The Journey To and Through International Mister Leather

I ended 2025 by speaking at the Red Undie Run, an annual community event that brings awareness to World AIDS Day and the work of the Aliveness Project, and lining up a partnership with Clare Housing, a Minneapolis-based organization that provides a continuum of affordable and supportive housing options that create healing communities and optimize the health of people living with HIV/AIDS. I did a photoshoot for holiday cards—both family-friendly and ones a bit more “cheeky”—and was looking forward to attending my first out-of-state leather event with the title and sash: Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend in DC, over the Martin Luther King Jr. Day holiday weekend.

And then January 7, 2026 happened. Suddenly, and in a major way, representing the Twin Cities carried something more.

In the days after that, I found myself watching Twin Cities Leather, the company that produces my title, turn their storefront in Uptown into a space where people were dropping off donations of all kinds and where communities were gathering to make plans on how to protect others and themselves. They stopped their regular business and focused their energies on these efforts in yet another showing of how the leather communities are there for people when they need them. This passion for care is what initially drew me into the community, and is a key part of the leather experience that is often overlooked by outsiders because they don’t see past the (very consensual) sex and kink parts of the community.

Leather can do it all. People should see it all.

It felt weird leaving Minnesota for that trip to DC, but I knew that representing Minnesota, with a sash that quite literally says “Twin Cities” across it, was important. I did it all in DC—I answered questions and I commiserated with folks about what was happening and our dread of what was to come. I also had a really good time. I laughed, made amazing friends and connections, and celebrated with other hopefuls for the IML title.

I made it back home and January continued. And February happened. I attended board meetings for Minnesota Leather Pride and continued to serve as president of Twin Cities Spectrum, a social club of individuals of color who share an interest in leather and kink, fostering fellowship and belonging. I produced fundraisers, including one for Clare Housing, that had a silent auction, mystery bags, drag performances, and live auction components. I threw myself into my communities and those communities supported me. I look back and genuinely see that my leaning in as opposed to pulling away was the way I was able to keep going through everything.

I found myself in the middle of nowhere in New Jersey in April, attending the festivities and watching the International Ms Leather and International Ms Bootblack competition, and again I found that the heart of leather is community. I made new connections and got to have frank and honest conversations that ranged from how we can get more cis men to support their non-cis male peers in their works to fun get-to-know-you to sexy get-to-know-you and everything in between.

And then, we entered May.
What was once months away was now weeks away.
I spent the week leading up to IML in the shop of Twin Cities Leather, which fortunately was able to keep their doors open and resume business. I would sit next to the brilliant pair of leatherworkers that are the heart and soul of the shop and watch them tailor leathers, build accessories, and even troubleshoot a pesky pair of chaps to give them a “competitive edge.” In those moments, I reminisced about how much I’ve grown in my own leather identity—how things that felt so out of reach now were tangible and people I looked up to I now got to call my good friends.

I got all of my things from them.
I packed all my suitcases.
I went to the airport.

I landed in Chicago to compete in International Mister Leather.

And I can’t wait to tell you what happened there.

Some days, it feels like I’m still catching up on sleep from that experience. Maybe it’s my body’s way of making sure I don’t let the memories slip, because I hope they never do.

From the moment I entered the Congress Hotel, the host hotel for the event, I saw friends who were fellow competitors for this year, and it was off to the races from there. Through orientations, I found that “competitors” was a word that was never used and replaced with the community-focused “brothers” and “brotherhood.”

It was and is exactly that.

We supported each other through the stress and tears. We practiced speeches with each other. We cracked jokes and found ourselves with intimate and intense bonds. It was a sweet, caring, horny, comforting, and joyous energy. From the moment it started, my heart panged knowing that this week with of all of us in the same space at the same time would end.

I’m also one of those people who loves competition.

Whether it is the fact that I’m a fire sign, an actor, or grew up watching too much Project Runway, I find myself exhilarated by competing, so one can imagine my shock at just how nervous I felt in the anticipation. The silly mind games commenced. I wanted to draw a low number for the competition with the thought of setting the bar high and then, in the random draw, I found myself as contestant number four. Which is what I wanted. So why, as I made my way to my spot to see the rest of my brothers draw their numbers, was I hearing my heart beat louder than the applause and amplified announcements? Well, I knew the answer and no matter how hard I tried to downplay it, the nerves and excitement and troubles sleeping were all connected to the same thing.

I wanted this.

I wanted to represent the Twin Cities and Minnesota, especially in the year 2026.

I wanted to do well at the very same competition I saw in person two years prior and, as I watched it, whispered, “Yeah. I bet I could do that.”

So, I threw my whole self into doing just that.

I prepped my “leather résumé” on notecards so I could remind myself of the amazing title year and overall leather journey I’ve been on. My hotel room was meticulously laid out so I knew where everything was—even though I misplaced a tie clip and came dangerously close to lighting the whole room on fire.

But IML was never only the competition.

I made so many new connections. Shared flirty looks. Learned about leather communities across the world. I held a friend’s hand as he shared personal struggles with me and gifted him one of my customized handkerchiefs so he knew he always could feel safe to cry around me. I found comfort in being able to talk to other Black people and ask them if they had “the right kind of lotion.”

And of course, like my Aries theater-kid self—I competed.

I woke up around 7:00 a.m. (to the disdain of my partner) to get ready for my 9:00 a.m. interview even though my commute was just four flights of stairs below us. I read over my notes and I stretched my body multiple times before I was called in, which is quite the challenge when you are in head-to-toe leather, and some of my favorite leathers at that. I was wearing the same look I won Mr. Twin Cities Leather in, but this time, with my title vest on. I wanted to start my IML journey with my win and show them my evolution.

The panel interview flowed like a conversation, and even I made the interviewers laugh when an ambulance drove by and I shouted, “I can be louder than you.” The time went by too quickly and when my brothers asked me how it went, the only thing I could remember was that I shouted over an ambulance. My brain had already started preparing me for the next stage of competition: Physique and Stage Presence.

This category has gone through different iterations in the past with fun names like Pecs and Personality or simply Jockstrap. The objective is simple—confidence on stage. Do you know your body and do you know it when it is being hit with the hottest lights known to man? This was the category I was the most excited for because the stage is my literal job. As I approach almost ten years as a writer and actor at the Brave New Workshop Comedy Theatre, engaging audiences is the way I pay my mortgage. I wanted to bring all that expertise full force. I dressed in a fantastic tan with black accents vest and chaps set with matching jockstrap—some of the softest leathers I’ve worn, handcrafted by Twin Cities Leather. As I took the stage for my section, the script was simple—introduce yourself and walk the stage as the announcer reads your bio. I went to the mic and let the audience know who I am, with confidence, and remembered one of the many reasons why I was excited to be contestant number four.

I was the first in my class to do a reveal.

As I walked the stage during my bio, I reached into the insides of my chaps and, with one defiant pull, loosened Velcro and magnets so that the audience could get the full view of the results of every leg day I put in at the gym. The crowd went wild, and as I made my way to the back of the stage, holding heavy leather chaps with one hand over my shoulder, I realized I could breathe a little easier. I’d finished my sections for the preliminary rounds of my IML journey.

Wait, all of that was for the preliminary round?

Yes. See, there were still two more rounds that would happen on the last full day of the weekend, but out of the sixty-eight hopefuls who were competing for it, only twenty would get to do those rounds. This Top Twenty mark is something that you can see on people’s Instagram bios or hear in judges’ announcements, and rightfully so—it’s a high mark to make, to be in roughly the top third of your class from the two initial rounds. And you find out if you made it live, in front of an audience. Right after that announcement, Top Twenty competes, and I truly do mean right after, in a category called “Leather Image,” which is essentially your perspective on leather at its strongest level. We wear our Leather Image on stage as a full group for the announcement. As we were changing, I pulled my look out and watched as my brothers absorbed the bold swing I took.

A full leather shirt and pant in fuchsia with bright blue suspenders and tie. Tall black boots, full black gloves, and a black belt completed the look, and on stage, in a sea of dark colors, I stood out. Definitely not an outfit for everyone, but choosing colors that read so beautifully on my dark skin, I felt absolutely incredible. It also doesn’t hurt that in group photos it is easy to spot me! We took to the stage as a full class and brotherhood for the final time and, one by one, names were announced as a part of Top Twenty. And in the middle of clapping furiously for my brothers as I was celebrating them, I heard my own name announced.

I made Top Twenty. I would be competing in the final three categories: Leather Image, another round of Physique and Stage Presence, and a ninety-second speech to the audience. Contestant order put me in the first group of speakers and second at the mic. This speech was one of the things I was most excited to have the chance to present to my communities—my love letter to the fighters and lovers that show up time and time again. My message to people who make me so proud to identify with leather.

My speech was as follows:

Joy is an act of resistance.

As a professional comedian, I get to see groups of people night after night laugh with each other and, in that laughter, let their shoulders down, breathe a little easier, and leave less wound up and able to be more in themselves.

Joy is healing. Joy is power.

Leather folk and kink folk know how to have a good time; we understand joy. We also know how to fight the good fight. That the fun and the fight not only go hand in hand, it is a symbiotic relationship that not only makes sure that we survive, but lays the groundwork for us to thrive. Through all the leather and rubber and hoods, it’s not hard to see our heart, and that love, devotion, and drive deserve to be taken care of.

We must rest. We must breathe in and out. We must nurture not only our communities but ourselves. We must laugh.

It is a truth and a call to hope that we get to enjoy the world we are fighting for, and I’m so grateful I get to enjoy it with all of you.

Thank you.

I am grateful for the applause that followed and am still receiving messages from people telling me they still think about my speech. That’s winning in its own right. However, there was the actual winning of the competition to determine.

After everyone finished their speeches and showed off their assets one last time, the Top Twenty returned to the stage to hear the results. They announced the person who would be giving the second runner-up (bronze) medal was J. Tebias Perry, which elated me. Perry is a Black leatherman who I look up to so much and has written books on his thoughts of leather mentorship and leadership. In the times I’ve gotten to chat with him, I felt kinship and community almost immediately, and I remember thinking how cool that someone got to get a medal from him.

And then they announced:

For second runner-up of International Mister Leather: Contestant number four—Mr. Twin Cities Leather—Denzel Belin.

And then I had to process that they did, in fact, say my name.

I had made podium at the biggest leather competition.
I was bringing back a medal to the Twin Cities.
I got to get a medal from J. Tebias Perry!

If there wasn’t footage of it, I wouldn’t believe it, but together, we hugged and then proceeded to jump up and down, becoming the literal embodiment of Black Boy Joy.

It’s one of my favorite memories ever.

Afterward, I got to cheer on more amazing leatherfolk, including Sgt. Alex on his silver and our current IML, Honey Davenport, on their win.

And then there were photos and parties and the next day more photos and more parties. And also a lot of hard goodbyes. People I knew I would see soon. People I knew it would be harder to see, like every amazing soul that came from Australia to compete. And eventually I found myself back in Minneapolis, looking at what the future brings.

And it is bright.

Leather did all of it this year. It fed people and housed people. It made rooms full of strangers laugh. It put me on a podium in Chicago. People should see all of it.

IML wasn’t the end point—it was the catalyst.

In November I’ll be the one holding the sash instead of the one it drops onto, and someone else’s impossible year will start the way mine did. And I can’t wait to see what’s next.