Blood, Smoke, and Sea Spray: My Journey as a Woman of Drummer
- Women of Drummer
- Sep 14
- 3 min read
I walked into Vanson Leather in Fall River, Massachusetts the Saturday after I won my title. Cradling my carefully wrapped patch in my arms, I stepped into their warehouse determined to find a vest worthy of it. An hour later and several hundred dollars poorer, I walked out with a deep V-cut vest with leather laces at the sides. When I tried it on in the shop, I felt powerful. Sexy. Badass. I felt like a Woman of Drummer.
I didn’t wear my vest again until my first regional in Atlanta. The vest, the patch, and everything they symbolized were too precious to trust to baggage claim, so I wore it on the plane. That’s when the fantasy cracked. The leather was stiff and unyielding. It rode up when I sat, pressing against my throat until I felt like I was choking. I took it off and tried to use it as a blanket, but it was too wide and rigid. It spilled into my seatmate’s space and into the aisle. The sexiness I’d felt in the shop dissolved into awkwardness and self-consciousness.
Wrestling with the vest mirrored the churn of my own thoughts. Was I really ready to host? Did I deserve this role? You had chosen me, trusted me, and yet my doubts felt like a betrayal of the WOD community itself. Still, I couldn’t shake them.
Then came the first bar meet-and-greet with WILA, Georgia FemDommes, and a crowded patio at the Atlanta Eagle. The moment I walked in, bathed in the red light of the bar, surrounded by fierce leatherwomen and friendly leathermen, the weight of my fear melted away. My vest was still stiff, still not yet molded to me—but now it carried the scent of cigar smoke, sweat, and perfume. It smelled of sex, power, strength, and community.
Each regional added to the vest. In Phoenix, it was dust and desert grit, clinging to me as I scrambled over rocky trails in high heels and inch-long nails, steady only because of the strong hands of Sarah and Nia. I had never felt more embodied in my Femme identity than in those moments. In Costa Rica, my vest tasted blood for the first time as I giggled with new friends, while the heavy, humid air softened the leather in a way that my wear never had. In Boise, it shielded my arms from the burn of crutches as I carried out my duties despite being injured.
Every trip, every connection changed me—and my leather changed with it. It was my second-to-last regional, in Alaska, where that truth settled deep in my bones. My luggage was lost, leaving me only with the clothes on my back, my toybag, and my vest. “Fuck it,” I thought, and off I went. I camped, hiked, and kayaked in that vest. I slept in it under the northern sky. It was covered in mud, seawater, and glacial runoff, keeping me warm and shielding me from thorns and stone.
From there, I rolled into Northern Exposure. The community was unlike any I had known at home, and yet this time—unlike Atlanta—I wasn’t plagued by doubt. I knew I was imperfect, that I would make mistakes, and I also knew I belonged.
Leather changes over time, molded by heat, weather, and wear. So do we. Being Woman of Drummer softened me, hardened me, and ultimately, held me. I found myself in a family I hadn’t even realized I was searching for.
By the end of that year, my vest finally fit—not just my body, but my life.
~Nicole, Woman of Drummer 2024
This hits a heart cord with me. I am currently deciding what vest I will wrap in, and what I desire for it to feel earned. Meeting you was like meeting my celebrity sister. That’s is a lot coming from a gal that spent 19 years in LA. I was beyond stoked that I was getting to meet a WOD. A group I had began following during my pandemic days in Seattle. What a privilege to meet you but the icing on the 🎂 🎂’s… having the privilege of photographing you. In the midst of your reign, I captured authenticity. Thank you for the privilege.