Vignette: Welcome to the Family.

We've all seen the pornographic play of business and pleasure.

"This is what you want," George repeated to himself. "There's no need to apologize for it."

Nobody could hear him in his car, as the voice of an app intoned directions between him and the leather shop. Nervous, he had looked up the shop in an incognito browser the night before: always one to glance over his shoulder, even online. His suit and tie functioned as a sartorial armor against his insecurities, a wall of pinstripe gabardine that muffled the voice inside his head that told him he wasn't manly enough for this, or wasn't muscular enough for that, or too dignified, or too timid. Married to a loving husband, working a stable job, paying off a mortgage—all of those elements of adulthood and responsibility had settled George into a pattern of studied domesticity. Too mild-mannered and respectable to be driving across town to a conclave of gay bars surrounding a Thai restaurant in a disused—but much loved—plaza near the museum district, where rainbow flags flew alongside flags striped in black, white, and blue, adorned with red hearts.

His heart fluttered as he made the final turn. Beneath the layers of his custom French cuff shirt, his richly knotted tie, his silk braces and waistcoat, trepidation ran ice-cold through his veins. He had never envisioned himself driving to a place with puppy masks and black lycra in the windows, glass tinted deep to veil the faces of any who might enter, a sign for an HIV testing center on the door. Something illicit. Not the place where a successful stock analyst would show up elegantly attired, as though for work. He was one of the last hold-outs who still bothered suiting up after the pandemic.

And this was a Saturday, too. He’d look especially out of place.

But that was the point, he reminded himself. He put on his mask, stepped out of the car, and equipped his suit jacket, which he had hung in the back seat to avoid wrinkles while driving. This was all about comfort zones, pushing himself to try something new. It all started when he splurged on a pair of Italian driving gloves, a stroke of germophobia during the pandemic. But then, noticing the way the fine gloves looked with his suits, the buttery embrace of the leather around his fingers and knuckles, his mind began to wander. Soon, he bought a second pair in cognac, then a third pair in black.

Today he chose the black ones, to match his shoes. All of his leather accessories had to coordinate, after all. Especially this last leather accessory, the one he had resolved to try on today. In person, though: not online. He had done his research on it, this last accessory. He knew that there might be some fitting and adjustments involved. He had to make sure that it would fit. He planned on wearing it under a suit, so here he was. Besides, suits were just another form of gear.

Another clothing fetish. Another expression of desire, dominance, deviance. Suits, like leather, gave voice to that low-frequency wave of power and pleasure constantly humming in the background of his psyche. So this, too, was a natural progression. Hooking a gloved finger around the handle, he pulled open the door.

For a moment, he noticed the clothing racks hung with vests, chaps, jocks, all in black leather. Rows of paddles and whips and crops lined the back, with large fans from the ceiling sporting cheeky slogans: zaddy, yasss queen, stay golden, shade. George savored it, that confluence of masculine and feminine, that freewheeling desire for desire itself. Queerness. Each of these articles promised some whiff of it, some contrast to the staid elegance and respectability of his tailored finery.

“Hi there! My name’s Daryll.” The store attendant stepped out of a back room. Taller and more athletic than George, the man wore a snug t-shirt beneath a leather harness. The margins of a well-groomed beard peeked out of his mask, pandemic protocols creating a veil of anonymity between salesperson and client. The moment he laid eyes on George—likely the only man he’d ever seen walking into this store in a suit and tie—Daryll’s eyes grew wide. Excitement? Curiosity? “Oh—you’re looking mighty dapper, sir. How my I help you?”

“Thank you.” George was used to complements on his attire. I can do this, George told himself. It’s just another piece of clothing. Just another accessory. Be firm and direct. Drawing a breath through his mask, he repeated the lines he had rehearsed in the car: “I’m interested in getting a harness, but I’ve never worn one before. I was hoping you might help.”

“Of course! Right this way.” Leading George to a corner of the store, Daryll gestured to the racks of hangers, each of which supported straps of leather, gromets, and rings of metal. Some sported neon colors. Some included loops that were intended to be attached to trousers. (Jeans, George corrected himself. This community probably didn’t wear trousers too often.) “We have a whole range of colors and styles,” said Daryll. “Was there any that you had in mind?”

“I’m looking for the juxtaposition between that—” George pointed at the skimpy harnesses arranged on their hangers— “and this.” George waved a hand at his crisp, pinstripe lapels. Even the points of his pocket square spread into a tidy array, not a thread out of place, all the way down to the precise break of his trousers over the toes of his gleaming shoes.

“I see.” Daryll scanned George up and down. “So you’d like to wear one of these with your suit?”

“Indeed,” replied George, quelling another wave of self-doubt within himself.

“It’s all about the layers, then.”

“All about the layers, yes.” George calculated a remark. Something humorous, that would diffuse the tension. Most of the tension was probably in George’s own head, of course, but still. He cleared his throat: “Do you have anything like, say, baby’s first leather harness?”

Daryll laughed, peeling through several of the hangers. The conversation began to flow a little more easily as Daryll showed George a few of the more basic harnesses: a strap across the chest, over each shoulder, and under each armpit. So George chose one of the ones in black leather with fittings in black metal.

“A more understated choice,” remarked Daryll.

George smirked behind his mask. “Wasn’t it Coco Chanel who said something about removing one piece of jewelry before leaving the house?”

“Yes, of course. Would you like to try this on?”

George’s heart thrummed again with nervousness. He had envisioned this part of the process, too. But he knew that, if he hesitated, a host of self-doubts would block his words. “Certainly.”

Past a pair of fitting rooms, Daryll led George to the back room, where several industrial sewing machines flanked cutting tables, with sheets of leather and vinyl and lycra folded in bolts along the walls, miles of leather straps and bins full of gromets and hardware arranged all around. Daryll turned to George: “I can take your jacket, if you like. Would you mind removing your shirt?”

Oh, that part. George had been working with a personal trainer for a year, but he was nowhere near as chiseled or athletic as Daryll. George cleared his throat. “May I just try it on over the shirt for now?”

“Of course. We have some blank t-shirts you could put on if you like.”

“I’ll just try it on over this one,” replied George, once more heading off the self-doubts in his head. “That’s how I intend to wear it.”

Daryll’s eyes widened with surprise. Again, a hint of intrigue. “Oh! Well, we could do that, too.”

So off came George’s suit jacket and waistcoat. Slipping one leather strap over one of George’s shoulders at a time, Daryll helped George shrug the harness on, raunchy black leather settling over the crisps white of his French cuff shirt. George placed the blade of his tie over the leather while Daryll fastened the gromet against George’s chest, adjusting a few times after asking whether the harness felt right to George.

George nodded towards the rack where the articles of his suit now hung. “I’d like to put my jacket back over it, please.”

“I’ll help you with that,” said Daryll, offering the suit jacket to George.

Sure enough, the pinstripe lapels framed it all: the double Windsor knot blossoming in silk against George’s cutaway collar, with the band of grommeted black leather stretching across the backdrop in pristine white cotton. All details proper, understated, classic menswear—streaked with that one obscene leather band across the front. Daryll took in the sight, and nodded. “Damn, that’s sexy.”

George felt his confidence grow. “Do you have a mirror around here?”

Daryll held up a floor-length mirror that he had shelved between two cabinets, and George studied his reflection. He noticed that his whole posture had changed: shoulders rolled back and relaxed, chest open, a slight cock to his hips. Every sartorial detail in place—but now with a twist, a smirk.

“I’m getting some serious King’s Men vibes,” said Daryll.

“Yes, I suppose that’s the idea.” George debated for a moment whether he should mention MenAtPlay, but he decided that might be too on-the-nose.

“You know, you might want to try it on shirtless,” Daryll suggested. “If you’re looking for that whole grand reveal.”

George took a deep breath through his mask, heart thumping through his shirt, the leather band tugging against the fine cotton. Body image issues, muttered that doubtful voice in George’s head. But at some point, over the past year especially, George had told himself that he was tired of being timid, tired of investing in all these fine suits as a way to hide himself. He no longer wanted his clothing to wear him: he wanted to wear it. Command, dominance, control. Confidence. So George nodded. “Alright. I’ll take it off.”

Daryll noticed George’s concern. “Would you like to use one of the changing rooms? A bit more privacy.”

George agreed, and took a pair of hangers with him. The tie came undone—always arousing to him, his husband’s favorite part of foreplay—and one by one he worked the buttons through his gloved fingers, slid off the jacket, shrugged off the braces. He had to shimmy his trousers down to his calves in order to undo the shirt stays that strapped the tail of his shirt to the tops of his socks. Sheer socks, of course, for the occasion. Today was all about a celebration of what turned him on, what made him feel like a man. Confidence. That was when he noticed through the dressing room curtain that two other leather guys had walked into the shop, and Daryll was helping them. This meant—once George equipped that leather harness over his now shirtless body—this meant that he would have to fend off another wave of trepidation, and walk out of this dressing room shirtless in front of perfect strangers. Would they notice his suit trousers?

That would be a bridge too far, decided George. Back and forth, timidity and confidence, confidence and timidity, neither wholly complete without the other. Besides, Daryll seemed to be enjoying this whole suitman’s-first-leather-gear thing, so George fixed his shirt stays back on, buttoned his shirt over the harness, re-knotted his tie, and put the suit jacket back on. Glancing in the mirror, relishing the translucency of the fine white cotton now stretching over the rings and buckles of the leather harness underneath, George pulled the curtain aside and stepped out.

Daryll took notice indeed. He approached George, letting one of the other store attendants take care of the newcomers. Daryll joined George in the back room. “It really disappears under the suit, I see.”

“That’s the idea, yes.” George fondled his pinstripe lapels with his leather gloves. “Just a hint of what’s underneath.”

“Exactly. But, like I said,” reiterated Daryll, “we’ll need to fit it to you shirtless.”

George swallowed back his trepidation, then, and nodded. Just a business transaction, after all. “There’s only one way to go from here, then.”

Daryll’s grin was visible through his mask. “I’ll get out the mirror again.”

So in reverse, again: suiting, unsuiting. Off came the suit jacket. He loosened the tie to one side, undid the shirt, and let the braces and the shirt fall off with one fluid shrug. A year ago, with his pudgy “dad bod” physique, George never imagined he could measure up to a guy like Daryll, some athletic specimen of masculinity. But now, here he was. And the admiration was written all over Daryll’s face. “Hotness,” Daryll said.

“Thank you,” replied George.

Next came the finer adjustments. Tugging one loop or another, Daryll asked George whether any part of the harness felt too tight. With binder clips he marked the excess portions of the leather that he would need to trim off, then asked George to remove the harness.

“So what’s the turnaround time for alterations?” Shrugging his shirt back on, but leaving it open, George handed the harness back to Daryll. “I live about two hours away, so I can drive back up here in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, I can knock this out in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Accustomed to the more complicated tailoring of menswear, George expected the minimum time to take two weeks. He had no idea he’d be walking out of this shop with a piece of leather gear today. “That’s . . . that’s quicker than I expected.”

“It’s not a problem at all.” Taking the harness over to one of the work tables, Daryll smiled. “So if you’d like to strut around and take a look around the store for a few minutes, I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

Strut. That wasn’t a word that described George’s dignified, careful demeanor. But he had to admit, something about the word suited him. The word fit him like a glove, or like a loop of leather: strut, a thing that cocky, confident guys did. George swaggered around the store, his shirt half open and his tie draped loose around his neck, while the other patrons of the store lingered for a moment near the puppy masks, casting a few glances in George’s direction. Keeping to himself, George inspected the store’s supply of crops and paddles before Daryll called him back, handing him the completed harness with its excess leather trimmed away.

“If you could step back into the dressing room, please, I think you should try it on one more time.”

“Of course,” said George. Like any other garment. Always a second fitting. So, once again, he redid the layers of his attire. He had to admit he was feeling more at ease, now that he had disrobed and re-robed several times. Once more, the suit jacket graced his shoulders, and once more he stepped out, the very portrait of corporate respectability.

George could tell that Daryll was drinking in the sight. “Ready for round two of the grand reveal?”

So on with the striptease once more. The moment George slipped off his tie, Daryll—with a flirtatious smirk—took the tie and draped it around his own neck, the silk blade incongruous against his t-shirt and harness. As George undid his cufflinks and shirt buttons, he fumbled a bit with the shirt placket. “it’s not easy handling things with gloves.”

“Oh, you can practice it a bit on your own.” Daryll nodded, enjoying the opening of George’s buttons, inch by inch of George’s torso emerging into view, with the horny strap of black leather bridging George’s pectorals. “Put on your favorite dance track when you get home, and tear up the runway in your living room. Or bedroom.”

George laughed, confidence one more gaining the upper hand over his shyness, as he let the fine broadcloth shirt slip off one shoulder, then the other, leaving the black harness on full display, with nothing to hide behind. From the waist up, the only remnant of his attire was George’s round tortoise-shell glasses, studious, incongruous.

Daryll gave an approving nod. “What do you think?”

“I . . .” A thousand words crowded at the tip of George’s tongue, a thousand sensations. A revelation, this whole new side of himself. For years, it had been nothing but suit fetish this, suit fetish that. And now, a strange new fascination lingered underneath. “I like it.” George nodded. “I really like it.”

“Good.” Setting down the mirror, Daryll nodded towards the front area of the shop. “Let me get the boss, Sir Tim. Gotta have his appoval, after all.”

George nodded, studying his reflection, his shirtless body in the fluorescent light, the way the harness emphasized his chest and shoulders, complementing muscle tone that George never realized was there. He told himself he wouldn’t try to suck in his belly of pudge, or apologize for his physique, or anything like that. Confidence. Confidence didn’t need an apology.

The older gentleman came in from helping the other patrons of the shop. Nodding, he instructed George to turn around so that he could inspect the back of the harness, tugging on a loop here, asking how the leather garment felt. “Garment,” as though something that covered barely a postage stamp of George’s shirtless body could be called a garment. But that, too, was the irony, the allure of it all.

“Looks like you’ve done good work,” said the boss to Daryll. “Fits him well.”

The rest of the exchange wrapped up fairly quickly. Buttoning his shirt back up, forming a new double Windsor—catching a whiff of Daryll’s scent now clinging to the silk—equipping his waistcoat and jacket, George re-attired himself yet again.

This evening just got much more interesting, George thought. What would his husband think?

The tug of the leather band made one of his shirt buttons pucker open ever so slightly: a peep show, hidden beneath the silk veneer of the tie blade, masking all but a whisper of the contours of the harness tracing beneath the fine broadcloth shirt.

The store owner noticed George strutting out of the dressing room. Looking down at his hat, George mused, “It’s fascinating how a piece of leather really changes the way one feels about oneself.”

Sir Tim simply responded with a “Yep,” but gave a meaningful nod.

George then checked out, and as Daryll gave George the receipt, he bid George adieu with a wry grin: “Welcome to the family.”

And that was all. After a night and a morning of arguing with himself, George finally did it. He went into a leather store fully suited, and came out of it with a harness underneath. And, indeed, he felt his shoulder sway with a certain swagger that he had not known before. After years of telling himself he had to hide his sexuality—even from his husband—he had finally given himself permission to come out.

*

You wanted this story to end in outrageous sex, of course, and I have failed to deliver. I would like to believe you could find plenty of that elsewhere on this blog of mine. But I wrote this piece to think about how, sometimes, eroticism takes place mostly in the head, in the silent spaces between experiences. I wanted to use this experience as a way to think, too, about how articles of clothing make us feel powerful or dominant or alluring, or how we discover new things about ourselves, new forms of pleasure that we never knew to be within us. Masculinity is so often cast as the province of the rugged individualist, after all. But, in the leather community, masculinity is about connection. Vulnerability, too. I hope in this little excursion you have found something to reflect on, some place of introspection.