Leather Ghost Stories
All Souls Day 2004
Robert Davolt
I have always found it surprising that as a subculture we don't have more tribal ghost stories. Considering the extraordinary losses we have suffered as a community over the past 20 years, one would think that one or two of our dear departed would have unfinished business. Considering the stubbornness and persistent egos of some of our loved ones, I shouldn't think a little thing like death would come between them and making their opinions known.
Could it be we just don't believe in ghosts? Some of us to seem to believe too easily in everything; while others have come by the hard way to believe pretty much in nothing. Maybe it's that we just like minor nonsense (like the idea of "masters" and "goddesses" or that there is only one way to wear your leather cap) rather than more substantial nonsense (like "goblins" or "ghosts" or "extraterrestrials" or the continued usefulness of some leather contests).
Or is it that we don't shock that easy? One would think that after surviving a few fire scenes, a couple piercing rituals, two Bush administrations and a couple renditions of "the Leather Anthem"-- seeing the dead walk among us would be hardly remarkable.
Or is it we don't know where to look? Vanilla ghosts seem to favor castles or houses. Since our leather culture has traditionally centered on bars and taverns as gathering spots for the living, it makes sense that spirits are drawn back to somewhere they know spirits are served. And of the few leather ghost stories I can relate with any familiarity, the setting is most likely to be one of the "haunts" I have spooked.
So, for this occasion, here are some of the leather ghost stories that I know of-- such as they are:
Rod's Bar- Madison, Wisconsin
There was a reason that Chicago gangsters during the 1920's headed north to Wisconsin: They could get a way with a lot more up there. In the 1980's, some of the leather guys from Chicago said the same of their occasional weekend trips to Rod's.
Madison has always been a pretty wild college town and the wildest place was Rod's, a leather bar in the basement of the Hotel Washington. The place had been a derelict railroad hotel until gay entrepreneur and leatherman Rodney Scheel renovated it with five bars and a cafe. The basement of the 1909 building had been a speakeasy during Prohibition and you could still see some of the secret bottle racks, lockers and hidden passageways. Those passageways were the "backstage" of the hotel, allowing employees to get from bar to bar and providing numerous nooks and crannies for quick sex.
They were also pretty creepy in the middle of the night after the bars closed. There was one corner near an old sealed entrance that no one would go near in the dark. Several employees reported seeing someone lying there, going over to roust whomever it was and then the body mysteriously disappears. Others claimed to feel a cold sensation when they stood at the spot (not being a Wisconsin native, I ALWAYS felt a cold sensation no matter where I stood). Still others claimed that these things would happen just before the power went out, which frequently happened in the old building.
Indeed-- sitting at the bar, the lights would frequently dim and flicker, supposedly in response to a virgin walking into the basement. When the Hotel Washington burned to the ground in 1996, the cause was traced to the 87-year-old wiring.
The Baltimore Eagle- Baltimore, Maryland
If there is a place in this country for ghosts, it is charming, historic, bawdy Baltimore. Home of Edgar Allen Poe.
Above the Baltimore Eagle is a suite of rooms that, according to legend, were once a busy brothel. The stories of ghosts at the Eagle usually tell of playful, benign spirits thought to be the former employees of the bordello. Some rooms were used for dressing rooms during shows and I had heard of drag queens getting subtle make-up tips from beyond and naked leather boys feeling the touch of a warm hand when no one else was in the room. It would follow that if prisons and grisly murder scenes bear the horror of past deeds, a whorehouse could retain the imprint of past whoopee. The girls of the Eagle, anyway, seem to see no reason that their present situation should stop them from continuing to show visitors a good time.
When visiting Baltimore, the folks at the Eagle were gracious enough to put me up in what was assumed to once proprietor's quarters. A winding, narrow stair came up from the bar and, at the end of a long corridor through a succession of glass-windowed doors, was the "Madame's Suite."
One night, after closing the bar at the end a very long, exhausting day of events, contests and activities, I excused myself from my hosts and began the long climb up to my room. I was the only one on the entire second floor. I would have a busy day in the morning, so I was planning and scheduling, rather than paying attention on the long dark trek.
It occurred to me that I had been so lost in thought, I hadn't noticed actually opening any of the doors on my way down the hall. I turned and looked down the corridor at the row of doors standing open as if held by invisible doormen (or ladies). As I watched, they all closed behind me at the same time.
Not knowing exactly what to do at that point, I bowed slightly, mumbled, "Thank you, ladies… and good night," and went to bed.
Daddy's Bar- San Francisco, California
Everyone who knew the late Daddy Philip Turner, founder and part owner of Daddy's on Castro, knew he was a very forceful personality. Not only was it HIS bar and things were done HIS way, but he also brought that supreme confidence to everything he did, including serving as San Francisco Leather Daddy XI.
I met first Philip because Daddy's was an advertiser in Drummer and he produced the Northern California Drummer Contest. We later became friends, part of the same group that shared holidays and birthdays together, but we could still disagree famously.
Three months after Philip died, I was selected San Francisco Leather Daddy XIX. A plaque naming all the past Leather Daddies hangs in the bar, along with a frame for a photograph of the current titleholder. My photo was placed in the frame.
Every morning, the plastic frame with my picture would mysteriously fall off the plaque and onto to the floor (with many jokes about me "ending up face-down on the barroom floor again"). No one had touched it. The frame was glued back in place and the same thing would happen again. This went on for some time. No one could figure out how this was happening except that it must be post-mortem disapproval from Philip.
Finally, it was discovered that the heating duct above the plaque had a leak. When the heat was turned on in the morning, a concentrated stream of hot air would melt the glue that held the frame on, sending me tumbling to the floor. Each time it was repaired, the same type of glue was used, which means the same thing happened again and again.
A small patch of duct tape later and the mystery was solved. [Shopping list for exorcists: holy water, cross, holy book (Bible, Torah, Koran or Leatherman's Handbook), plenty of towels, duct tape and patch kit.]
As for ghosts, it is said that "for those with faith, no evidence is necessary; and for those without faith, no evidence is sufficient." Since I'm more than a little suspicious of a sentiment that both the faithful and the skeptics can take comfort in, guess where that puts me.
