Written by: Drew Kramer
Photography: Chris Greene
Models: Vince Edd, John Simon, jv

In Drummer Magazine’s long history much ink has been spilled on the topic of Mastery and slavery…

Many depictions of Masters and slaves have appeared in our pages. Typically, these pieces have run along the lines of a handsome college wrestling coach, abducted, hauled off to a training facility, sold on the auction block to the highest bidder. Hot stuff to be sure.

Here we give you something different, a photo spread titled “Lazy Saturday,” simply showing three men “living their best lives.”

Although for these three men living their best lives means for two of them having steel collars locked around their necks and for one of them, giving orders and seeing them carried out.

Many of us—perhaps most of us—long for this life: to be the property of another man, for our pleasure to solely consist of giving him pleasure, or the converse, carrying the responsibility of owning another man as you would a 1959 Ford pickup truck, your pride and joy, aware of the envious eyes cast upon you as you ease it into a parking space, yours, all yours…

The Men Behind the Shoot

Vince

You may have seen Vince in a leather bar in Seattle, where he lives, or San Francisco, Chicago, Palm Springs, New York City, London, or Berlin. He would be the powerfully built Black man with the ruggedly handsome face smoking a cigar in his full BLUF leathers, imposing and iconic. Like all of us, Vince is just a guy–born in Kansas, went to university there. He works in the tech industry, enjoys travel, good food and long trips on his 2018 1900cc Harley-Davidson Glide. He loves a good story, quick to laugh. Seeing him in a bar, you wouldn’t suspect how warm and genuinely friendly he is.

When it comes to sex, he usually ends up on Top–mostly due to the majority of men who get up the courage to approach him address him as “Sir.” He’s good with that, but if the connection is there, it’s all about two men enjoying each other’s bodies. And if that means Vince gets fucked, he enjoys the hell out of that, too.

“Sir and boy” or “Daddy and boy” have defined several of Vince’s relationships. Vince likes role-play as Master and slave, though taking that on as a way of living life gives pause. For Vince, being a Master would mean shouldering the care of the body, mind, and spirit of another man absolutely. Such a grave undertaking is, in Vince’s thinking, a life’s work, calling upon a man to be more than most men will ever make of themselves.

Could he? Would he?

Absolutely. For the right man.

John

Living in a small town in rural Florida, sexual attraction to men was antithetical to John’s Christian faith. But there was always something about men in boots, whether encountering them as cowboys or construction workers, in the pages of magazines, on television, or in real life. He was drawn to and sought the company of those men, neither understanding nor questioning what that might be about. He ended up befriending some men in boots, buying the same like what they wore—14- and 20-hole laceups in black leather. These particular men thought of themselves as skinheads–white supremacist skinheads at that–signifying that identity with white laces. Eventually, John and his friends were identified as a violent domestic terrorist cell to the FBI and taken into custody, given up by someone they knew involved in drug trafficking as part of a plea deal.

Thirty days in solitary forced John to terms with being gay, his mistakes and to get sober.  But something wouldn’t allow John to glibly declare “the past is the past.” His association with racist skinheads was stupid, but also terribly wrong. So wrong that absolution shouldn’t be easy. The memory of that mistake was seared in his consciousness, tattooed on his skin. They could be removed or concealed but perhaps because of the Christianity that once meant so much and shaped his worldview, he feels that he has penance to pay—via those tattoos. He knows they make life more difficult. There are leathermen who will never accept him, unwilling to be in the same room. John respects that. When asks to leave the room he does so without complaint. The hard thing, he says, is the difficulty this brings to those close to him, to his Daddy, and even to the man who was his first boyfriend, the first man to whom he said “I love you” and who said to him “I love you,” and who was Black. This damage John does his best to mitigate.  

John’s desire to be close to men in boots led him into a band of stupid young men and that same desire leads John into the fraternity of leathermen. Many, upstanding men of honor, turn their backs to John–he accepts this. Some recognize we all come to leather in part flawed and do welcome him in their company. When those hands are extended, John clasps them not only with gratitude but with resolve to do his damndest to give them no reason to regret it.

jv

And then there is jv. The rubber gimp, the anonymous object. jv explains that this is who he is and so this is who he shall be in this profile. Should you see a gimp out in a bar in San Francisco or London or Barcelona or Antwerp, it might be jv or it might not be. It doesn’t matter. Gimps are gimps.

Special thanks to Bob Miller for letting us use his home, Paul Kowal and Training & Discipline Personal Training of Palm Springs, and The Barracks Bar in Cathedral City).