Black leather chaps. Boots up to *there*, or stiletto heels so high they make your voice echo. Corsets and Victorian lace. Studly uniforms and smart-billed leather caps. We've seen it all on the streets of San Francisco, and even more often in the leatherbars and private gatherings of the kinky cognoscenti. To some, these are the emblems of our pride, or a joyful public expression of our favorite fetishes. To others, they are something else entirely.

Ever been turned away at a bar because you weren't dressed right? Or been pressured to wear something that just isn't you and that you don't care for in the least? I'm not talking about your mother or your lover, honey, but other people whose business your wardrobe just shouldn't be.

If your kink is being forced to dress up like Little Orphan Annie and raped by a sadistic schoolmistress of either gender, more power to you - but if you aren't playing consensually, I think your friends should just stay out of your closet. If you're old enough to be reading this column, you're old enough to pick your own outfits.

I've heard the arguments that dress codes are for keeping out gawkers who aren't participating and who have just come to look at us freaks hitting each other. I can sympathize with that; it's no fun to be administering a tender spanking to a cute butch gal and hear a drunken hetboy onlooker roar, "Hit 'er harder! Lessee some titties!" Nothing spoils the mood of a scene faster, except maybe cramps.

Unfortunately, rare is the gawker who couldn't find some piece of dead cow to wear that would satisfy almost any leatherbar's entry requirements. And there are some lifestyle leatherpeople who don't wear the leathers.

Therein lies the crux of the problem as I see it. I'm one of those people for whom dressing up holds about as much attraction as a dental visit. Yes, I know people have fetishes about dental visits too. Maybe it's the cute white uniform. It's not that I'm not serious about leather - I own at least a small herd of Guernseys worth - but I would much rather flog with it than wear it.

And then there's the ubiquitous hanky dress code, where you wear an appropriately colored noserag in the appropriate pocket to publically advertise your sexual practices in minute detail. If the leatherbar equivalent of taking out a roadside billboard ad appeals to you, this may be a workable solution - but if you'd really rather get to know someone before admitting that you enjoy having a fist in your rectum while you lick sweaty armpits, the hanky thing may not be for you.

And yes, there really is a hanky code for armpits. If this is your kink, look for magenta noserags fluttering freely in the sweat-scented breeze. Lickers wear theirs on the right, and lickees on the left. Just be careful not to confuse magenta with mauve (that's for navels), purple (for piercings) or maroon (cutting)

But bar lighting is dim, not all hanky code lists agree with each other, and you begin to get the idea that flagging may be a poor substitute for actually talking to a potential partner. I figure if somebody wants to know my orientation, they can ask. Otherwise, they're out of luck - I'm not on the meat market for just anyone, and I'm not putting my heart on my sleeve, or my hanky in my pocket for that matter.

Besides, I'm a switch, and so far they haven't yet invented the hanky that crawls on its own from pocket to pocket. And I think I would rather wear pearls with corduroy than *two* hankies.

I hang out at play parties and leatherbars for my personal amusement and entertainment, not to be the entertainment. I pay my cover charge at the door like everyone else, and anyone who has the gall to tell me I have to pay at attend *and* dress up to be part of the entertainment has got another thought or two coming. In case you haven't figured it out, I don't like dress codes. Weird clothes make my teeth itch.

There are Good Things about dress codes. Don't get me wrong. Like any other tribal group of primates, it makes us feel stronger to see expressions of our unity reflected in the crowd. Anyone who disagrees with the notion that we are a tribal group of primates obviously hasn't seen the White Rat S&M morris team dancing to a drumming circle.

It can be an exhilarating feeling to stand on the street at Folsom Street Fair in your leathers, tall and proud, and see thousands of your brothers and sisters displaying their colors as well. This is my family, you say to yourself, as your heart swells with pride. This is my tribe. This is who we are.

But is it really who we are? As most of us who have been in extended BDSM relationships have already learned the hard way, the studliest leather daddy or the most fashionably corseted femme doesn't usually show up at your breakfast table looking like that the morning after. Unless you were really, REALLY good the night before. So who are we when we're at home?

I don't know about you, but I'm a real person. Hello, my name is T. Not Mistress, not slave, not Ma'am, not Sir. I'm glad to meet you, and I really don't mind if you see me in my sneakers. You see, this *is* my family, and no matter where I am in the leather community, I'm still at home.