ALL CHARGES HAD BEEN DROPPED AND FORGOTTEN AND EVERYTHING WAS "BACK TO NORMAL" - BUT IT MIGHT NEVER BE AGAIN.

GARY COLLINS

"I enjoyed inflicting homosexuality on them," the man says calmly, without emotion.

He is talking about the thirty or more young boys he raped in a period of less than a year and a half.

"How did you go about raping them?" the interviewer asks.

"I would go out at night, after it was dark," he explains, still very calm and without feeling, "I'd look for hitchhikers on the freeway. They had to be young — under twenty — and straight looking. I preferred blondes. After they were in my van for a few minutes, I'd pull a gun on them. I'd drive to a rest stop or back road. There, I'd make them get in the back of the van. I kept handcuffs in the back and I'd welded a ring to the wall. I taped their eyes, took down their pants. Then I'd tell them I wasn't going to do anything to them but that someone wealthy had hired me to kidnap them. Then I'd get out of the van and after a few minutes I'd go back inside, like I was somebody else. I never talked to them while I did it."

"What did you make them do?" "Usually I'd have them suck me for a while but I always ended up performing sodomy on them. Mostly I just did it once to each boy. Sometimes twice. Once I picked up two boys and did it to both of them."

"Didn't any of them try to resist or didn't do exactly what I wanted - and I meant it. Also, I went through their wallets. I'd say to them, 'Now I know your name and where you live but you don't know me. If you turn me in, I'll come and get you.' It always worked, until the last time."

"How did you get caught?"

For the first time, the rapist laughs.

This man was never convicted of rape because, in this country, men can't be legally raped. The price he paid for emotionally and physically assaulting the thirty young boys? He is in a mental in- stitution being "re-habilitated." He was lucky that he never actually used his gun to maim or kill one of his young victims. He admits that while the boys were his prisoners he felt a sense of "power" and "ecstasy" which had very little to do with the sex act.

He is very average in appearance, looking very much like the middle-level executive he was at the time he committed his rampage of rape. Talking to him, it is obvious that he has had some college education. Except when describing the actual rapes, he uses good English and chooses his words carefully. It is very easy to imagine him as the man he was, a married man with two young sons and a house in the suburbs. But it is staggering to realize that here is someone who brutally victimized thirty youths all "under twenty."

The male rapist - men who rape men - is unknown to soceity. There is no report on him, no sociological or psychological profile. While volumes have been written about how and why men rape women, the male who rapes other males is America's - if not the world's - unknown criminal.

The gay male is a perfect target for this type of rapist.

It is two a.m., the bars are closing and Jeff doesn't have a trick for the night. He's had a few drinks more than he usually does but he's still feeling frustrated and "horny." It's not the kind of sex at the baths he's looking for but, hopefully, for someone to stay the night. On his way home, he passes a popular park for cruising. He parks his car and begins walking in the park. Jeff is young and attractive and has a smooth, hairless face. Soon a dark, virile man steps out from the trees. They begin talking. Jeff finds the man sexually exciting, partly because of the man's strong, masculine good looks. He invites the man to come home with him.

At Jeff's home, they go straight to the bedroom and begin undressing. Jeff is already aroused and looking forward to a long session. The man lays on top of him, his chest hairy and warm. They hardly speak. The man's lips move down Jeff's chest and Jeff closes his eyes. In the next instant, Jeff begins screaming. The stranger's teeth fasten on his testicles, biting into them and causing terrible pain. Jeff screams and yells, begging the man to stop, but the horrible, shooting pain goes on and on. Every time Jeff tries to push the man away or move, the teeth tear and bite even harder. The pain is overwhelming .

Perhaps for no more than a minute or two, Jeff passes out. When he awakes, he has been turned on his stomach and his arms are pinned down. Quickly and viciously, the man rapes Jeff without the use of lubricant. With searing pain still in his testicles, Jeff is now forced to endure even additional pain. For what seems an eternity to Jeff, the man batters him and

WOMEN GET RAPED BUT MEN COMMIT SODOMY BY LAW. NOT ONLY IS THE LAW AGAINST THE MALE VICTIM, HE CAN EXPECT NO SYMPATHY FROM THE POLICE. squeezes Jeff's wrists until he thinks they will break.

Finally, it is over. The stranger gets off the bed and begins dressing.

'Why did you do it?" Jeff gasps. "I thought you were enjoying it," the man says with sadistic simplicity.

In this case, it took the victim only a few days to get over the physical pain. The rapist had done no permanent damage to either his testicles or his rectum. The emotional pain, however, is with Jeff to this day four years later. He is just now beginning to trust the man who wants to become his lover.

On a quiet spring night, Robert R. was asleep in his apartment when the police broke down the door. The police ransacked his place looking for a supply of drugs that did not exist and then they took him off to jail.

It would be three days before the police realized they had made a mistake. But Robert R. would spend three days in jail and an event would happen that would alter his life forever.

During his second day in jail, Robert R. was raped. He was raped by six or more men at least twenty times.

It all began when a man came to his cell and said "I want you to do me." "You must be kidding," Robert re- plied nervously.

But the man was not kidding and he was not alone. Several hours later, Robert finally got to a phone. He was in shock, he was shaking, he was vomiting, he was in intense pain and he was crying.

Do you know what's going on in here? Do you know what they're doing to me?" he sobbed to his sister over the phone.

Four months later - after peculiar legal delays and many postponed hearings - Robert's lawyer informed him that all 'charges' had been dropped and for- gotten and that everything was 'back to normal.

But it wasn't back to normal for Robert and it might never be again. When his lawyer called him, Robert R. was aiready in a mental hospital. He had lost his job, his apartment and belongings had been destroyed on the night of his arrest, and most of his friends were alienated because they couldn't understand what had happened to him. His nerves were in a state of collapse. He had suffered from diarrhea for four months.

As a gay male, he was not a novice to anal intercourse but what had happened to him that day in the jail was not related to any kind of sexual experience he had ever had. Yet when he visited two psychologists appointed by The City, they had asked him: "Don't you think you asked for it? Don't you think you wanted it? As a homosexual, didn't you really enjoy what happened?"

Today, Robert R. has been judged totally disabled. He spends most nights alone in his apartment. His only desire in life is to be left alone. He finds having even with himself - almost impossible . He lives a hermit's life.

This is male rape. It's something we don't hear about or know about. There is practically no information available to either the public or to professionals in crime and psychology.

Why? Probably the main reason is that a male victim of rape has nowhere to go and — even more than a female — expects no help or understanding from police, lawyers, doctors, or counselors. Worse than being a pariah, he is the victim very few people believe exists. In no state does the law recognize that a man can be raped. It recognizes only that sodomy (whether voluntary or forced) is a crime. Women get raped. Men commit sodomy. By law, both partners in an act of sodomy are guilty of 'a crime against nature.'

Rape is ugly, but to a large number of people, so is homosexuality. The two together are not only unthinkable, they are unknowable. This inability to accept male rape explains why even trained criminologists and psychologists are ignorant and unsympathetic to the problem.

Male rape is as psychologically murderous and mutilating for its victims as it is for women. Besides educating the public about how positive and normal homosexuality can be, gays and straights also need to know and be aware of how disastrous and destructive male rape can be.

For the gay community, there is an additional factor. Male rape does not just occur in jail or wherever 'repressed homo-sexuals' commit their crimes. Male rape also occurs in parks known for gay cruising . Male rape also occurs in baths popular with gays. Male rape also occurs in apartments after pick-ups in certain types of gay bars. If you were the attendant or owner of a gay bath and a young man came to you and said he was just forcibly raped in your bath, what would you do? If that were true (and most bath owners would laugh at the idea), you might go so far as to send the young man to a doctor and try to help him out. More likely, you would do your best to hush the youth up, to keep the whole matter quiet.

Both the victim and the other people involved in a male rape have no place to go, no choices, no alternatives other than silence.

Last year in San Francisco, 24% of reported cases of rape were male victims. The minimum statistics of female rape would indicate that another ten times as many male rapes went unreported. The figure may be considerably higher.

In that same year, only one male went to jail for the crime of forced sodomy.

There are no other available facts and

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE EN-JOYING IT," THE MAN SAYS WITH SADISTIC SIMPLICITY

"THE RAPE" is by our featured artist REX, who is the subject of our article on page 62, including other examples of his extraordinary work. figures on male rape. It is the crime no- body really knows about.

The male who is raped, whether he is gay or straight, is in a situation com- pletely different from that of a female who is raped. To begin with, he has no where to go. For women there are rape crisis centers in most major cities, for men there are none. Not only is the law against him, he can expect no sympathy from the police. They would laugh at any male who came in to report he was raped. And if he is a gay male, their most likely response would be, "You're a queer, aren't you? You must have enjoyed it." (Unfortunately, this is an attitude that even many gay people would take.)

If a male victim didn't go to the police, could he turn to a psychiatrist or psychologist for help in dealing with his trauma? True, a great part of the psychi- atric profession has changed its attitudes towards homosexuality and no longer sees it as a sickness. On the other hand, very few psychologists or psychiatrists have had to deal with a male who has been raped. Their ignorance on the subject is as great as anyone else's and their response, where it has been recorded, is generally as lacking in sympathy and understanding as that of a policeman's

There are some notable exceptions. In San Francisco, the Center for Special Problems and Operation Concern have both had to face this problem and have learned how to cope and work with it. But, then, San Francisco isn't Boise, Idaho, is it? The further one moves into the hinterlands of America, the less and less likely it is that a raped male will ever report or admit to his having been raped.

The male who is raped will probably live with his shame and his emotional wounds in complete and agonizing silence. Even more than a woman, he will be afraid of anyone learning what has happened to him. There is always the risk, if he is a gay male, that it will be him that the law will turn upon. So he turns to no one, not even his family, and has no one who will help him at a time and in a crisis when someone else is most desperately needed.

Is it any surprise then that male rape is the most unknown and most unre- ported crime in America?

The only area in which some of the public does accept that male rape occurs is in the prison system. Many weaker and less aggressive male prisoners accept an "old man" as their protector while behind bars. In exchange for sex, they are assured that other men won't bother them. The prisoner who refuses this protection is more than likely to suffer a "gang bang." The story of the ef- feminate black inmate who was raped by seven men in one night and required sixteen stitches in his rectum is grue- some but not at all uncommon.

Last year, 55,000 women reported being raped. It is generally agreed that this is only one-tenth the actual rapes committed. There is no guess or estimate as to the number of male rapes that might

For the first time, an attempt is being made to study, to analyze and to combat this problem. The Queen's Bench Foun- dation in San Francisco has acquired funding for a project called Male Rape Studies. They have three main objectives : to gather information, to educate both the public and professional sectors and, most importantly, to change the laws.

MALE RAPE STUDIES was established to define and understand this problem . Its ultimate goals are to educate both gays and straights as to what male rape is, how it happens, what it means to both the victim and the rapist and to create means both to combat and to overcome its effects.

A human life was not made to be thrown away by the tragedy of a moment or a single experience. It was not made to be forever altered by the haphazard pain and tears of one instance in life.

Today, most rape laws apply only to women. If Male Rape Studies is suc- cessful, they hope to see rape laws changed so that no sex is specified.

If you have been a victim of rape, Male Rape Studies has prepared a confidential and anonymous questionnaire which can be obtained by writing MARS, 537 Jones St., Suite 400, San Francisco, Ca. 94102. Or you can call them during office hours, Monday through Friday, at (415) 982-9913.

The rapist didn't think much of you, why should you help him to keep on hiding?

The incidents and any names used in describing these rape cases are a composite of actual cases and the males involved in them.

SUBMISSIVE ACTOR / ATHLETE wanted to co-star in heavy action film. Must be handsome, young, and versatile. Send nude photo and resume immediately!

That was the ad I placed in all the Hollywood trade papers,

That was the ad I placed in all the Hollywood trade papers, as well as several of the underground rags. The response from hungry "actor / athletes" was overwhelming. Polaroids and credit sheets Jammed my post office box.

Af them. And what a diverse trio they comprised! of of them. And what a diverse trio they comprised! When Marc Ortega had arrived for his first interview, all I could think of was another Marc: Mark Spitz. The same black wavy hair, moustache and darkly flashing eyes, plus f firmed him as a future Marlboro man. His sun-bleached sandy hair was close-cropped, and his azure eyes crinkled sexily at the corners when he grinned. Evidence of a recent break gave character to his snub nose, and his chin was almost girlishly rounded. But the body below was granite-hard, proportioned in an almost exact duplication of Robert Conrad's. I especially dug the washboard-like hardness of his finely haired stomach muscles, his blunt circumcised cock, and the tough clench of his buttock cheeks, neatly honed from sitting who knows how many a horse.

Jim Lincoln was black, a 19-year-old professional body- builder who had already scored heavily in several "Mr. Teen- Age" contests, taking high honors for his arms and tapered, gleaming, ebony back. There was nothing wrong almost beyond belief, making a myth of the statement that "blacks are better hung is a myth." It was not cut and, even in its flaccid state, hung a third of the way down those powerful, long thighs. He wore his hair in a m

Turn to "try out."

Now I was mixing ready for Marc's arrival. By a stroke of Sood fortune, an independent film company on Gower was doing a re-make of The Black Swan, and I had been able to rent their dungeon set from m the lighting technicians would arrive to prepare for the day's shooting. Among the props available to me were a rack, a wheel and a brazier well-stocked with a variety of branding irons and pokers. There was also an ample supply of irons, cuffs, chains and whips.

I had just finished igniting the coals in the brazier when my attention was caught by the tentative clearing of a throat at the far end of the huge soundstage.

“Marc?” “Yessir.”

"Get your no-good ass over here and put on this fuckin" costume," I ordered.

He emerged slowly from the shadows into the glare of the overhead worklights. His glance somewhat apprehensively took in the realistic dungeon setting, the classic instruments of tor- ture, the flaming brazier.

"Here, sign this!" I commanded, handing him a release form that stated he was undergoing this try-out of his own free will, and relieving me of all liability for any injury that might be done him. His dark eyes searched my cold ones for a long moment before he took the pen and wrote his name at the bottom of the sheet. Giving it back, he stood before me, hands thrust into the hip pockets of his jeans, e with sweat.

"This is what you're goin' t' wear," I announced, indicating the box I had picked up that afternoon at Western Costume. "Get your shit into it fast. We don't have all fuckin' night!"

He opened the box and took out the 18th century outfit I had selected: swashbuckler boots, black tights and a white silk shirt, cut to the navel, with flowing collar and big sleeves secured at the wrist. "You can fuckin' well change into it behind the set while I finish gettin' ready," I told him, moving to test the chains on the rack. "And make sure you don't have anything on under those tights!"

In a matter of minutes he returned looking, now, more like the young Errol Flynn than Mark Spitz. A small patch of hair

MANNESPIELEN 2, the entirely new portfolio of erotic drawings by REX - now available . Sharp new format: thirty-two pages 8½" by 11" on heavy matt stock. Eight dollars in check or money order. This portfolio is intended for grown men; state that you are over twenty-one.

sprouted on the center of his chest, and his genitals were clearly outlined in the crotch of the latex tights, balls pulled to one side, cock to the other. Ready, at last, for anything, this hunky young stud waited, long-fingered hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. "On your back on the fuckin' rack," I barked. Taken by surprise, the handsome Latin scurried to do my bidding.

As he stretched himself out on the rope webbing that formed the bed of the rack, I stripped myself down to my boots and studded leather body harness. It always felt good to have my cock and balls hanging free through the crotch opening, the cheeks of my ass embracing that single strap, my sockless feet kissing the rough insides of those thick-soled engineer boots. Anticipation had caused me to become semierect , but I knew I would have to pace myself carefully over the erotic hours to come.

I turned back to the servile Marc, submissively prone on the medieval torture instrument. Throwing open the stocks at its base, I jerked his booted feet into the half-moon grooves, slammed the top down, and snapped a padlock through the hasp, permanently imprisoning the widespread legs. "Stretch your fuckin' arms over your shit-faced head as far as they'll go, you cunt-lipped spic!"

Power — and a perverse surge of sudden affection — lodged in my consciousness as he immediately obeyed. Quickly, I clapped his wrists into the iron cuffs attached to the chains running over the drum. Then I turned the handle until Marc's ripe young body was stretched rigid in the air, his face beaded with perspiration, diaphragm pumping, tights-enclosed genitals etched in high relief.

Nearly ready, it only remained for me to expose all the flesh of that rugged body to my pleasure. First, I ripped his shirt out of the snug waistband and pulled it up over his head so that it hung in shreds around his manacled wrists. Next, I went to his waist and passed my hands over his tensed belly muscles and under the top of his tights. Pausing a moment, I savored the tickly feel of his pubic hair brushing against my fingertips. Then, with a sudden jerk, I ripped the tights all the way down to the flared tops of his leather boots, leaving the remnants to droop there like the pennants of a defeated army.

I surveyed the nakedly immobilized young athlete with a huge swelling of expectation. Sweat ran from the curly black hairs of his armpits, a vein throbbed in his throat, the small nest of hair between his erect nipples glistened, and his lengthening cock was suspended in the air a couple of inches over a steadily diminishing scrotum. I ran my hands over the tenseness of his thighs, along the sides of his flanks, and up over his chest to the bulging biceps. His resiliant flesh quivered beneath my touch.

"Please, sir. Please start to work on me," he rasped. "Any limits?"

There was silence in the soundstage for several moments, then my obedient slave whispered "No, sir. No limits. My body is yours, for anything you want to do with it." His eyes met mine with a direct gaze of utter trust, and not a little love.

I had to mask the warmth I felt filling my own eyes.

Without warning, I detached the thong that ran between my buttocks and straddled the narrow machine, facing the length of the boy's vulnerable body, my bare ass at his head. Sitting down on his face, I grabbed his nipples between my fingers. "You're gonna eat out that shit-hole, spic, but start real slow with your fuckin' tongue around the edges, before y' stick it up there as far as y' can go!" I punctuated my command with wrenching pinches to his nipples.

I felt the rimming begin, Marc's moist tongue licking the perimeter of my asshole, and continued kneading his nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, squeezing them together as hard as I could, pulling ruthlessly. The smooth tongue at my receptive rear increased the tempo of its activity, urging itself further and further into my body. As my cock stiffened in fervent response, I noted that Marc's, too, continued its ascent toward the cavernous ceiling, twitching directly in answer to my pressure on his tits. I now sawed my long fingernails over their very tips, and heard a throaty moan of passion ululate in the throat between my thighs.

My attention shifted to Marc's cock before me, climbing ever upward, head now totally exposed, and I leaned forward to grasp it with one hand. With the other I snared his egg-sized balls from their resting place close to his crotch, and tugged on them energetically. His tongue igniting my loins, I pumped feverishly at his pulsating penis and clutched his testicles viciously, triumphantly aware of the increasing intensity of his hoarse moans, now a constant accompaniment to my activities.

By this time the slippery tongue pushing deeply in and out of my rear had me literally squirming with delight, and my manipulations of his man-size throbbing cock were increasing proportionately. It took all my will power to bring this first phase of the session to a halt, but I was still only beginning to try out my first proposed co-star, so I pulled away from him reluctantly, in order to get on with "phase two," and re- fastened my butt strap.

I released Marc Ortega grom the rack and led him docily across the set to the enormous wheel on the other side of the dungeon. This wheel, measuring close to eight feet in diameter, was mounted in a framework bolted solidly to the floor. Chains and adjustable cuffs were placed at regular intervals around its rim. I backed my slave up to the torture device and made him kneel down so that I could dhain his waist tightly to it. Then I forced his shoulders back over the circumference, my cock touching his lips, and secured another chain around his neck. Pressing more closely against him, I stretched his arms straight above his head and made his wrists fast. Portions of the silk shirt still hung from them.

Finally I turned the wheel so that he was lifted off his knees, and his feet hung helplessly above the floor. I ran a length of chain around his thighs and ended by pulling off his boots and clamping his bare ankles into conveniently placed restraints. Now his cock was at my mouth level, but I roughly slapped its semi-tumescence to the side.

To get accustomed to the mechanics of the thing, I gave the crank at the side a turn and watched the wheel with its human burden slowly revolve. He was turning in the direction of his arms and head, and in half a revolution his feet were up, and the rest of his body curved down toward the floor. While completing the first full turn, and as his body passed underneath , I saw with satisfaction that his cock dragged along the abrasive concrete floor. When he had returned to an "upright" position, I stopped the wheel and locked it in place. "O.K., creep," I growled, "Y' had a fuckin' mild little warm-up. Y' ready now for the real thing, piss-face?" "Y-y-yessir." His voice was partially strained by the chai across his throat, but even if he could not have spoken at all I would have known by the adoring look in his eyes and the lifting of his cock that he was in my power in more ways than one. I decided to put his trust to a final test, and snatched a hood from the table. In a trice his entire head was encased in leather, broken only by two small nostril holes and a larger one, about cock-size, for his mouth. Briefly I wondered what it must be like to be in total darkness, naked and trussed, not knowing what to expect next,

Thrusting the thought aside, I fashioned a noose from a leather thong and tied it tightly to the base of his scrotum. One by one I started hanging links of heavy iron chain from the thong, closely observing the increasingly taut stretch of the delicate membrane from which they depended. Deep behind the hooded face were guttural groans, emitted erratically, crescendoing in effort. Soon, the weights had stretched Marc's sac down to such a degree that his fully erect cock no longer pointed upward toward his navel, but, rather, straight out at a right angle to his body. I put aside the desire to ease that tangalizing tip with my tongue.

My next actual move was to the brazier, where I selected a poker, its stubby nose redly aglow. Then back to my panting masochist, where I laid the sizzling instrument to the leather just beneath his hood's nose holes, its flesh-like searing giving his nostrils an olfactory sense of what was to come. He jerked his head violently, s sharp intake of breath keening like the rasp of a saw on steel. Just that one unearthly sound, followed by the now-familiar rhythm of harsh and labored breathing.

I moved in closer to him, my legs on each side of the wheel, my groin forcing his cock upward again, against the tug of weights from his balls, locking it tightly between our two bodies. Gradually I brought the poker closer and closer to his muscular chest, until it lightly grazed that centered hairy patch. The acrid smell of singed hair filled the small space be- tween us. I ground my crotch into his, setting the chain links swinging, and his head moved agitatedly from side to side, the only part of his entire body he could move at all. He licked his lips frantically, as if to cool the heat on his chest, but not

a word did he utter.

Having completely singed that curly circle of hair, I turned to his right nipple, first pinching it into erectness, then bringing the red-hot end of the poker to within an eighth of an inch of that tender target. His chest gave a tormented heave and he gulped convulsively several times, larynx grating against the constraining chain. I went quickly for the other tit, again not quite making actual contact, and reveled in the helpless writhing of the tortured form pressed so close to my own near-naked body. Each time he tried to move away, he caused the weights from his balls to swing again.

He must have wanted the role badly, to endure so much pain. pulled away from him to get a fresh poker, and noted with grim glee that the pointed steel studs on my body harness had imprinted their pattern deep into the flesh of my victim. Almost as a caress, I ran my fingers over those symbolic in- dentations, part of the essential me, now, at least temporarily, also a part of him. My protrusions his intrusions. Vin and yang. And I could mate those marks wh

At least for the next couple of hours. And after …

With the new poker I went to work on Marc's sensitive stomach area. Using the poker as my plume, I described a thanatopsis on my slave's abdomen, holding my stylus a fraction of an inch over the quivering skin, tracing centrifugally in ever-widening waves from his navel, leaving angry red paths without really burning the flesh. Eventually, the spiraling reached down into his pubic area, and once again the singular smell of burning hair hung in the air. But just below, the powerful promise of his jutting cock remained unchanged.

A final yank on the weighty chains from his balls, and I put the poker away, preparing to take my place again at the crank that turned the wheel. First, however, I lit a series of fat little candles and placed them randomly on the floor beneath the machine. Behind the hood, Marc, of course, knew nothing of what I was up to, so when I put the wheel into a slow revolve around its axis, he couldn't imagine the several surprises in store.

The first of these came just after his body reached the apex and started its descent, when the weights attached to his balls abruptly flipped over to his front, causing a sudden pull to the tender sac and the first full-throated scream of the session. Inexorably, I continued turning the crank until, arms and head first, he began passing over the candle flames. Each one was less than an inch from his body, and when his mid-section passed through, his cock and balls, dragging the weights, knocked down two of them as they plowed along the floor and into the tiny fires.

I reversed the motion of the wheel, so that he passed now feet first over the flames and up the other side. When the weights were free of the floor and held totally suspended by his testicles, his chest was at floor level. Quietly, I locked the wheel in that position in order to replace the burning candles, carefully aiming two of them directly at his tits. From his throat came a constant moan, and I was tempted to remove the hood in order to see if that earlier adoring look was still

For some time I maintained my manipulations of the wheel, switching from clockwise to counterclockwise, stopping at whim with his body in a variety of locations. Not once did his erection relax, however, and at the zenith of the wheel's progress it proudly stood straight up toward the distant ceiling . Several times, when I stopped him with his head at my crotch level, I was tempted to thrust my own still-stiff member into that mouth-hole of his hood. I did not yield to this temp- tation only because of the plans I had for "phase three" of

March's try-out.

After releasing him from the wheel and removing the hood, I was ready to get set for the climax of the evening. To this end, I kicked him back to the rack, stretching him on it, this time face down. The length of his naked back, pulled tight and spread-eagled, was exciting to behold. Muscular arms flowed into broad shoulders which in turn t disappeared at the point of that nipped-in waist, then reappeared as the deep crease between the two matched mounds of his ass. Long white thighs led down to the big-blackly haired calves. His genitals hung down through the rope webbing.

My breath quickened as I selected a long, belt-like whip, two inches wide and a quarter-of-an-inch thick, pierced at intervals with triangular holes. I cracked it experimentally in the air, and Marc's head snapped up. With a sound that was a cross between a sob and a sigh, he let it fall again to the rough ropes. A muscle spasm palpitated at the base of his right buttock. He clenched his cheeks several times, rapidly, but the twitch just beneath his skin continued involuntarily. I decided to use that area as the target of my first lick.

Dropping the lash behind my back, I brought it whistling through the air with all my strength. It planted itself forcefully at the exact spot I had determined. The cheeks of his ass flattened out under the force of the blow, and the breath expelled itself from his lungs with a grunt. The lash left a glowing pink mark on the firm white flesh, a glowing pink mark with regularly-spaced white triangles. Again and again I brought the strap down on the stretched and shackled naked boy, first working down the thighs and calves, then up from the base of the cheeks to the apex of those wide shoulders, paralleling the flesh with deep crimson welts.

At each blow, my youthful subject made that same curious sound, the sudden exhalation of breath mingled with a whimper that contained a kernel of capitulating ecstasy Further, I could see beneath the rack that he had hardened again, his cock springing upward with every blow. The firm buttocks were no longer tensed together, but loosely beckoned a silent invitation, pledging pleasure and release in return for punishment and humiliation. It was an invitation I planned on accepting at once. greased my cock, threw one leg over his body, and eased myself down onto the waiting, pliant thighs. The marks of the whipping separated as I parted the cheeks of his ass and applied grease to the slender slit secreted there. Then, without warning, I shoved my middle finger as far as it would go into that unprotesting aperture and wriggled it around in the slick tightness. Marc gasped momentarily before responding to my invasion with a subtle circular movement of his hips. Encouraging his passionate undulations, I slid two more fingers into him, rubbing the grease on the walls of his orifice as deeply as I could.

Ready now literally to climax the session, I placed the head of my nine-incher against his ready receptacle. In one motion I slammed it all the way home and fell prostrate on his back, reaching under his chest to grab his tits and twist them unmercifully . I lay motionless a few moments, absorbing the warmth of his tingling back into my chest, then slowly lifted my hips until my cock had withdrawn to its throbbing tip. My next thrust was as slow and gradual as I could make it, in order to prolong the euphoric entrapment of my stiffened rod with- in that closely constricted chamber.

Once fully engorged, I began slow rotating of my own hips, a maneuver Marc matched. We lay locked together, our sweat mingling, breaths gulping heavily in consort. The total helplessness of the body I was violating, ankles locked in stocks, arms pulled to the breaking point, flesh still bearing the marks of its recent lashing, the clutching sphincter - all these heightened the awareness of my hypersensitive nerve ends. It took all the will at my command to postpone my inevitable eruption.

I groped fitfully at his tits, bit ravenously at the back of his neck, sucked greedily on his ears and nibbled at their lobes. Within the limits of his confinement he pressed up to me, voicelessly urging my utter domination of his subjugated body. Soon, our two movements assumed a concerted rhythm as my in-and-out pumping increased in fury. He met my every plunge, relaxing as I entered, tightening as I withdrew. Faster and yet faster our bodies met and meshed until, with a carnal cry of exultation, I crashed into him a final time, my juice flooding his depths in joyous spurts.

Crushing him to me, I clung to his spread-eagled form until my breathing returned to normal, in a curious way as much his prisoner as he was mine. Then I pulled limply from him and went to the head of the rack, offering my cock to his mouth for a final clean-up before releasing him from his bondage. As he arose painfully, awaiting my permission to get dressed and leave, I noticed splashes of his own cum on the floor under the rack. He raised his head slowly and his eyes yearned into mine

"Please, Sir, do you think I'll get the part?" he asked.

Let me get straight to the point and predict flat out that the Chartoff-Winkler production of Rocky will definitely win an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay (Sylvester Stallone), probably cop the Best Actor (Stallone, again) and Best Director (John C. Avildsen) Oscars, and may just possibly ice the cake as Best Picture of the Year - to say nothing of some additional "possibles" for editing and score. In other words, it is a 1976 On the Waterfront, a reference that is not accidental. In both theme and execution, Rocky commands comparison with the 1954 Brando film, tempered with the sentimental humors of Marty.

Quasi-artists are often cautioned "if you're going to copy, copy the best," and Stallone has craftily applied this admonition. From the sure-fire, if sim- plistic, story line of "virtue rewarded" to the gritty location photography (Phila-delphia exteriors guaranteed to give members of that cold city's Chamber of Commerce apoplexy), Rocky literally rings with remembrances of pleasures past. No review of this United Artists release would be complete without a brief precis of its genesis, which is, in essence as well as fact, the saga of its progenitor, "Sly" Stallone.

You may recall him as Henry Winkler's and Perry King's none-too-bright co-star in The Lords of Flatbush, a low-budget flick that enjoyed a modest success a couple of years ago. There followed brief appearances in Cannonball, Death Race 2000, No Place to Hide, Farewell, My Lovely and a few equally non-memorable television bits. Through it all, he was busily at work fashioning Rocky as a worthy vehicle for himself, a not-unfamiliar exercise indulged in by countless frustrated, self-stroking actors.

But Stallone had balls as well as a near-arrogant faith in his ability and his property. As a matter of fact, when one major studio offered him $300,000 for the script, to showcase one of its own "stars," he rejected the small fortune "stars," he rejected the small fortune even though he was existing on "Twinkies and warm water" at the time. Ultimately, Chartoff-Winkler, by way of material- scouter Gene Kirkwood, decided to take the total package as presented - at a lesser sum for performer and screenplay together than had been previously quoted for the script alone. The rest, as they say, is history.

Fresh from Cry Uncle, Joe and Save the Tiger, director Avildsen was hired, perhaps as much for his reputed ability to keep a lid on the budget as for his less-touted directorial expertise. After all, the producers determined on a budget of only $1.3 million, with a precedent- breaking personal guarantee for completion money.

Once in the can, Rocky was unreeled to meticulously selected media people in a series of artfully constructed screenings, and the captive Hollywood grapevine obediently did its predictable job. Word was "leaked" that this movie was some- thing quite special, and one kind of prerelease publicity overkill resulted. A rave review from Gene Shalit brought Stallone to the prestigious Today show for an interview which abruptly concluded with a boxing match: "Wanna fight?" was his in-character query.

All part of the image, kids, for to play his role as a third-rate club fighter, Stallone had gone into a "grueling" pre-production physical training regimen of from five to 12 months, depending on whose publicity blurb you read. The body that resulted is more, shall we say, sturdy than sexy, albeit admirably suited to the role, not unlike that of the younger Rocky (sic) Marciano.)

Which brings us inexorably to the finished product itself, focusing on our slowwitted but sensitive protagonist (Rocky, proclaimed the "Italian Stallion" on the back of the robe he wears into the ring), who has been netting forty-two bucks for an occasional club fight and supplementing this with whatever he can make as the rather ineffective "muscle"

for a flamboyant loan shark (an on-the-nose characterization by Joe Spinell).

Through a fluke - one that requires from the audience an overtly willing suspension of disbelief — Rocky gets a shot at the heavyweight title held by a Mu- hammad Ali carbon copy, here named Apollo Creed and played with extraordinary verisimilitude by Carl Weathers.

Paralleling the build-up to a poetically choreographed climactic fight (17 pages of descriptive script all pre-visualized by Stallone) which goes the full 15 rounds with nary a moment of boredom, is an ingenuous love story, pairing Rocky with a Galatea-accented pet shop clerk nicely delineated by Talia Shire. The stamp of "classic" has already been put on the scene of their first date at an ice-skating rink poignantly emptied because of its being Thanksgiving night (and also, one might add, because the film's budget fortuitously prohibited hiring a lot of extras)

Stallone's performance, in a role handily tailored to his own particular talents, attitudes and presence, if lacking the visceral impact of Ur-Brando, successfully enlists all the audience sympathy and empathy necessary to make the entire enterprise work. Casting throughout the film, in point of fact, is a blazing refutation of the traditional Hollywood reliance on "stars." (Weakest link among the cast, significantly enough, is the one "name" — Burgess Meredith acting the part of Mickey, a lemony gym

The ending, which I have been pledged not to reveal, is simultaneously upbeat, surprising, logical and emotionally right. Professional craftsmanship, evidenced in virtually every aspect of every frame, has sucked us in over a two-hour (minus one minute) period to such a degree that we embrace the resolution as if we had had

And, come to think of it, perhaps we do. If, that is, we have managed against all odds - as does Rocky - to maintain some small vestige of human sensibility.

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BOOKS

BEAUTIFUL MEN by Crawford Barton. Liberation Publications, Inc., One Peninsula Place, Building 1730, Suite 225, San Mateo, California 94402. Very hard- bound, unpaginated, $15.00.

Full-bearded and long-haired, photographer Crawford Barton, given the evidence of his new photo book, Beautiful Men, seems to have a natural pen- chant for leather types. Of approximately 50 models on display, close to one- third can be identified, by props or presence, as active participants in our scene. They, and they alone, provide what little pecker-raising power this overproduced pictorial has to offer.

Let us, as God reportedly said, start at the beginning. In this case it is the volume's cover, a 9 x 12 slice of silvered stock featuring the action profile of a cowboy-hatted and -vested Jan-Michael Vincent image. Beneath the photo, appropriately , appears that promising legend, "Beautiful Men." Not a bad beginning. But in this case, alas, in the beginning is the end. There is no further appearance, nor mention, in any form, of that aging cover boy (Jan could, and should, sue).

Beauty, granted, is in the eye of the beholder. Still, mass media have been responsible for establishing in our century some minimal but generally accepted basic standards. Few of these are revealed among the majority of males selected by shutterbug Crawford for inclusion in this showpiece. His pretentious Foreward intones that "These are portraits which capture a bit of the real character of each person: portraits of the conscious self, shot in a moment of intense awareness of the camera; or else of the sub-conscious self, indifferent to the camera." Bullshit.

On view, rather, is the self-conscious artistry of the photographer, not the artlessness of the subjects.

Nor should you be conned into thinking this is a Dean-like book of nudes. Cocks can be seen - oftentimes coyly dimmed and shadowed - on only 22 of the 96 unnumbered pages. And even fewer bare asses. Which would all be well and good if the models, clothed or not, came a mite closer to fulfilling the promise of that "Beautiful Men" title. Hell, most of us would salivate over a decent picture of Jan-Michael in a parka.

In the tradition of these voyeuristic tomes, there is no text. Models are unidentified , with the exception of a back page of "Acknowledgements" listing, alphabetically, one female and 49 male names. Among them, curiously, is "David Goodstein." Or, perhaps, not so curiously, considering that Liberation Publications , Inc., is homebased cheek by jowl in San Mateo with Goodstein's closety Advocate

This much must be said: quite a wild variety of youths (estimate of top age - 37) are represented. There are willowy young things just a hairpin this side of androgony, balding gurus, incipient front runners replete with "Charlotte Physical Ed" gym shorts, one uncomfortable- looking not-too-black, a blondined what- do-you-say-to-a-naked-French-horn-player, and a couple of excessively athletic tree swingers.

To end at the beginning, one Dennis Forbes deserves a modified moue for his "Edited and Designed" byline. To his credit, the overall look of Beautiful Men suffers less from schizophrenia than does the subject matter.

- Ed Franklin

the great escape

TO GUINESS BOOK OF RECORDS MIDDLESEX, ENGLAND

On Friday, December 17, 1976, at 3:00 PM, Hollywood Escape Artist, Bernie Orlando did hereby escape out of one regulation straight jacket and seventeen feet of beavy chain secured with a standard pathock. This escape was performed in full view of the news media of Los Angeles, Celifornia, at the Les Palmas Theatre, 1642 Las Pelmas, Hollywood, Celifornia.

The straight sodies on Hollywood, Collifornia

Bernie Origina by Michael Range of Hellyward Culffandia of THE HERALD EXAMINER.

Boulevard, Los Angeles, California.

Last December 17, at 3:00 P.M., on the stage of Hollywood's Las Palmas Theatre, "Master Escape Artist" Bernie Orlando, an unabashed gay, made his bid for acceptance into the Guinness Book of World Records by freeing himself from a regulation straight jacket in less than the then-existing record of 60 seconds.

His scenario was meticulously organ- ized. A representative of the Citizens Watch Company was on hand as official timer. Media observers included the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, ABC-TV, CBS- TV, local Channel 8, Drummer, and others. The prestigious Magic Castle had members among those present. Everything possible was done to assure the honesty and legitimacy of the record-breaking attempt.

Right on cue, Orlando stepped into the spotlight in a yellow jumpsuit, a 5'9", 137-lb. figure with a hugely winning smile. He brought with him a standard straight jacket, 17 feet of heavy chain, and a padlock. After exchanging a few campy quips with the audience, he pro- ceded with the business at hand. Two strong men, both of whom later signed affidavits that they had never met him before nor had pre-rehearsed with him, strapped the youthful-looking 35-year-old tightly into the jacket, wrapped the chain around him, and snapped closed the padlock.

The timer signaled for the historical attempt to begin. Then, in full view of the media-filled audience, hazel eyes flashing intensely, Orlando began his har-

Official time of Mr. Orlando's escape was WITHEOUTH of the press and delebrities present Rice Dover (Compass) Caroll ARC ABC. TV Kun CBS-TV #2 James Steinhaver ontertainer in major rowing task. Almost immediately the chains - a showmanly bonus at best - fell to his feet. The seconds ticked by. Sweating and straining, the struggling figure eased one arm free of the restraining canvas. The other was duck's soup. Standing free, he glanced questioningly at record by far.

Suddenly, the carefully-prepared scenario was shattered. Onto the stage from the audience strode the Magic Castle's Steve Baker, self-annointed "Mr. Escape," claiming that the whole thing was a fraud and challenging Bernie Orlando to get out of the straight jacket and chains that he, the big butch Baker, just happened to have with him.

Thinking quickly, our gay hero made a counter proposal. He would eagerly accept the challenge, but only on a com- petitive basis: would Baker also agree to attempt a timed escape from Orlando's jacket and chains? With audience "encouragement," there was no alternative. The media were delighted. What had seemed to be, at best, an historical footnote , had now taken on all the trappings of classic drama. Resonances of the heyday of Gorgeous George quivered in the air.

The confrontation began. Orlando submitted himself first, and doffed the alien restraints as if they were just another sequined jumpsuit. Next, the showdown. Steve Baker, representing wholesome

straight society, found himself confined in the straight jacket and chain that had taken happy homosexual Bernie Orlando only 17 seconds to remove.

Beginning his efforts, the challenger huffed and puffed. Under the watchful eyes of the audience, all his pulling and tugging was to no avail. He careened around the stage in his futile efforts, bouncing against the back wall, surreptitiously searching for a protruding hook or nail he might use to get a purchase on those nettlesome chains. Close to half an hour elapsed before he was forced to concede and allow Bernie himself to release him.

Later, Bernie, who at one time would actually invite straight audiences to "come tie-up the sissy," admits the enormous satisfaction he derived from the experience at the Las Palmas. "I love to put down the show-offs and big butch macho types," he said in a recent interview. As for Steve "Mr. Escape" Baker, he hasn't been seen at the Magic Castle lately, but Bernie Orlando has been awarded a coveted honorary membership (saying himself a substantial entrance fee).

Bernie Orlando - his real name, incidentally - was born at St. Paul, Minn., in 1942. A placid childhood was brought to sudden life and purpose when he saw the Tony Curtis movie, "Houdini," at the impressionable age of eleven. From that time forward, he had but a single goal in mind, to become an escape artist. (He is quick now to point out that Houdini was more an "illusionist" than escape artist, relying on "rigged" equipment and per- forming his spectacular "escapes" out of sight of the audience, behind screens or curtains or walls. Even though stripped and searched, Houdini would have keys or pick wires "up his ass or in his hair," Bernie asserts.)

Once his decision was fixed, our future "Master Escape Artist" went very scientifically about preparing for his career. Remembering from a Chemistry lab experiment that after being soaked in vinegar a raw egg could be pushed through the narrow neck of a bottle without damaging its shell, he drew a parallel between the chemical makeup of that shell and the bones of the human body. "If you want to get out of handcuffs or leg-irons or whatever," he concluded, "then you have to be some kind of a contortionist and your bones gotta be pliable."

Accordingly, he embarked upon a routine of downing a shot glass of vinegar every morning. After a couple years of this, he switched to the habit of eating three or four lemons a day — "also good for the complexion," he volunteers. There must be something to it, for in all his life he has never yet had a broken bone of any kind.

After the impact of that "Houdini" movie, he "rehearsed" with friends for about five or six years, having them tie him up in all manner of positions and with all kinds of restraints ("Kids are the most inventive of all, when it comes to tying you up," he marvels). He first ap- peared in public with his "act" at a High confirmed his early resolve.

During a hitch in the Navy, as a member of Special Services, he perfected his techniques, performing - "in a variety of he chuckles - at Naval bases in ways,' such locations as Hawaii and Japan, Upon discharge, he bummed around awhile, then made his professional debut, in drag, at a dike bar in San Francisco. "But that drag bit caused too many problems,' he reminisces. "The wig kept slipping around while I was struggling to get out of things. That's when I decided to let my own hair grow this long," and he gestures with lean, well-manicured fingers to his full head of dark brown hair.

Bernie had now been in the Los Angeles area for nearly four years, booked regularly by both straight and gay organizations . He is very up-front about his lifestyle, and especially enjoys doing benefits on behalf of gay charities (on July 20 last year he won an award for "Outstanding Service to the Gay Community "). His costumes range from jump-suits through lame bikinis to nothing at all. Working his particular gig in the nude has its hazards, however. He tells of doing an S and M act at the Drake Theatre, in dog collar and on leash, during which struggles "I got a nasty burn on the head of my cock from a light fixture set in the floor!"

His most unnerving experience to date occurred during a special show at Man's

can't get out of Bernie's jacket. (Bottom) Bernie collapses after successfully releasing him- self from the second jacket.

County, in Chicago, when some biker type, in trussing him up, added as a final fillup hog-tying his ankles to his neck. "I almost throttled myself getting out of that one," he recalls ruefully. "It's really the hardest of all to escape from, But then I'm always uptight before a special stunt - about three days before I'm going to do it, the diarrhea sets in and I can't sleep."

He must be doing a lot of running and non-sleeping right now, because the next two "stunts" he has planned both involve working with that most treacherous of all adversaries - fire. In one, he plans to try to escape from a flaming straight jacket while suspended by his ankles. For the other, he is having a 20" x 20" x 40" box constructed of bullet-proof glass. A trough around its perimeter will be filled with gasoline which, after the totally-restrained Orlando has been confined within, will be ignited. Rots of ruck!

As there are only six or seven authentic escape artists at work in the world today, one of that profession's lesser-known drawbacks cannot be too com- mon. Let Bernie explain: "One night I came home after a show, throw all my chains and stuff on the bed, and get cleaned up to go out 'tricking.' I get lucky and make contact with this hunky number at a bar. So, I bring him home.

"Well, when we go into the bedroom, he takes one look at the stuff on my bed, his face goes all white, and he makes a U-turn right out of there!

DRUMMER readers can only conclude that Master Escape Artist Bernie Orlando should choose his bars more carefully.

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PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME, A POWERFUL NEW TWO-ACT PLAY ABOUT GAYS AND THE MILITARY WITH PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE ORIGINAL PRODUCTION BY ROB CLAYTON. The first act, in its entirety, is in this issue. Act II will conclude in DRUMMER issue #13. Opened at the Las Palmas Theater in Hollywood , California, on November 17, 1976, with the following cast: Captain Daily … David J. Partington Joey Jurovich … Quentin Yeager Dubois Garvey Lambert … Tony Charles Lefty Lefko … Dr. Halberstam … … George Soviak Directed by the author. We are aboard the Destroyer, the U.S.S. Swanton, in the North Atlantic. The time is December 24, 1942. The time span of the play is seven days. The Swanton is on convoy duty and is returning to the States, zig-zagging its way across the Nazi sub infested ocean. Stage Right is the captain's quarters and his desk. Stage There'll be blue birds over The white cliffs of Dover Tomorrow just you wait and see … DAILY turns off the short wave radio. Moves back to his desk. He is holding a communique in his hand. He picks up picture on his desk.

(Captain moves back to his desk.)

(pours coffee and is watching)

(DUBOIS drops the half filled cup on the desk. The coffee spills all over the Captain's papers.)

(Captain grabs towel and is cleaning. Shakes his head.)

LEAT HER JOU by Toby Bailey and Bernie Prock

The leather exhibitionist is truly an artist in his own right. Although many men would like to do what he does, and some have the masculine good looks which most gay men appreciate, most lack the self confidence to be able to carry it off.

Leathersex and exhibitionism are crotch-kissing cousins. As more leather-men become open to others and public acceptance increases, more doors are opening for men who are turned on by erotic exhibitionism.

These choice few are not your run of the mill "go-go boys," but masculine men who may or may not be able to dance a step. These men relate to turning hot sex fantasies into theatrical reality in front of a live audience. The true leather exhibitionist delights in the opportunity to strip naked and do his own thing before appreciative onlookers.

At theatres or at private functions and parties these leather performers attract a crowd of hot, masculine, experimental voyeurs. These same men, who could care less about seeing some nelly queen performing amateur ballet are turned on to masculine acts involving leather, uniforms , bondage, and discipline. Already such names as Big Dave Warner, Duncan Hard, and Jack Wrangler have become living legends in leather among voyeur- istic buffs and the gay leatherworld.

With the aid of elaborate costumes of a rugged and masculine air, or totally naked, they create a scene. Lit with rich but subdued lighting and backed by heavy sensual music these studs are able to work themselves and the audience to an erotic and sensual peak of animalistic excitement. Alone or with a partner, moving to the sensual rhythms of the music or starkly ignoring it, oiled bodies shining in the stagelights, they lead the audience as if hypnotized into a sex- charged world of dominance and submission .

Evoking and embracing the atmos- phere of kinky macho leathersex these performers control and submit to the sexual living environment which they have created. These leather exhibitionists not only draw, but hold the capti- vated audience by displaying their hard taunt, and sexually excited naked bodies.

The leather performer puts his mind into a psyched state of realization that the audience is turned on by what he is doing because he himself is turned on. As the sex-charged energy surges through his body and the stud stands before his audience his hot stiff rod and quivering body tell them: "Well, here it is. You like it don't you?"

Some exhibitionistic shows are well planned, others totally spontaneous. To further illustrate the world of leather exhibitionism we'd like to relate a fantasy about some people who went to a lavish party at a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. As the evening progressed, one young stud was wandering about the houseful of gay men, clad only in jockey shorts.

"I stepped into a large dark room, crowded with men. Moving among the hot throng I came to a stage in the center of the room, lit by small red pin-spots from all directions. I began to sway to the hot, heavy, sensuous music which filled

" 'Go ahead Bernie, give them a show,' some stud said. A dozen helping hands pushed me onto the stage.

"Suddenly there I was, standing under the spotlights in my underwear. A hundred or more men stood watching, wait- ing to see what I had to offer.

"Moving and turning to the music I began to slip my briefs off. As I showed my bare ass to the crowd my cock began to swell and jut out against the loose pouch of cloth which now covered only my cock and balls. Standing totally still I lowered the shorts along the length of my hardening cock down to the tip. As my stiff tool sprang free I pulled the jockey shorts off and threw them into the audience.

"I sank to my knees and began to slowly stroke my shaft as hungry eyes watched. One hunky dude smeared some lubricant on my hand, while another pushed an inhaler under my nose. 'Get it on, dude,' the latter encouraged me in a husky voice. "There facing me was a handsome, rugged, mustached leatherman. He was dressed in levis and boots. A leather vest shouted to the leatherstud.

Continued on page 30

ACROSS

1 Gestapo

2 Future Farmers of America

3 Restraint

6 Switch Hitter

7 Stink

8 Country Fuck

11 G-Men

12 Owed

14 Skin Flick

15 Disgusted

19 4-F

21 Lance

26 Jack -

28 Uncut

30 Louis Pasteur

31 Since

32 Lusty

33 Strike

34 We

DOWN

1 Blow

2 Five Spot

3 - Ball or Stick

4 Bark

5 Spike

6 Burn Into

7 Beg

9 Heavy Duty

10 - House

13 Stupefy

16 Secondhand

17 Rope Parts

18 Shovel (i.e. shit)

20 Screws

22 Hearing Aide

23 Whip

25 Prefix: Again

27 Respectful Title

28 Crotch

29 Squatted

ANSWERS FOR LAST PUZZLE

THE LEATHER EXHIBITIONIST Continued from page Leatherjournal

" 'Whatever you want,' I added, ador- ing the lean, muscular man through a daze of amyl and lust.

"'Just keep stroking, fucker.' I gladly did as he said while he removed his boots, then climbed onto the stage and stood before me.

"I kneeled before him, stroking my meat, and he began to strip as I and the horny crowd of voyeurs watched. He pulled off his vest, showing his well- etched chest and rippling stomach muscles. Unbuckling his leather belt he unbuttoned his levis. Then he pulled his large swelling tool from his pants and brushed the head of it across my lips.

" 'That's going up your ass, fucker. Make love to it.' Pulling off his levis he stood above me, totally naked. He grabbed my head with one strong hand and ordered me to lick his cock and balls.

In his other hand he held a belt. "'Now suck it, fucker!' Toby rammed his cock deep in my throat and fucked my face as he beat my butt with the belt,

Toby stepped back and then pushed me face down on the stage. Straddling me he began to work his big cock deep inside me, fucking me thoroughly as I moaned and begged for more.

"After an ecstatic eternity of total fuck he rode me to the brink of orgasm, pulled his cock from my ass and shot cum all over my back, then rammed back inside me. "As soon as the aftershocks subsided Toby slid off the stage. 'Keep stroking, Bernie,' he ordered as he gave me another sniff from his inhaler.

"I knelt before the waiting men, jacking off as cum dripped from my ass and streams fo sweat poured down my body. A powerful orgasm seemed to well up deep inside me, then surge upward and explode, as my cum shot out over the edge of the stage.

'Toby and I sat on the edge of the stage. 'Someone seems to have taken our clothes,' he informed me.

" 'Let's run outside naked and fuck on the front lawn.'

"Of course I'd never do anything like that.'

Bernie Prock and Toby Bailey

OUS SADISTS IN HISTORY FAMO

There was a time when being captured by pirates was the most awful fate that could befall a seagoing traveler or professional sailor. Pirates were notorious for reveling in sadistic treatment of captives, and among their number the one who dubbed himself "Blackbeard" became the most fearsome of his breed.

In Famous Pirates of the New World, A.B.C. Whipple estimates that "piratical acts happened as often as half-a- dozen times a day in the Caribbean for more than a hundred years … In the late seventeenth century, through the eighteenth century, and even into the early years of the nineteenth , pirates swept through the Caribbean and along most was born in violence. During the great Age of Exploration, the Spanish claimed most of the land in the Caribbean area, as Spanish explorers had discovered most of it. Then, explorers and soldiers of fortune from other nations, principally Britain, tried to settle on some of the land, and a long running war broke out.

According to Frank R. Stockton (Buccaneers & Pirates of Our Coasts), the first pirates who made themselves known in American waters were the buccaneers, whose name "was derived from the French word boucanier, signifying a 'drier of beef'." What we have in the derivation of this name is proof that the entire breed was bred in violence: it seems that some of the West Indies Islands were virtually overrun with wild cattle because of the fact that the Spaniards, largely through enslavement, decimated the native populations, and so had left the interior of the islands to the rapidly increasing herds of cattle.

Trading vessels which ssailed to that area, Stockton explains, were manned by "bold and daring sailors, and when they knew that Hispaniola contained an abundance of beef cattle they did not hesitate to stop there to replenish their stores. The natives were skilled in the art of preparing beef by smoking and drying it … but so many vessels came that there were not enough people left on the islands to do all the hunting and drying that was necessary, so these trading vessels frequently anchored in some quiet cove, and the crews went on shore and devoted themselves to securing a cargo of beef … thus they became known as 'beef driers,' or buccaneers.

Gradually a state of maritime warfare grew up between Spain and the beef traders of other nations; and "from being obliged to fight, the beccaneers became glad to fight. True to her policy of despotism and cruelty when dealing with her American possessions," Stockton continues, "Spain waged a bitter and bloody war against the buccaneers … and, in return, the buccaneers were just as bitter and savage in their warfare against Spain. The cruelty and ferocity of Spanish rule had brought them into existence, and it was against Spain and her possessions that the cruelty and ferocity which she had taught them were now directed … The buccaneers were fierce and reckless fellows who pursued their daring occupation because it was proftable, because they had lerned to like it, and because it enabled them to wreak vengeance upon the common enemy.

The buccaneers were not unlike our cowboys of the old west, "a rough set of fellows, in appearance as well as action, endeavoring in every way to let people know that they were absolutely free and independent of the manners and customs as well as the laws of their native countries … while the

Spaniards robbed and ruined the natives of the lands they discovered , the buccaneers robbed the robbers." When men are bent on vengeance, and feel themselves completely free from moral and legal restrictions on their actions, violence is bound to ensue.

And so, indeed, it happened, as the "buccaneers" evolved into "privateers," who were actually licensed to take ships of enemy nations, and finally into "pirates." It should be made clear that the pirates were neither buccaneers nor privateers; they were, in Whipple's phrase, "plain outlaws of the sea," eager for the hot work of hand-to-hand combat on the deck of Spanish ships, described as "throwing shirts … and with their cutlasses in their hands and their pistols and knives in their belts, scrambling up the sides of ships like half-naked beasts … sparing only those who were able-bodied and could work for them," but first stripping them "of everything they possessed, even their clothes."

The strength, toughness and extraordinary vitality of these "feline human beings who were known as pirates" had often occasioned astonishment in more ordinary people. "Their sun-tanned and hairy bodies," Stockton further reports, "seemed to be made of something like wire, leather, and rubber, upon which the most tremendous exertions and even the infliction of severe wounds made but little impression." And, within his resiliant body was a man whose greatest object in life was "to wage bitter war against the Spanish … He seldom gave any quarter to his prisoners and would often subject them to horrible tortures to make them tell where he could find the things he wanted. When he captured a prisoner, it seemed to delight his soul as much to torture and mutilate him as to take whatever valuables he possessed.

"Before the regular allotment of shares was made, the claims of the wounded were fully satisfied according to their established code. For the loss of a right arm a man was paid about $600, or 6 slaves (his choice of the prisoners); for a left arm, $500 or 5 slaves; for left leg, $400 or 4 slaves; for an eye or a finger, $100 or 2 slaves pirates kept their own slaves would seem to be rooted, as Richard Hough asserts in 'Captain Bligh and Mr. Christian,' in the fact that "the tradition of slave-manning of British war- ships died hard … generally the common crew were still, in 1787, treated like slaves.")

The buccaneers of the West Indies and South America grew to be a most formidable body of reckless freebooters. From merely capturing Spanish ships laden with the treasures taken from the natives of the new world, they grew strong enough to attack Spanish towns and even cities, spreading themselves all over the watery world. As the southern part of North America was settled, Charles Town (now Charleston) grew to be a port of considerable importance. "The pirates," says Stockton, "felt as much at home in this region as when it was inhabited merely by Indians.'

From this cruel cauldron emerged "Blackbeard," whose real name, most people said, was Edward "Ned" Teach, although it is also variously reported as having been Thatch or Tache. He had grown up in the streets of Bristol, England as a starving orphan. He finally escaped by shipping out as a cabin boy on a vessel bound for the West Indies, where he then deserted and set out to make his career. Whipple relates that one of the up-and-coming desperados of the West Indies was a tough old pirate named Ben Hornigold (sic): "Always on the

S IN HISTORY FAMOUS SADIS alert for the young criminals of his time, Hornigold spotted Ned as a likely prospect and took him on as an apprentice. "His trust was well-founded. Ned proved to be one of the cruelest attackers and dirtiest fighters it had been Hornigold's pleasure to watch in action. A crack shot, Ned could pick off a small child on a merchantman's deck 100 yards away on a tossing sea. Too good to be an apprentice for long … within a few months his pupil announced that he wanted to strike out on his own. That was when he took the name Blackbeard . .

He adopted his nickname because he figured it would strike terror into the hearts of all who met him, according to Whipple: "He grew one of the thickest beards ever seen in history … about all that could be seen of his face were a huge twisted nose and bulging bloodshot eyes, set off by jug-like ears. The beard and hair were usually matted, since he used them for wiping his hands while eating or fighting. His clothes were pinned or tied together where they had been torn, streaked with garbage and blood.

"His usual method of boarding a ship was to make his appearance even more impressive by sticking slow-burning matches in his hair and lighting them … matches at that time being like the wick on a bomb or stick of dynamit made a sizzling crackling sound and filled the air with sulfur fumes … Across his brawny breast he carried a sort of a sling in which hung not less than three pairs of pistols in leathern holsters, and these, in addition to his cutlass and a knife or two in his belt, made him a most formidable-looking fellow."

Besides that, however, as historian Stockton avers, "his reputation for ingenious wickedness spread all over the West Indies … all the barbarities, the brutalities, and the fiendish ferocity which have ever been attributed to the pirates of the world were united in the character of this inhuman wretch … It was his pleasure, when a poor victim had nothing to tell, to tear out his tongue with his own hands, and it is said that on some occasions his fury was so great that he would cut out the heart of a man and bite at it with his great teeth … while torturing people to make them tell where they had hid their treasures, nothing was too vile or wicked … If someone hesitated to part with a ring, Blackbeard settled the argument with one chop of his cutlass: off came ring, finger and all … It all added up to make Blackbeard the most infamous pirate of all time and the most successful …

Even in Blackbeard's hours of rest, when he was not fighting or robbing or torturing, his savage soul demanded some interesting excitement, albeit his humor at such times seems rather heavy-handed. Two instances of this are extremely well-documented . On one occasion, when a crewman pointed out that if they lost a certain battle they would all fry in hell, Blackbeard's answer was a "devilish" practical joke. "Come, let us make a hell of our own," he said, "a

He then forced his entire crew to troop below to the stifling hold. There he ordered brimstone pots lighted. In a few minutes, the smoke had everybody coughing and crying. Tears rolled from Blackbeard's eyes, too, but he gave no sign of having had enough. Finally, "after half his men had suffocated," the weaker members gave up and broke into the open, choking and gasping in the pure air on deck. B was the last to lumber up the gangway. On another occasion, "after a few mugs of rum," he pulled off one of his weirdest practical jokes. As he and a few of his men sat around a table in his cabin, Blackbeard suddenly leaned forward, blew out the lamp, crossed two pistols under the table and fired. One bullet plunked into the cabin bulkhead . The other shattered the kneecap of first mate Israel Hands. To his pained, puzzled question, Blackbeard replied with a roar of laughter:

"If I didn't kill somebody now and then," he shouted,

"you'd forget who I am!"

The captain of a pirate ship, it is true, had to be the most severe and rigid man on board, and, so, at the slightest sign of insubordination his men were put in chains or flogged. Blackbeard is reputed to have run the tautest of ships, and his orders were not to be questioned. Any crewman suspected of disobedience , in Whipple's turgid prose, "suddenly found himself hung to the shrouds by his wrists. While he swung back and forth with the motion of the ship, his feet just off the deck, his shirt was ripped away and the knotted ropes of the cat-o'-nine-tails laid onto his bare back. His screams gradually faded as the whip beat him into unconsciousness. Finally there was nothing but the swish-plop of the 'cat' and the trickle of blood on the deck. He was ordered cut down and salt water splashed onto his back. That brought him to, shrieking in agony as he was hauled away and dumped in his hammock." Hough, however, maintains that "flogging in itself did not create disaffection: flogging was just one of the accepted unpleasant aspects of life at sea, like weevils in the bread or a squall off a lee shore … by the 18th Century standards in the Royal Navy, 100 lashes must be regarded as a savage and exceptional punishment. None of Captain Bligh's own men received at one time more than two dozen, even for the most hemous offence. Still, Winston Churchill's definition of the Navy's record as resting on 'rum, sodomy and the lash' at the end of the 18th Century is superbly apt.

It was against his hapless captives, however, that Blackbeard proved most vicious, especially during the time in the early 1700s when he made his headquarters in one of the inlets on the North Carolina coast and ruled there as absolute dictator. His own large ship (in 1717, the Queene Anne's Revenge"), boasted 40 cannons, and, with three smaller ships under his command, he held total power over 400 men … their lives or their deaths, their well-being or their punishments.

Flogging with the traditional cat-o'-nine-tails was a most common sight aboard a pirate ship, whether applied to force prisoners to speak, or to punish members of the crew. The following detailed description of the fabrication of the "cat" is most comprehensive:

'Beside (the flogger) on the deck was a piece of thick rope, a couple of feet long and an inch in diameter. This was for the handle. From a coil of braided line Evans had already cut nine pieces, each just over two feet long and a quarter of an inch in diameter. These would form the tails … He picked up the length of thick rope and put it across his knees. From the brim of his tarred hat he took a sailmaker's needle and threaded it with twine … He made a sailmaker's whipping at one end of the rope, preventing the strands coming undone … Then he patiently whipped one end of each of the nine tails. When he dropped the last one on deck he stuck the needle back in his hat.

"He held the handle between his knees, the whipped end hanging down, the other end conviently placed to work on. Unlaying the three strands of the rope for a couple of inches,

JKY FAMUUS SADISTS IN HIS he took one of the tails and worked the unwhipped end between the unlaid strands of the rope in the fashion of a long splice. Holding it in place with one hand he did the same with another, then a third and fourth until all nine had been spliced into the rope handle.

"Retrieving the needle from his hat and rethreading it, he ran a few stitches through each tail where it was spliced into the rope, which then had one whipping put over the end and another an inch further down. There'd be no chance of the tails pulling out.

After inspecting it carefully he put the cat down on the deck and took up a roll of red baize material. Measuring the handle against the material, he used an enormous pair of sailmaker's scissors to cut off a strip just long and wide enough to wrap right around it. He then wrapped the material round the handle like a stocking, joining it by stitching a seam along the entire length. With the thread cut and the needle stuck back in his hat he held up the finished cat.

(Author's note: Depending either on the seriousness of the crime or the innate savagery of the flogger, it was the custom to put one, two or three knots into each tail; and, in some cases, to imbed lead into the tips.)

The position of the victim varied with the nature of the vessel: "In larger ships it was usual to take one of the gratings covering a hatch and stand it vertically against the bulwark or the fo'c'sle bulkhead. The man to be flogged was made to stand spread-eagled against the grating, and his hands and feet lashed to it, the gridded wooden bars making it easy to pass the bindings. Because he was held hard up against the gratings, the victim could not move an inch to absorb any of the crushing weight of the blows.

"But using the capstan, a common practice in smaller ships, was different. The capstan bars, each six feet long, were slotted into the capstan to project horizontally, like the spokes of a wheel lying on its side, at the height of a man's chest. For flogging, only one bar was shipped and the man stood with his chest hard up against the bar, arms stretched along it on either side. He was then secured to it by seizings round his wrists and just above his elbows.

Whether a man to be punished or tortured was completely stripped or not seems to have been a matter of choice and circumstance. In the Royal Navy, standard practice was to strip off only the shirt, with a thick leather "apron" provided and tied over the lower part of the back to prevent damage to the kidneys. Blackbeard, however, was more apt to opt for total nudity - chances being, in any event, that the captive had been relieved of all his clothing upon first having been taken.

There is a report of one unfortunate, remembered only as "Isaiah," who was flogged by a six-foot whip of heavy leather while chained helplessly to the mainmast: "When they ripped his clothes from his body it was so quiet on deck that there was no sound but the tearing of the cloth, and Isaiah braced himself for what he was beginning to realize would be a terrible ordeal. The whip sang through the air and cut cruelly into his back. He had tried to prepare himself for the shock of the first blow, but the pain that spread from his lacerated back through his whole body was so intense that he was afraid he would become sick to his stomach.

"Again the heavy leather thong cut through the air and seemed to land in precisely the same place as the first. Isaiah clenched his fists, but was unaware of the metal chains digging into his wrists. The only reality was his own agony, and multicolored lights danced before his eyes … another swing and the leather cut deep into his back … He felt as though his knees could no longer support his weight … The chains alone held him upright, and he leaned gratefully against the mainmast … waves of pain making it impossible for him to think he had heard his own voice. He had screamed as the lash descended on his back, and he clamped his jaws together tightly. He wanted to escape from the whip, but the rawhide found its mark again and left a vivid, fresh welt across his back. The pain was intense. He was moaning, and would be glad to die long before the torture ended …" (Description courtesy of The Yankee Brig, less well-known than the milder descriptions in Two Years Before the Mast and Mutiny on the

Bounty.

Another description of a seaman tied to the mainmast and stripped to the waist during this period in history refers to the whip as "a short stick with nine leather ribbons bound to it. He brought the whip forward. There was a swish, a slap and a moan as the man bit off a scream … At the count of 50 the man's back was a hash of red that flowed in lines down over his pants. The captain said 'Stop. Can he take the rest?'

"The ship's surgeon listened to the man's breathing and nodded. 'Continue, but on his legs.'

"The man's pants were pulled down. The seaman with the whip did the same to his legs as he had done to his back.

Navy was keelhauling. The usual procedure was to tie one line to a naked man's feet and another to his wrists. The man was then thrown overboard at the bow of the ship and dragged underneath the ship and pulled out the stern. Two things determined the severity of this punishment. First, the condition of the ship's bottom. If the ship had been long at sea and its bottom fouled with barnacles, the man would come out lacerated by hundreds of small cuts which almost always festered. If the shop had a clean bottom, the man would emerge only half-drowned.

The other factor was the length of time the man was under water. If he were a popular member of the crew, his mates would haul him quickly the length of the ship and his chances of survival were good. If he were disliked they might dawdle at the job, and if they took more than two minutes the man usually was dead. Few sailors of the time could swim, and they had an enormous fear of the water. If they became panicky and screamed and fought the punishment, almost always they had too little air in their lungs to carry them through the nightmare of keelhauling, during their bumping, twisting, painful trip down the ship's keel.

An especially vivid fictional account of the experience follows: "So it is that he is stripped and strapped to a leather harness attached to a rope on a winch. The spokes of the winch are turned so that he is dragged headfirst over the edge of the deck, his back to the wooden sides of the barge. His last view of the world is topsy-turvy … But as the waters touch his hair he takes a deep gulp of air and manages to close his mouth just as his lips go under the surface.

"First, he feels the splinters and nail-heads on the side of the barge tear at his back. He opens his mouth to scream, but the water enters, so he has to lose a little air puffing out spray. Then the blood begins to hammer at his right temple, then in his cheeks, then his heart. His shins are still above water, dry.

Winch faster, damn you! Do you want to kill me?

"Spine begins arching backwards on the keel … Body sticks on iron patch, halts, jerks on … Air in mouth stales … Lungs pump and pump faster and faster … less and less air … Hurry, hurry … Head hits keel, bends forward, bumps over

Hurry, hurry … Head hits keel, bends forward, bumps over iron, floats a little up . . Air!"

Walking the plank was a favorite device of the pirates whenever they had no other way of disposing of their prisoners. "The u one to mount a plank which was projected over the side of the vessel and balanced like a seesaw, and when, prodded by knives and cutlasses, they stepped out upon this plank, of course it tipped up and down and they went into the sea.

Hanging by the thumbs was one of Blackbeard's less orthodox ways of inducing a recalcitrant captive to talk. The hands of the naked unfortunate were first bound together and the slim, strong cord that was wound tightly around his fingers was run over a yardarm and pulled taut, so that he was lifted no more than a few inches from the deck. The cord was tied-off, and there he dangled." One such instance reports a man hanging thus for a period of no less than seven days! "Once each day he was fed greasy slops out of a bowl, and he swallowed because he was hungry. Not once in that time did

he lose consciousness, though it must be admitted he drowsed off.'

A first person account informs us of yet another innovation : "I was stripped naked, lashed to the stern of the longboat , and rowed up and down the swamp-bordered channel of a river for three hours. It was a fiendish torture. A cloud of mosquitoes and other insects settled on every inch of my body. I felt myself swelling like a goatskin filling with water, and my cheeks came up over my eyes so that I was almost blinded."

And here is a variation of this torture: "He was tied naked to the bowsprit of the pirate's vessel, lying on top of the round log-like projection at the bow of the boat with ropes around his legs and body, but none confining his hands. The position made him a wide-open target for the Caribbean's torrential rains and the smile of its searing sun. He experienced an eternity of each, but nothing at all in the line of food and only such water as found his mouth when it rained.

"A knife had been put near his hand and he could have ended his ordeal any time he wished by stabbing himself to death or cutting himself free and dropping into the shark- and barracuda-cluttered waters below. The one thing he wasn't permitted to do was come back on deck. A man with a cutlass had been stationed there to see that he didn't try.

It is further reported of Blackbeard's creativity that "the members of one crew were tied in sacks and dumped over- board" and also that "the captain and two mates of one particular prize were tied to the windlass of their ship and used for target practice." Conspicuous by their ab contemporary reports of sexual abuse, almost certain to have been a means of revenge by female-deprived seamen when confronted with the naked and helpless bodies of their prey. We can justifiably assume that such were the nature of the "hideous and indescribable indignities heaped upon captives" that the 18th century sensibilities recoil from detailing.

Blackbeard met his Waterloo in the person of one Lt. Robert Maynard, on the afternoon of November 21, 1718 at Occracoke Inlet, his once-safe hide-out. Whipple describes the scene when Blackbeard manages to board the vessel that has almost trapped him: "Blackbeard's grappling irons clamped across Maynard's bulwarks and 23 shouting, shooting pirates thundered aboard the sloop, and a vicious fight ensued.

Blackbeard preferred the heavy, broadbladed cutlass. It had authority … even its flat side could bash in a man's head. A clean swipe which hit where it ought to, just at the Adam's apple, nearly always chopped off the man's head in one blow … plus, the sight of the gory damage done by the cutlass usually took the fighting spirit out of anybody who tried to defend himself. But, a cutlass weighed ten pounds — about the weight of five baseball bats, to be wielded by one hand … and Blackbeard tired … "He was killed in this memorable encounter, finally hitting the deck with five bullets and 20 other wounds in him. Apparently he had actually died standing up. Those pirates captured alive were brought to trial and hanged."

There was only one who escaped the scaffold: Israel Hands, who had been taken ashore so that a doctor could treat his shattered knee.

CROWN YOUR HEAD IN BARBEDWI

OUR RING, NOT FOR A FINGER, IS DOMINANTLY CRAFTED IN HEAVY STERLING SILVER.

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DEALER INQUIRIES ALWAY WELCOME

EATHER no Cowlogs Wanted

Art by HARRY BUSH

PISCES FEBRUARY 20 - MARCH 20

DRUMMER 29

From the Mother Plucker Feather Company comes a ballsy new creation in stoneware: THE STUD MUG. Heavy, big (6" high), large (holds a full 12 ounces of anything), this creation is a how stopper. Not exactly X-rated, but it's close enough to it to brighten up any gathering. Beautifully hand-crafted and detailed with a glazed interior. Kiln-baked in extreme temperatures to completely eliminate lead from the stone. They'll be selling in the finest shops, but now the Mother Plucker Feather Company is practically giving them away; for only 12.95 and they will pop for the postage. They'll even sell you two for 23.95. Shipped anywhere in the U.S. via UPS (except P.O. boxes). You can save c.o.d. charges by enclosing your 12.95. Or send your Master Charge card number. Or c.o.d. if you wish. It is a limited offering, so hurry. Other new creations are in the making soon from the Mother Pluckers. Mother Plucker Feather Company 6671 Sunset Blvd. 1508 Crossroads of the World, Suite 102 Hollywood, Cal. 90028 (213) 469-5321

OHAONGOION' OTOROEOE ORYONCOH

DRUMMER 35

YOU CAN TAKE THE COWPOKE OUT OF T 6

During one weekend 'celebration,' one of the ranch hands gets strung up in the tepee for some group action. The 20' tepee as well as the old adobe stable are the sites for a variety of action, depending on mood of the stud

Tied down across a saddle in the old adobe stable, one of the hands lays on some discipline with an off-billet swat.

Some were gunmen outside the law, others were the men behind the badge that tracked them, but the real hero of the west was the cowboy. The West was a man's world. Civiliza- tion stopped at the Mississippi River and

1 161, ISU estward traveler roughed it for over miles until he reached San Francisco. iddle Tramp Ball Stretcher' with a of log chain snapped on makes for very stimulating 'swingin' action.'

Pull down your levi's and snap on a BULL TAMER BALL STRETCHER with a BALL SEPARATOR, then add a chunk of log chain for weight, and watch the action begin.

A saddletramp rode into the ranch one hot, dusty day. Before he knew it, one of the cowhands was 'welcoming' him, 'western style.' Seen here the WRANGLER

TIT CLAMPS (tooled leather with harness snaps). All the items from HANGIN' TREE RANCH are handcrafted at the Ranch in the WESTERN STYLE, with brown or ruset leather, (vs black motorcycle style).

HANGIN' TREE RANCH — A Legend of the 'Old West' — TODAY!

HANGON' OTRECE RANCOH

Rugged mountains in the background, rolling pastures studded with oaks, a couple of lean cowhands, their Levi's stretched tight across their asses sittin' on the corral fence watching a blazin' sunset. Hollywood's latest? No, it's real and it's Hangin' Tree Ranch.

Today, when everything seems to be 'plastic' there is still one place that's trying to maintain the image and spirit of the Old West for men who appreciate it.

Hangin' Tree is an actual ranch, located in the mountains east of San Diego; however, it is not a public guest ranch. Levi's are the only accepted form of dress, and everything about the layout, from the main ranchhouse, to the old adobe stable to the full size tepee, let's a person know that it's a place for MEN only!

There are enough iron rings set in the floors, walls, and ceilings of the stable and ranchhouse to handle any situation that a talented 'S' can come up with. For variety, there's the tepee or huge boulders under the blazing sun, as places to get it on. The ranch is probably best known, world-wide for its western style leather gear. Although the owners are versatile and attracted to the motorcycle and uniform scene, it is the Levi / western type that the ranch caters to with its handmade leather. Many items are vari- are their own original designs.

If you're a wonderin' about HANGIN' TREE RANCH itself, it was homesteaded in the 1880's and is located in the mountains near the old Yuma-San Diego Stage Route. The ranch takes its name from the rustlin' days followin' the Civil War, when a nearby box canyon (Horsethief Canyon) was used to hold stock before runnin' it across the border into Mexico.

As law and order made its way into this part of the country and gunfighters like the Earps became respectable, the local ranchers formed a vigilante group to clean up the rustlers. Local legend has it that the oak tree that still stands on the ranch was the site of 13 'frontier justice' hangins'.

There was a lot of ACTION and damn few women in the Old West, and with this leather gear, you too can re-live the roarin' horny days of the Old Frontier!

In the late 1800's a legend was born - the AMERICAN COWBOY.

A hundred years later, nothing still captures and holds the imagination of more people than the men that 'won the west.

Usually, only in their late teens or early 20's, the cowboys were the men that suffered the hardships of months on the trail, cherished the loyality of their comrades, and lived by a code of honor that was as solid as their word.

The men of the West lived in a world of their own making. A world of men - a rugged world where the hired hand worked for $30 a month and his grub. A cowboy's prized possessions were his saddle, his hat and his boots, in that order. His horse usually belonged to the outfit that he was riding for.

On the trail drive, the cowhands 'doubled up' to sleep. They curled up each night with their bunkie' with nothing between them and the hard prairie but their blankets and their slickers. Their day started before sunup and went late into the night as they 'rode herd' with the cows bedded down.

The 'Old West' was a unique mixture of freedom and subserviance, independence and submissiveness, and a bond between two people that only men can understand and know.

The 'Old West' never died. The chuck wagon is gone, the loneliness of 'ridin' the line' has passed, and the endless miles of prairie without a town, tree or trail has vanished, but the COWBOY and his spirit are still here in the hearts and minds of hundreds of thousands of men.

When a person mentions "leather" most city people think in terms of the motorcycle type - black vests, jackets, chaps, belts, and other more intimate accessories, either plain or studded. However, there is another side to the leather scene — WESTERN STYLE or BROWN LEATHER, with copper rivets as well as nickle stud ornamentation.

Western style leather has its origins in the history of the Old West and the cowboy, with his hand tooled saddles, bridles, belts, chaps and boots. In those days, there wasn't a store just around the corner, so leather gear of all kinds was usually hand made and put together from scratch, reflecting the individuality of the owner.

Some of these early cowhands were very imaginative when it came to finding unusual uses for a thong here, or a piece of strap there. Many innocent looking pieces of regular harness gear, found other service when the occasion demanded . For instance, the leather tie strings that are used to tie the bedroll onto the back of the saddle, are also easily used to tie the wrists and ankles as restraints; knotted two or three times in the middle, it becomes an effective gag. The "off-billet," one of the wide straps from the saddle that goes under the horse, makes an excellent swat. A regular halter, with some additional holes for shortening the straps, will fit a man's head, and rawhide, braided leather, or chain curb straps make excellent "bits" for an unruly maverick. The "stud cage" (metal portion) is actually used to keep stallions from constantly masturbation. Hangin' Tree has just added a few refinements to accommodate men.

There are a lot of different attitudes towards appreciating leather. Some men like the feel of leather against their skin, and the smell of leather. Others like the versatility of leather. For instance, a metal cockring can be awkward since it's not adjustable; on the other hand, a leather cockstrap can be easily adjusted to fit your own mood (or someone else's cock) and is also easily snapped on and off with a minimum of strain.

The western leather scene ties in also with that other piece of cowboy gear that's "gone to town" - Levis. The natural motion, rubbing and friction of being in the saddle all day, softened and broke in a pair with no effort. Add to it the sweat and antural smell of the saddle leather and you have a man's outfit that can't be duplicated.

As to boots, most ranchhands couldn't afford the luxury of two pair, one for work and one for dress. But the cowboy boot as a masculine sex symbol is undisputable . It was designed for man's work first, and show second. The pointed toe was to make it easy to get your foot in and out of the stirrup, the high heel was to keep it there, and also, to "dig in" when you'd roped and thrown a steer for branding. The high sides were to protect from snakebite and brush.

Along with boots were the cowboy's spurs. Although he might only have one pair of boots, he often had two pairs of spurs. The work pair were plain, with dull points, out of respect for his horse. His dress pair would be silver, heavy with chains and fancy engraving, large rowels with long points, they were meant to be heard as well as seen as he swaggered down the street. Add to this his high heeled boots and the fact that he spent most of his time in the saddle and you have a "walk" that's as uniquely masculine as a sailor's.

Western leather, brown leather, whatever you want to call it, is a tradition as old as the West and the men that rode the range.

DRUMMER'S CENTERFOLD IS THE OIL PAINTING "NUDE IN SADDLE" by San Francisco artist ANTHONY DE FRANGE. Born in Oklahoma of Italian parents, the works of this award-winning artist hang in many top galleries and in the homes of celebrities throughout the world. We are grateful to a Leather Fraternity brother for the loan of this painting to DRUMMER. Unstapled, unfolded prints (without our name) for framing can be had by sending $2.95 (including postage) to DRUMMER, 1508 Crossroads of the World, Hollywood, CA 90028, or 311 California Street, San Francisco, CA 94104.

the leather fraternity

THE LEATHER FRATERNITY T-SHIRT! Available in Black & Red on a White 100% cotton shirt. State S, M, L, XL and send your 4.95 to ROBERT PAYNE, 5466 Santa Monica Blyo. L.A., CA 90029. It'll improve your action!

WAYNE, MS. Leo, 47, 5'7%" 145, White, 7' Semi-knowledgeable. Willing to learn more from sincere, straight-appearing, respectful Master 30 to 50. Moustaches a turn-on. No fems, fats, blacks, 8 ox 296G.

Tems; rats, blacks; dox 296G. WEST CHESTER. SM. Taurus. 30, 5'4". 130. White. 5%" Novice. Respectful, honest, helpful Master seeks solid, clean, affectionate partner to 35. Must be cut. Hairy chest; tattoos a turn-on. No f a tumon. No fats, Villus, drinkers. Box 318.

WILKES-BARRE. S. Cancer. 40. 6'. 170.

White. 12". Old hand. Extensive military experience, pecialist in military / penal discipline and training, builds torture equipment to and training, builds torture equipment to order. Seeks masculine partners interested in fantasy scenes or totally satisfying the Master's needs. Will train willing beginners. No fems, fare Ray 055 fats, Box 055

YORK. M. Cancer. 28, 5'8". 220. White. Will completely serve S to 35 who will dominate verbally, mentally, physically. Prefers someone nearby into verbal humiliation, slave and dog training. Box 184H.

SOUTH DAKOTA

SIOUX FALLS. M. Gemini. 27, 5'9", 150, White, 7". Novice, Submissive, aims to please, Seeking dominant partner or cowboy type to 30. No fems, passives, Box 263.

MEMPHIS. MS. Aquarius. 37. 6'2" 180. White. 6'4". Novice. Travels extensively. Will experiment under dominant partner. Box 140.

SIGNAL MOUNTAIN, SM. Aquarius, 55, 6'5". 230. White, 5". Old hand, Seeks a true maso chist who wants and needs to feel pain to No drugs, drunks, blacks, chicken, limits. Box 218.

TEXAS

IEAAS

AUSTIN M. Aries. 30. 6'1". 155. White. 6'3". Buckin' bronco needs horny, endowed, 10 ong and hard and provide instruction in muscle worthip and body service. Box 294V9. DALLAS. S. Aries. 42. 5'6". 130. White. 7'8".

Box 049. DALLAS. S. Aries, 39, 5'11", 190, White, 64". Old hand, Sixth generation Master de- mands an M who knows his place. No fems, fats, hippies. Box 137 fats, hippies, 30x 137.

OALLAS A. Pisess, 33. 6°, 170. White, 9%°. Old hand, Has strong fists, flaxible feet, steel-strength / of / the [×6+]

PFORT WORTH. SM. Aquarius. 43, 6'2" 195. White. 7". Knowledgeable. Dominant but will switch for right person. Must be masculine, mature, into Levis, leather, bondage, road bikes. Box 0590.

FORT WORTH. M. Leo. 50. 6'1". 150. White. ompletely inexperienced. Wishes to be of use to and provide enjoyment for partner who will help him to realize his fantasies. No fat or indiscreet persons, Box 252D.

HOUSTON, SM. Cancer, 42, 6', 145, White, 7%". Knowledgeable. Seeks partner who is over-sexed, respectful, into FF and W / S and is orally oriented. No heavy pain. Willing to switch roles. Box 183F.

HOUSTON, M. Leo. 35, 5'10", 155, White 6%". Knowledgeable, Wishes to please a skilling, positive Master and expand experience. Can switch for right person. No permanent relationships, fats. Box 161.

SAN ANTONIO. M. Aries. 31, 5'10", 160. White, 6". Novice, Enjoys sex with and domination by a real stud to 40. Must be well-endowed, over 6' tall. No drugs. Box 2961.

VIRGINIA

OTE DALEXANDRIA. SM. Aries. 30. 5'11". 175. White, 7%". Knowledgeable, Marine enjoys sharing new and mutually enjoyable experiences with attractive, intelligent M to 35. Blond, large endowment, hairless body turn-on. No one selfish or inflexible. Box 151.

ARLINGTON, S. Capricorn, 30, 6', 155, White, 8". Knowledgeable, True top man seeks honest, discreet, passive partner into definite pain trip. Muscular, hairy if possible. Spends summers in Wildwood, New Jersey. No fats, hard drugs. Box 0471

NORFOLK, SM, Cancer, 43, 5'6", 140, White. 7". Novice. Dominant but considerate leather- lover and bike owner seeks sincere, honest, discreet partner to 40. No fems, fats, phonies, dopers. Box 1855.

RICHMOND. S. Leo. 52, 5'9", 172, White, 9", Old hand, Wants true lover of Levis, high boots, riding britches. Cycle owner preferred, Box 400.

WASHINGTON

WASHINGTUN SEATTLE MS. Libra. 32. 6'11%". 185. White. 7". Knowledgeable. Adaptable, sincere, open- minded, honest, seeks same to 55 for possible permanent relationship. Law enforcement types honest, understanding partner. Into W / S, B&D, humiliation, public exhibition. No heavy drugs, selfish types. Box 130W

AUSTRALIA

MELBOURNE, VICTORIA. S. Taurus, 34, 5'8". 154. White. 7". Knowledgeable. Digs breeches, boots, cycle police. Wants correspondence with breecher / leather guys. Box 062.

CANADA

EDMONTON ALBERTA. S. Cancer. 30. 5'6". 130. White. 6%". Knowledgeable, Level-headed, imaginative, will respect limits of dude heavy into ass work. No role-switching.Box 131

EDMONTON, ALBERTA, M. Scorpio. 32, 5'8". 168. White, 8". Completely inexperienced. Hunky dude needs leather and male superiority, from experienced, goodlooking bodybuilder type to 40 willing to train. No violence, fair, insensitive, unclean. Box 308.

**PORT AL BERNI, BRITISH COLUMBIA, M. Piccs, 42, 57". 142. White, 6". Knowledge-able. Experienced and obedient, willing to service and please Leasther Master. Into B&D, W / S.

WEST VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SM. Warlock host offers vacation accommoda- tions in totally dedicated S&M home to mascu- line male stallions, any race, and their Slaves. Box 011.

OTTAWA, ONTARIO. MS. Aquarius, 27. 5'11''. 165. White. 6''. Knowledgeable. Prefers Master into heavy bondage, tit work, etc. Box 070X.

TORONTO, ONTARIO. MS. Capricorn, 23, 517°: 120. White, 61°. Completely inexperienced. Needs experienced, forgiving teacher under 30 in Toronto. Box 074. TORONTO, ONTARIO. M. Taurus, 40, 5'11°: 150. White, 6°. Novice, Forme faction in satisfying well-hung Master willing to teach. Must be discreet, non-possessive, to to teach. Mu 45. Box 069.

45. Box 689.

**PORONTO, ONTARIO.** S. Leo. 50. 5'7". 142.

**White. 7". Old hand. Wants docile slaves who dig being sparked and strapped by leather guy. Slender or musculer guys 21-35 only. Box 680.

**TORONTO, ONTARIO.** mentally / physically dominant, hunky mascu- line partner to 45. Box 163.

TORONTO, ONTARIO. M. Leo. 37. 5'10". 156. White. 7". Knowledgeable. Enjoys being completely dominated by aggressive, stocky S over 30. No fems, scat. Box 157T.

MONTREAL, OUEBEC. M. Virgo. 28. 5'7". 150. White. 7". Old hand. Docile boot-slave and expert boot-licker will lick your boots clean. French kiss, suck, mouth massage and polish them to a high gloss. Boots are made to be licked and sucked constantly by boot- slaves on the big, sweaty, smelly feet of cycle cops, firemen, SS boot-Masters, bikers, spurred cups, inemien, 5s door-instarts, buters, spurred rodeo cowboys, fisherman, road and construction workers. Keep a slave plenty busy. Put his tongue and mouth to work on your Masterful boots and those of your friends and wor

NONTREAL, OUEBEC. M. Capricorn, 27, 58". 130. White, 69". Knowledgeable, Wants sadistic Material to expand limits, into S&M, scat, W / S, TT, toys, drugs, beer, poppers. Muscles in tight leather and group scenes a real turn-

MONTREAL, QUEBEC, S. Aries, 30, 5'11". 160. White, 9". Old hand, Will respect and expand limits of willing slave to 40 who likes pain, games, B&D. No fems, fats. Box 318T.

ENGLAND

ISLE OF MAN. M. Sagittarius, 52, 6', 214, White, 5½", Novice, Turned on by bondage, boxing gloves, hoods, rubber, WIS, Seeks firm, trusting non-butch Master, Eager to try new toys, positions, grease, poppers, chain bondage

LONDON. M. Leo. 29, 5'11", 154. White. 7". Knowledgeable. Needs to be taught respect and beaten into passive ways. 80x 060X.

LONDON. S. Pisces. 36. 6'2". 179. White. 9%". Knowledgeable. Hunky Eurasian into FF, W / S, bondage, seeks clean partner 24 to 30. Should be muscular, hairy. Tattoos a turnon. Box 0718.

LONDON. S. Aquarius. 47. 5'9%". 175. White. 7". Old hand. Must be able to meet partner with similar enjoyment of the S&M experience. Occasionally travels to New York, Maryland, D.C., Celifornia. No scat. Box 149.

LONDON, SM. Scorpio, 30. 6', 180. White. 8". Completely inexperienced. Has strong, dominant character required of S, needs to learn M role, Wants slim, muscular, smooth-bodied partner to 25. Box 228.

HOLLAND

THE HAGUE. SM. Pisces. 31. 5'11½". 145. White. 9½". Knowledgeable. Into whipping, B&D. FF, W / S, enemas. Possible permanent relationship with masculine partner. Visits USA twice a year, Box 295M.

SWEDEN

SOLNA. M. Cancer. 30, 5'8%". 132. White, 61%". Novice. Seeks knowledgeable, masculine partner to 45. Can switch but prefers M role. Box 228M.

WEST GERMANY

FRANKFURT, MS. Leo. 32, 61, 175. White 9". Knowledgeable. American abroad will service Slaves / Masters passing through, Gang fuck can be arranged. No fems, fats, Under 40 only. Limits respected. Box 185K.

Miss an issue of Drummer?

Find it at The Fantasy Bookstore II3 No. Erie Toledo, Ohio

LEFKO

Yeah. (pause) This fuckin' brig is the only half assed private place on the whole God damned tin can. (they pull away sliphtly) You know, Joey, it's seven fuckin' days till we make it to the good old Navy Yard and Sand Str is gonna work you over every single day. You know that? JOEY

Remember, don't change your story. Stick to the same one.

JOEY

The Captain ain't gonna break me, Lefty. He ain't. LEFKO

You know, kid. I believe you. Joey, how come you told the Captain you were a pog? JOEY

I wanna get out, Lefty. LEFKO

There's gotta be more to it than that. JOEY

You really wanna know?

LEFKO

You're damned right I do.

Don't know if I can really explain it. LEFTY … it's about the French. I thought they were on our side. I asked Gium and some of the officers but they didn't know. Captain Daily said something about Vach … ah . .

LEFKO

JOEY

Some city. Then we were smack into it. I was on the bridge watching all those fucking tracer shells … all colors, landing so close the water was splashin' on me … shit … it hit me like a ton of bricks … somebody was trying to kill me. My knees were knocking together. Then I saw this plane. I'm supposed to identify it as friendly or enemy and give the degree but I didn't know shit about nothin' like that … nobody told me nothin'. Captain Daily was just a few feet away from me so all I did was point to the fucking plane, and yell, "There's a plane up there, Captain." Thank God he don't remember that one. And then there was this explosion and I was sure we were hit and were going to sink. You know what it was? One of our five inch guns going off just a few feet away from me. What did I do? I shit in my fuckin' pants. When anyone came near me I moved away. What wa do tell them that I had to go change my pants? I felt like humping overboard and on top of that I knew somebody was trying to kill me. What the fuck for? And they were French. I and I could be dead … forever and for what? Why? I wanna know why. Why the fuck should I die and not know why I'm dying? I don't wanna die with my pants full of shit! LEFKO

Tkae it easy, kid, take it easy. IOEY

You think I'm a coward, Lefty, do you? LEFKO

Everybody thinks like that, Joey, sort of. JOEY

Maybe I am … maybe I am. LEFKO

Ain't no man really likes war … he may like the idea of it but that's all. How would you like that fart faced Fuhrer running the U.S.A.?

If I was dead it wouldn't make no difference to me who was running the country.

ĽEFKO

You gotta point there. I guess I better get my ass outa here, kid. (He gets up. Reaches into his sock and gets a pack of cigarettes. Throws them at JOEY) Here.

IOEY

You remembered my brand!

LEFKO

What were you saying? I'd forget your name? JOEY

I'll never forget you, kid. (The stand facing each other.

LEFTY moves to JOEY. They embrace. LEFTY'S hands are all over JOEY. He touches his face, is rubbing noses and starts to kiss. Stops, pulls away.

LEFKO

Better take it easy … Simmons out there! JOEY

LEFKO

JOEY I hear you. LEFKO

Good luck, Joey.

Yeah, see ya, Mac. (loud) Don't take any wooden, nickles, Mac. LEFKO exits.

Scene Five

In the Captain's office. GIUM is behind the Captain's desk getting the papers straight. JOEY is standing at attention. He is weaving, about ready to pass out. His knees buckle. It is six days after the last scene. GIUM runs to the door. GIUM

O'Connor? Where's Captain Daily? O'CONNOR (offstage)

On the bridge, GIUM runs down and grabs JOEY, Helps him to the

GIUM

Take it easy, Joey. I'll warn you when the old fart is coming. (goes behind desk) Ah, Joey? Got some bad news for you. Daily knows that Lefko visited you in the brig. OEY

(bent double in chair) How the fuck does he know that? GIUM

(holding a statement) Here … Simmons … the Captain got some scuttlebutt from a brown nose and he threatened Simmons until he spilled the beans on Lefty.

JOEY

Shit. He's really out to get me and Lefty. GIUM

JOEY

GIUM

At least he can't trap you.

JOEY

Thanks, Gium.

(bent over Joey) I'm scared the Captain is going to find out I visited you in the brig.

I ain't gonna tell him, GIUM

It's not you … it's Buckley … the guard who was on duty. Daily is questioning him later today. JOEY

Son of a bitch don't miss nothin', does he? GIUM

Ah. Joey, I guess you know this fuckin' mess would blow over if you gave Captain Daily the goods on Lefko.

You know, I can't do that. I just can't. GIUM

Shit, it wouldn't be any skin off your ass, Joey.

(yelling) Lay off, will ya, Gium?

(moves back to desk) Ah … there's something else. It's just a dumb thing but it seems that Ship's Clerk Rivington …

DAILY (offstage)

Shine those shoes, sailor. You're a disgrace to the Navy. GIUM runs around desk and grabs OEY and puts him on the mark standing at attention. JOEY looks like he can't stand for another second. DAILY enters.

DAILY

That black boy can't even make a hot cup of coffee. Bilge water (he sits. Asks questions of GIUM but his attention is on JOEY) You got everything from this morning, Yeoman?

DRUMMER 55

IOEY GIUM Yes sir … my own style of shorthand, sir, but it works. DAILY Didn't you say it was all over but the shouting, sir? DAILY I think I said something like that. You got it all typed up? JOEY GIUM You mean another sailor squealed on Lefty? All the previous interrogations except this morning's, sir! DAILY DAILY I'm asking the questions, you asshole. JOEY And the new material. GIUM What was it, sir? DAILY (puts hand on stack) The small pile. DAILY You know what the question was. Was Lefko worried that you (finally looks away from JOEY) Well done. I keep forgetting were going to squeal on him. Is that why he visited you? your name. GIUM Gium, sir. George Gium. Squeal about what, sir? DAILY DAILY Keep up the good work, Gium, and you'll be a first class That you were going to tell me that he made homosexual advances toward you! yeoman before you know it. JOEY GIUM But nothing like that happened, sir! DAILY Thank you, sir! JOEY giggles involuntarily. DAILY Alright, why did Lefko come to see you? Why? Why? JOEY JOEY Nothing I can think of, sir. What's so funny, Jurovick? He felt sorry for me for being in the brig on Christmas Day. JOEY DAILY Aye aye, sir! I don't know Wipe that grin off your face. DAILY DAILY Don't give me that bullshit you little prick. Why? Why? JOEY Got a long, long afternoon. Might as well get started! (rubs hands together) Name. I don't know why, sir! JOEY DAILY Jurovich, Joseph Charles. DAILY Alright! Attention! Toe that line. From the beginning JOEY everything that happened when Lefko came to see you in the 662 … ah … JOEY Rank! brig. Let's go! JOEY staggers to his feet. He is weaving trying to stand DAILY Ah … 662 ah … I ah … Rank! at attention. DAILY How long has Jurovick been standing at attention? GIUM IOEY was all alone and I was singing this song. It went something All morning. A little over five hours, sir. DAILY like this. It's Mac this … it's Mac that … DAILY If you don't watch your step I'm going to put you in chains He should be ready. Alright. (moves to JOEY) When did he and tape your mouth! go down to the brig to see you? JOEY Didn't you just tell me to start from the beginning, sir? Who, sir? DAILY DAILY From when Lefko came into the brig, you asshole! You know who I'm talking about, asshole! JOEY JOEY Lefty came in … he thought I was looney … I think that's You mean Lefty Lefko, sir? right. DAILY DAILY I don't mean the man in the moon. Well, Jurovick, when? From when he came in! JOEY JOEY Ah…ah…ah…ah… When he came in he called me Mac. He was worried that I would lie about him … that I would tell you that he made You're stuttering. homosexual advances at me, sir. But when I told him that I JOEY had told you the truth about him he felt a lot better. DAILY I think it was Christmas day, sir. DAILY You lying little asshole. Jurovick, I'm going over and over all You're confessing that Lefko did visit you in the brig? of this until you tell me the truth! Do you hear me loud and JOEY clear? Yes sir JOEY DAILY How could I not hear you, sir? About time you told the truth. You've finally seen the DAILY light, huh? Don't get smart with me, asshole. (he moves to GIUM) Yeo-JOEY man, something's fishy. I want to know what it is. Don't know what you mean, Captain. GIUM DAILY What do you mean, sir? DAILY It makes no difference at all what you say. At ease, Jurovick. Sit down! (pause. JOEY sits) How would you like a big fat This smart aleck son of a bitch knows that we know Lefko turkey sandwich and a cup of java? visited him in the brig. IOEY GIUM Could I have a glass of milk instead of coffee, sir? How could he know that, sir? DAILY DAILY (moves to door) If that black asshole doesn't fuck it up. Somebody told him. Do you have that statement from JOEY Simmons? Could I have some mayonnaise on the sandwich? GIUM DAILY It's right here, sir! (jumps up and gets it from desk.) DAILY Would you like some caviar, too? IOEY (looks at statement) Who could've known about it and tipped Some what? off Jurovick? DAILY GIUM (back to desk) First I want to straighten out a few small (squirming) No one, sir…ah…but I… details about Lefko. Tell me, Jurovick, why did he come to see you?

What is it?

I did leave it on my desk for about a half hour when I went to

DAILY

You mean you didn't lock it up?

GIUM

Sorry, sir. It won't happen again. DAILY

After this when you finish your reports bring them here immediately . Understood, Yeoman?

GIUM Yes, Captain. DAILY

There are a lot of people aboard this ship who don't like the way I'm running things. They're out to . . Stops. Looks at JOEY. Alright, who gave you that information on Lefko? Who was it?

JOEY

DAILY 1, 1, 1

You're stuttering!

JOEY

. N… Nobody visited me in the brig, sir! N… N… Nobody.

DAILY

You lying little bastard. You get his stuttering down, Yeoman? GIUM

(stuttering) W … w… would … ah … would you like me to read it back, sir?

DAILY

How does it compare to the last interrogation?

GIUM

(runs to desk) It looks like it's almost word for word, except for the new material, sir!

DAILY

The asshole probably memorized it. But we do have him for lying, right?

GIUM

Yes, sir. His previous testimony was that Lefko did not visit him in the brig, sir! DAILY

You hear that, Jurovick? JOEY

I guess I lied. DAILY I hear that, sir. DAILY You guess you lied? JOEY

Well?

I lied, sir. I lied.

You just don't want to learn, do you? Don't you see you're getting caught in a web of lies? If you'll just tell me the truth of what happened I'll go easy on you. I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman.

JOEY

Except for that one lie I've told you the truth, sir!

DAILY

You wanna bet on that? (shakes his head. Moves away from … / a / job [×5+] running around my ship!

GIUM

It undermines discipline. Do you understand, Yeoman? GIUM

Oh, yes sir! I do, sir!

DAILY

But no one … (a whisper) Do you know what they've been calling me?

Who, sir?

DAILY

The nickname they have for me … do you know it? GIUM

I haven't heard anything, sir.

DAILY

If you haven't it's because the sailors don't trust a pen pushing yeoman. They've been calling me … ah … Captain Goosey! Yeah. They don't realize that Lefko is a cancer on my ship. And I don't think Jurovick was a pog before that double gaited son of a bitch got his hands on him. (listens for a second) What in hell are you writing?

GIUM

I'm taking down everything you say, sir!

DAILY

I'm just talking to you, asshole!

GIUM

I'm sorry, sir. I'll scratch it out. DAILY

No one seems to understand that we're in a life and death struggle and we must be strong … strong. This war with fascism is just the beginning … just the beginning. Yeoman. Leonard Lefko is part of the Fifth Column in our midst. We must be united and if we cannot stamp out our own Fifth Column, how can we beat the Germans and the Japs?

GIUM

I never thought of that, sir! DAILY

But it's not only the Germans and the Japs. Once we defeat them we'll have to face the degenerate Russians … stamp out Communism! It's going to be a long, long war. (moves to GIUM) We must be united. (They look at each other. GIUM smiles. Captain pats him on the shoulder, they are friends. DAILY moves to desk, opens it and takes out a pack of Luckies. Cups them in his hand.)

DAIL

Jurovick, Jurovick. Look at me. (JOEY looks. He is so exhausted he is half falling down) Have you ever seen these before?

JOEY

It's a pack of Luckies, sir!

DAILY

Answer the question, you little prick! JOEY

I don't know if they're the same ones but I did have a pack of Luckies under my mattress, sir!

DAILY

How did they get there, asshole?

JOEY

I put them there, sir.

DAILY

Yeoman Gium, read the signed statement of Ships Clerk Rivington!

GIUM

(picks up statement) Chief Petty Officer Lefko purchased a pack of Luckies from the Ship's Store on December 25, 1942. I was surprised as I know Lefko does not smoke. When I asked him who he was buying the cigarettes for, he said, Quote "For the kid in the brig." Unquote. Signed, James Rivington, Ships Clerk, Third Class. DAILY

Well, Jurovick?

JOEY Well what, sir?

DAILY

You still deny that Lefko gave you the Luckies? JOEY

I didn't say he didn't give them to me, sir! DAILY

You admit he gave them to you?

Yes sir.

DAILY

Can't you see that it's useless, Jurovick. Can't you see I'm going to get the truth out of you. By the way, Leonard Lefko is up on charges. A deck court martial.

Really, sir! DAILY

It's only the beginning. Lefko is no longer a Chief Petty Officer. He is now a first class petty officer. Did you know that, Jurovick?

JOEY No sir, I didn't.

DAILY

There are a lot of things you don't know, sailor. There is no way you can save Lefko's queer ass. You're fighting the U.S. Navy single handed and it isn't going to work. Lefko is confined to his quarters and court martial proceedings will be brought against him as soon as we arrive at the Navy Yard. Why don't you just get it over with?

IOEY

A deck court martial ain't all that bad, sir! DAILY

It's just the first step, asshole. I can assure you I'm going to drum that bastard out of the service with a dishonorable dis- charge. We are now a little over 30 hours from the States and I'm telling you here and now that the next 30 hours are going to be pure hell for you. You haven't seen anything yet. And if you continue lying you're gonna get a dishonorable discharge and ten years in a navy prison … breaking rocks.

JOEY

Just for telling you I'm a homosexual, sir? DAILY

Shut up! Chin in! Square those fuckin' shoulders. Alright, let's start from the beginning. From when that double gaited prick came to see you in the brig.

IOEY

I can't, I can't. (his knees bend. He falls to the floor.)

DAILY

I know you're playing possum, Jurovick. Get up! JOEY

(begins to sing hysterically) Marie Elena, you're the answer to a prayer

DAILY

(runs to door) A pail of salt water … on the double. O'CONNOR (offstage)

Aye aye, sir! GIUM moves across stage toward JOEY on the floor. The captain stops him. GIUM looks at captain, then at JOEY. They freeze.

JOEY

Help / me! [×3+] END OF FIRST ACT

Copyright 1976 by George Birimisa. All rights reserved. Not to be reprinted or performed , in part or in whole, without the permission of the author.

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ALLEN EAGLES

It's not surprising that movies about the American frontier provide many instances of screen torture. After all, these movies constitute one of the most popular and durable of all film genres, and the list of westerns cranked out since the days of The Great Train Robbery must surely number into the thousands. Besides, westerns usually deal with combinations of characters and situations which frequently, sometimes even inevitably , lead to savage resolutions.

For example, the brutality and lawlessness of the frontier might be demonstrated by showing Apaches roasting a captured soldier over an open fire, or by having local vigilantes tie a lawbreaker to the town hitching post and soundly bullwhipping him. In either case, the sight of tough, danger- hardened men inflicting or receiving pain amid an atmosphere of unrestrained violence makes the western torture one of the most vivid in the history of screen sadism.

Let's begin with the Indians. Until recently, most American film-makers seemed quite content to portray Indians as villainous , bloodthirsty savages - while depicting white pioneers, soldiers and explorers as the courageous vanguards of an advancing civilization. Since many Indian tribes had a not-undeserved reputation for subjecting their captives to prolonged and imaginative tortures, western film-makers often chose to dramatize this supposed difference in the races by

Lack of a whipping post doesn't deter the resident sadist from soundly thrashing his victim in Seven Guns for the MacGregors (1967). arranging for a white frontiersman to fall into the hands of his red enemies. Showing how these enemies skillfully tormented their prisoner, and how the prisoner gallantly endured their cruelty, enabled the screenwriter to clearly label both the "good guys" and the "bad guys" and insured the appropriate audience response to each set of characters. For decades, Hollywood perpetuated this simplistic view of

Although most frontier dramas made during the silent era have been lost or forgotten, viewers lucky enough to catch D.W. Griffith's 1924 epic, America, can see an early example of one of this genre's classic torture situations. In Griffith's film, an American soldier of the Revolutionary War has been captured by a mixed band of renegade British officers and mercenary Mohawk Indian braves. The handsome young soldier, stripped to the waist to reveal a muscular, lightly- haired chest, is bound to a wooden post. When he refuses to give military information to his British interrogators, an Indian approaches and gouges out the captive's eyes with his fingers. (Audience sensibilities being what they were at the time, the Mohawk positions himself between the camera and the soldier so the actual blinding can't be seen.) Despite the absence of sound, it's safe to assume that the square-jawed patriot in America didn't scream for mercy. The western hero, like all screen heroes, endures his pain stoically.

Not only does Stuart Whitman get dragged around by his wrists in Rio Conchos (1964), he's also thrashed and speared by his Indian tormentors.

Scrawny Anthony Quinn rescues brawny Joel McCrea from a gang of torture-minded squaws in the 1944 version of Buffalo Bill.

In Cecil B. DeMille's 1936 version of The Plainsman, Gary Cooper as Wild Bill Hickok continues this tradition of silence-under -torture by refusing to tell the indians the planned route of a wagon train, even when the Indians suspend him by the wrists over a pit of fire. Jean Arthur, playing Calamity Jane, spares our fully clothed hero from an excruciating death by telling the Indians what they want to know. This convenient intervention on the part of the heroine saved the screenwriter from having to choose between two unpalatable resolutions: (1) allowing the hero to die under torture, or (2) having the hero "squeal.

In 1944, another famous figure of the Old West came to the screen when Joel McCrea played the title role in William Wellman's Buffalo Bill. During the course of this story, Indians capture McCrea and we're soon treated to a scene of our bare-chested frontiersman - tethered to a wooden post - being vigorously thrashed by a group of portly, switch-wielding squaws. One of these squaws then picks up a stick from a bonfire and points its burning end at McCrea's chest, right between the nipples. Only the arrival of Indian chief Anthony Quinn rescues our hero from having his torso blistered and scorched.

(Quinn's timely appearance spoils what could have been a memorable ordeal-by-fire scene. Joel McCrea, age 39 at the time of Buffalo Bill's filming, possessed both an easy, masculine manner and an unusually well-muscled physique, and the sight of him under torture - head thrown back and teeth gritted against the pain as that burning stick is pressed repeatedly into his sweaty flesh - would have made a significant contribution to the lore of cinema sadism.)

A brief scene in the 1957 western, Run of the Arrow, shows an Indian advancing on a captured cavalry officer with knife in hand. The officer, played with arrogant overtones by Ralph Meeker, is tied to that by now-familiar wooden post, and apparently he's to be skinned alive. Only a merciful bullet fired into him from a distance by Rod Steiger spares Meeker from hours of unrelieved agony.

No wooden posts can be found in either The Commacheros (1961) or Rio Conchos (1964). In the former, the body of a bare-chested cowboy can be spotted in the background of an Indian camp, spread-eagled inside an upright wooden frame. He's obviously died of exposure. In Rio Conchos, the Indians tie Stuart Whitman, Jim Brown and Richard Boone behind their horses and drag them by the wrists in a large circle. Other Indian warriors gathered around this circle beat the captives as they're dragged by, and one of them even thrusts a spear into Whitman's right leg. Soldiers of the U.S. Cavalry find the blackened body of Lt.

William Reynolds tied to the side of an army wagon in the 1964 A Distant Trumpet. He's been burned to death by

Indians.

A similar fate greeted a nameless soldier in Sam Peckinpah's Major Dundee (1965). Charlton Heston's cavalry troop finds this soldier hanging by his ankles over a burned-out campfire. He's been stripped of his shirt, and his wrists are bound behind his back. His head and torso have been blackeend as a result of the fire. Heston says: "I hope he was dead before they hanged him up like that." One of Heston's soldiers replies with grim

Assurance: "If he was dead, they wouldn't have bothered."

Nineteen sixty-six saw the release of two westerns laced with examples of Indian sadism. In Ralph Nelson's Duel at Diablo, a band of soldiers besieged by warring Apaches dispatches a lone rider back to the fort to seek reinforcements. The rider (Bill Hart) never reaches his destination. He's found staked out to the side of a sandy hill, his outstretched arms reduced to ashes.

Later, the same Indians strap Dennis Weaver to a wagon wheel and then turn it so that their victim's bare feet will be dangled in the flames of an open campfire. Not only does this scene record Weaver's screams of agony - an uncommon recognition of human fraility - but it concludes with James Garner giving the dying man a gun so he can put an end to his misery. This sort of complicity in suicide was rarely evident in the movies of the '30s, '40s and early '50s.

On The Road to Fort Alamo (1966), cavalry officer Ken

Scott discovers the bodies of two muscular troopers staked out in the desert, spread-eagled style. The men have been placed side by side so the left wrist and ankle of the first trooper are bound to the same pegs as the right wrist and ankle of the second man. One of the troopers has his shirt town open to

expose a thickly haired chest, but there's no mention of either man having had his eyelids slit apart. Indians often did this to prevent a victim from closing his eyes against the burning sun. Sometimes they also propped open his mouth with a stick, then sprinkled honey inside to lure desert ants down his throat.

Scott later comes across two more troopers, both naked to the waist, bound upright to a pair of X-shaped frames. It isn't exactly clear now they met their death (though the agonized expressions on their faces indicate they both died screaming), but apparently the Indians used them at some point in their ordeal as targets in arrow practice.

(The bodies of soldiers used for arrow practice are also shown in Chuka (1967), while in Garden of Evil (1954) Gary Cooper rides past the arrow-ridden corpse of a cowboy hang- ing upside-down from a wooden cross.)

Another cowboy suffered an even more painful fate in the 1968 western, Shalako. Jack Hawkins assigns this tough-looking man of the frontier to escort Brigitte Bardot on a hunting party. Both ride into an Indian ambush. When Sean Connery rides to the rescue of the besieged Bardot, he sees the lingering death the Indians have devised for the captured cowpoke

The victim has been positioned face up on the ground with his ankles tied to a securely imbedded peg, his body arched upward so that his bare back rests agonizingly against the tip of a sharpened stake. To complete the bondage, the Indians have stretched out both of the cowboy's arms and staked them by the wrists to the ground. While Connery and Bardot watch helplessly from a distance, the groaning, sweating victim tries desperately to keep his body rigid so he won't collapse and impale himself on that sharpened stake. Finally, however, the weight and the strain become too much for him to control, and with sickening speed the cowboy feels the point of the stake shoving its way upward through his torso. Now all that's left is the man's half-naked body stretched out flat under the scorching sun, a blood-smeared shaft of wood protruding upward through his chest.

One of the most vivid and graphic of all western sadism scenes occurs in the 1970 made-in-Israel movie, Madron. In this movie a fierce Indian tribe captures a Mexican bandit (Gabi Amrani) and then savagely tortures him to find out the whereabouts of his comrade (Richard Boone). When we first see Amrani in the Indian camp, he's spread-eagled between two wooden posts, his face and naked torso streaked with blood, sweat and dirt. An Indian woman approaches with a knife and apparently begins to peel a hunk of skin from the prisoner's right side. (The camera remains focused on Amrani's face here, and his open-mouthed scream is largely drowned out by the shouts and chants of the Indians dancing around him.) The woman's hand now drops lower, obviously moving the knife down toward the victim's groin.

Amrani's sufferings are cut short at this crucial point by a rifle bullet fired from outside the camp by Richard Boone. We can see the Mexican's head slump forward in death, and in this distant shot, we can also see that Amrani's trousers have been loosened at the waist and his fly spread apart to form a V- shaped opening leading to his genitals. Television prints of Madron don't include this particular shot, perhaps because of the implications of male nudity and castration.

Even in edited form, however, Madron's torture scene remains a sadistic highlight in the history of the western. The swirling dust of the Indian encampment, the blazing desert sun, the chanting of the braves, the muscular Mexican's sweaty, soiled body - all combine to create an indelible image of slow, savage death. In The Hunting Party (1971), Gene Hackman and his band Indian-hunters find the body of one of their colleagues of the / property / of [×13+] victim, in this case a farmer whose homestead is overrun by an Indian raiding party, has his legs hooked by the knees over a wooden fence. His arms are then pulled backward and tied to a pair of pegs driven into the ground. With his torso hanging at a downward angle, the farmer becomes well-positioned "fuel" for the fire that's set under his head.

These scenes in The Hunting Party and Ulzana's Raid must be considered disappointments, however, because in each case

A nasty surprise greets Ken Clark on The Road to Fort Alamo - a 1966 western which might be subtitled Cavalrymen Die Screaming.

the victim is only discovered after he's met his death, and in each case the victim is fully clothed. While one can't expect total nudity in these scenes, having the men stripped to the waist would have added considerably to the overall effect.)

Indians bury Stefan Gierasch up to his neck in Jeremiah Johnson (1972) and leave him to die – a technique also used in last year's The Outlaw Josey Wales – while Johnny Firecloud (1975) proved that modern "palefaces" still who's also a veteran of the war in Vietnam extracts revenge on a group of local townsmen for the death of his father. His most bizarre punishment involves binding a man to a fence post and then tying a gunny sack full of rattlesnakes around his head.

Needless to say, Indians sometimes tortured fellow Indians as well as white men. Probably the best such sequence to be found in the movies occurs in the 1953 western, Conquest of Cochise. Indian chief John Hodiak must suffer three punishments at the hands of his tribe for "selling out" to the U.S. Army. First of all, he's horizontally stretched face down over a pile of heated rocks. When Indian women pour water on these rocks, clouds of steam envelop Hodiak and cause him scalding pain

Then the Indian braves bind Hodiak to a wooden post, his arms stretched together above his head, and ride past him with knives in their hands. As each horseman passes the victim, he

Finally, bundles of wood are arranged around Hodiak's feet so he can suffer the ultimate agony of death by burning, but Robert Stack and his troop of cavalrymen arrive at the last moment to save the gallant chief from his own tribesmen.

In A Man Called Horse (1970), Indians initiate Englishman Richard Harris into their tribe by forcing two hooks under the muscles above his nipples and then suspending his entire body weight from the rafter in their lodge by means of ropes attached to these hooks. A similar sequence occurs in the 1976 Return of a Man Called Horse, with Harris once again wearing a false chest designed and built by make-up man John Chambers.

The Return of a Man Called Horse also contains a scene in which Indian children torment a captured member of a rival tribe. This loin clothed enemy (Jorge Luke) has been tethered to a wooden post in the center of the camp so that the children can viciously prod him with sharpened sticks and then dart back out of range before the tortured man can kick or butt them.

Added to these instances of Indian torture in the movies must be those innumerable occasions where such torture is at least discussed or implied: the screams of captured white men coming through the darkness from a nearby Indian camp, the barricaded settler shooting himself rather than fall into the hands of savage sadists, the sickened expression on a soldier's face as he passes the bodies of his fallen comrades mutilated by Indian warriors, et., etc.

While it's easy to locate scenes of Indians torturing whites in the movies, the reverse situation rarely occurs - perhaps because having whites torture Indians would conflict with Hollywood's notions of just who were the "good guys" and who were the "bad guys" in America's westward movement. While settlers and soldiers might gun down their red opponents on the battle field, but "civilized" men would never stoop to adopting the brutal tactics of the "heathen."

The movies willingly recognized, however, that whites often tortured other whites on the frontier, and when this took place, the most commonly used implement of pain proved to be the ever-reliable whip. In fact, so common are floggings in westerns that the whip sometimes seems as much a part of the frontiersman's garb as his cowboy hat and six-gun.

Just as in the case of Indian torture, the use of the whip in westerns can be traced back to the days of the silents. For example, in Greta Garbo's 1926 film, The Temptress, hero Antonio Moreno engages in a violent, bare-chested whip match with one of his enemies. Though Moreno wins the duel, he suffers a number of bloody gash marks all over his hairy torso, as well as one temporarily blinding lash across his eyes. While one might argue that a whip match can't qualify as torture, the sight of two brawny men flogging away at each other's sweaty flesh makes for a suitably sadistic episode.

Whipping is carried to greater extremes in the 1940 movie,

Brigham Young. Here, a gang of Illinois vigilantes haul two Mormen men out of a farmhouse, tie them wrist-to-wrist on opposite sides of a large tree trunk, rip open the backs of their shirts, and then flog them to death. (The two middle-aged and slightly overweight men succumb with suspicious rapidity. Hollywood film-makers sometimes present a naive picture of how much punishment a man's body can actually absorb.)

The wagon-wheel-as-whipping-post can be found in John Ford's 1950 classic, Wagonmaster. Ben Johnson in the title role orders one of his men tied to such a wheel when he dis- covers the cowboy (Fred Libby) has aroused the ire of local Indians by molesting one of their women. "Strip this man to the waist," Johnson orders, "and tie him to a wagon wheel." Then Johnson watches as his bearded friend (Don Sommers) delivers 16 stinging lashes across the culprit's broad and sweaty back. Unlike a similar scene in Kiss of Fire, Libby isn't bound to the upright wheel in spread-eagle style. Rather, his punishers simply tie his wrists to a leather cord which is then strung securely through the spokes of the wheel. This type of bond allows the victim a surprising degree of mobility, and Wagonmaster is one of the few movies in which the "whippee" actively struggles against the "whip-Throughout his chastisement, Libby kicks and curses vigorously at the determined Sommers.

Speaking of Kiss of Fire (1955), the victim of the flogging in this movie is a burly Spanish soldier who's bound bare-chested to a wagon wheel and then soundly whipped. His tormentors wish to wrest information from him about a plot against Spanish rule in early-day California, but as one of the interrogators later says with a sigh: "His heart gave out before his tongue.

Although Wagonmaster's flogging episode clearly surpasses that of Kiss of Fire in vitality and style, Kiss of Fire has the undeniable advantage of being photographed in color. Dripping welts across a bare back never register well in black and white, which may partially explain why the wagon wheel flogging of an errant cowboy is merely discussed in Red River (1948), but never carried out.

Marlon Brando, tied to a hitching post in the 1961 One-Eyed Jacks, suffers a brutal whipping at the hands of corrupt sheriff, Karl Malden. Unfortunately, Malden doesn't strip his victim to the waist before beginning the punishment; but he does rip open the back of Brando's shirt, and the sound of this ripping has a remarkably arousing effect on any sadistically

As for the flogging itself, Malden carries it out with obvious relish, and Brando fulfills the traditional role of the stoic hero by never once even whimpering in pain. His only sign of weakness , in fact, comes when he slowly begins to slump to the ground under the force of the sheriff's lashes. Later, we're per- mitted a scene of Brando lying face down in bed as a sympa- thetic woman treats his cut and bleeding back.

Perhaps as a result of the law-and-order mood of the time, Hollywood's frontier floggings of the late '60s and early usually occured in prison or military fort locales. In the 1966 Nevada Smith, for example, the boss of a Louisiana chain gang orders a lashing for one of his prisoners as punishment for an escape attempt. The prisoner (Arthur Kennedy) has his wrists tied together and then pulled upward by means of a rope looped over a tree branch so that his feet barely touch the ground. A camp guard tears off Kennedy's shirt and then steps back, uncoiling his long whip. He proceeds to flog the prisoner's bare back while the other inmates of the labor camp watch in sullen silence. After whipping his victim into near-unconsciousness , the guard cuts him down so he falls face first into a pool of swamp water. Only the intervention of fellow prisoner Steve McQueen saves Kennedy from drowning.

(When one of the television networks presented Nevada Smith several years ago, a violence-conscious censor edited down this flogging sequence so that Arthur Kennedy received only two lashes before being cut down. Unsuspecting viewers either marveled at the prison guard's leniency or wondered how only two lashes could turn the victim's back into a bloody canvas.)

Rod Taylor's 1967 western, Chuka, contains an example of law-and-order punishment, military style. When Taylor first enters a frontier fort commanded by John Mills, he sees a bare-chested soldier wincing under a lash wielded with considerable vigor by one of his uniformed colleagues. The soldier

A big mouth results in a sore back for insubordinate Michael Cole later of Mod Squad fame) in this scene from Chuka (1967)

(played by Mod Squad's Michael Cole) has been placed against a tall tripod of wooden poles, hands above head, and secured with rawhide thongs tied around his wrists, elbows and knees. Despite the fact that he turns out to be an unsympathetic character, Cole grits his teeth and endures his lashing in heroic silence. (One can only speculate how high this scene might have ranked on the S&M scale had it been Rod Taylor's broad and sweaty back being laid open by the bite of the lash.)

The law cracking the whip in There Was a Crooked Man (1970) comes in the form of a territorial prison guard played by Bert Freed. The victim, a young, muscular inmate played by Michael Blodgett, has been singled out for punishment be- cause he punched the guard in the jaw after the guard had made "advances" to him. (Ah, the joys of the adult western!) The guard locks the prisoner in a pair of wristcuffs hanging from the prison's whipping post, conveniently located in the middle of the rock pile, and proceeds to lay a couple of lashes across the victim's back - a back bronzed and gleaming from the blazing Arizona sun. The camera, unfortunately, takes more of an interest in Freed's face than Blodgett's back. In any case, the punishment is all too quickly ended by the eruption of a prison riot.

Woody Strode, another labor camp inmate, suffers under a flogging in The Revengers (1972), but in Clint Eastwood's 1973 wester, High Plains Drifter, the tables are turned on the law-and-order image when three villains armed with bullwhips surround a frontier sheriff one night on the main street of town and viciously beat him to death. Since the sheriff remains fully clothed and completely unbound during his ordeal, this particular scene may not qualify as a classic in the S&M cinema, but it contains a memorable shot of a bullwhip's tip savagely coiling around the lawman's face like the tentacle of an angry sea monster.

Charles Bronson, who began his movie career playing sadistic villains, underwent a metamorphosis of sorts which eventually resulted in his portraying a masochistic hero in 1976's made-in-Spain entry, Chino. Bronson's tormentor in this case is Marcel Bozzuffi, a wealthy landowner who's incensed when the half-breed cowboy comes callin sister (Jill Ireland). To teach this cowboy a lesson in social positions, Bozzuffi orders several of his drovers to beat him with a bullwhip. The drovers respond not only with enthusiasm but with inventiveness as well. Instead of binding their victim to the traditional whipping post — as some of the newspaper ads for <math>\it Chino</math> erroneously show — Bozzuffi’s men first drag the shirtless Bronson across the ground by means of ropes tied around each wrist. Then they use these ropes to hoist Bronson off the ground so that he dangles helplessly by his wrists from the crossbar of a tall wooden frame. One of the dovers begins to crack his bullwhip across Bronson's unprotected back

The remainder of the flogging, all 20 lashes of it, follows the usual pattern of tight-lipped bravery. However, Bronson does go through a period of recuperation after his ordeal (unlike some flogging victims who never seem to suffer the slightest affereffects from a movie whipping), and though the welts on his back appear insufficiently gory, there are several close-up shots of Bronson's pain-contorted face (framed by deep, hairy armpits) which form memorable images of mascu- line anguish.

Other western movies containing flogging scenes are The Streets of Laredo, Rebel in Town, The True Story of Jesse James, California Conquest, The Great Missouri Raid, Showdown at Abilene, Vengeance of the West and Seven Guns for the MacGregors.

Even without his flesh-tearing whip, however, the frontier sadist could devise a variety of ways to inflict pain on his enemies. In the 1950 Eagle and the Hawk, for instance, the bad guys tie John Payne face up between two parallel-placed horses: his left ankle and wrist are bound to one saddle; his right ankle and wrist, bound to the other. The horses are then sent racing off across the prairie with the helpless Payne stretched painfully between them as kind of a living yoke. Before our hero manages to extricate himself from this dilemma, his shirt is ripped open and his back scraped bloody by a passing cactus, causing him to arch upward in a sharp moment of agony.

Pain comes more slowly to he-man Roger Moore in 1961's Gold of the Seven Saints. In an attempt to wrest from him the location of a gold mine, Moore's enemies stake him out bare-

chested under the scorching sun with strips of wet rawhide pulled tightly around his torso. As the wet rawhide shrinks under the heat of the sun, it slowly crushes the breath out of his body. (To make sure his lungs are nearly empty of air before they begin the torture, the bad guys deliver a few vicious punches to Moore's stomach.) Eventually Moore is rescued by his partner, Clint Walker, whose massive chest would seem to be impervious to such rib-crushing torments.

Branding on different sides of the body can be found in 1964's A Distant Trumpet (the back side) and 1966's Ride Beyound Vengeance (the chest side). In the former, trooper Bobby Bare must suffer the fate of an army deserter and, accordingly, has a "C" for "Coward" pressed into his back with a red-hot iron. Unlike the soldiers gathered inside the fort to witness this punishment, however, the audience must be satisfied with the agonized expression on Bare's face coupled with a puff of smoke drifting upward from behind his naked torso.

In Ride Beyound Vengeance, psychotic Bill Bixby presses a glowing branding iron down onto Chuck Connors' bare chest as Connors lies half-unconscious on the ground. Bixby, it seems, is a deranged sadist who does this sort of thing just for the hell of it.

Although torture isn't involved in Viva Maria! (1965), bondage fans surely carry fond memories of the scene in which George Hamilton is shown as a virile but vulnerable captive with a wooden yoke chained across his shoulders and out- stretched arms. (The price he pays for being on the losing side of a Latan American revolution.) While Hamilton's lean but attractive torso could have been effectively whipped, flayed or burned in this position, co-star Jeanne Moreau contents herself with simply ripping off the prisoner's white shirt and caressing his bare chest with her lips and tongue.

Barbwire, which surprisingly hasn't been used much in westerns as a torture device, is employed with sadistic purpose in that 1966 Italian import, The Hills Run Red. During the credits of this movie, we see leading man Thomas Hunter as an inmate in a Civil War prison camp. He stands bare-chested in an open-air cage about the size of a telephone booth, and every time he tries to shake off one of the flies that settles on his sweaty body, he scrapes his arms and torso against the horizontal strands of barbwire which keep him imprisoned. Needless to say, his entire upper body oozes with a multitude of cuts and gashes.

(The Man Without a Star, released in 1955, contains an equally painful scene in which a man whose torso is wrapped tightly in the stuff gets pushed off his horse, but since the victim hasn't been stripped to the waist, the scene lacks sadistic impact – even when the helplessly bound man falls with an agonizing grunt to the ground. Some movies will discover the potentials of the barbwire whip.) The villains in A Minute to Pray, A Second to Die (1969) suspend hero Alex Cord like a living cross between two buildings . Apparently he's meant to hang there - arms outstretched , each wrist tied by rope to a nearby wall, feet dangling at least a man's height above the ground — until he dies of thirst and exposure. (Scatologists might well wonder why Cord's trousers aren't stained with urine and excrement at this point.) After about 10 or 12 hours of hanging, one of Cord's friends cuts the dazed man down and carries him away to recuperate. Viewers disappointed at such a trite resolution to such an intriguing ordeal might find some consolation in the opportunity this sequence affords to stare at Cord's well- muscled and beautifully tanned torso.

Hans Meyer, in the 1970 Cannon for Dordoba, proves he also likes suspending his victims - but by the ankles rather than the wrists and preferably over a roaring fire. The fully clothed cowboy he hangs in this position quickly reveals what little he knows about troop movements along the Mexican border, circa 1900, but not before getting his face and hands scorched to blisters as he's swung back and forth through the flames. One of Meyer's colleagues remarks that he doesn't mind using torture to extract necessary information, but he doesn't care much for the eager way in which Meyer goes about his task.

The bad guys also use fire to loosen the tongues of the good guys in Sundance Cassidy and Butch the Kid (1976), a shameless Italian rip-off of that Paul Newman / Robert Redford hit. They strip the two muscular heroes to the waist, bind their wrists behind their backs, and lay them face up on the floor of a cabin. One of the villains then advances on the helpless pair with a smoldering stick taken from a fireplace, a stick he clearly intends to use on his victims' shirtless chests in an attempt to force them to tell where they hid the loot from a recent bank robbery. Alas, an eruption of gunfire outside the cabin distracts the torturers and allows the heroes to break free before they're made to smell the odor of burnt skin and scorched hair.

That odor could be detected in The Return of a Man Called Horse if this 1976 movie had been filmed in "Aroma-rama" or "Scent-o-Vision." As a means of forcing information about a lost Indian tribe from a villainous trapper, Richard Harris stakes the fully clothed fellow out on the ground in Indian fashion. Then he piles leaves and twigs on top of the trapper's groin and sets this fuel on fire. After about 30 seconds of futile squirming and shouted protests, the trapper (Bill Lucking ) tells Harris what he wants to know and Harris brushes the small but damaging bonfire off the man's crotch.

In closing this chapter on frontier sadism, mention should be made of the numerous and varied S&M scenes which occured in western series during their television heyday of the late '50s and early '60s. Stars that suffered bare-back whippings during that era include Robert Horton in Wagon Train (while bound to a wagon wheel); Clint Eastwood and Eric Fleming in Rawhide (while tied to trees); Allen Case in The Deputy (while pressed against the side of a barn); and Lee

Wagon Train episode by allowing one of his fellow Indians to cut his arms with a heated knife blade while he stood tied in spread-eagle style between two posts. During this test, the sweaty and muscular Tryon wore only a loincloth.

Another Wagon Train segment showed Robert Horton staked out under the blazing sun by disgruntled Indians. Horton's rescue came in human form, but when Richard Boone found himself in a similar predicament in Have Gun Will Travel, he relied on his horse to chew through his bonds. The actors displayed brawny, sweat-glistening chests, but in both cases they remained fully clothed from the waist down barefooted over an open fire, and Indians spread-eagled a bare-chested Chuck Connors between two trees in the short- lived series, Branded.

Perhaps to Henry Darrow in The High Chapparel goes the honor of suffering through TV's best frontier torture scene. To pass a test of Indian courage, Darrow permits himself to be tied upside-down in crucifixion style in the center of a tribal encampment. Mounted braves then ride by him, lashing his naked chest with whips each time they pass. By the time the heroic Darrow is deemed to have passed the test, his torso is covered with bloody slash marks.

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DRUMMER TAKES A LOOK AT THE INTERMOUNTAIN LOGGING COMPANY

DRUMMER 63

Joe and Andy start out their visit to Joe and Andy Start out their visit to the Intermountain Logging Company by naturally trying on some western clothes. The plaids and cut of the shirts are authentic. So are the levis that come next. Stiffly new, they will s

Joe helps Andy with a fit. The only thing that has changed with Levis since their inception during the last century is one rivet and the price. The head of the company was standing before a campfire one night and after the rivet in the crotch got uncomfortably hot, the decision was made to abandon it.

What cowboy can resist trying on new boots from an assortment such as this. Better western boots are lined, have high arches and 'dig-in' heels for better control during the calf-roping process. The stitched designs are a matter of personal

The fitting room with its changing booths has a bunkhouse feeling, though somewhat luxurious by comparison. The boys don't bother with privacy during the Levi choosing, but later try the booths, or at least the bottom half. It wasn't from modesty, however, they had simply hung their street clothes there.

- Photos by Hy Chase

preference and are mainly for dress boots. Again Joe gives Andy a hand. That's what buddles are for.

Owner Cliff Hassing says, "There are a lot of dudes around who were born and raised on ranches. These guys feel most comfortable in western attire, It is not a costume. I was born and raised on a ranch," Cliff was also a DI with the Army for 14 years and plans to carry some military and police attire.

Joe and Andy have a parting word with Intermountain's manager and head off int

"Uh, there really is a Rex, isn't there?" The voice on the telephone is hesitant. It's a fair question. Though the drawings that are signed "Rex" are earthy, highly real and personal, still there is something\nin that techn

a magnifying glass to check it out, well, it's only lines and dots and black and white after all. A Drawing doesn't give itself up to you like a photograph. It eludes you.

There is a Rex, but Rex doesn't give himself up to you either. Not many people meet Rex. An interview? It's out of the question. Reserved, intense, wary of outsiders and newcomers, Rex is an enigma, as disciplined and demanding in himself as the taut technique of his drawings . He's handsome: fine sharp features, dark hair, tight-muscled, the classic grin of a GI. Definitely handsome, and always soberly dressed in black, always wearing those thick-soled German army boots you sometimes see in Rex drawings.

Rex lives and works in the kind of fortress you get used to in New York. A cool, dark space with a precision finish. Photographs are everywhere — men, machines, aircraft hangars, horses — and Tom of Finland's drawings. ("Everyone owes Tom a lot. He took the rugged American man, made him larger than life and gave him back to us," Rex will say if you ask about them.)

In a room like a bunker, drawings for the new Rex book are tacked to cork walls below a khaki parachute that spills out of an army helmet in the center of the ceiling. Some of the drawings are finished, just the way they'll be published. Others are being worked on, a process that can take months. The outlines are already there, the male flesh still blank, perhaps just a leather sleeve Rex has totally completed, highlights glistening, the teeth of a zipper. Already they are beautiful and hot just like that, unbeautiful and not just that, the finished. ("A drawing is complete at several stages," Rex said once. "Something in each stage has to be sacrificed to the final drawing.") the final drawing.") What makes the finished drawings so hot? For one thing, these are not inno- cent daydreams. These are not pretty fellows draped in fetish symbols. The boots and leathers, the uniforms, the clamps and chains and jocks express a horny urgency. The men who grapple with each other with such a fierce passion are not always even handsome. Some of the best men in the world of Rex are purely brutal.

Rex never sets up a narrative series. All the story is there in one flash, telescoped into a single moment and isolated on the page. These are drawings you look at one at a time. In each one Rex distills the action we have all seen, done or imagined , but which we get to bring off only rarely and never do so well.

The settings are immediate. The action can't wait for a safer place or a better time; it explodes on the spot, in the johns, on a subway car, in lockers or a room at the Y. But there's a cryptic quality in the atmosphere, a sense that even the litter on a seedy hotel room floor carries a special message. Though you recognize some familiar images, Rex gives them a private twist. Take the classic leatherman on the cover of Mannespielen 2. Rex captures the dull shine of his jacket and the topman's traditional leather cap, but you can't read the expression in his eyes; they are strangely remote. And he licks his upper lip in a disconcerting gesture - Why? In anticipation? A cool appraisal? Pure sensuality? There is something elusive and seductive in these details, too.

And the titles. Last year hardly anyone knew the meaning of Mannespielen (let alone how to say it). Rex explains it as German slang meaning men's games, a kind of rough locker room horseplay. The games these men are into make pretty heavy horseplay: games of power, games of submission, waiting games, played out in an intense hush.

The new book is called Icons, Images of worship. And new games that express a kind of rugged communion. Rex is finer than ever. He draws his icons from his own world. The world of Rex excludes you or draws you in, at your own risk.

Those who never got a friendly flash from a sailor in the subway might see Rex drawings as a pure exercise in fantasy. But the DRUMMER man moves in this world himself. He knows.

BIKE CLUB

Winner of the MR. TURKEY contest is Ellis Santore (left and bottom right). Other contestants are unidentified, but very much present. Setting is SPIKE BAR in New York. Photos by Doug White.

WHEELS

Early in the holiday season, WHEELS, M.C. of New York City held its first annual MR. TURKEY contest at the Spike Bar along the celebrated "Dock Strip."

Entrants for Mr. Turkey had to be over 40 years of age. WHEELS was not looking for the "Mr. Chicken" of inexperience , but the groovy guy who had been around, tried and tested, and who had much to offer in vintage rather than youth.

As the evening progressed, it became noticeable that this contest was different from most of the other beauty contests held in bars. Instead of the typical poseur, the entrants entered into the spirit of the evening with not only looks but ready wit. Each contestant was tested on appearance and personality, and in each of them was the voice of experience - as well as intelligence. Even more important, every contestant, as he appeared before the audience, smashed the age-old myth that if you are over 30, you're over the hill!

What they did show was that with maturity comes a new attractiveness. Somewhere as the years go by, you lose your hang-ups, inhibitions and embarrassments , while gaining a sense of humor and an acceptance of your lifestyle.

Though it was winner-take-all, every contestant came out a winner in showing the attractiveness of the leather man in middle-age and loving every minute of it!

The winner of the contest was Ellis Santore, 43 in February, an Aquarius rising — a full-blooded Italian born and raised in New Haven, Connecticut, currently a resident of Greenwi Educated at Oberlin and Purdue in Ohio, he has worked in the theatre for 15 years and directed over 55 plays.

His interests are theatre, ballet, the art of conversation, museums, painting, opera, cooking and nude beaches.

He loves travel and he loves gay life!! - a worthy representative of the vintage man who knows how to appreciate every minute of life!

- Jay Norman

KNIGHTS OF OMAHA, mid- west bike club, meets at Omaha's Leather / Levi DIA- MOND BAR.

21-23 45th Rd. Long Island City New York 11101

HOT STUFF!THE BIKER CLUB CALENDAR

The above events are sanctioned by A.M.C.C. for 1977.

FOLSOM PRISON at the beginning of the Folsom Strip in San Francisco has been torn down, we are sorry to report. Closing night festivities included the ripping down of the famous prison bars over the big horseshoe shaped ba

E LEATHER BAR SCEN

WESTERN / LEATHER [×6+]

If You're Man Enough - that's the theme of Boston's newest bar. Boston, known as the "Hub" of the Universe, the intellectual and cultural center of the country (believe it or not, there are over 250 schools, colleges, universities, etc. in Greater Boston), is changing its conservative puritanically attitude towards sex to a more liberal outlook. This is, at least in part, to its proximity to New York, as well as its close ties with its sister city of San Francisco. Boston's newest bar? The Boston Eagle. The Eagle has brother bars in New York, Washington, D.C., and Munich, Germany,

The Eagle is basically a leather-denim bar. Basically! On any given night you can meet a good cross-type of Boston's gay community there, the daytime manager / bartender, George, is a living example of a contradiction in terms. George loves his uniforms; is a most competent bartender; an exceptionally competent day manager; simply adores State Troopers; and is an accomplished musicologist who works, in his spare time, with the choirs of local churches (see what I mean). At cocktail hour - five O'clockish - George dons his tiara, a leather cap literally encrusted with dozens of pins, buttons, studs, et.al., souvenirs of various cities, runs, etc. Trully a sight to behold! And it goes so well with his handlebar moustache.

Assistant manager Mike is a dyed-in-the -wool journalist, writing for several of Boston's gay publications. Mike is "Mr. Personality Plus." One of Mike's smiles is worth a drink and, one of his drinks is worth two anywhere else. Besides, he looks great in denim and a black leather vest.

The manager of the Eagle is Joe Kirby. Joe, a native Bostonian, also manages "1270," Boston's largest disco, billed as "Three Floors of Fun;" thanks to Joe and his fine staff, it certainly is. Joe has also been Captain of Entre Nous for the past two years, refusing re-election to a third term because of his involvement with the two bars and his new shop - more about that later. largest bars in terms of space. The one huge room is separated into three distinct areas. Near the entrance is a 30-foot long bar of natural wood, dominated by a massive hand-carved gilded Eagle. The central section is enclosed on two sides by a narrow "lean-on-it" bar, and contains tables, chairs, barrels full of peanuts (Jimmy Carter's?), and serves as the "stand and pose yourself" section. Beyond is the game area, complete with pool tables and a bank of pinball machines. One wall in the game area exemplifies the club spirit of the Eagle with trophy cases full to overflowing with hard-earned awards given to Entre Nous by various clubs throughout the country. The Eagle has a very friendly atmosphere, and offers a variety of entertainments - besides the three T-rooms. The jukebox contains a mish-mash of music varying from country-and -western to the latest disco numbers. The "Honda 360" hanging on the wall is being raffled off by Entre Nous Inc. and there is a March trip to Florida being given away - just for the fun of it. All around the bar, hanging from the ceiling - if you get a chance to look up - are banners donated by clubs all over the U.S., and as far away as Australia. The clubs represented at the bar are Entre Nous, the ASMC, and the Tridents, this last being the newest entry into Boston's club scene.

The area that the Eagle opened in is known as the "Fenway" area of Boston. Fenway is a large park and garden section of Boston, long known as one of the more cruisy parts of town. The Fenway during the day is very attractive, the Fenway after dark is unreal. The area is becoming more and more gay, and is being built up to what in a few years may well become Boston's version of the "Village." And in case anyone doesn't know it, the first publically elected gay State Representative was elected in this area - Ms. Elaine Noble. Need we say more than - See the Fenway in a few years! Believe it - the Eagle is one hell of a bar! The help is friendly, the clientele is friendly, the neighborhood is friendly. Spit on the floor, step on the peanut shells, and kick the cat - this is freedom hall.

Remember "more about that later"? Well, here it is — Boston's first "gay head - something this provincial town shop” has needed for a long time to satisfy the wants of the gay community, and in particular the leather and denim set. It's called "The L&L Shop" — and talk about electric! You name it — they've got it! And if it's so far out that they don't, they'll order it. The shop itself (decorated fittingly enough in gray) displays a be- wildering variety of items, ranging from any size dildoe, your favorite style cock ring, whips, chains, harnesses, grass / hash pipes, t-shirts, hankies, pillows, husbands, jewelry, books, magazines, inhalers, lubri- cants, and much, much more. Joe Kirby and Will, the owners, are usually next door at the Eagle. The sales-men , Bob and Mike, are always at your service (they shouldn't be included in the husband category, although you may want to). Sure, they'll help fit you for a cock ring or a hood - but don't get too carried away. Between these four guys you're bound to get what you want. Should you make a pit stop at the Eagle and meet the right person, but lack some of the essentials, just go one door down the street. By the way, you are not going to believe the addresses of the bar and the shop: respectively, 88 and 80 Queensberry Street, Boston. by MICHAEL BUCKLEY Photos by Michael Caruso

WESTERN / LEATHER [×6+] To the best of DRUMMER'S knowledge, all of these bars are still alive and living in Leather.

Alabama

Dothan

Arizona

California

Garden Grove

Los Angeles / Hollywood

Los Angeles / Valley

North Long Beach

Palm Springs

San Diego

Leather

Leather Bar

San Jose

Colorado

Denver

Connecticut

Hartford

Mike'S Corral