic energy and racing towards orgasm with the intensity of an Olympic sprinter, I’ve learned to lean into erotic tension and savor its rare pleasures. 
This is a departure from the avid Sport F****r practice I once thought was the height of sexual pleasure and liberation. 
Sport F*****g is about having sex for its own sake. Keeping a score sheet (even if it’s just in one’s head) of the numbers, variety, and status of sex partners is what it’s all about. Commitment and emotional depth are not part of the practice. An ass up, no talking, jackhammer fuck n’ go is its hallmark protocol. 
It allows us to protest against the heteronormative standard narrative: All sex outside of a monogamous relationship is bad. 
It also satisfies our need to seed, and be seeded by, as many individuals as possible. Sperm competition, as outlined in the book Sex At Dawn by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá, provides evidence that our genes are programmed to both give and receive as much sperm as possible. The one who gives or receives the most wins the genetic prize. 
Sport Fucking is still in my sexual repertoire, but it is only one musical genre with which to play the music. Sometimes, I want a nasty two-minute country tune by Dixon Dallas: “No strings attached, I’ll arch my back and let you do what you want.” At other times, I want an hour-long Deep House Anjunadeep Edition 434 with Marsh DJ session: “Reach inside me. Gonna take my love in,” that transports us on a multilayered sensory/emotional/spiritual journey. 
Each encounter is usually a variation that mixes a bit from each style, depending on my partner’s proclivities and how our energies mix.
If I’d taken this guy to a stairwell to seal the deal, a long, drawn-out connection wouldn’t have been practical. But we were in my place, and I had more than two minutes. 
Until the moment his shirt came off, and I felt the heat radiating from his torso, my attraction to this guy was almost entirely visual. It was tied to what he was wearing, especially his grey sweatpants and the shape of the underwear seams framing his butt cheeks as he shifted his weight, side to side, only one escalator step ahead of me on the long ride up and out of the deep Sunset-Vermont subway station, my heart pounding all the way. 
I was returning home from my workout, where I’d seen lots of Hollywood hotties dressed in their best gym gear hugging all the right places oh so coyly, never to be touched. (Well, not never, but that’s another post.)
This was an opportunity to actually touch, smell, and taste the tantalizing essence that is usually off-limits. 
Why throw all that on the floor? 
Both shirtless, we moved to the playroom.
It had become clear to me during our makeout session, while my hands massaged the raised underwear seams through his sweats, that he preferred to let me take charge. 
I didn’t let that stop me from dropping to my knees to explore the cause of a raging boner still inside my jeans. 
As an aside, for a long time, I lived with a made-up rule that tops don’t kneel for their partn

My last post, Love, Contempt, and Leather Contests, ended up being a lackluster whimper that confused a few people. Thank you guys for the feedback. “Where’s the contempt?” they asked. And they were right to ask. 
In haste to meet my publishing deadline (on the 1st and 3rd Thursdays), I rushed a piece that was not ready for release. 
I also let an effort to be magnanimous prevent me from being brave. I am afraid to hurt the feelings of people I have grown to care about, even love. 
But sometimes, we need to tell our loved ones what’s keeping us from taking their calls. 
So here’s a remix with a heaping helping of contempt regarding certain aspects of leather contest culture. 
As I said before, I got interested in leather contests, thinking it would lead to instructions for handling a sexy boy kneeling at my feet. 
My leather contest contempt grew out of the impatience I felt waiting for the real world of leather to reveal itself. The one we’re all talking about during leather contests. It’s the world outlined in books like The Leatherman’s Handbook by Larry Townsend, Ties That Bind by Guy Baldwin, and Mr. Benson by John Preston. Where was the heat and eros of Tom of Finland? Why wasn’t I seeing guys like that kneeling boy who got away? Where was the 19-year-old marine at a bus station craving a bondage f**k scene mentioned in Townsend’s book? I kept hearing stories about Old Guard, Master/slave, Dom/sub, and dungeons filled with hot men negotiating power exchange scenes. Where were those men? 
The leather contests appeared to be crucibles where men were tested to see if they had what it took to represent the real leather world. So, I signed up. 
There were (and are) few ways for contemporary men to test themselves as a rite of passage into manhood, so maybe I was also trying to scratch that itch. Put me in, coach! I’m ready to play!
I assumed that the real world of leather men would become available to me if I proved myself on stage. 
After I won the Mr. Los Angeles Leather (LAL) 2007 competition, and at the prodding of the LAL producer, I went to Cleveland Leather Awareness Weekend (CLAW) to pursue my goal of winning International Mister Leather (IML). 
On the CLAW workshop schedule, I found an offering from a group called the Kennel Club. They claimed to know everything it takes to win a leather contest, so I attended the offering along with 30 to 40 other guys headed to IML to compete. 
The large conference room was set up in a traditional authoritarian configuration. A table in front of the room, behind which sat several men, facing the large group of attendees, all wearing leather vests bearing patches of the clubs they represented. A few empty chairs facing the crowd sat to the left of the presenter’s table. 
One of the men behind the table asked if anyone wanted to do a practice interview. 
Most competitions give the interview score double the points of any other contest aspect. If the interview sucks, it’s nearly impossible to recover. It’s typically done in private, not in front of spectators. 
During the pause after his question, as each man decided if he wanted to put himself on the spot in front of the same guys he’d be competing against at the biggest leather contest on the planet, I raised my hand. Why not? If you’re gonna make a mistake, make it here. 
I wanted to learn, and these guys had credited themselves with knowing all the answers. 
Who knows what was really said and done nearly seventeen years ago, but this is how I remember it going down. And it did go down, as in, south, as in, badly. Much of it is covered in my short story, A View From The Podium. 
I stood in front of the mock judging panel because I knew from experience that I should not sit during an interview. I waited for the exercise to begin, vaguely wondering why they didn’t cover the whole standing versus sitting protocol thing. 
I looked at my mock interview judges with curiosity.
They w

Overwhelmed by crowds of geared-up men at my first leather event, a Tom of Finland “Butt Boy” party in Hollywood, I escaped to an outdoor patio for a cigarette. I was in my late 20s, in the mid-1990s, wearing gear I’d purchased specifically for the event: a harness, armbands, a classic leather cap, leather shorts, and boots from an army surplus store on Santa Monica Blvd. With my naked back against a cool brick wall, I watched as men drifted between rooms while I pulled casually on my cigarette, hoping to look like I belonged. 
Apparently, I did. 
A beautiful shirtless blonde guy around my age, in jeans and boots, caught my eye and walked toward me. 
While I was still trying to figure out what to say to him, he got on his knees, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head, causing an intoxicating wave of sexual arousal to wash through me. I discovered a new reality. Clouds parted. The skies opened. The leather gods smiled down upon me. 
At least that’s how it felt. 
Instinctively, I reached out and stroked his short-cropped hair. 
“Thank you, sir!” He said. 
And then…I had no idea what to do. No. Fucking. Idea. 
I honestly don’t remember what happened to that guy. All I know is he disappeared. And that scene played itself in my head repeatedly for over a decade. 
Searching for answers on my own got me nowhere, so at 41, I entered my first leather contest because I wanted to know what to do if that opportunity presented itself again. 
For the non-leather-folk “muggles,” it may be necessary to give some context to these rituals. Just like the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, the Leather World has its own press, its own houses, and its own politics. 
Each contest (each “house”), from Eagle LA to International Mister Leather (IML), sets its own rules for who is allowed to compete, the criteria for winning, and the responsibilities of the winning titleholder. 
Each house has its own special magic and wants to know if their contestants have the magical qualities that their house values. The judges of the contest act as the sorting hat. 
If I sponsored a contest, I’d let the judges know I’m looking for men who like sex, power exchange protocols, dancing, empathy, directness, self-reliance, respect, loyalty, and honesty. I’m not great at all those qualities, but I would enjoy being with men pursuing them. 
A different house might focus on people who like quoting leather history, fundraisers, hyper-inclusivity, etc. 
Every house (club, organization) gets to be exactly what they want to be. The contest doesn’t care. Go ahead and put it in the blender. We’ll see what comes out. 
Most contests follow the same format, which I have come to respect as a ritualized liturgy: Meet and Greet, Interview, Speech, Bar-wear, Jockstrap, and Announcement of the Winners.  
The liturgy provides a structure for us to sort out what’s important to us individually and collectively. 
It provides an arena for confronting questions like: Who are we as a community? Who am I as an individual in this community? Do I belong here, or am I just trying to fit in? 
It’s the kind of self-reflection that happens in private therapy sessions, meditation retreats, or when laying awake at 3 a.m. wondering, “What’s the purpose of my life?”   
Most often, a sense of community, meaning, and purpose is evoked, which is why we keep doing it. 
However, sometimes the message from the contest is, “You guys are not aligned on what’s important, and you’ll suffer until it’s sorted out. You have work to do!” 
Even when contests have melted down, the leather community has learned important lessons. Do our judges reflect our values? What are our values? Are we curious about new ideas? Do we have limits? Are we communicating our expectations? 
My personal relationship with the contest has fluctuated wildly from joy to contempt and back again. I won three competitions and enjoyed being famous, think

“I blink, and you’re hooked up with someone!” My husband says with his testosterone-fueled competitive voice.
I get a wonderful turn-on when I see this side of my normally deferential, even-mannered, Vulcan-like boy. It’s dangerously delicious. His full 42-year-old, tall, masculine body radiates primal testosterone. Men turn me on, so seeing him charged with desire and vexed sexual frustration is intoxicating. It makes him sexually vibrant and desirable. I feel like a badass. And he confirms, with his horny, competitive frustration, that we’re still on the same page regarding our sexual desires and agreements. 
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He’s an ambitious high achiever, a man who pursues measurable, quantifiable tools and protocols for reaching success. So my success, as he frames it, must be a simple matter of following some sort of playbook of which he is unaware. 
He doesn’t want me to change my behavior. He doesn’t want me to stop hooking up. He just wants to be better at it than me. 
So, for him and all the other high achievers out there looking to sharpen their “game,” here’s what I know. Your mileage may vary. 
Hone your Battlefield Awareness. 
That’s a term we used in my day job when I was a Special Events Coordinator for the City of West Hollywood. While babysitting gatherings like WeHo Gay Pride, Halloween, and the collection of Oscar Parties held by Elton John, Vanity Fair, and HBO (all on the same night), we needed to know where to focus our attention. 
The same situational awareness translates into navigating crowded sexual playgrounds. It’s the ability to focus an endless aggregate of variables into a small, actionable list of choices.
As an aside, I am uneasy applying the term “Battlefield Awareness” to our sexual playgrounds because I want our unique spaces to be collaborative spiritual playgrounds. Not a place where there are winners and losers. 
However, for the uninitiated, these gatherings may feel like battlegrounds because of incursions on their personal space, an internalized sex-negative worldview that says one sexual partner forever means “good” & many sexual partners mean “bad,” or the newness of the social sexual culture for which they have yet to find a vocabulary. And, although relatively rare (compared to the number of good players), we have bad players among us. For whatever reason, self-shame, a truly toxic “force it” idea of masculinity, or some other reason, they feel they need to grab what they want instead of negotiating it like a Sensitive Slut.
My husband’s remark got me reflecting on how I handle myself in social sexual environments.
What follows is a deconstruction of my modus operandi that has evolved over nearly four decades and countless visits to these places. The venues are public (buy a ticket) play parties, dance parties, kink events, and, to some degree, public hunting grounds designed for non-sexual purposes, like gym steam rooms, or the dick deck on a gay cruise.
Reconnoiter: Get the lay of the land. 
Even when I’m familiar with a venue, I like to walk the perimeter to get a feel for how many rooms there are, how big they are, how they are set up, ingress and egress (getting in and out), and how they’re being used. 
If it’s a new venue, I will do this before visiting the clothes check. I may not want to stay. 
Guest inventory: Who’s there? 
I put people into boxes. Yep. I make up stuff about the guys based on what I see and what my intuition tells me so that the mob is more comprehensible. A dozen categories are easier to organize in my head than 200 to 2,000 individuals. 
Daddies, twinks, jacked muscle guys, athletic guys, porn stars, influencers, glitter divas, ethnic clumps, full fetish & gear guys, sexual tourists (new or non-identified with sexual spaces), it’s all about the music guys, look-