Customer: “Hello. I have a question for you.”

Me: “Sure. How can I help?”

Customer: [gesturing at his partner] “I want you to fit him for-”

Partner: “No.”

Customer: “I want you to fi-”

Partner: “No.”

Customer: “I want yo-”


[He makes a break for it.]

Customer: “COME BACK HERE.”

[He slinks back in.]

Customer: “I want you to fit him for a cock ring.”

Partner: [shakes head furiously]

Me: “I mean, it seems like the question’s been answered for you…”

[Undeterred, he starts rifling through the leather rings.]

Partner: “Aaargh! I already have one of those, Marvin.

Customer: [dejectedly] “… Oh. Okay, then.”

At which point they left, and I was thankful. Because I have a master’s degree in reading between the lines, and what ol’ Marv was really saying was, “I want to watch you touch my husband’s junk against his will.” And that is far above the realm of my pay grade.

Passing on the Left Pocket


Me: “… Yes. It is.”

Customer: [waving a navy blue hanky at me] “WHAT DOES THIS ONE MEAN?”

Me: “Navy blue stands for anal sex.”


Me: “Well, do you want to fuck or get fucked?”

Customer: “WHAT?![to the other customers in the shop] “DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE JUST SAID TO ME?!”

Me: “…”

Customer: “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU FUCKING SAID THAT! [squaring his shoulders and dropping his voice two octaves]Do YoU wAnT tO FuCk Or GeT fUcKeD?”

[He switches back to his normal speech and mannerisms.]


Me: “Okay… are you a top or a bottom?”

Customer: “THANK YOU.”

[Exeunt, with Divers Alarums and Excursions]

There were a couple of thoughts running through my head as he flounced away, but more than anything, I just really appreciated his impersonation of me. He made me so butch, you guys! Shade really is the sincerest form of flattery.

And speaking of Things Manly, I’m heading out to that men’s retreat this afternoon. My sponsor (who’s attended several of these things) has assured me that it’ll be a rewarding experience, but my love of horror movies is working against me, and choice scenes from Sleepaway Camp and Borderland keep flashing before my eyes.

If you don’t hear from me tomorrow or Sunday, I’m probably just out in the woods, communing with nature and having a good time. But if I haven’t posted by Monday night, either here or on Twitter, assume I’m about to be sacrificed to the Old Ones and contact the Texas Rangers immediately.

The Texas Ranger Division of the Department of Public Safety, that is. Not the baseball team.

Actually, send either. The baseball players will have blunt weapons and decent aim.

The Human Chandelier. It’s like the Human Centipede, except classier.

[A customer enters with a conservatively dressed, older woman. I quickly realize that she’s his mother, and that he’s brought her into the shop for the sole purpose of shocking and appalling her.]

Mother: [pointing at a pair of handcuffs] “Are those handcuffs? Real handcuffs?”

Customer: “Yes, they are.”

Mother: *gasp* “Like the police have?!”

Customer: [chuckling]

Mother: “You know, my friend Jeannette’s son is into swinging.”

Customer: [suddenly speechless]

Mother: “He and a friend get together and swing from the ceiling.”

Customer: “You mean… suspension?”

Mother: “Yes! Suspension. They ‘suspend’ from rings. He’s got tattoos all over, too. Including his face. I don’t know how he’ll ever get a job, but I’m not gonna judge him.”

I’m normally not real patient with tourists, but in this case, I hope he brings her back. Primarily because she seems like my kind of people, but also because I need her to tell Jeannette’s son that I’m totally willing to give him my Friday night shifts.

It’s Raining Cognomen (Hallelujah)

Customer: “What’s your name?”

Me: “Thumper.”

Customer: “Thumper?

Me: “Yeah. It’s a nickname.”

Customer: “Ooh, you’re a bunny rabbit! Can I call you Bunny?”

[Inner Me: Tell him you’d really prefer he not.]

Me: “I guess?”

[Inner Me: This is why we can’t have nice things.]

Customer: “I have a nickname, too.”

Me: “Oh? What is it?”

Customer: “Dirty Little Cum Whore.”

Me: “Wow. It… must be really hard for you to find novelty license plates in souvenir shops.”

Customer: “But my other nickname is Zinfindel. Want to know why?”

[Inner Me: Because he’s fermented?]

Me: [giggles uncontrollably]

Customer: “…?”

Me: “Um, why?”

Customer: “I’ve always wanted to be a redhead, so the first time I did drag, I decided to wear a red wig. Except I couldn’t find one, so I bought a cheap blonde wig and tried to dye it red. It came out the color of white zinfindel, so that’s what everyone calls me.”

Me: “Well, my other nickname is Marjorie. But it’s more of a middle nickname.”

Customer: “A… middle nickname?”


Customer: “Oh. Okay. Yes. That works.”

Coincidence about nicknames: I’m going on a New Warrior Training Adventure this weekend, where, among other things, I’ll be expected to adopt an animal name. I’m sure it’ll be fine and make sense in context, but at the moment, all I can think about is this white guy I met years ago at a Radical Faerie campout, who was like, “Hi! I’m Steve, but my Indian name is Running Tiger!” And I was like, “Hi, Steve! That’s a lot of wrong on a lot of levels!”

Here’s hoping the retreat won’t turn out to be a big gaggle of Steves. And that I don’t choke during the Naming Ceremony and introduce myself as Bunny. Any candles lit for either of the above will be greatly appreciated.

Holy Hand Grenade Not Included

Me: “So, to honor and memorialize the discovery of my thing…”

Everyone: “Please don’t say you bought another T-shirt.”

Me: “… I bought another T-shirt.”

Photo credit: Seth. (Click to embiggen.)

“Everyone: “Why would you do that?! You already own like 10,000 T-shirts.”

Me: “I’m sorry, what was that? I can’t quite hear you over the sound of how awesome this T-shirt is.”


T-shirt: “I’m feeling very attacked.”

Everyone: “…”

Me: [winning smile]

Everyone: “Why are you like this.”

Carlisle says I need to narrow my scope and only focus on the Killer Rabbit of Caernnabog, but I’m one step ahead of him and already have it covered:

Look at the bones!

Yeah, I don’t know why I’m like this, either. But it’s a lot more fun to be this way instead of any other way, so I’m going to keep hopping rolling with it.

Catch Us on the Rebound (or the Rebroadcast. Whichever.)

Noah and Scrappy joined us on this month’s Facets of Leather, and while topics ran the gamut (fetish vs. kink; safe calls and safe words; the time I thought the wax statue of Betty White at Madame Tussauds really was Betty White), we did hit upon two important theses that must be shared with the world:

From now until the end of eternity, the act of fisting should only be referred to as the Queen’s Wave.

Laura Branigan’s 1982 hit single “Gloria” is the shadiest song in the history of popular music. (Lyric video provided by our trusty Superfan).

We also talked about the upcoming Spirit of Leather Awards, because holy snackpacks, Marjorettes! Facets of Leather got nominated for Entertainer of the Year! Voting will be held at Tony’s Corner Pocket on January 18 from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m., so if you’re in the Houston area and want to support our show but don’t have the funds to make a donation to KPFT, checking our box on the ballot is a great way to do it.

Oh, and while you’re there, maybe vote for me for the Individual Award as well? If I win, I’ll thank every one of you by name in my acceptance speech.

Don’t Be a Richard

Customer: [bursting into the store] “We need to fit Richard for a harness.”

Me: “… Okay. Do you have a particular harness in mind?”

Customer: “Yes. Richard needs a bulldog harness.”

Me: “Great! Let me show you what we currently have.”

Customer: “Hmm. No, no, these won’t do. Richard needs a harness with silver buckles instead of these black ones.”

Me: “I’m afraid I don’t have any of those in stock right now, but I’m expecting a shipment within the next week or so.”

Customer: “Oh, good. Once you get the new harnesses in, just put one aside for Richard. Thanks!”

It took me a good 30 minutes to realize that Richard is one of the Ripcord bartenders, and that the customer wasn’t referring to himself in third person. Which? More than a little disappointing. It would’ve been awesome if he’d freaked out over the lack of harnesses and gone, “RICHARD SMASH,” then thrown a shelving unit through the wall.

Then again, had Richard smashed, Marjorie would’ve had to clean up the damn mess, like Marjorie always does. Marjorie would’ve been profoundly unamused by that. Marjorie would’ve smashed back.

Marjorie thinks Richard needs to check Richardself before Richard wrecks Richardself.

SOLVENTS. He meant solvents. Best visual pun ever, though.

[Another online conversation with my friend Mike.]

Mike: “If you don’t get this and fill it with poppers for the next birthday party you attend, it will be a crime.”

Me: “I’m going to take the tube out and replace it with a dildo.”

Mike: “That was my second choice. Or put a butt plug in it.”


Mike: “Live mice would also be entertaining.”

Me: “A gender reveal, but cockroaches.”

Mike: “Ewwwww.”

Me: “…”

Mike: “Yessss.”

In conclusion, please don’t invite Mike and me to any parties. Or, y’know, invite us to all the parties. Your funeral.

It is also probably best not to invite us to any funerals.

A Switch’s Strangled Air

Customer: [while browsing through our solvent selection] “Ooh, you have Maximum Impact!”

Me: “We do!”

Customer: “You should use it in a hot tub.”

Me: “Um… yeah, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Customer: “It’ll make you hallucinate.”

Me: “Definitely not good.”

Customer: “My friends and I have this inside joke, and every time I use Max Impact in a hot tub, I get the joke more and more.”

And now I can’t stop thinking about Bugs Bunny relaxing in Witch Hazel’s cauldron. Like, I get that it’s all warm and soothing to the bones, but eventually, bubbly death can’t help but become an inevitability.

Mainly, though, I just really, really regret not asking him what the inside joke was. I mean, c’mon, a gag whose punchline hits only through boiling oneself into a vision quest? There’s gotta be some quality revelation in there. And it’s a much less claustrophobic ordeal than, say, a witches’ cradle. Or a Transcendental Meditation seminar.

But oh, hey, guess what else was apparently an inside joke: Bunnicula. That has nothing whatsoever to do with the misuse of chemical inhalants, but it this author’s opinion that a boxed set of novels about a vampire bunny falls squarely into the horned rabbit camp.