When that lofty event dropped into my lap, they had already reserved the space. It was a “conference” center located in the middle of the Wayne State campus. Beautifully sheathed in marble, its pseudo-neo-gothic arches and clerestory windows stuck out like a sugar cube. Having seen the space before, I had to admit they could’ve done a lot worse on the reservation.
Well, until the day of the event that is.
I showed up a few hours early to make sure the decorations, catering, lighting, placement and all the other elements were set. Taking a break, I went out front to smoke a cigarette. I started noticing a lot of men in leather, spandex and vinyl walking in and out with fetish-inspired decorations. Their flower arrangements were large glass globes with white flowers floating beneath a small leather sling and candle. Yes, I said a leather sling. It also had chains. It was quite elegant in a how-can-I-make-obscene-floral-arrangements sort of way.
At least curious, and even more concerned, I asked one of the leather daddies if they were having an event, was it in the conference center and what was the event.
“Mr. Gay Michigan Fantasy Leather Night,” the leather daddy told me.
I rolled my eyes and asked “Where in the building?”
“Oh, we have the first floor and the basement.”
“So you’ll all be running around in the atrium?”
“Yep.”
I decided to have another cigarette and think about how I was going to reconcile the presence of blue-haired peaceniks and black-leathered sex gargoyles in a single building. As I go back upstairs, my boss appears.
I said, “Uhm, there might be a problem with tonight’s event.”
Looking alarmed he asked “What problem?”
“I’m thinking the leather crowd running around in the atrium might be a distraction from the award.”
“Leather crowd? I wear a leather cap sometimes.”
“I don’t think that counts,” I said, smiling.
“Do you know any of the people?”
“No—oh wait a minute – Heya Tom! How goes it? No, I don’t know any of them.”
There was a glass catwalk that connected the room we were having the cocktail hour in and the room that was reserved for the banquet. I told my boss that we would line up all of the members of the center along each side of the catwalk, thoroughly blocking the view of the atrium below. We politely but firmly herd the peaceniks over the catwalk, hopefully none the wiser for the more “vivid” event going on below.
So far, the plan had worked. Later in the evening, a sweet, obviously ocular-challenged grandmotherly figure asked to be helped down the stairs. My student assistant an I gently escort her down the flight of marble stairs.
“Young man,” she said her wispy sweet voice, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why are all these men in uniform running around downstairs?”
Crap. Think quickly, Eric. “Oh, didn’t you know, dear—it’s the Detroit Area Policeman’s Ball.”
She smiles radiantly, “I feel so safe now.”
My student assistant begins to gurgle and shoots back up the stairs trying to stifle her hysterical laughter. I walk her to the door and decide that I needed a cigarette and a drink. Outside, several of Detroit’s proudest leather community are smoking cigarettes. A latecomer to the party walks up, looking confused. A confused look on a guy dressed head to toe in leather is a remarkable thing—it really doesn’t say “dominant.”
He asked, “Could someone explain why the little old woman in the parking lot thanked me for protecting and serving?”
I laughed until I cried. Then I thought “Two drinks. Definitely two,” and walked inside.
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