Let’s fucking get something straight: fetish fashion didn’t claw its way out of dirty basements, sleazy backrooms, and sweat-stained dancefloors just to end up as a Forever 21 aesthetic. Leather, latex, lace—these aren’t “fun fabrics.” They’re declarations. They’re middle fingers. They’re how we say, “I survived your bullshit, and now I look hot while doing it.”
Fetishwear has never been about just getting off. It’s about claiming space in a world that told us to disappear. It’s about identity, defiance, power, and pleasure. It’s political. It’s dangerous. And yeah, it’s sexy as hell.
This piece is part queer history lesson, part battle cry, and part personal love letter to the a community that walked me straight into my power.
From Biker Bars to Fuck You Fashion
The origins? Gritty as hell. Leather culture came roaring out of the post-WWII gay underground like a motorcycle without brakes. Soldiers came home from war and found new battles—in the bars, in the alleys, in each other’s arms. Leather jackets, tight pants, caps tilted just so—it wasn’t cosplay, it was code. Brotherhood. Family. Survival.
And it wasn’t for straight eyes or soft sensibilities. It was raw and real and full of unspoken rules. Leather was war paint. It said: “You don’t own me.” And, “Try me, motherfucker.”
When Lace Met Latex and the Scene Got Nasty
By the time the ’70s and ’80s hit, the floodgates had burst. Fetish fashion bled into everything—punk, disco, drag, glam, new wave. Latex and PVC took that slick, alien-like fuck-me shine to the clubs. Lace stopped being delicate and started being dangerous.
Designers? Oh, they were watching. Mugler, Westwood, Gaultier—they didn’t invent this shit, but they damn sure knew where to look: the dungeon, the drag ball, the queer underground.
Mainstream fashion didn’t evolve into fetishwear. It stole from it. Lifted it, bleached it, and repackaged it for the runway. But we’ve always known where it came from. Don’t get me fucking wrong, the early days of incorporating fetish lines into high fashion were fabulous. The looks were amazing and innovative, but clearly influenced by the sights you could find while lingering around Christopher Street late at night.
We remember who wore in those boots first. QUEERS!
My Red Boots and Rubber Awakening
Let’s get personal. I was seventeen—angry, queer, not yet brave enough to say it out loud—but I knew one thing: those red 1460 Doc Martens were calling me. They weren’t just shoes. They were armor. I put them on, and suddenly I wasn’t a scared little faggot in a strip mall—I was a goddamn storm in skin and steel.
People stared. Fuck them.
Later came rubber. That tight, hot, suffocating second skin that made me feel invisible. First time I wore a full latex look in public? Thought I’d pass out. Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t care. I was seen. I was feared. I was free. It sculpted me into someone powerful, perverse, untouchable.
Fetish in the Mainstream: Cool Now, Huh?
Now everyone’s playing dress-up. Pop stars wear harnesses like accessories. Latex is in music videos. Your straight coworker’s teen daughter is buying pleather corsets on Shein. And while that’s fine—whatever, and frankly we are always looking to open the doors to allow new babies into the fold—I can’t help but feel a little protective. Not gate keeping, but hoping articles like this one help to educate and hopefully make them understand that there is a point to all of this. That for many, myself included wearing this shit has real, deep, soulful meaning.
Because some of us wore this shit when it meant getting beat up. When it meant being disowned. When it meant choosing truth over safety. We built this look. We fought and fucked and freaked our way into these rights.
We’re Still Here—and We Look Feral
Fetishwear isn’t about shock value. It’s not for TikTok. It’s not a trend. It’s truth. It’s how we turn pain into power. How we say, “This is who I am, take it or get the fuck out of my way.” Every strap, every spike, every shine and sheen—it carries legacy.
So wear your leather. Wear your rubber. Lace up those boots and tighten those belts. But remember: you’re walking in the footsteps of warriors, of rebels, of kinky-ass queers who didn’t ask for permission and sure as hell didn’t need anyone’s fucking approval.
✳️ Side Note (but actually, it’s a big one):
When I went to source visuals for this post, I was looking for queer fetish folks of color. And I couldn’t find a damn thing. Public domain images? Nothing. High quality? Nope. It blows my mind as a pasty skinned ginger that there are so may images that look like me, but so few of my queer siblings of color.
This is a huge fucking problem.
Queer people of color exist. They’ve always been here. They built this scene. And yet they’re barely visible in the archives, the media, the search results, or the curated pride collections.
If our stories and images aren’t being told and shared, then we’re failing each other. Full stop.
We have to do better. That starts with amplification, documentation, and putting more color into the lens — literally.
