MALECALL/Dear Sir:

JOCK SUCKER Dear Drummer:

THIS ANNIVERSARY ISSUE represents the end of our second year of publication . Issue #17 will be the first for Volume 3. To help us close this year, we have some pretty distinguished talent aboard. Bestselling author JOHN RECHY was kind enough to tell our ROBERT PAYNE what he thinks of S&M. TOM HINDE lent us enough of his original artwork to make an eight page folio. JIM STEWART took pictures of Johnny's first haircut and we go for a steamy tour of four of New York's hottest bars. Our piece de resistance is the arrival of HARRY CHESS, the hero of all red-blooded American boys. HARRY has moved over to DRUMMER along with his creator, A. JAY, who will be our new Creative Director. BILL WARD's "DRUM" is violently with us, of course, and so are the first two chapters of the KURT KREISLER book, "MY BROTHER, MY SLAVE", which will be presented in its entirety.

As an avid reader of your magazine I would like to bring to your attention a strong fetish of mine-that of gym gear, particularly footwear. Nothing turns me on more than seeing a sexy-looking stud wearing sneakers, especially the kind with lots of rubber around the edge and over the tops of the toes, as on certain types of basketball and tennis shoes

In MALECALL (Vol. 2/No. 13) a letter signed Steve, Glendale, CA. emphasized the same along with gym gear such as jockstraps. A couple of buddies of mine also share this fetish and we really get off sniffing each others sweaty<br>basketball sneakers and wearing each others jockstraps around our face when we get together for sex.

So if ever you can get on this band-<br>wagon, be sure to print plenty of copies. I, sure as hell, and a lot of others too, wouldn't want to miss it!

RUBBERMAN LOVER, Detroit

Even with all this going for us, we felt we had to do something even more special, so we printed our RON HENRY cover in gold. This necessitated running Captain Rush on our back cover in gold instead of his familiar red and yellow. He looks a little like a sexy version of Oscar, the Movie Academy's award statue.

TARZAN FAN Dear Drummer:

Can you publish an article on the<br>biography of the late Lex "Tarzan" Barker with many photos of him? I would like some big and clear photos of Tarzan Lex Barker in Tarzan and the She-Devil, some showing full body and some close up. Also shots from War<br>Drum, Girl in the Kremlin, and 24 Hours to Kill (where Lex swims in a water tank.) But most of all, I like his Tarzan photos.

As DRUMMER moves into its third year, it is also moving to SAN FRAN-CISCO . The vitality and excitement of that fascinating city is an inspiration to anyone who has ever visited it. Much of DRUMMER's business and its contributors are in Northern California already. Both DRUMMER and The ALTERNATE will be well-represented in Southern California with a new advertising staff and expanded production facilities.

A READER. (No address)

BOOT GUZZLER

Sirs:

I am including a cheque for the amount of $4. for issue #4 of DRUMMER. Although the required amount is only $3. for the back issue, I am sending more because I want it to be sent first class mail. Otherwise the customs people will open the envelope and perhaps seize it. A subscriber from Sept-Iles Que. has had most of his DRUMMER numbers seized at customs because those creeps consider DRUMMER obscene and immoral … I have gotten all my numbers so far because I paid extra to have it sent first class.

THE ALTERNATE makes its debut shortly. It will be the nation's first only Gay Newsmagazine and will cover the Gay scene from coast to coast, Subscriptions and newstand orders are coming in at a rate that surprises even us. It will be monthly and may be purchased at most of the places you see DRUMMER, Subscriptions are $15 a year for twelve issues. Write to us at 311 California Street, San Francisco, CA 94104. Photographs and manuscripts will be considered and returned promptly. We invite news contributors and stringers throughout the world to help us keep Gay America informed.

So I am looking forward to getting #4 because the front cover is very erotic for me: a leatherman drinking from a boot!

I particularly enjoyed your last number with the article about the BOOT & SHOES CLUB in it. The part of the article concerning the initiation into a boot club was written into a very long and

detailed letter to the editor I sent to the

now defunct JUSTICE WEEKLY… Please publish more pictures about boot licking, boot sucking, slave's shoulders being used as footstools for booted feet, etc., etc., etc.

Yours truly, ROGER Canada

POSTAL ERECTION

Sirs: Your magazine is fantastic—I begin to get ready days before it comes, and get a hard on when I open it. The stories by Orlando Paris are simply magnificent-I almost reach climax just reading them and wishing I were his subject.

Sincerely,<br>GENE Georgia

QUEER COMPLAINT

Men:

I am a DRUMMER subscriber and am sorry to report that I haven't yet received the latest issue. (It's in the Mail-Ed.) Please don't keep this poor slave waiting too long for the one mag I love so much.

Sincerely, THE LEATHER PRINCESS San Francisco

PS: It might interest you to know that I am trying to have sex change surgery, so I can be a real leather queer!

ESPECIALLY GONE ON

The Editor:

New Zealand has a small population and consequently there is no organized leather scene in the country - no bars, etc. and any leather gear has to be<br>brought back from overseas trips. So your magazine is relied upon greatly to keep us up-to-date with what is happening overseas . At the moment there is no way of contacting others interested in leather life in New Zealand although a few of us have been able to make contact.

While I'm writing to you, I've two requests to make … there is a trend in DRUMMER away from good photos of leathermen - either posed or action scenes. Some of the one's I've enjoyed most were in the earlier issues - such as the leather bar and Mr. Leather evening. I'm especially gone on Kelway Pollack's outfit in the back of one issue (I think either No. 3 or No. 4). Sorry Val Martin, but if I'd been able to be there Kelway would have got my vote - can we have some more photos of him published please?

My other request relates to the international scene - I've seen references to leather activity in England, W. Germany and the Netherlands particularly, and to a

lesser extent in other countries (almost forgot Canada where I hear that there are quite a few centres of leather). Would it be possible to have a short series of articles on the scene in various countries with photos if warranted? I'm sure your U.S.A. readers who travel and your subscribers in other countries would appreciate this.

we get discouraged…we fall by the wayside …but we still spring back when we see another boot buddy who is in even<br>sadder shape. So we stick a virile, masculine , booted leg out to him and say, "Grab hold. We'll pull you out of this mess, or trap, you feel ensnared by. Stick with us baby, we'll make you live again…or maybe love again!'

Thanks for your great magazine in the past — I'm looking forward to DRUMMER monthly.

To shower love on an inanimate object like a boot, which cannot return either warmth or love, is certainly a one-sided love affair, but we'll try to show you what it's all about…what we feel it has been about in the past four years, 1968 through 1971… what it is about in 1977. Special thanks for a new awareness and appreciation of our viewpoint must go to DRUMMER, in addition to past issues of the FREE PRESS, the ADVO-<br>CATE, and JUSTICE WEEKLY.

K.M. New Zealand

QUALITY VS. QUANTITY

Dear Drummer:

In regards to the DRUMMER article about our BAS Club, it would seem from the letters received so far, 84 in number, that most of them were from masochistic types, wishing to be hurt or dominated by a man in boots. While there is absolutely nothing wrong with that in our opinion, we are not an S&M club. Though there may be boot discipline at times, it never dominates the club. I believe a little force never hurt anyone, whether they

So all of us have felt a need for something to fill a void in our lives, from the construction worker with the muddy, lace-up work shoes, and motorcycle cop who enjoys a deep-seated thrill by having a jail trustee put a high gloss shine on his high boots for 10 cents, to the military man who must spit shine his boots for inspection, and the truckers and cowboys who slowly and erotically pull off each others' boots in a motel or truck stop. We all know the business executive in his suit, tie, and Florsheim shoes, who can't wait to get home to his cocktails, city

were top man or boot dog.

As for us, we have always been exclusive , and as a result, have been scorned and looked down upon. The bike clubs won't even recognize us, though our interests sometimes seem to overlap. Therefore , we decided that quality should be the standard. From the experience gained from those loyal members of the old club, the bootist brothers were hard to find, having lived most of their lives in the closet with their boots. They enjoyed their playthings when no one was looking , afraid to expose themselves to the laughter of family, friends, and loved ones. They were labeled boot freaks, toe queens, and other hurting names by ignorant , narrow minds closed to this and many other subjects.

For some of the boot members, the knowledge of others like themselves in the BAS came just in time… when they were young and overwhelmed by their boot fetish, while others were older and well established in the knowledge that it was important to their mental and sexual welfare to give in to their unusual desires. For still others who never heard of us, suicide was the solution, and upon hearing of these unfortunates, we mentally cursed ourselves for being too late. The choice is there for you, for all of us to make. So go out into the world and seek out your understanding equal. Otherwise, stay in your closed and musty closets, real and of the mind, for you are not ready to reach out…and may never be.

The psychiatrist's couch may be the answer, but he will insist that you change your whole way of thinking, or adjust to living in your own private hell… perhaps even suggest that you find a good woman who would wear spike heels for you to fondle. Well, the BAS may be quite a ways from perfection, but we are learning , and feel that we have a much better solution than that. We make mistakes, …

smelling engineer boots he so lovingly caresses, and pulls on his feet in secrecy.

So we are what we are. Quality is the word. Boots is the magic word. Make use of the Boot Appreciation Society while it functions. The chance may never come your way again.

ARNE LARSEN La Canada, CA

TO SUBSCRIBE OR RENEW: CHANGE OF city name BOO ADDRESS ress AND RENEWAL: state Please attach the mailing label piease from the front cover when print) writing about service or change of address. Allow 3 weeks for ZIP apt change of address code to take effect. Thank you… new subscription 1 year $25 (12 issues) ☐ renewal 1 year $30 (1st class) MAIL TO: DRUMMER 5466 Santa Monica Blvd. Los Angeles, California 90029

AND GAY THAT. NETWORK SIT-COMS. NATIONAL NEWS MAGAZINES, ANITA WHATS-HER-NAME, FILMS AND JUST ABOUT EVERYONE IS BECOMING AWARE THAT 'GAY" IS A STRONG AND VIABLE FORCE. WE ARE HERE AND WE ARE HERE TO STAY. WE ARE POWERFUL. WEST AMERICAN ADVERTISING WANTS TO HELP BRING ADVERTISING IN THE GAY COMMUNITY TO A LEVEL OF SOPHISTICATION AND PROFESSIONALISM. WE STAND READY TO TAKE YOUR MESSAGE TO GAY PEOPLE EVERYWHERE. IF YOU ARE PROMOTING YOUR PRODUCT OR SERVICE TO GAY PEOPLE, CALL US. ITS REALLY QUITE SIMPLE… THE TIME HAS COME TO LET US UP YOUR ADS.

MALECALL / Dear Sir:

JOCK SUCKER Dear Drummer:

As an avid reader of your magazine I would like to bring to your attention a strong fetish of mine-that of gym gear, particularly footwear. Nothing turns me on more than seeing a sexy-looking stud wearing sneakers, especially the kind with lots of rubber around the edge and over the tops of the toes, as on certain types of basketball and tennis shoes

In MALECALL (Vol. 2 / No. 13) a letter signed Steve, Glendale, CA. emphasized the same along with gym gear such as jockstraps. A couple of buddies of mine also share this fetish and we really get off sniffing each others sweaty basketball sneakers and wearing each others jockstraps around our face when we get together for sex.

So if ever you can get on this band- wagon, be sure to print plenty of copies. I, sure as hell, and a lot of others too, wouldn't want to miss it!

RUBBERMAN LOVER, Detroit

TARZAN FAN Dear Drummer:

Can you publish an article on the biography of the late Lex "Tarzan" Barker with many photos of him? I would like some big and clear photos of Tarzan Lex Barker in Tarzan and the She-Devil, some showing full body and some close up. Also shots from War Drum, Girl in the Kremlin, and 24 Hours to Kill (where Lex swims in a water tank.) But most of all, I like his Tarzan photos.

A READER. (No address)

BOOT GUZZLER

Sirs:

I am including a cheque for the amount of $4. for issue #4 of DRUMMER. Although the required amount is only $3. for the back issue, I am sending more because I want it to be sent first class mail. Otherwise the customs people will open the envelope and perhaps seize it. A subscriber from Sept-Iles Que. has had most of his DRUMMER numbers seized at customs because those creeps consider DRUMMER obscene and immoral … I have gotten all my numbers so far because I paid extra to have it sent first class.

So I am looking forward to getting #4 because the front cover is very erotic for me: a leatherman drinking from a boot!

I particularly enjoyed your last number with the article about the BOOT & SHOES CLUB in it. The part of the article concerning the initiation into a boot club was written into a very long and detailed letter to the editor I sent to the now defunct JUSTICE WEEKLY… Please publish more pictures about boot licking, boot sucking, slave's shoulders being used as footstools for booted feet, etc., etc., etc.

Yours truly, ROGER Canada

POSTAL ERECTION

Sirs: Your magazine is fantastic—I begin to get ready days before it comes, and get a hard on when I open it. The stories by Orlando Paris are simply magnificent-I almost reach climax just reading them and wishing I were his subject.

Sincerely, GENE Georgia

QUEER COMPLAINT

Men:

I am a DRUMMER subscriber and am sorry to report that I haven't yet received the latest issue. (It's in the Mail-Ed.) Please don't keep this poor slave waiting too long for the one mag I love so much.

Sincerely, THE LEATHER PRINCESS San Francisco

PS: It might interest you to know that I am trying to have sex change surgery, so I can be a real leather queer!

ESPECIALLY GONE ON

The Editor:

New Zealand has a small population and consequently there is no organized leather scene in the country - no bars, etc. and any leather gear has to be brought back from overseas trips. So your magazine is relied upon greatly to keep us up-to-date with what is happening overseas . At the moment there is no way of contacting others interested in leather life in New Zealand although a few of us have been able to make contact.

While I'm writing to you, I've two requests to make … there is a trend in DRUMMER away from good photos of leathermen - either posed or action scenes. Some of the one's I've enjoyed most were in the earlier issues - such as the leather bar and Mr. Leather evening. I'm especially gone on Kelway Pollack's outfit in the back of one issue (I think either No. 3 or No. 4). Sorry Val Martin, but if I'd been able to be there Kelway would have got my vote - can we have some more photos of him published please?

My other request relates to the international scene - I've seen references to leather activity in England, W. Germany and the Netherlands particularly, and to a

HAR

THE PAINFUL PURS

UITS OF PASOL

The films of Italian writer-director Pier Paolo Pasolini increasingly revealed the seething undercurrent of erotic violence that was ultimately to result in his brutal death recently at the hand of a pickup street hustler. As his international fame grew, and Pasolini was able to exercise more and more control over his work, the homosexual and S / M aspects of his basic nature were more overtly revealed , surfacing most blatantly in his final epic, Salo, or 120 Days of Sodom, loosely based on the three volumes of de Sade (rare stills from which adorn these pages, thanks to Peter Adams).

Pasolini was born (1922) in northern Italy's Etruscan, epicurean and educa- tional center, Bologna, where, during the fifteenth century, the young Giorlamo Savonarola had honed the S / M aspects in his fiery personality. The nascent movie-maker's natural father was a nobleman, but Pier Paolo retained the name of his mother, a beautiful girl descended from Friulan peasant stock who was destined to appear as Christ's mother in her son's noteworthy II Vangelo secondo Matteo in 1964.

Not surprisingly, Pasolini's childhood was rent with insecurities, shunting around from one northern Italian town to the other, his teenage years of development paralleling the spread of fascism. Benito Mussolini had taken over the reins of dictatorship in Italy the year of Paso-lini's birth, and his imperialistic ambitions culminated with the bloody conquest of Ethiopia in 1935 (Vittorio, Mussolini's son, made worldwide headlines that year when he described his bombing of naked earth-bound natives as "exceptionally good fun").

Little is truly known of the future film-maker's childhood years, except that he began writing poetry at the age of seven. Although his early formal education was erratic at best, he was accepted to study at the University of Bologna (Europe's oldest, having been founded in 1158), in his old hometown. He did not complete his studies there, however, and a few years after the end of the Second World War moved to Rome (1950), which was to be his home base for the following ten years.

That decade of the fifties was to see Pasolini's emergence as a writer of some note, for, beginning with 1952, he authored many books including poems, criticism, and novels, peaking with Una Vita Violenta (A Violent Life) in 1050 Per 166 1959. But of greater significance is the fact that in 1954 he began collaborating on film scripts, including Fellini's sen- suous Le Notti de Cabiria (Night of Cabiria) in 1957 and Bolognini's II Bell' Antonio (Handsome Anthony), starring Mastroianni and Cardinale, in 1960.

Ready now to clutch a director's megaphone, he put his own screenplay Accatone (Beggar, with connotations of hustling) before the cameras in 1961. It

caused a sensation with his groundbreak-ing acceptance of total nudity and casual violence, and, although crotchety critic John Simon found it "an extension of neorealism to essentially obnoxious, or, at least, opprobrious characters, mostly pimps and whores," cineasts throughout the Western world acknowledged that a highly original cinema sensibility had surfaced.

Pasolini's every succeeding film was to stir controversy. In 1962, his Mamma Roma, with Anna Magnani in a typically stunning performance, featured one scene in which a handsome boy is strapped spreadeagle to a table for the application of electric torture to his genitals. It was a scene foreshadowing many later efforts— "Pasolini was never one to pass up the opportunity to film nude boys"—that would reach their apogee in what turned out to be his final work, Salo.

But first was to come Rogopag (1963), one of those episodic group efforts also involving Roberto Rossellini and Jean-Luc Goadard. Pasolini's contribution, La Ricotta, resulted in his being given a four-month suspended prison sentence for "offending" the Roman Catholic religion. Meant as a pseudosatire on religious films and man's inhumanity to man, it became, to quote Simon again, "chiefly a pretext for dragging in various pederastic types and jokes in which Pasolini revels,"

It also featured Orson Welles "in the depths of his degradation: a horrendous leviathon, beached and barely capable of moving its bulk, heavily sneering at everybody to overcompensate for its physical and spiritual paralysis." Needless to say, that puffing paragraph is also through the discourtesy of sniggering Simon.

The next year (1964) saw the release of The Gospel According to St. Matthew, a literal visualization of its subject matter still seen here on independent television stations regularly around Easter-time. Cast with unknowns chosen Fellini-like for their "look," Gospel was obviously made out of love for Jesus as man (or Man, had Pasolini not been a member of the Communist Party), and provides a harrowing look at poverty, disease, pain, and grief. The suffering Christ on the cross is a far cry from the cosmetized American versions of de Mille and Stevens, and even Simon has to admit the film to be "at least partly compelling through complexity, sternness, and a quality of fiery aliveness." Pasolini in 1966 essayed a change of pace with Uccellacci e uccellini (The Hawks and the Sparrows), a fantasy dealing with the symbolic journey of a man and his son to "the city," in the course of which they are joined by a Communist crow. One remarkable episode stands out, in which the crow transmutes its human traveling companions into two monks around St. Francis of Assisi, whom the saint orders to convert "the hawks and the sparrows." It is beautifully conceived, written, directed, and photographed – all by Pasolini.

After a couple of lesser efforts, he brought out his supreme effort, Teorama (theorem) in 1968 (which he also published as a novel). It concerns the sexual spell exercised over four members of a well-to-do upper-class family - husband, wife, teenage son, and daughter (to say nothing of their maidservant) - by an ambisexual, godlike stranger played with erection-making intensity by Terrence Stamp at the peak of his Billy Budding desirability. Pasolini's camera is no less infatuated with this handsome actor than are the other cast members (to say nothing of audiences), and in one epoch-making scene zooms in for a lingering extreme close-up on Stamp's trousered yet barely-contained genitals as he sprawls open- thighed in a lounge chair. What might perchance be left to the stunted imagination in this lengthy shot is totally - if briefly - exposed in a later scene when he strips to the buff and bounds into bed

for the seduction of the teenage boy.

The capitolistic husband, somewhat deranged by his own sexual capitulation to the stranger, suddenly presents his factory to the laborers, and finds himself

All of Pasolini's personal proclivities are pinpointed in these sequences - nudity, seduction, threats of violence, the fusing of Communism with Catholicism. Each of the characters enchanted by the seducer comes to no good end (prophetic of the auteur's own destiny?) as the wife becomes a nymphomanica who picks up young men in the street, the daughter goes into total paralysis and is institu- tionalized, the son "degenerates" into the wildest of modern art manners "where urinating on his canvases is one modulation ," and the maid is transformed into a levitating "saint" who supervises her own burial-alive. the heavy-handed two-part After

Porcile (Pigsty) 1969, and a disappointing Decameron (1971), Pasolini eventually confronted de Sade and made Salo, a French-Italian co-production which was precipitously banned in Italy and enjoyed a huge, long-running success in Paris. As its release in the States is udbious, we are indebted to Paris-based critic Peter Adams for what little information we have about it.

According to Adams, Pasolini places the film in a modern setting - in Salo, a small town outside Rome — during Mussolini's reign, equating "Mussolini's fascism with de Sade's degradation." It is divided into three parts: Circle of Pleasure, Circle of Shit, and Circle of Blood.

"Three middle-aged lecherous libertines gather up all the good-looking boys and girls in town and cart them away to a castle in the country where the 'festivi- ties' begin. Boys and girls are savagely fucked, people eat shit and boys are hideously tortured to death … It's one thing to be fucked," Adams notes, "but quite another to eat shit and have your cock cut off or your pec granded. "It's not," he concludes, "for the faint-hearted."

chapter 3

At six-fifteen, of the morning of November 12th, the studded leather belt screamed through the air, tearing at my naked ass. I jerked away, desperately trying to hide behind the clothes rack, but Killer McKenna cornered me in the walk-in closet where I slept. He was inexorable and merciless. The black belt whistled through the air, raining blows on my legs, my chest, my belly. "You lazy son of a bitch!" Killer snarled as his massive arm shot out, jerking at my hair, dragging me out of the closet, through the lobby and into the gym proper.

He dumped me on the carpet like a sack of potatoes, slapping me hard across the face. Stabs of pain ricocheted through my sleepy head as he towered over me, the belt raised high. His thick muscled legs spread wide as he bent over, bracing his body. I screamed as the belt ripped at my tender flesh. I watched in horrid fascination as the welt formed on my body, starting at my belly button and ending at my left nipple. It changed from pink to angry red and finally tinged with purple.

The dream … at six-fourteen I was in the middle of it when the belt smashed against my flesh … I was eight years old … we were living in Modesto, California near the outskirts of town. Mom had run away with a musician and Dad was in the kitchen getting drunk on dago red. I tried to open the screen door quietly but it squeaked. "That you, Georgie?" His deep voice slurred with wine.

My small hand trembled as I pushed the report card at him. his rock hard leg. I loved him even though he wasn't my real father. I didn't remember the real one. He'd been killed in a truck accident when I was two years old. My new father was a wrestler in high school and fought professionally in the early sixties but he was a bleeder and had to quit. He was forty-two years old but in terrific condition as he worked out in the local boxing club.

I sat on his lap. I made sure my ass pressed against his crotch. There was no reaction so I changed position, squirming . I glanced at his rugged face. Suddenly it was beet red and I knew he wasn't going to whip my ass with the razor strap.

Not that day!

"You get better marks next month, Georgie! Okay?"

"Oh, yes, Pa, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die!" I squirmed harder, now boldly jumping up and down on his lap. I could feel his cock stiffening against the warm thinness of my blue jeans.

Pretending I was moving to a different position I pressed the palm of my small hand directly down on the huge cockhead that was straining against the corduroy of his work pants.

A guttural sound came from deep inside him. "God! Damn!

Georgie!'

"What, Daddy?" I asked innocently. A sluggish green fly landed on the kitchen table. Cupping my hand I caught it and then slammed it against the floor, killing it.

"You know what you're doin' to Daddy, don't you?" "Sittin' on your lap." My hand pressed harder against his raging hard on.

C'mon, Georgie!" He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom. The early afternoon sun poured through the bay window onto the unmade bed. He sat on the edge of it, pulling down my blue jeans. He pulled me close and I felt his huge dick pushed hard against my tiny one.

"Ain't gonna use the razor strap on you, kid!" "What are you gonna use on me, Pa?"

He flipped me over on my stomach and I was lying across his lap. "You're a bad, bad boy!"

The palm of his calloused hand came down on my tender ass flesh faster and faster and I felt the warmth spreading to my hairless cock and balls.

"Nice and red … nice and red," he whispered. His huge index finger gently probed my tiny pink hole. I closed my eyes tightly, relaxing completely as the giant finger slipped into my boyass. Rapture filled my body as Daddy slipped in another finger and pushed them all the way inside me. It felt so good. It made me feel secure and happy. I was giving Pa what he wanted. He'd been so sad since Ma had left him for the musician.

Dad stood over me, spreading his thick legs wide, planting his heavy work shoes into the shag rug. He jerked me to my feet. He was six feet four and my face was a few inches higher than his crotch. I knew I wouldn't have to get down on my knees to make love to the big warm thing between his legs. "You think you're smart enuff to find Junior?" he asked. "Oh, yes, Pa! I can find him all right!" My hands eagerly unzipped his fly, expertly reaching inside. It was so long and so hard. I had trouble pulling it out of his jockey shorts but finally it flopped out, bouncing against the side of my face. It was nice and warm against my cheek. I stared hard at the huge drippy knobhead. "Kiss it, Georgie!" His voice was a low moan as he pushed his body forward.

First I gave the drippy head a loud wet kiss. Then I stuck out my tongue, licking at the warm drool. It tasted terrific. Reminded me of when I was a little baby and Mom shoving the baby bottle in my mouth. "Can I play with your balls, Daddy?

He didn't answer. Instead he gently pushed my head toward the huge knob. I opened my mouth as wide as it would open. I realized that I was growing. For the first time I man- aged to stuff the blood gorged cockhead into my small mouth. "Oh, my God! Feels good, kid … terrific!" My right hand pressed his buttock muscle and I felt him tremble.

'Spit on it, good! Get it nice and wet, 'cause Daddy's gon- spir of it, goods det in line and wet, cause Daddy's gorna give his boy a royal fuckin'. "My mind twisted back to reality as Killer's leather belt mashed against my vulnerable ass. Then he jerked my head forward, pointing

My heart was in the pit of my stomach. I was supposed

"Shit, you'll never be a champion pullin' this shit!" His rugged face twisted in anger. "You wanna be a fuckin' nobody for the rest of your life" "No sir, I don't."

"Then you gotta work your ass off!" His curly dark hair swirled down over his forehead, glistening with sweat. His mountainous chest muscles rippled under his thin white skin. "How the fuck do you think! I made it in pro f thick ten inches bounced against his hairy leg. "Work! Work! Work! Every God damned day! You can't be lazy! You got that?"

His words echoed and re-echoed, bouncing around in my head, going deeper and deeper … into the past … the same words. You're a no good lazy bum, Georgiel … Daddy yelling the words at me … on and on … and now I knew. Dad and Killer McKenna … spitting images of each other … giant

men with dark curly hair and pale blue eyes and … and …

My dream … was it a wish fulfillment? I knew it hadn't really happened … at least I don't think it had. When I was eight I'd made an excuse to run into the bathroom when Dad was in the shower, always staring at his huge piece of meat, especially when he had a piss hard on in the morning. It was so beautiful. I wanted to suck it. But I was scared to make a grab.

Killer's hand pulled at his monstrous cockhead. Was he getting ready to jam it down my throat? There was no doubt about it, Killer looked just like Daddy, except his dick was thicker and longer. I let out a deep sigh. It had been so long since Killer had shot his creamy load down my throat … so long since he'd fucked me half to death next to the squat rack. I wondered … would Killer ever let me suck on that juicy piece of meat again?

Killer threw his head back and roared with laughter. The tattooed black panther was wide awake on his left arm. He stepped forward, his legs spread wide, gripping the monster between his legs. I sank to my knees, opened my mouth and waited for the hot stream of yellow piss.

"You ain't gettin' your breakfast juice this morning, shithead!" He turned on his heel. "Gonna piss in the fuckin' urinal. It deserves it more than you!"

"I won't oversleep ever again, boss!" His hands were on his hips. "Well, asshole?"

"Well, what, boss?" "Yer fuckin' legs. Like toothpicks!" Selfconsciously I stared at my thighs. They didn't compare to my upper body. In the last two weeks I'd added a solid\ninch of muscle to my pecs and a half inch on my

I do six sets of squats with three hundred pounds!"

Killer scratched his ass in disgust. "Don't you know that the Mr. Bay Area contest is comin" up in three months?"

I pulled my eyes away from his huge dong. "What about

His index finger hit my chest. "You, asshole, are gonna represent the Killer McKenna gym!" "Me?" I was shocked. "Three months?" "Yeah, you, shithead!" He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis. "You better gonna lock you in the walk-in closet and throw away the fuckin' key. You got that?"

"I'll win it, sir, I will!"

"If you do win, your reward is right here!" He grabbed his the / proposition / of [×10+] his half hard prick.

He was so close I could smell him. "Continue doing six sets of full squats but push it up to 350 pounds." His dick was still growing.

'Yes sir!" My eyes riveted on the red knobhead.

"Also add six sets of half squats with 500 pounds. That should bulk up your thighs. Got that?" "Yes, boss!"

"And quit staring at my fuckin' dick! It's almost six- thirty! Get to work, asshole!" He was still playing with the monster as he left the gym.

I thought my legs were going to fall off as I finished the last rep of my six sets of half squats with 500 pounds. I was on the verge of tears from the pain. I staggered to the lobby in time to open the doors for the morning rush. Then I ran to the locker room to check out the steam room, the showers and the crappers. Ever since Killer had shoved my face into a stinking toilet bowl in front of Rip Powell, I'd kept the locker

Rip Powell, the golden boy of baseball, was working for Killer during the off season. Ever since that first night, when I'd sucked him off and he'd returned the favor, he'd kept his distance. He was terrified I'd tell Killer that he was a cock-sucker . Yeah, the macho stud superstar home-run king of the Miami Studs. Rip was a beautiful looking man with his tousled golden hair and his Catfish Hunter moustache. He'd strut around the gym in his blue bikini with one ball hanging out. He moved with his Superman chin thrust forward arrogantly.

What I really liked about Rip was his milk white ass that contrasted with his golden tan. His buns were twin mounds of solid muscle that somehow had their own gravitational law that made them stand at attention.

It all came down at ten o'clock sharp that evening. The last member left and I was vacuuming the red rug. Rip sprawled on the sit-up board leafing through PLAYBOY still with his ball hanging out the side of his blue bikini.

Killer stormed into the gym from his office. "What the fuck you doin', man?

Rip stuck out his chin. "I'm lookin' at the fuckin' pictures. What in hell you think I'm doin'?"

Killer clenched his fists. "You're a lazy creep! You don't do a fuckin' thing around here, you asshole!' Rip jumped to his feet, legs spread wide, ready for action. "Nobody calls me an asshole and gets away with it!"

They stood motionless, two magnificent animals readying themselves for the battle to the death. Watching, I almost felt like the Emperor Caligua. I moved closer, licking my lips, my cock suddenly stiff. Killer wore sweat pants that hung low, down to the crack in his ass. A trickle of sweat ran down his mountain of a chest.

"You're an asshole, Rip!" Killer said the word again.

Rip made a fatal mistake. He shoved at the ball that was hanging out of his blue bikini and Killer cold cocked him with a roundhouse right to the jaw. Rip's golden body sailed through the air and the gym shook as he slammed heavily down on his back, with Killer instantly on top of him.

Somehow Rip managed to jerk his legs upward, spri looked as if Rip was going to win the battle as he sat on Killer's chest, smashing his fists into his face. Blood gushed from Killer's torn mouth.

I moved forward to help Killer but somehow he managed to throw Rip off his chest. They threshed on the floor. Killer grabbed between Rip's legs, trying to lift him high over head but Rip squirmed away and Killer was left w blue bikini in his hand. Now Rip was buck naked as they stood up and squared off. Like lightning Rip got a half nelson on Killer's bull neck but Killer's huge fist smashed into Rip's solar plexus and the life went out of the golden giant. He fought on and on but it was hopeless. Killer's 225 pounds of rock hard muscle was too much for the golden boy of base- ball. Finally it was all over. Killer sat on Rip's chest with his heavy legs pinning Rip's arms to the red carpet. "You give up, asshole?" Killer grinned sadistically. His hand wiped at the blood that dribbled down his chin. "Fuck off, prick!" Rip snarled.

Killer's hand smashed hard across Rip's face. His nose began to bleed. "Who's the boss?" "Son of a bitch!" Rip tried to twist away but Killer had

Suddenly Killer released the golden boy. Rip jerked to a sitting position, glaring at Killer. "What the fuck you talkin" about

Again Killer slapped him hard across the face, knocking him supine on the floor. "You want more? I got plenty!"

Rip tried to stand up but his knees buckled under him. Rip tried to stand up out his knees buckted under him, Again Killer grabbed him, this time by the hair. His hand smashed back and forth … back and forth. "That's enuff: I give up!" Rips oreamed. Killer laughed in his f swelling monster in his sweat pants.

"I'm gonna hit a home run, Rip ole boy, up your bung-hole!"

"You're fuckin' nuts! Nuts!" Rip screamed, his fear filled eyes darting back and forth, looking for an escape route. "Get

Killer stepped forward, towering over the prostrate ball player. My eyes feasted on Killer's crotch. Christ, his sweat pants stuck out in front from his hard on as he pulled at the string and they fell silently to the rug, revealing his fat ten inches of uncut dick. It stuck slightly upward, three inches away from Rip's face, pointing at his sensuous, wet mouth. Rip jerked away, but now his back was against the full length wall mirror. There was no escape. I moved closer, my heart pounding, staring at the blue-green throbbing veins that

pulsed down to Killer's enormous blood gorged cock. I licked at my dry lips, "Shit, you ain't kiddin' nobody." Killer put his hand on his hip and minced two steps clower to Rip. "I've heard all about the sex exploits of Rip Powell with the boys!"

Rip was greased lightning as he flew across the gym, his fist slamming into my face. I almost blacked out as I fell to the floor but instinctively my knee jerked upward into his guts and he fell forward, screaming, his hands clutching his belly. I hadn't been brought up in the streets for nothing. room right after he shut out the Pirates. Everybody knows Rip Powell is a fag. Shit, why don't you come out of the closet … like Dave Kopay?"

Rip's eyes were closed but he was listening. "Ain't no crime," Killer said. "I know you wanna suck my dick! That's why you're workin' here. When I take a shower you're always there." there.

"Rip gives a terrific blow job, sir!" I couldn't help speaking. "You rotten pervert!" Rip yelled. "When I get…" Again Killer slapped him across the face. "One more word

Again Nine stapped fills across the fact. One more work and 'll gag you with Georgie's dirty jock strap. You hear me loud and clear, asshole?"

Their eyes held. After a moment Rip nodded his head. "Yes, I hear you!"

"Bout

Georgie. Get him ready for Big Daddy here!" He pressed at his half hard meat.

Ripping off my jock strap I shoved Rip's legs high into the air. My tongue flicked out, touching the golden hairs encircling Rip's gorgeous bunghole. I lapped at the tight pink hole like a thirsty dog. After a while the cheeks of his milk white ass re- laxed and his bunghole began to open up. Still it was tight as hell as I shoved my tongue into the moist warmness. He moaned softly as his hand grabbed his rigid cock. He was

"Ready for Big Daddy, Georgie?"

"Ready for Big Daddy, Georgie?"

"Almost, sir!" My tongue dug deep into his golden ass. Spreading his cheeks wide, I stiffened my tongue, pushing it deep into the burning hot funkiness insi and forth. His magnificent chest heaved spasmodically as he still fought what he really wanted. Then finally his eyes concentrated on the dripping monster between Killer's legs. Rip bit down on his lower lip but then he licked his mouth in anticipation. Rip was ready.

Killer plopped onto the sit-up bench, his huge legs spread wide. In his fist he held his monster prick. "Sit on it, Rip!"

His voice was flat and ice cold.

For a moment Rip stared incredulously at Killer's immense stiff dick. Then he stood up, turned around and gingerly lowered his golden ass onto the giant prong. Suddenly Killer's hands shot out, grabbing Rip by the shoulders and jamming him down hard on the monster between his leg jumped a beat as Killer's ten inches magically disappeared up the milky white ass. There was dead silence and then the tortured scream ripped through the air, sounding like a horror movie. Killer gripped Rip in a vice-like budge. He was trapped with the giant dick deep in his hot guts. Now Rip's eyes glazed over … he drooled at the mouth he began to cry softly, like a baby. Strangely, his gold flecked

Tingling shocks of lust smashed at my groin as I rushed forward, cock in hand. I grabbed his thick, tousled hair, pressing my cockhead forward, touching his wet lips. Grabbing Rip by the ears I jammed my dick forward. But for me to handle. I shot all over his rugged face, my ass jerking crazily. My gism splattered on his forehead, his blond moustache, and dripped down his cheek. Finally I jammed it down his hot throat, holding his ears in my hands, pushing at his face until his mouth was pressed hard against the blond pubic hair of my rock hard belly. Whew! I pulled my still hard dick out of his mouth and rubbed the length of it against his face, smearing my gism all over him. A blob of cum ran down his face, to his neck. Scooping it up, I shoved two fingers down his throat. He avidly licked my fingers and then sucked on them hungrily. His green eyes were filled with rapture. I couldn't say that I blamed him. Shit, he was a lucky dude, with Killer's enormous prong up his ass.

Now Killer lifted Rip into the air like a feather, still with his dick shoved deep inside the golden ass. Carrying Rip to an exercise bench he flopped him face down on it, falling on top of him without removing his cock.

Killer pumped away furiously at the milk white ass. My limp dick came to life and I whacked away madly. I moved closer, my nose a few inches away from Killer's monster. Killer jerked it all the way out and then slammed it home. Rip was screaming in passion … louder and louder and Killer was tearing into his ass harder and harder.

Their bodies jerked crazily as they screamed together: Yaghhhhh … SHIT … CAN CLOOEY … FUCK! Killer's teeth bit deep into the golden muscles of Rip's back as he shot his burning hot gism deep into his guts. Rip shoved his ass up hard, grabbing at every inch of Killer's prick. There was a loud popping sound as Killer pulled out of the golden ass. Killer stood over the supine figure, looking down. Then he shoved Rip off the bench. Gism splattered all over the dark leather … it was Rip's.

"Lick up your dessert, Georgie." Killer's voice was almost soft. His pale blue eyes twinkled as I licked at the slick leather, slurping Rip's gism into my mouth.

Rip lurched toward the locker room like a sailor on a rolling ship.

"Where the fuck you goin'?" Killer spit out the words.

"I…ah…!..ah…" I couldn't believe my ears, arrogant, confident Rip Powell, the golden boy of baseball, was stuttering!

Get your queer ass over here!" Killer snarled.

Rip stared hard at Killer but then he moved to the middle of the gym. "Down on your fuckin' knees, asshole!"

They glared at each other for a moment and slowly Rip knelt in front of Killer.

"Clean my dirty dick!"

My hand pressed hard against my blood gorged knob as Rip

"y Hally pressed nard against my blood gorged knob as Rip licked his own shit from Killer's monster shaft. "Hey, Georgie." Killer motioned me closer. "You want sloppy seconds?" "You mean, ah. I…!" Now I was stuttering. "

"I wanna suck your cum outa his asshole." "It's all yours."

Quickly I spread Rip's cheeks and shoved my face into his ass. Whew! It was like a hot oven. Killer's gism oozed out from the angry red hole and I slurped it into my mouth, swallowing eagerly. My tongue dug deep into the slimy raunchiness. I cleaned his hole thoroughly.

I slipped three fingers easily into Rip's shithole as I shoved his muscular legs over my shoulders. His thick shaft was hard as iron with the scarlet head dripping with pre-cum. "Seven inches up there… seven inches of hot dick!" I moaned. I slammed it all the way up to the hilt. I c his big hands reached my ass, digging into my flesh, pushing my pile driver even deeper into his boiling hot guts.

"Fuck it, Georgie!" he moaned. "Fuck that asshole … shove that dick in me … harder … harder!

I pumped away, slamming my dick into him. Electric shocks pulsed in my toes, moved to the calves of my legs, jumped to my asshole and finally concentrating in the boiling load in my balls. Screaming, I erupted, exploding inside the oven ass of Rip Powell, the golden boy of

I lay on top of him, licking his back, concentrating on the area where Killer's teeth marks cut into his tanned skin. I jerked my dick out of his ass and this time Killer didn't order him to lick the shit off my dick. When Rip finished I was hard again.

SAMESTRANTISSA

During the short, evil reign of the mad Emperor Caligula, he managed to arouse the animosity and hate of his entire empire with his excesses, paranoia, and his self infatuation with his claims to be a god. Because he suspected Caludius, his stuttering , bumbling, epileptic, boy loving uncle of plotting against him (and he was) he punished him to die by marrying him to a famous young beauty noted for her nymphomania, Messalina, and cause him a heart attack trying to satisfy her rampant sexual appetite.

It didn't work. Neither went near each other in their vast apartments in the emperor's palace.

Messalina used to have contests at feasts with other high born women as to who could sexually exhaust the most, attractive male servants and slaves. Messalina took a long series of men and boy lovers of whom she quickly tired, and to make certain no other men or women enjoyed their talents, had them tortured to death before her. One of her favorite ways of dispatching used studs was to have them masturbated continuously for days by teams of slaves until they were either permanently impotent or dead from exhaustion. Meanwhile, Messalina lay on a divan playing with herself while watching these handsome men suffer.

She also liked to secrete herself amongst groups of whores going in to gladiators' orgies given to them on the eves of their arena deaths, and enjoyed the feel and weight of these hand- some, sweating, powerful brutes, smashing themselves into women while knowing themselves about to be killed, and trying to breed their very life force for posterity after their deaths. Finally Messalina's excesses became too great even for the tolerating Claudius, and he had her killed.

Caligula devised many unique methods of torture, and enjoyed dining while observing powerful men being excruti- atingly tortured to death as he ate. He always had these men castrated just before they finally died. Caligula, to show his total power over all men, subjected his personal safety and security, to numerous humiliations includ- ing public sexual humiliations. These wonderful, god-like men, while sworn to fight to the death to protect their emperor, when they could no longer stomach Ca themselves to stab him to death.

Claudius, coming to power upon his nephew's death, re- warded this murdering clique of Praetorian guard with naked, except for their helmets, crucifixion in the Roman forum to make certain the other Praetorians did not try the same thing on himself.

Claudius, a well known boy lover, worshipped the games of the amphitheatre, sometimes enjoying the charms and talents of two or three boys at a time while viewing the arena slaughter from the royal enclosure. Claudius used to skip meals in order to stay in his royal box at the arena. He initiated the "Games Without End," whereby a heavily armed man was sent in to kill a naked man, and then was himself stripped bare to be slaughtered by another armed man, and this continued by day and by human torch light at night for weeks until the Emperor became bored of this death sport and ended it.

By night the games, sport, and tortures in the arena were carried on by the light of human candles. Captive soldiers, men and youths, of which Rome had an endless supply from their various conquests, had their entire naked bodies gilded, and then their golden physiques smeared with a mixture of ferree burning pitch and wax. They were chained to tall stakes or nailed to T-form crosses before bei to encircle the arena facing the audience. The horrified muscular men and boys, some wearing their military helmets, were decorated as artistically as possible. Bouquets of flowers covered the bundle of igniting hay at their feet. Garlands of flowers and ivy were twisted here and there about their handsome bodies, emphasizing rather than concealing their nudity; a band of flowers around their chests or waists, hung around their necks like a necklace, encircling their foreheads like crowns, or were loosely drooped over a forced to lie spreadeagled on X shaped crosses to which their covered palms and feet were nailed with long spikes. A long, thick beam nailed behind the X was lifted so these crucified men could take their places high, in full sight, amongst the rest of the waiting human candles.

To make certain there was enough illumination for the full evening only every third "candle" was ignited at a time. This gave the straining men, not yet aglow and shrieking, to witness the pleasures to which their naked bodies would soon be subjected . Romans in the audience bid cash for the privilege of extending over the arena rails, the long bamboo poles tipped with wads of flaming tar to ignite the bundles of hay at the feet of these bound men, watching the flames crawl slowly up the victim's calves.

The Editor (Manager) of the games and the emperor himself vied with each other, constantly inventing new, novel, ever more cruel deaths to amuse and win the favor of the Roman mobe in the amphitheatre. Boys just reaching puberty were spreadeagled to pitch smeared archery targets, with large gobs of pitch smearing their new pubic bushes. Archers with flaming arrow tips aimed for this "center of t those who missed, hitting another spot on the youth or just those who missed, hitting another spot on the youth or just the archery target itself, were sent to roasting spittles. Chained back to back with another failed archer, they were slowly revolved over low fires, with cold wa closure. Tying his hands behind his back, a slavering group of professional "bath boys," strong youths trained since childhood to bathe, oil, massage, and sexually pleasure men as paid services in the great Roman baths wer Roman arena, had made up his mind to die silently, proudly, to show these Roman sops and dogs how a real man could die. He stood there, jaw set, his face stoic and expressionless as he felt parts of his leather and bronze uniform being cut away by these lusting, drunken young men. Even when stripped naked, excepting for his helmet, and feeling hands, lips, teeth slob- bering over every inch of his magnificent muscles pounding with middle aged power, his stern look never betrayed him. His mind deliberately shut out this humiliation. He'd always had the worst contempt for the Greek way of love making, and had had many and varied females as sex partners over the years.

How the audience roared with laughter and applause as this man's pride was degraded and shamed as he sank first to his knees, and then was forced face down on the hot sand to be fully raped. This rape continued for hours as men in other parts of the arena screamed and died under tortures, and the audience seeing only a mountain of twisting, sweating, glisten- ing flesh over this man, soon lost interest.

Leather hooded, naked arena guard-torturers had to disperse these rape maddened youths with hot pokers. They then lifted the raped man, his body befouled and slimy, gently, and putting his spread arms around their strong shouders in support dragged him over to a couple of stakes between which he was bound spreadeagled by his wrists and ankles. For the first time, this mature man's stoic, expressionless face turned to horror and fear as the guards tied long leather cords to each of the large, but drained, testicles of this handsome father of twelve. The amphitheatre's audience, re-interested again in this man shouted for the removal of his helmet, and this last vestige of clothing was unstrapped and unbuckled from his jaw, and removed to reveal his noble forehead and newly bald, middle aged countenance. He began to beg to be killed quickly, still a man, as the guards tied both en through his whole body. Lines of naked men being marched past him on their way to their own positions and stations of torture death, paused to look at him, some recognizing their own officer. He died slowly at the end of two full days. His full chested roars of pain by then reduced to mere hoarse, hen like squawks of agony as these piglets pulled and pulled trying to free themselves.

It was a Roman custom to march captured soldiers, naked and enchained through the streets of Rome on the way to the arena for their executions in the games and spectacles. The fall of Carthage and Jerusalum to the Emperor Titus, alone gave Rome thousands of choice men and boys with which to amuse themselves. After the fall of Jerusleum, the Emperor Titus marched a hundred thousand humiliated males through the streets, bare naked to the jibes and pelting of Roman specta- tors. They were used as draft animals to provide the muscle to construct the Flavian Amphitheatre (Colesseum). After years of hard labor, and its completion, these same captives, muscles hardened by years of hard work, were rewarded by being the first to die in it during the blood bath celebration of its opening. It took a full twenty da great number of construction slaves.

Classical pageants were devised for the arena whereby ancient myths were acted out to the cruel deaths of their participants. A man and a boy with attached feathered wings representing the legend of Daedelus and Icarus were pulled out on a rope high above the arena. Representing the flight to freedom of these legendary figures from their island prison, on beeswaxed joined feather wings which melted when they rashly flew too high, and the sun melted their wings, these two men over the arena were released from their propping ropes when over the center of the arena, and fell screaming, hundreds of feet, smashed into the sand covered boards of the arena floor.

Prometheus' punishment for stealing the fire of the gods, and giving it to man had an attractive naked man, chained spread eagled over a boulder while a trained eagle "pecked out his liver" as in the legend, until this victim was nothing but a his liver" as in the legend, until this victim was nothing but a writhing mass of bloody tissue, but still alive.

"Scaevola" had his hand chained to a tripod in which a fierce fire was lit, and he had to stand there, naked, dripping sweat, watching and feeling his hand burned off. This victim, like the real Scaevola, died without uttering a sound, in this case the victim's vocal cords had been smashed, his tongue removed shortly before to add realism to the scene. When dead, a long stake with a sharpened point was driven up his crotch, mangling his manhood, and his handsome corpse was raised high on the stake to display the agonized expression on his face to the arena audience.

A well endowed captive soldier portraying Alyce was brutally castrated, but the cruelly detailed portrayal of the "The Death of Hercules" was the entertainment that really struck a violent emotional chord for the sexually aroused and jaded arena audience. A tall, naked, broad shouldered man of great physique (had to be to portray Hercules) was led to the great priystique (na to be to portray netroutes) was tee to me center of the arena where, as ordered, he saluted the Emperor. A group of "perverted men" were sent into the arena to "worry, weaken, and exhaust" to wit sexua themselves with him, his abusers assembled a massive funeral pyre for the big man. The victim was then led, half dragged, to the pyre where he was forced to himself climb it and spread-eagle his ravaged body, his feet and hands tied down. Men and women in the audience were raised to a sexual frenzy as they watched the big hair covered chest of this fine man rise and fall as he tensed himself partly from fear of the rising flames, partly from anxiousness to get his humiliation over with, a quick end to his shame and degradation. Many in the audience were so aroused by these scenes that sexual acts were shamelessly open and flagrant while disregarding being watched. As the crackling flames raised higher on the pyre of hay, twigs, and logs, the audience was deathly still to hear this bull's death roars, bellows of pain renting the air as this mighty "Hercules" felt the flames licking and muscles. His cries, shrieks, and screams caused many women and men orgasms.

For the men in the arena audience's pleasure, attractive women were copulated by bears, apes, and large dogs on raised platforms permitting the lusting men in the audience to witness closeup details. Oddly it was against Roman law to kill virgin women in the arena so after St. Agnes had been strapped up for torture death, and it was learned she had never had a man, she was released from her stake, and handed over to a large group of idling seminude gladiators standing on the sidelines waiting to fight, for their use. This poor flower of a girl was crushed down on the hot sand of the arena floor under these sweating, massive brutes as they took turns entering her nad pumping their sperm into her body. When the group had finished with her and had satisfied themselves, she was dragged semi-conscious to her stake for further torments till death.

So many crucifixions of men and boys were sometimes carried on in the arenas and circuses that they appeared to be forests. Men in the audience made bets on which men would die first or last. The Romans always crucified men naked to add humiliation to their slow, squirming agony deaths. Sometimes men were crucified upside down, by one hand, one foot, on T-shaped crosses, X-shaped crosses, sometimes two men were nailed back to back on either side of the same cross. Women were hung by their breasts, and many men were hung by their genitals over sharp iron stakes stuck in

the midst of bonfires. The bigger and heavier men and boys' weights snapped off their genitals causing them to fall, castrated and screaming on the red hot stakes, while the lighter men swung and bounced screaming to the laughter of the audience.

Gladiatorial sports were inherited by the Romans from the earlier Etruscans who inhabited that area prior to the Romans. The Etruscans, to honor their noble dead had pairs of slaves and servants fight to death over their master's grave as part of the funeral ceremony. The Romans took up the idea and expanded it, the combats at first being strictly clean fights, but later the Roman thirst for blood demanded ever newer, more novel ways of murder thrills, until the last days of the Empire, when the games were abolished, they had turned these killings into mass spectacles of sadistic cruelty with heavy overtones of sexual obscenities.

As the Empire expanded so did the variety and quality of the speciments that could be enslaved into the gladiatorial schools as masses of slave men and boys to choose from were captured. There were huge blond giants with clean, hairless bodies from the deep forests of Gaul and Britain, massive bald blacks from Numidia (southern Egypt), their sweaty, rippling muscular bodies gleaming like ebony, hairy, short, sturdy, circumsized fighters imported from the eastern Mediterranean areas, and slender, adonis-like worshippers of the male physique from captured Greece. Even high born, but now impoverished, Romans of good physique, volunteered to fight as gladiators to try to re-coup the family's fortunes through prize winning. The gladiatorial schools, armed concentration camps, were called stables and life was severe, totally without feminine comforts, where the inmates were treated as stallions, whose only purpose in life was to fight, kill or be killed, until the rare time when if a gladiator had fought so long and well and survived, he was retired with honors, and usually given a job as a trainer, men in the arena audiences from lusting after their sexual attraction and powers. Generally speaking they were more like powerful horses than men, and since they were so muscular , they generally were equally as ruggedly handsome and desirable. They could be compared to our present day gladiators - pro-football jocks - and just as our own grid iron gladiators develop powerful erections under their jock strapped, pouch cups when their sadism is aroused by their triumphant bashing, hurting, and subduing other equally as strong opponents, so also did the Roman gladiators come back from the kill with their sex engorged. Many wealthy women in the amphitheatre audience paid to be allowed to await these brutes in cells beneath the arena to be their method of sexual release, with the smell of death and sweat still on these men. The aroused, sadistic lust of these brutes caused them orgasms so powerful and violent many of these women enjoyed the most powerful sex drive they had ever had. In fact this sex was sometimes so rough, the women needed doctors after being copulated.

More often, young, pretty skilled "bath boys" were waiting in the gladiators' cells to quickly remove these men's armor or leather breech clouts if wearing one, and provide sexual release for the turgid men with their mouths or anuses. Sometimes while being raped by kill maddened gladiators, the boys beneath them were strangled or had their necks broken, their internal organs torn to shreds in the fit of passion of the bull hung brutes above them, or were suffocated beneath the huge masses of sweating muscles. While bath boys and other slaves were dirt cheap, gladiators were a fantastically ex- pensive investment, so if a boy was killed or rendered useless for further servicing men, nothing was ever thought of it, and the "wounded" youth was immediately sent into the arena to be finished off as bait used in wild game hunting spectacles. Some gladiators finished off a young victim after each fight. This being the only way they could fully release the violent tension pent up in their systems by the kill. It wasn't too much to pay to reward such a gladiator who put up such a good show.

Friendships between gladiators in their stables was vigorously discouraged by their masters because if two strong men became close friends or lovers, and were later paired off to fight each other, it would make it harder for them to try to kill a man whom they knew or loved. Because they wanted their gladiators kept at full tension they seldom were given women, or boys if preferred, till after fighting. Though at the Emperor's request, these men were sometimes feted at lavish banquets and orgies to provide the emperor and his friends a show as gladiators sated their appetities for food or sex before the mornings of their deaths. On rare occasions, rich land owners, needing more slaves of good muscle would bring in a wagon load of nubile female slaves to for breeding, their offspring being sturdy and strong.

Gladiators were considered the epitome of potent virility. When a handsome, powerful gladiator who had fought long and well before being himself killed, was dragged out of the Port Libitinenesis, Gate of the Dead, by men dressed as Mercury with a hook through his calf, his carcass to join others on carts heading for the putrid pits outside the city walls and thrown with the rest of the garbage and offal of the city; Romans, including women, sent slaves down to this gate with cash to retrieve a souvenir of the rugged man. The tiny tro- phies such as a lock of his curls, esp nipple cut from his corpse, or a small fragment cut from one of his huge biceps, calves, or even his testicles, was then sealed in amulets supposing to have fertility charms. Any woman could finger these amulets while being ridden by her tired, commonplace husband, and her imagination triggered by the thought of the golden physique this trinket came off from was enough to cause her such violent orgasm her husband's weak sperm shots were literally suctioned out of his body, vacuumed up hers to impregnate the bitch. In this way, at least, it seems, these amulets did have fertility powers.

The various types of gladiators required different uniforms, from the heavily armored short sword (gladius) bearing Samnites to the quick moving, naked retiarius armed with just a barbed net and trident spear. Arena audiences wanted and demanded to see as much virile, naked muscle as possible rather than just the clunking, heavily armored, killing machines , so more often than not the gladiators fought, if not always in the nude, in the skimplest loincloths or in leather pouch belt covering. Preceeding all games, the gladiators paraded into the arena nude, slaves following them carrying their fighting gear for the day, before retiring to their cells beneath the arena to garb themselves. Since they were not considered humans, they were also not considered to have any modesty, and with their powerfully developed muscles and sex organs to match, they had no need to be. The gladiators knew their sexual attractiveness had much to do with their drawing power of audience followers, meaning more wealth for their masters, and sometimes for themselves. Prior to the championship gladiators fighting, gladiatorial battles called anabates were staged in the arena in which naked, condemned men with eyeless helmets or blindfolds strapped on them were placed in large groups to fight madly, blindly flailing swords and spears with hooded men bearing red hot pokers prodding them on until all were dead, never seeing whom they stabbed, speared, or beheaded. Hundreds of pairs of choice gladiators were forced to fight each other, the victors paired again with other victors, until only one of two survived and they were then crucified as a joke reward. The naked, leather hooded Charon's poked the fallen fighters with hot irons to insure they're not faking death, and men guised as Mercury pulled their corpses out of the arena by hooks through their claves through the Gate of Death, and piled them onto carts piled high with these dripping slabs of beef steak on the way to feed the wild animals in the Emperor's menagerie or headed for the putrid pits outside of the city walls.

The original "Tug of Wars" were performed in the arena, a large pit filled with flaming materials and stakes between the two groups of muscular, desperate men whose left hands were bound to the rope. After violent effort, their sweating, powerful backs bent with force in self preservation until one team triumphed and pulled its opponents one by one screaming,

AMOUS SADISTS IN HISTORY FAMOUS S falling, impaled to be roasted on stakes. The winning team looked down into the pit of hell to watch their former friends and comrades die so painfully, and started to protest and scream when they saw the Romans tie the end of the tug rope to teams of horses, knowing they would be pulled into the pit to join the men who had already suffered so bitterly.

Some luckier, especially choice handsome, muscular gladiators were selected by the nobility to provide dinner entertainment . Nero actually married one such powerfully built athlete-gladiator that especially met his fancy, provided plays whereby this gladiator used Nero as he would a woman, and the emperor squealed like a vrigin being de-flowered as the brute copulated him. It was almost as easy for soft Roman men to develop strong crushes on these giants of the arena and to desire sex with them as it is today for powerful corporation presidents to literally drool over muscular pro-football players and boxers, and hang around their locker rooms fantasizing about them, sometimes imagining themselves equal in physical power and attraction to these great athletes. Though patronizing these sports' giants, doing them favors, providing them with cars, cash, or women for a chance to hang around these nude players to give them a pat on the back, a squeeze of their biceps, when not around these football jocks refer to these rich guys as "jock sniffers."

The gladiators of Rome did the same thing, stripping their bodies before audiences of groups of Roman men and women, and standing there bored to death, their anger and shame repressed , allowing soft Roman hands to roam over their wonderful bodies, cupping and feeling their muscles, examining their genitals, even lifting and weighing their mighty, large testicles in the palms of their hands. On occasion a pair or two of muscular boxer-wrestlers were selected for entertainment purposes at lavish banquets. With cestus, brass and leather wrapped around their fists, these oiled brutes were to fight totally naked in the Greek style, clad only with a thin leather strap around one thigh holding a pouched, razor sharp castration knife to form the exotic finish of theif fallen opponent, while the Romans lay about on silken divans, gorging themselves with the finest foods and wines while feeling up and under the gauzy, tiny tunics of handsome young boy and girl slave servants. After an evening of watching naked men fight to the death, no one loaded here with wine in this circle of couches, had the least inhibitions left, and servants were wildly fellating men with lifted robes while their ignored wives and mistresses fornicated with mature male servants or were fellating the soldier guards still standing at attention as women removed their iniforms below their belts and their loincloths, and knelt before them to pleasure these fine men. The two oiled, naked men fought hard, battering each other, grappling in wrestling holds, muscles flexing, strained and mashed, bones crushed till finally one giant landed a winning punch with his cestus to his opponent's jaw. The smashed man fell, face down, semi-conscious. His arms straightened out momen-tarilly to begin to lift himself, but he then collapsed. Grinning, his victor mounted his back, and placing his knee halfway up the fallen man's spine, put his arms under the loser's arm pits, and yanking upwards forced the man's massive v-shape backwards till his back was broken. Then putting one arm around the fallen man's neck, took his other ha man's head quickly forward till his neck snapped. Unsheathing his castrating knife from the pouch strapped around his thigh, he committed the coup de grace. Turning his vanquished opponent over on his back, he made a few clean swipes with the razor sharp knife to remove the man's entire, haired pubic area, including the large genitals. Lifting his grisly, bloody trophy high in one hand, he shouted in triumph as he saluted his host with his knife hand. Then he tossed the prides to a slave to have them treated, waxed over, and mounted as an amusing plaque. Two slaves came in carrying chests filled with gold coins and jewels for him. Then came the second part of his reward, the choice of any man or woman in the audience. There was a deadly silence with heavy breathing, as he stared about the circle of couches in the hall, his one hand on a hip, the other rubbing his jaw as he contemplated the sexual banquet being offered him, and trying to choose the ones to be receptacles for his boiling sperm, his massive penis rising in anticipation. Selecting a young beauty, and with one mighty yank at the throat of her gown, ripped her bare, and selecting also a young, virgin looking, curly haired slave boy to pleasure him, he mounted the drooling young woman, she screaming in pleasure-pain as he rammed his huge youth's mouth was all over the great man as he copulated, trying to absorb some of the virile strength of this man. Again, as in the arena, the thrill of victory, the sadistic lust aroused by the kill in this gladiator pro youth with the most powerful sex they had ever experienced. The Roman men and women left their couches to encircle this rutting gladiator, and as they watched his rear rise and fall, buttocks clenching and opening, brought their own selves to climax through masturbation. Later when this played out gladiator was returned to his gladiator barracks, bathed, reeking of rare perfumes, his wrists, fingers, and chest loaded with precious jewels, his tales of his evening's sexual conquests regaled his sex-starved stablemates into heavy masturbation and mutual oral sex.

Being used as animals, killing machines, and sexual playthings did enrage some gladiators. Spartacus, often being forced to display his nakedness publicly and fight to kill his friends / lovers, rebelled, and he drew like a magnet, all the other gladiators, then the slaves from the villas and plantations of southern Italy into a rebellion that shook the Romans to their boots after a rampage of looting, burning, raping of towns fallen to this rebel army.

Notables in these towns, who had enjoyed the blood lust of the games, were themselves stripped naked and forced to fight each other to the death before their former death performers . Finally the overwhelming Roman armies suppressed the rebellion, and with typical Roman vindictiveness and fury crucified thousands of men. The entire Appian Way, Naples to Rome was lined with groaning, naked men dying slowly, and providing amusement to Roman travelers and excursionists out to see the sight. The captive gladiators and slaves themselves provided the labor and muscle to kill themselves, felling trees, hewing crosses, dragging carts loaded with crosses like horses, forcing their own naked friends to lie spread on the crosses on the ground, and holding their wrists and ankles as the spikes were nailed through palms and feet, the Roman's whips slashing hard on their broad backs to make them work faster. Occasionally after a muscular gladiator almost tenderly, lovingly held the wrists of his friend or lover while being nailed, he had to himself lie on the next cross, the same painful thing done to him. For several days these pain maddened men hung, the stronger the man, the longer he lived. Hanging naked, his sweat and excrements drew droves of tortuous flies his spiked hands couldn't flick away. Vultures attacked and feasted on their muscles even in many cases before these men fell into merciful unconsciousness or death, biting off fingers, nipples, toes, genitals, even gouging out eyes or ripping out tongues of wide open mouths screaming in pain.

Rich Roman men and women, lying on silken cushions in sedan chairs supported by poles on the shoulders of muscular slaves stopped to watch, and enjoy the sight of a writhing form of a man that attracted them, as insects ate his sweat causing him violent itching and convulsions. The Romans laughed as they lay sipping cool wines, and watched these

The Romans learned nothing from this rebellion, their cruelties increased rather than diminished, and even before the skeletons and rotting corpses fell from their crosses, the gladiatorial schools were re-opened, and the Romans were again madly bidding on new beef, strong, new, naked captives being displayed in the slave markets of Rome, Capua, Napolis for training as gladiators to feed the hungry arenas and amphi-theatres of Rome.

The modern mind need only depict a nude, sun bronzed Clint Walker, a Larry Osonka, Dave Kopay, Arnold Swarzen-negger , Pete Rose, or a powerful Ken Norton standing, spread legged on the hot sands of the arena before arming for their fights, their right arms extended in salute to their Emperor: AVE, IMPERATOR, MORITURI TE SALUTANT.

eR

SLAVe

KURT Kreisler

"I'm better lookin' than you are, know that?" Tom was standing proudly in front of the full length mirror in their mutual bedroom admiring his own nude body in the glass and stroking his stiff cock slowly and deliberately. It throbbed beneath his strong fingers almost anxiously. God! I'm so fuckin' horny, he thought with desperation. He was almost tempted to increase the pressure and jerk off right then and there… "That's a lie…we're identical…everybody says that they can't tell us apart!" Terry was lying on his bed and forcing himself, with difficulty, to keep his eyes glued to the paperback novel. He was beginning to perspire slightly from the strain of wanting to look up at his naked brother… and at the same time being afraid to. Suddenly his brother groaned helplessly and Terry's deep blue eyes flared wide as he looked up automatically in time to see Tom's tall, hard body writhing and twisting uncontrollably. Terry could see his face in the mirror. Tom's mouth was open slightly and he was staring at his reflection with a look of surprise on his handsome face. The cheeks of his small ass tensed and tightened in spasms as he cursed himself under his breath.

Terry watched with open fascination as the contortions became more violent. Tom shuddered visibly and stepped back from the mirror quickly…but it was already too late. Large, wet surges of hot cum were splattering and splashing against the glass and running down the smooth surface in sticky rivulets. The boy watching from the bed had an insane urge to run over and watch it spurt out of the big, swollen head of his brother's dick but he bit his lip viciously to keep his cool. Then…with a final hopeless moan, Tom's shoulders sagged and his head dropped forward shaking back and forth slowly. Finally Tom turned at last from the mirror and Terry dropped his eyes quickly back to the printed pages. He was finding it hard to control his own heavy breathing.

"Shit! And I have a date with Linda tonight! What a stupid- ass thing to do!" Tom went into the bathroom disgustedly and yanked a towel from the rack. He kneeled in front of the mirror and swiped the thick giz carelessly from the mirror leaving long, wide streaks running in all directions. He hurled the dirty towel to the floor angrily and just remained kneeling as he surveyed himself in the glass once again. Slowly the tension began to drain from his body and his shoulders relaxed as a smile formed on his young face. "What the hell! I'm so goddamned horny that I won't have any fuckin' trouble comin' again in a few hours, anyhow!" He stoo his well-formed body sideways and flexed his chest muscles, "Anyway, I can tell the difference between us," he continued as if nothing had happened.

Terry had a hard time forcing the first word out of his constricted throat. "Of . . of course you can, you boob! You've had seventeen years to learn the damned difference!" He forced a deliberately loud sigh of boredom and pretended to be more interested in his book than in his handsome twin. He was shaking inside and he hoped desperately that it didn't show!

Tom stroked and teased his meat a few more times almost hopefully, pulling at it as he watched his own face in the mirror. The crystal clear blue eyes smiled back at him from under the long, curly blond hair that almost, but not quite, reached to his broad shoulders. He chuckled softly as he said matter-of-factly, "My cock is bigger than yours, though!" He glanced through the mirror at his brother. A mischievous smile ignore the curious temptation that he felt growing inside of him, but finally he gave in and rolled reluctantly to a sitting position on the side of the bed. Slowly he stood up and walked with studied casualness over to stand beside his brother in front of the glass. He reached down and pulled his briefs to the knees exposing his own well-endowed organs. The balls were large and hung down well below the end of the thick prick which dangled heavily between his slightly spread legs. He looked down at his brother's hanging dong and had to admit to himself that it was a little broader…but then he had been pulling at it, too, he compromised mentally. "Maybe a little thicker, but not by very damned much!" He pulled up his shorts and went back to the bed. He flopped down heavily and picked up his book again. "Besides, your super masculine ego bores me to death!"

Tom laughed loudly as his big hand wrapped around his dick and began jerking it again. "Want me to work it up again so I can prove it to ya'?" He walked slowly toward Terry with a grin on his lips. "Come on, kid. Let's both work 'em up hard like we used to when we were kids. Remember when we used to jack each other off, huh?" "Go to hell!" Terry was lying on his side and raised his upper knee higher in front of him to hide the obvious bulge that was beginning to grow in the pouch of his undershorts. He had always been turned on by his brother, the same way he got turned on by his own body when he played with himself. He just couldn’t help it, but he sure as hell didn’t want Tom to know it. The bastard would never let him live it down!

Tom halted directly in front of Terry's face. His now erect prick standing straight up just at his brother's eye level. Terry cringed involuntarily and avoided even looking at the big, pulsing tool. Tom pushed it down and held it straight out from his crotch and thrust his slim, muscular hips forward toward Terry's flushed face. "Ya' know, we're missing a good thing. We could make a lot of extra bread by selling our dicks to the cocksuckers in the park, except that I'm not too sure I could make the scene with another guy. I don't like queers anyhow!" He let go of his meat and walked to the dresser and grabbed a pair of clean shorts. Terry took the opportunity of his brother's back being turned to wipe away the few beads of shiny perspiration that had popped out on his forehead. His brother dressed quickly in a T shirt and levis. His chest bulged under the white cotton and his nipples showed prominently through the thin cloth. He left the semen-streaked mirror feeling satisfied with his appearance and grabbed a levi jacket from the closet.

"I still got a date with that new broad at school tonight." He rubbed his crotch vigorously, emitting a small moan of anticipated pleasure. "Want to find someone and come along, buddy boy?"

"No, thanks. I just want to finish this novel. Besides, dinner will be ready pretty soon and I'm starved.'

Tom walked over and slapped his brother's small, round as with a loud crack. Terry jumped with surprise and muttered a curse under his breath. "Suit yourself, punk. You don't know what you might be missin'!" Tom left the r without closing the door behind him, as usual.

Terry rose quickly and hurried to close it after him. He could hear his father's voice from the living room as Tom passed through to go out the front door. "Got a hot date, huh?'

Yeah, Dad, a new girl at school. Naturally she had the smarts to pick me instead of any of those other slobs!" His father laughed raucously. "Chip off the old block, by God! You're just like your old man when I was your ag

Terry cringed at the sound of his father's laugh. He had always hated it with a passion. It sounded so… gruff. "Where's your brother?" you really want to. I've always had a hell of a lot of faith in you, ya' know!" Terry pushed the door closed quietly, turning the door-knob to keep it from making any sound. He felt suddenly depressed. His father had always preferred Tom to him, ever since they were kids. And Tom was really more like him in a lot of ways, louder, rougher. He sat on his bed and finished the last few pages of the chapter he was on and then started to get dressed for dinner. The smell coming from the kitchen was almost overpowering and it made his stomach growl loudly from anticipation. His mother was the greatest cook in the country and, besides, she liked him better than she did his "big" brother!

Just before he pulled on his pants he stood in front of the mirror again almost timidly and studied his image critically examining every detail. His hands slid over his slim hips and pulled the white shorts down an inch at a time until his rapidly swelling prick was completely free and it seemed to shoot out at him from the glass. It never failed to amaze him; it was as if his brother was still standing there. Nobody would be able to tell the difference! He stared in fascination as his cock con- tinued to throb and expand. He wondered what it would really be like to go to bed with another man. He was sure he'd be afraid to even try it!

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the towel that his brother had used to wipe his cum off of the mirror and he bent hesitantly to pick it up. His blood pounded in his ears as he held it gingerly to his nose and sniffed at the moist spots. It gave off a strong, male odor and he found himself strongly tempted to put the tip of his tongue to the residue and see what it tasted like. His face flushed suddenly and he threw the towel from him violently.

He turned and walked quickly over to his bed and then reached far back under the mattress and pulled out the brochure of sex film pictures that he had secretly sent for. He'd had to lie about his age on the order form and it had made him nervous for weeks after he mailed it. He had watched the mail frantically every day in a panic to make sure that he was the one that got to it first. God! If his folks or Tom were to find out what it was that he thought about the most he's just die, or kill himself! He opened the familiar and slightly worse-for-wear folder and looked for the pictures that he had already decided were the best ones. He had jerked off over them so many times that he had lost count long ago. The close-up of a young man's handsome face was his favorite. His moist lips were wrapped around another man's big cock and the idea that men actually did that to each other made the blook rush to his groin in warm, excited surges.

He stood beside the bed and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them as soon as they hit the floor. He grasped his pulsing hardon tightly as he eased over onto his back on the bed and held the pictures above his face with his left hand. Slowly, deliciously, he began massaging the smooth, warm skin of his prick as his eyes drank in the fantastic sight of the unreal men doing all of the things to each other that he had secretly imagined himself doing so often, so painfully often. A crystal drop of lubricant had found its way out of the hole and onto the big swollen head of his cock. His thumb slipped up over the tip and rubbed the slick liquid all over the surface as he looked at the picture of the young guy going down on someone else and imagined that instead of his thumb it was the guy's wet tongue rubbing the tip of his dick. His chest began to heave with desire as the first surges of sperm landed hotly against the smooth, bare skin of his belly. He increased the speed of his stroke and groaned with ecstasy as the final giant shot flew out and landed in a small puddle in his belly button. He continued to stare at the forms on the page as his hand slowly stopped pumping and slid down onto his big balls and began pulling and twisting the sack gently.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened. Terry's face flushed immediately and he frantically slid the folder, still open, underneath his pillow in a panic. His heart raced and his whole body was shaking. He sat up quickly and raised his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around them to hide his cum bathed stomach. "Shit! I forgot my wallet, damn it!" Tom rushed over to the dresser top and opened the beat up leather billfold. "Fuck, not much to go on a date with!" He turned with an evil smile and asked, "What were you hiding from me, little brother? Something I shouldn't see, maybe?" He w menacingly over to Terry's bed. The boy's prick had shriveled instantly at his brother's sudden intrusion upon his privacy. Tom reached down and started to put his hand under the pillow. Terry stopped breathing and tried to rest his elbow on it immediately exposing the sticky shine that was clinging to his belly.

"It's nothing, Tom. Please forget it, will you?" His voice had an urgent, pleading sound to it. "Just something personal, that's all. I'd rather you didn't push it!" He looked up into

Tom's eyes begging him silently to go away.

Tom's eyes picked up on his brother's recent ejaculation instantly, "Oh, yeah, What's this then, you lyin' little bastard?" He reached down eagerly and rubbed the slick liquid all over his brother's stomach, up over the muscles of his chest and then down into his pubic hair as he chuckled to himself. Terry cringed with humiliation as Tom reached up and ran his fingers through his brother's long hair to wipe off the rest of the sticky residue.

Without warning Tom gave one hard shove beneath the weight of Terry's arm and dragged out the now wrinkled pamphlet. His sparkling eyes opened wider and wider as he examined each picture and then a grin began to grow slowly across his handsome face. "Well, I'll be goddamned!" He whistled loudly and looked down at Terry's bowed head in amazement. "You like this kind of stuff, kid?" He folded the brochure back up and tossed it down onto the bed beside his brother who now sat dejectedly, ignoring it completely. Terry didn't answer the question. He felt too shaky and inse- cure to say anything at all. "Hey man…you're not…you're not a queer?" He stut- tered in shocked surprise.

"I'm not a 'queer', I've never done anything… with any- body. I just like to look at the pictures, that's all, Believe me, that's all!" The shaky voice of the stricken young man was

"Wow! This is really some weird scene! My little brother is a fag!" He laughed wildly and raised his eyes to the ceiling in mock prayer. "Oh, Lord, heal this sick child!" He plopped himself down next to Terry on the bed still laughing. Terry's head swirled and swam in mad confusion and the pain of shame swept over his nude body in gigantic, heaving waves.

He felt dizzy and a little like vomiting.

Tom reached over and pinched his nipple playfully. "Hey, babe, want me to find you someone to practice on, huh?" He pinched his brother's tit harder. "Wouldn't you like a nice hot dick to suck on when you go to sleep?" Terry winced at the words as well as the painful pinch. His whole body was flushed and hot from the embarrassment of being discovered. "Or, on second thought, maybe you should practice on me!" Tom had stood and was slowly and deliberately unbuttoning his fly as he talked, never taking his eyes off of his brother's face. A cruel smile formed on his full lips. "It would be safer, anyhow, 'cause you might get arrested or something if you did it with somebody else, ya' know?" He was now in front of Terry's trembling body and easing standing his levis and shorts down off of his hips at the same time. As the material cleared his cock it shot up into half-hard position right in front of the other boy's face. "I'll bet you've never even touched a grown man's dick. Take hold of mine. See if ya' like the feel of it in your hand, kid!" His eyes were glittering with excitement and his breath was becoming faster and heavier. "Please, Tom. Leave me alone. Please!" Terry's shoulders

"I said to take hold of my prick, Terry!" Tom's voice was harsh and commanding and he spoke with quick gusts of breath. He grabbed Terry's trembling hand and planted it firmly against his crotch. The sob escaped uncontrollably from Terry's trembling lips and tears began rushing down his red face. He clasped his hand around his brother's long, hard cock and it froze there afraid to move even slightly. rub it a little bit, baby, just slow and easy. Do it!" He jerked Terry's fist up and down on the thick prod by force. He moaned and threw his head back and closed his eyes as Terry began to pump his organ by himself. Tom looked back down at his brother and saw that the boy's eyes were squeezed tightly shut as if trying to block out the whole scene. Suddenly he stepped back away from the hand and the contact . "Hold it. I can't go any further, man! Gotta save at least a little bit for Linda tonight!" He laughed again as he forced the throbbing piece of meat tightly up against his belly so that he could get the buttons fastened over its obvious bulge. His face had become more sober and the flush was beginning to ebb away. He sat down heavily onto the bed and put his muscular arm around Terry's shoulders almost lovingly. Terry shivered uncontorollably. "I was just kidding, Terry. I don't really give a damn what the hell you are. You're just my brother, that's all, babe!" He pulled the boy in close to him and squeezed him warmly. "It takes all fuckin' kinds to make the lousy world go 'round, kid. Don't worry about it; I'll never spread the word to any- body, you know that!" He released Terry's shoulders and stood up. "Uh, listen, little brother, how about lending me five bucks. I'm sorta' short and I really want to impress this chick, ya' know?" Terry reached for his pants which were lying on the bed behind him and pulled out his wallet. He handed Tom the bill without even looking up at him. He kept his burning face down toward his lap. "Thanks." Tom stood looking down at him for a few long moments and then turned

pillow. He cried until the tears stopped flowing all by themselves. He kept seeing Tom's beautiful hardon in front of his face, kept remembering the exciting feel of the big instrument in his hand. It was the closest he'd ever been to another man's sex organs and he shuddered as he realized that he had really enjoyed it. And he was ashamed.

He showered with cool water and dressed reluctantly. He wasn't really hungry any more; he just wanted to be alone and wash t really fluingly any horie field by antied to be alone and think things out. But his mother was sure to come and get him for dinner if he didn't show up on time. He was just walking toward the dinnig room when he hea newspaper as ne spoke. Inlogati mayer you can expend as ne spoke. Inlogati mayer you have reading, Ferry. You know, you read too damned much!" He folded the paper up and rose to go to the dining table. He slapped Terry on healthy to spend all of your goddamned time indoors."

His mother smiled brightly at him as he sat down at the table and put his napkin in his lap. "Well, I haven't seen you all afternoon, sweetheart. Don't you ever get bored just staying by yourself in your room all weekend?" She reached out and touseled his blond curls lovingly. "One thing I have to say for you, though. I never have to worry out and getting into some kind of trouble like I do with your brother!" He forced a smile and wondered if his eyes were still red. He sure hoped not 'cause he'd have a hell of a time explaining to them why he had been cryi ask him!

Dinner passed quietly, almost dully. His father's familiar voice was the most often heard as usual. And all he seemed to be able to talk about was one or the other of his favorite subjects, either his boring job or precious Tom. Terry ate very little, excused himself with a mumble very early and crept back to his room sullenly. He was in a blue funk and worried shitless that his brother had found out about… about IT!

The movie had been a lousy bore and Tom, as he sat with Linda parked deep in the darkness of the trees above the city, regretted having wasted his hard-earned cash on it, as well as the valuable time he had lost with her. His arm rested around her soft shoulders carelessly; The crickets surrounded them with their eternally innocuous refrain as he waited for the right moment.

Slowly, cautiously, he started sliding his dangling fingers into her blouse until he felt the soft skin of her breast. His handsome head flew back with a violent jerk and his blue eyes opened wide with total shock as her small hand landed with a resounding crack across his face.

"What in the hell did ya' do that for, damn it?" "Because I don't like it, little boy, that's why!" She glared the car into reverse and squealed back onto the pavement of the road. He gritted his teeth angrily all the long way down as she sat sullenly as far away from him as she could possibly manage. Rubber screamed around the curves and Tom gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white with tension.

When they finally reached the bottom of the winding road, Tom sighed with a secret relief. He had really taken some dangerous chances coming down from the mountain! He'd even gerous chances coming down from the mountains rie o even managed to make himself nervous, but if Linda had been impressed, she didn't show a bit of it. As he let her out in front of her place, she said a very curt, crisp " vainly under his breath as he squealed away from the curb and immediately headed for Joe's place for a beer or two. Inside the tiny establishment he flashed his fake ID at the old man who tended bar weekends. Joe glanced at it cursorily and brought him a draft. It was just a little ritual they always went through together. Joe knew it was no goddamned good, but he was so hungry he wanted anybody's money. He also pushed a little grass on the side and Tom still had some at the house from the last time he had been in the joint. As he paid for his second beer he grimaced at his dwindling funds. Shit! He's spent nearly his whole wad on that stupid broad! Now he'd be forced to hit Terry up for some more in the morning. But at least the kid knew he'd pay him back as soon as he could! He looked longingly at the empty pool table but decided to save the coins. He played the juke box a couple of times at random and downed four or five more beers; he had lost count. Then, with a casual wave of his hand to the old man, he left the bar.

He didn't walk too straight as he went to his car. He felt a little woozy from all the beers. He waited for a few minutes before he started the engine, hoping to sober up a little bit. He pulled out into the far right lane of traffic and remembered what he had read about what cops looked for in a driver to suspect him of being drunk. He settled back away from the wheel and tried to be more relaxed. Even so, he sweated all the way home in fear of being stopped by the pigs because he was just barely aware enough to realize that he had been crossing over the center line of the street just a little too often and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't keep from doing it.

He breathed a long sigh of relief as he pulled up in front of his own place and just sat for a minute or two getting rid of the tension of the drive home. He'd had a shitty night, he thought grudgingly as he entered the bedroom. He didn't even bother to turn on a light but instead just stumbled over to his bed and kicked his trousers off onto the floor. He kicked off the shorts, too, but didn't even bother removing his T-shirt. He was just too fuckin' stoned to care! Terry's body hadn't stirred even the slightest at his twin's rather noisy entry. And Tom lay there thinking drunkenly back over the way the whole lousy, fuckin' evening had gone. He thought of Linda's big boobs and gritted his teeth in tortured agony as he realized how goddamned clo before she began to play the Virgin Mary with him in the car! He eagerly fondled his growing piece of meat and cupped his heavy balls in the sweaty palm of his hand, kneading and massaging them slowly, gently. He ached to get his rocks off and he knew that he wouldn't be able to go t

ing a climax and, God, he hated the idea of jerking off again.

Once an evening was enough!

All of a sudden he turned abruptly up onto his side and rested his bleary head in his hand. He peered through the semidarkness and watched his brother's murky, shadowy form for a few minutes, still slowly massaging his throbbing prick slowly and cautiously.

"Hey, kid, you still awake, huh?" He held his breath in the darkness waiting for a sign of life from the other twin bed.

The salty sweat began to gather on his face and run down from under his arms and across his chest as he lay there hurting … no, aching… and now thinking very forbidden thoughts. Why not? The kid was a queer, anyhow! He was totally desperate and he might as well be the first one to teach the stupid punk a little something! He'd love it… and if somebody else did it, they probably wouldn't be nearly as careful. He hesitated , sat up quietly and remained poised on the edge of his bed for a few moments. They'd both learn together. By God, it couldn't be that fuckin' difficult, anyway. It just couldn't!

He rose and crossed the few feet between the two beds on tip-toe. Every nerve and muscle in his tense, sweaty body was on edge and tingling. He wasn't sure what the hell he'd do when he got there but, by God, he wasn't gonna go to sleep horny! This little punk was going to finally be of some real use to him one way or the other! After what seemed like an eter- nity to his cloudy mind he finally reached Terry's bed. The sleeping boy was lying on his stomach as usual. Tom hesitated for a moment and then reached down with trembling fingers and grasped the very edge of the cover and began pulling it down a fraction of an inch at a time. Terry didn't move a muscle. At last the cover slid back off of the kid's beautiful buttocks. They were bare and seemed to gleam invitingly in the soft light from the street lamp outside the bedroom window . The cheeks were firm and round, very small for the boy's frame. Tom began stroking them lightly with the tips of shaky fingers, enjoying the cool smoothness beneath his hand. Terry stirred slightly.

'What… what's happening?" He turned onto his side and raised his shoulders up to peer into Tom's burning face. "Oh, it's you!" He looked puzzled as his gaze wandered down and back to where Tom's big hand had followed his bare ass as it had turned away from him. The sweaty palm rested firmly over one naked cheek. "What do you think you're doing,

Tom?" His voice was sleepy and confused. "Just shut your fuckin' mouth, punk! I'm feeling your queer little ass, that's what I'm doin'!" His voice was taut with nervous frustration. His breath was being expelled in short, passionate gasps. "I'm gonna start your education in being a good homo tonight!" He squeezed the bun roughly. "I'm gonna have myself a virgin one way or the other. . and right now!" "For Christ's sake, Tom, cut it out, will you?" Fright glowed in Terry's wide blue eyes as he made the statement almost pleadingly. His head was just beginning to clear and the ominous promise in Tom's harsh words sank into his brain clear and fast. "You know you can't…you can't do that to me…, I've never done it!" He tried to move away from his brother's strong hand as he added, "This is silly. Stop fooling around and go to bed… please.

"Okay, if you're ready to talk to Dad about being a queer tomorrow morning! He won't like it." The T-shirt came off casually.

"Tom, you promised me. You promised not to tell anybody about. about the way I feel!" He was genuinely scared now and he didn't know what to do or say next. His brother's face looked so hard and strange as it floated in the darkness above him. He felt completely helpless.

"I said only if you were a good kid. Now be one and lay flat on your belly!" He shoved Terry roughly back onto his stomach and fell on top of him heavily. Terry could smell the and apprehension that he already felt.

"Tom, please don't do this thing to me, please don't!" he begged. He jerked as he felt his brother reach down and spread his cheeks wide apart with his gruff hands. His heart jumped in panic as he felt the head of Tom's big cock press hard against his virgin asshole clumsily.

"I guess you better relax a little more, kid. This is a hell of a lot tighter than a woman's pussy," Tom whispered hoarsely. The big dick probed and pushed at the tight opening trying to break through with force alone. Terry moaned loudly and reached back to push his brother's slim hips away from his ass. Tom slapped the bare cheeks sharply. "You'd better cooperate with me, Terry… or else! And I think the other thing would be worse!" He smacked the kid's ass again even harder. "And, don't forget, I could spread the word about you all around school, too, ya' know!" He spit the words out between heavy breaths at the helpless boy beneath him. All of a sudden Tom moved back onto his knees, his thick prick pulsing in the darkness. "I think it's time for lesson number two, sweetheart. Turn over onto your back. Now!" He almost flung Terry out of bed as he moved to implement his command. When his frightened brother had maneuvered over onto his back, Tom moved quickly up over his chest. He reached down and grabbed Terry by the back of the head and pulled it forward until the neck was strained. "You'd better learn how to suck a man's dick if you're going to turn out to be a good cock- sucker!" He laughed coarsely and his words were a little slurred from too much beer. He forced the swollen and oozing head of his cock up against Terry's closed and protesting mouth. The boy's eyes were misted over with stark terror as he felt the hot meat trying to force its way into his mouth. He remembered the pictures in the brochure and fearfully, hesitantly he opened his mouth and admitted Tom's throbbing prick between his virgin lips. It felt so strange to actually be doing it, especially after thinking about it for so long and he almost gagged as the long shaft hurried back into the opening and pushed hard against the back of his throat.

"Get it good and wet, punk. Don't let it lay there, damn it, suck it!" Tom started moving his hips in a fucking motion and groaned with pleasure as Terry began to suck and lick it with his slick, warm tongue. He moved it slowly in and out of his brother's mouth until he thought he would explode. He yanked it out from between the wet lips frantically and flipped his brother back onto his belly. He spit into his hand and rubbed the slick liquid clumsily into the crack of Terry's quivering ass and mounted the boy's hips again. He reached down with both hands and guided the long, hard tube up against the tight little hole and pushed. It entered this time and he almost yelled at the wild sensation. Terry let out a lit- tle cry of surprise and tried to move away from his attacker. wrong…please!

"Shut up! I'm gonna fuck that pretty little ass of yours if it's the last thing I ever do!" He moved the head of it slowly deeper into the cavity savoring the groovy feeling of warmth and tightness. It was one of the wildest feelings he had ever had. Suddenly he gave one gigantic shove and landed on top of the helpless boy with his full weight forcing the instrument of torture all the way in to the hilt. Terry cried aloud from the hot burning agony of the forced intrusion into his body. Tom reached up and slapped his hand tightly over his brother's

"Keep your goddamned mouth shut or I'll do worse than this, believe me!" He began to move faster as he reached under Terry's body with his free hand and felt for his tits. He cupped the rounded chest muscle in his palm and pretended it was a woman's breast, Linda's. He pinched and pulled at the hard nipples painfully, enjoying Terry's muffled groans from under his hand and the twisting of the boy's naked body beneath him. Terry squirmed helplessly under the violent assault and Tom only pumped harder trying to hit bottom. He did and Terry almost passed out. Tom started ramming and twisting violently as he approached the end. The asshole was slick and more relaxed now and he relished the feeling of being the first man to break his brother's cherry. He imagined some other guy mounted where he was now and mentally stood back to watch. It turned him on even more and he accelerated his attack on the round, white little ass beneath him. Terry's arms and legs flailed and thrashed on the bed helplessly and he had tears streaming out of the corners of his tightly closed eves.

It started gushing out unexpectedly and Tom pounded his prick deeper into the warm cavity. He grunted and groaned in ecstasy as the thick, hot cum shot far into Terry's insides, bathing his gut with his own semen. At last it was over and Tom gave one last violent shove and collapsed completely, crushing his brother beneath his weight. Their naked bodies rubbed slickly against each other from his sweat.

"So that's what a real piece of ass is like, huh?" he

# John Rechy calls them sexual outlaws, the vanguard of defiance and rage who live on the very edge of American society. The "shock troops of the Sexual Revolution.

THE SEXUAL OUTLAW-Rechy's first work of non-fiction since the classic CITY OF NIGHT appeared 15 years ago- is his passionate indictment of society's devastating repression of this minority.

It's a shattering account-with-documentaries of three days and nights in the sexual underground —the parks, alleys, garages, bars, streets, and beaches of contemporary Los Angeles. Rechy calls it "the silently symphonic, intricate, instinctively choreographed beauty of the promiscuous sex-hunt ."

In THE SEXUAL OUTLAW Rechy creates three distinct, but smoothly interwoven scenarios: a weekend in the life of Jim, sometime male hustler, the pub- lic's mindless fear of homosexuality ; and the dramatic

EQ GE -- GROVE PRESS, INC. 196 West Houston Stree New York, N.Y. 10014 development of Rechy's own sexual identity and political realization

YEL THE SEXUAL OUTLAW will be read for more than the explosiveness of its subject matter. Rechy's widely acclaimed talent for intermixing forms and voices, history and drama, rage and humor make THE SEXUAL OUTLAW a significant contribution to modern literature, an outspoken entertainment, and a revolutionary insight into a new definition of American morality.

Like CITY OF NIGHT, THE SEXUAL OUTLAW is destined to become a Twentieth Century literary classic. fied I may return book(s) within 14 days for a full refund Nan Address. muttered with his face buried in Terry's blond hair. "Did ya" dig that, baby. Did ya'?

Terry lay perfectly still under him, breathing heavily, his eyes still closed and his handsome young face misted over with a light film of perspiration. His dark eyelashes looked even longer against his pale skin.

Tom's fingers were sore and he laughed as he suddenly realized that his brother had bitten his hand while he was fucking him up the ass.

"Why you little bastard!" he chided as he slapped the violated cheeks sharply, causing Terry to jump at the sudden additional pain. Still he didn't speak. He just remained motionless , crying silently into his pillow. Tom got up from his brother's bed, wiped his dick on his shorts and climbed into his own bed with a tired grunt. In minutes his breathing was deep and quiet. He slept the sleep of the totally satiated.

Terry remained on his stomach for a long time trying to forget the searing pain that shot through his lower body. He was almost afraid to move a single muscle; he didn't know what to expect or what to do now! He just wanted desperately to die or something, anything, not just from the attack by his brother and all the pain. He was afraid of something else that seemed even more monstrous, more unbelievable. He reached his hand cautiously down and underneath him as he raised his aching hips up off of the bed. It encountered a large, slick, damp spot. He had shot his own load all over the covers while his brother was screwing him. That fact worried him more than anything else. In fact, he was frightened!

His ass was very sore when he woke up the next morning and he just laid there with his eyes closed, mentally probing his body for other painful signs of his brother's abuse the night before. His mind was numb and it stubbornly refused to truly believe that the whole scene had really transpired. He decided that his tits were a little sore, too. He heard Tom stirring in his bed and yawning loudly. Terry still didn't move as the sounds indicated that Tom was getting up. "Hey! Little brother!" Another yawn. "You're a damned good piece of ass, know that?" He laughed good naturedly. And, man, have I got a headache! Get me some aspirin, will ya'?" He heard Tom scratching at some unknown area. "Get them yourself." He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again when he found himself staring directly at his brother's full hardon as he sat on the edge of the bed just across from him.

"What? What was that again, buddy?" He heard Tom moving across the narrow space toward him and opened his moving across the narrow space toward film and opened ms eyes again. "I guess you didn't hear me right. You must need a little more persuasion, huh?" He reached down and rolled Terry face up on the bed gruffly. "From now o your second lesson in cocksucking last night, kid! Go to it! He shoved his prick toward Terry's frightened face and put his hands on his bare hips, waiting impatiently for his brother to obey his command. "You've hurt me for the first and last time, Tom. I'm not going to put my mouth on your cock!" Terry gritted his teeth and pressed his lips tightly closed. He reeled and fell back across the bed as his brother's hand smashed across his face violently. His eyes opened wide in stunned surprise and before he could utter a word of protest Tom had moved quickly around the bed and now stood above his face looking down at him angrily. Tom's jaw was set firmly as he grabbed Terry under the arms and pulled him over until his head hung over the side of the bed. Then Tom grabbed his arms and pulled them up, trapping them tightly beneath his own armpits. His big hands held Terry's helpless head and he kneeled beside the bed and shoved. The heavy cock forced its way far back into Terry's protesting throat and pounded against the flesh mercilessly . Tom threw his head back and closed his eyes in ecstasy as he felt the warm wetness of his brother's mouth wrapped around his aching prick. He looked down again to enjoy the sight of his brother's naked body twisting and squirming and he smiled with pleasure as the boy began to moan, trying to yell around the big, shoving piece of meat that threatened to cut off his breathing. He fucked Terry's face brutally, enjoying

kid!" Tom growled angrily. "Now maybe you'll be of some use to me…you and your smart fuckin' brains…and your precious mother always fussing over you!" He grinned down at Terry who wasn't able to see his expression because of the big balls slapping against his eyelids. "It'll be kinda' fun to know l'Il never have to jerk off again!" His attack increased in fury as he felt the old familiar surge beginning at the thick base of his cock. He groaned and rammed as the juice shot from the end of his weapon in gigantic splashes. He watched as his brother tried vainly to swallow everything but it was useless. The cum squeezed out from around his cock and oozed down across Terry's sweating face and onto the carpet. He continued to shove it in and out long after he'd shot the last of his load, just simply enjoying Terry's agony and discomfort. At last the rape began to slow and he let go of the kid's head and yanked the slick dick out of his mouth with a loud pop as Terry's suction was broken. The miserable boy just stayed in the same position breathing heavily and trying to swallow the residue of his brother's profuse ejaculation. It tasted bitter on his tongue. "I hate your guts!" he muttered thickly.

"Good, baby. That gets us off to a good start in our new relationship ! Now get me that fuckin' aspirin!" He slapped Terry's nuts hard with his open hand causing the boy to double up with pain. "From now on when I say shit, you shit!" He was relishing the new feeling of power he had over his brother and his eyes glistened as he tried to imagine all of the delicious possibilities that lay ahead of him. Terry let go of his balls and, against his will, went into the bathroom for the aspirin. Tom took them from him without a word of thanks. Terry flopped back down onto the bed and buried his face in his pillow. He was totally humiliated and ashamed of what was happening between him and his brother. "I'm gonna take in a movie this afternoon, want to come along, punk?" Tom stretched and began removing his T-shirt. Terry shook his head in the pillow not wanting to look at his brother right this moment. He could still taste the cum in his mouth. "Suit yourself, cocksucker! I couldn't care shit less, but if I really wanted you to go, you bet your sweet little ass, you'd go!" He laughed as he went into the bathroom to get cleaned up. He whistled happily to himself as he showered and the sound made Terry's heart contract with pain.

As Tom finally prepared to leave the room, he looked over at his brother's still nude body lying face down on top of the bed. He strolled over casually and caressed the round little buns with mock tenderness. "That's right, baby. Keep yourself ready for Daddy later. Maybe I'll take in a porn movie to get myself horny again!" He laughed as he slammed the door behind him. Terry cringed at the sound of Tom's laughter; it had sounded like his father's! He didn't go down for breakfast . His stomach felt too unstable from the huge load of cum

Tom found a movie he thought he might like to take in and sat way in the back as he usually did out of long habit of going on dates. He felt smug and self-satisfied as he sat watching the screen and thinking about Terry. He munched his popcorn hungrily. A shadow eased itself down the aisle and took the seat next to him. As they sat silently, the stranger reached out in the darkness and rested his hand on Tom's knee timidly. Tom jerked his leg out from under the intruding fingers and muttered harshly, "Cool it, man!" He glared at the stranger through the murky darkness and saw that he was an older man but not bad looking. Slender, with the eyes of a sad cow. His expression now was one of hurt rejection and Tom felt a little sorry for the fag.

"Besides, I just had a blow job. Tough luck!" he said out of besides, i just had a blow job. Tough rucks the sale out of the corner of his mouth looking at the screen again. "Oh, yeah?" The words were low and breathless. "Did you get it here?" "Nope. My little…my brother sucke excited as he whispered.

Tom's entire brain suddenly lit up and he turned his head to stare frankly into the man's eyes. "Sure. We're identical twins. You want him?" He turned on the boyish innocence once again and smiled. "It'll cost ya' a few bucks!" Tom felt the excitement welling up inside his pounding chest. This might turn out to be easier than I thought, he mused. "How much?" The breath was harder and closer to his ear now.

"Oh, twenty will cover it, I think." "That much?" The man passed reflectively. "What'll I get it? What does he does he seed to?" for it? What does he do besides suck?

"You'll get your money's worth, buddy! He'll do anything you want him to…for me!" He leaned forward and dumped his empty popcorn box down underneath the seat. "Take it or leave it!" He held his breath in fear of the expected refusal.

"When?" The man was eyeing the boy up and down hungrily. "Give me your address. We'll be there anytime tonight you want us to." Tom felt elated but tried to remain cool about it. want us to." Tom felt elated but tried to re "We…" The voice raised in a question.

"Just to protect my property, that's all. I don't come with the deal!" He laughed softly into the darkness. "I'll leave you to your own designs; you can count on it!

"Okay, it's a deal. But you get paid afterwards." The man had taken a ballpoint from his shirt pocket and was bending over trying to write something on a business card. When he was through he held it up trying to catch some light to read it by. Finally he handed it secretively to Tom as he glanced around to see if anyone else was watching. His hand was trem- bling nervously, "Okay, Eight o'clock all right?" He looked eagerly into

Tom's eyes. "Great, man! I'll have him there for you at eight." He stood and started moving down the aisle away from his new 'client'. "So long." As he left the theater he squinted against the glaring sunlight. Once back in his car he read the address. The writing was sort of shaky and he smiled at the thought that the guy had been as nervous as he was! It was kind of a crummy address, he realized, but money was money! Now to convince Terry without having too much of a hassle about it.

His mother and father weren't home when he entered the house. Probably at the market, he thought. He hesitated for a few moments before going into the bedroom. He was a little scared but his need for extra bread was greater than his fear and he walked in with forced courage. Terry was lying on the bed reading again, dressed in only a clean pair of shorts. He looked freshly scrubbed and his hair was curlier than usual from a recent shampoo. He didn't bother to look up when his brother breezed in.

"Hey, little brother. How ya' feelin'? I mean after our little training session this morning?" He walked over and sat on Terry's bed casually. "Still sore at me?"

"I told you before. I hate your guts! So go to hell, Tom." His lips were pursed in a pout making him look even younger than his seventeen years.

"Listen, kid. There's this guy I met who's a real groove, man, and he wants us to come over tonight. Just for a little get together, you know." He was finding it hard to control

"I'm not going anywhere with you, tonight or any other night!'

"Oh, come on, man, you'll like him! And besides Dad wants you out of the house more often and I promised him that I'd convince you. How about it? It would make Dad feel better, a lot better than something else that I could tell him!"

"You wouldn't dare tell the folks, Tom. You just wouldn't!" Terry closed the book and rubbed his eyes. He felt miserable and he couldn't help but show it, and he didn't really care any more. "Try me, punk. They'll be home in a little while and I could fuck you up for life in just five minutes!" He pushed Terry over onto his back roughly and stared fiercely into his wide blue eyes. "I want you answer before they get back, buddy, you understand that?" He shoved his hand under Terry's pillow feeling for the brochure that had started the whole nightmare for the kid. It wasn't there. "Okay, where is the had never been a convincing liar. Too damned goodie goodie!

"I'm not goin' to ask you again, kid. Get off your ass and give it to me!" He shook Terry's body violently as he spoke.

Terry crawled reluctantly from the bed and reached under the mattress pulling out the fateful paper. He handed the wrinkled page to his brother with his head bowed in shame and remorse. Tom looked it over briefly and laughed aloud as

my heavy talk with the folks. It'll never be the same between Mom and you, ya' know!"

"Oh, the guy thought we might take a few pictures just for kicks. Don't worry about it. Just relax and enjoy your- self. You'll like him, I hope." Tom avoided looking at his brother and pretended to be more interested in the camera. They both heard the front door close and Terry tensed with apprehension. Tom looked over at him suspiciously, an un- spoken threat glimmering in his eyes. "Do I have to get dressed up for this damned visit or anything ? I mean are we going for dinner or what? Shit, I wish I didn't have to go with you!" Terry was becoming petulant. "Hell, no!" Tom couldn't help laughing at the boy's ques- tion. "Wear as little as possible,"

Terry looked at him with a confused expression on his handsome young face. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went back to his book.

Helen called them to dinner about a half an hour later and Tom forced his brother to go to the table with him. Terry stayed in a sullen mood all during the meal. "Guess what, folks!" Tom beamed at his father across the table. "Terry's decided to go out with me tonight to see this friend of mine!"

"Well, I'll be damned!" His father smiled at Tom approvingly. "I knew you could do it, Son. I knew it!"

"Just don't be out too late, you two…tomorrow's school." But Helen was nodding her head in approval as she spoke. "Tom's chest swelled with pride. "Oh, we have to be there "to right, we should be home by ten." by eight and, if 'things' go right, we should be home by ten." He looked mischievously over at Terry who sat just playing with the food on his plate. He had barely touched it.

You don't look too enthused about the whole thing, Ter-

" his mother said quietly. ry," his mother said quietry. "I'm just a little tired from so much reading, I guess,

Mom." "Well, you start going out more with your brother and you'll feel a hell of a lot better in the long run, believe me!" Mac went back to his eating knowing that what he was saying was the absolute truth…as usual.

The ride to the guy's apartment was made in tense silence. Tom had handed Terry the camera to carry. It was now inside a brown paper bag. Tom smiled to himself all the way over and his brother simply sat staring out the window into the darkness , pretending not to care.

As the man opened the door, Tom deliberately remained quiet. "Jesus Christ! Which one of you beautiful babies is the one I talked to this afternoon, anyhow?" He passed his hands I talked to this afternoon, anyhow?" He passed his hands across his eyes in disbelief as he stared approvingly at the two teenagers. to be continued …

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FETISH [×4+]

RIE IEINIEIN (A Δ 52

By JASON BLEU Illustration by MARTIN

Most leather men figure that an enema Most leather men figure that an enema is a whirly-girly, push-tushy kind of thing. Girls do it, queens do it, nurses do it, doctors do it, but rarely does today's leather man think that anybody else does it, or would want techniques.

And we've all encountered the quick-douche for cleanliness before going out for the evening, or before getting fucked. for the evening, or before getting fucked. But very few leather men, or members of the gay world at large realize that there is much more to the water trip, and that it in itself is a trip … a very sensual, fulfilling is, and what you've been taught to believe about the trip or the very idea of it. Perhaps you will remember the mad ideas you had about leather when you first came in contact with it, that you had hit the bottom of the heap, that you were wretchedly sick and deprav hung from rafters, mutilation and even death. If you've grown or been around the leather world enough, you realize that this is just so much bullshit, and that per- this is just so fluction unity, and that perhaps the leather men are among the most sensitive and caring individuals around. Try and get rid of your pre-conceived bullshit ideas about enemas. That they are feminine, that t grown up diaper freaks. Get rid of the prejudice that you asked everyone else to get rid of when you accepted your particular way of sensuality. Then and only then, can you even begin to understand what the water trip is a

But for novices and old-timers who get a kick out of rehash, let's at least break you in as to what you should do for a basic clean out for fucking. We can then get rid of those who only want to know that much, and tantali get the water up as far as it will go. This will only lead to later "fall-out" and unwanted liquid in the rectum when you least desire it. A basic clean out is simply to rid the anal canal and rectum of un- wanted matter. You should not be par- ticularly interested in getting water up into the colon or around any curves or bends. Therefore, to accomplish this, you can either stand in th tubing until the pressure is vaguely un- comfortable. At this point you should release the liquid from your body, and anything else that happens to be present with it. If you allow the water to continue further, you will find a build-up of pressure, and then a release, as the water finds its way into the curves of the colon, sometimes res considerable period of time.

If you are into fisting, you will want a more thorough clean-out. At this point, you will attempt to allow the water to go past the first feeling of pressure. One or more flushings is advisabl lower abdomen, until the "cramping" passes, and you are allowed to release the flow again. You should remember that the higher you hold the bag, the faster the flow of the water. Too much too soon is not recommended for the basic clean out … for a heavy scene, yes.

The water should be body temperature, and should not exceed 110 degrees Farenheit. Another rule of thumb is that water too hot, or too cold will induce cramping faster. This being a little tidbit to store in your macho head for later use.

There is a variety of equipment to be used, which we will explain in depth used, which we will explain in depth later, but for those of you wanting to know where your ass hole leads, here's a quick lesson in anatomy. First you have the anus, followed by the anal canal, followed by the rectum, fol ward and upward to the stomach, which you will not reach in any enema trip. And those of you who have heard of people taking so much water that it spewed from their mouths have been sub- jected to the bullshit of idiots once again. Rarely will you pass the large intestine to the cecum which is a pouch like or bag like affair that connects to the ileum of the small intestine. If you have heard of the colon tube, it is this device which will the colon tube, it is this device which will allow water to reach up this far. The colon tube extends for approximately 30" and it is what is used when one describes a "high enema." One step further is the colonic tube, wh personalities. The colon tube however is highly effective in the water trip, and once placed is one of the more incredible sensations of the entire scene.

As for equipment, there are three basic types of enema bags. There is the traveling syringe, which is what we call an open-end bag, which has a capacity of about 2 quarts. It is made of soft latex

FETISH [×4+] ing case. It is always wise to have one of these on trips or vacations (Cleanliness is next to Godliness). The open-end fountain syringe is the second type. By open-end , we mean that it is open at the top for pouring in liquids, (great for piss). It is fine if you are hanging it over your head. Buf if you plan to have a bag on your back or side, you are in trouble. The fountain syringe usually obtainable holds two quarts also. However, they can be found in larger capacities. The last of the basics is the closed-end combination bag, which is usually billed as being able to be used as "douche, enema, or hot water bottle." This is a good type of bag to use if you are planning to have the bag on the bed with you, or being held by your partner. This type of bag can also be "double-filled" or forced to collapse by hand-pressure which in turn drives the water through the tube.

Another piece of enema equipment that is handy to have is the old-fashioned "enema can" or "watering can." This is precisely what the name implies. It is a two quart capacity can with a small spout at the bottom onto which attaches your favorite hose. This again is an open-end affair and is very practical in that you can keep a jug or container of water nearby to refill it whenever it gets too low. If you are shooting the tube with a partner, it is an exciting event as well, for your partner will find it difficult to judge just how much water has been pumped in because he cannot see through the solid walls of the can, and unlike a bag, he cannot watch it deflate.

The "in-line" pump or Antrum Syringe is a device to have handy as well. This is a length of tube with a pocket or bulb in the center. The idea is to attach each end of the tube inbetween the hosing that you are using. You can then re- lease the shut-off clamp and control the flow of water, or whatever, by hand pressure on the bulb. The person pumping the bulb has complete control over the amount, or speed of water in the ass. Physically it is a marvel of sensation, and for psychological games it is quite effec-

You may have also seen at some point in your life, the common rectal bulb syringe, which usually holds about 8-10 ounces of liquid. This type of enema also has its merits. In a situation such as this, you can fill a pail with warm, soapy water, or plain liquid, and begin the "long-slow-fill." Once you have squeezed the contents of the bulb out, you can remove it, and play around, without having to worry about getting caught up in lengths of tube, or pulling the tube from a connection with the bag. After one has reached capacity from the flow, you can also re-insert the deflated bulb up the ass, and by releasing the bulb, withdraw some of the liquid. This is particularly effective when pressure mounts up beyond the holding point, or for long, extended sessions when you don't want you or your partner to have to hop up repeatedly and hit the john.

For quick-cleaning, before you get into extended sessions, there is also available on the market a shower attachment, which fits onto the shower or bath spout as the case may be and provides a continuous flow of water, non-stop. You must use your own judgement here as to just how much of the city's water supply you want up your ass, and just how clean you want to be.

There are many nozzles to use with your bag, many designed for feeling and sensitivity. One called the "Squash-has ribbons of curved hard Blossom' rubber at the end. Once inserted in the ass, the ribbons can be pushed forward and back causing quite a ripple of sensuality. The coveted nozzle by any real enthusiast however, is what is called the Bardex nozzle. This little item has an inflatable air balloon at the end of the nozzle with a tube running through it. The whole apparatus is stuffed in the ass, and the baloon inflated. Once inflated, the water can rush through the tubing to fill a gut, but with the balloon in position, it cannot come back out. A wonder for retention enemas. A terror for any slave. The double bardex has two balloons, one which inflates in the ass, the other just on the outside of the ass-hole. For a drop to get past both bal- loons is a real feat. There is also an air nozzle which in addition to having a channel for water, has an air tube as well. You can shoot either air or water or both. The air gives a lot of turbulence, and sometimes a lot of cramps as well not to mention the huge gusts of wind that hit the throne when it is expelled.

The colon tube, as we mentioned be- fore, is approximately 30" in length, and is primarily used for "high enemas." The trick of the colon tube is getting it placed correctly, as it must follow along and around the curves of the colon. The tube should be inserted gently and pushed slowly. The recipient should feel no pain. At times a dull feeling of pressure will be noticed as the tube hits a curve. This is to be expected. However, should any sharp feelings of pain hit, the tube should be backtracked a bit, and then pushed forward again. Once the tube is in place, or as you are putting it in, you should check the water flow to make sure that the end of the tube has not been stopped up by whatever is up there waiting to come down. Sometimes the tube will double back on itself, and the water will not flow. An in line pump is very effective for using with the colon tube. If you are able to pump the bulb, you know that the water is flowing. If it is not, retract the tube a short ways and try again until the water does flow, then continue to insert the tube the full length.

Another important thing to remember when you are beginning an enema scene is to "bleed" the tubes. This simply means releasing the shut off and allowing some water to expel the air in the tube. Leaving air in the tube will create turbulence if you allow it to flow in with the water. Also some cramping may occur. If that's what your looking for, more power to you.

Everyone who ever begins the enema scene always has the question "How much is enough, and how much is too much?" Certainly it's a valid point and one worth considering.

Unfortunately, the situation is one that you really must learn from experience . The best way to do this of course, is to experiment on your own. When the water or liquid first enters your rectum, you may feel an initial pressure which is uncomfortable. If you shut the flow off

FETISH [×3+] and will soon allow you to continue the flow. You must remember that the water is following the line of your colon, and your colon does not run in one continuous , straight-as-an-arrow line. So you will be feeling the water reach a curve within you, building up pressure, and then re- leasing the same pressure inside of you as it plunges its way further. Nature and your guardian angel will tell you when it is time to stop and run for the throne. A is time to stop and run for the throne. A perfect illustration of this is what is known as "cramping." The muscles of your colon will tighten up at various points, especially when you've had "enough." This is a sharp pain, your baggage, and come back refreshed to try for more.

Two things to remember are that 1) there are chunks of matter within your colon that ordinarily would continue downward to a drowning death within the bowl. These substances or "shit" can at times block the flow of water, and cause discomfort. Sometimes you can massage the stomach which in turn will move the colon slightly, and many times allow for the passage of more water. 2) When attempting to take a "full bag," it is wise to occassionally stop the flow of water if pressure or cramping occurs, and give the colon time to adjust to the new presence within it. The stopping of the water will more likely than not, give you a more comfortable and fulfilling ride.

As to a final note on capacities; a two quart enema is not improbable for two quart enema is not improbable for 80% of the people attempting it. It is not considered "big league." When you move toward the 2½ quart, you are becoming professional. The 3 quart enema qualifies you as expert. The 3½

What to put in your bag is a common question for everyone in the water scene. Let's start by saying what NOT to put in your bag. Do not use harsh detergent soaps … a Fels Naptha enema can cramp you for three days running, not to men- tion the chance of damage. Do not use any commercial laundry soap, I don't care how phosphate free it is. If you must use a commercial soap, Ivory flakes, or Ivory liquid is mild enough. The best soap to use for cleaning is a pure castile soap, or tincture of green soap. A very small quantity, about a teaspoon is sufficient. The soap, remember, will give more cramping than plain water. If you are planning to hold onto the enema for a while, you're in for a turbulent ride.

The best cleaning enema, believe it or not, is the coffee enema, but with the prices these days, it makes it a costly trip. Mrs. Olsen, however, reccommends it highly. Glycerin enemas are also good and slippery. About 4 ounces of glycerin to two quarts of water. Mineral oil can also be used. A straight mineral oil enema is great for preparation for fisting. Prune juice is a sure cramper, as is phosphate soda (what you find in a Fleet enema at the drugstore). Other preparations include piss enemas, salt enemas, epson salt enemas and of course the "velvet scorpion " of them all … the wine enema, which we will detail later. However, while on the subject of alcohol, let us mention that you should not shoot straight booze up your ass! In many heavy S&M trips, the top will shoot a few shots of vodka or scotch or whatever up there to buzz out the bottom. It is highly effective, but also highly dangerous. The cells that line the colon are great absorbers, but they are not made of steel and should not be treated so. With any chemical preparation or mixing, use a little sense, and a little caution. The trip is supposed to be fun, not fatal, which is why we are dead set against the sulfuric acid enema.

Let us end up with a few pointers and ideas to tease and taunt your little minds. We have already touched on the use of the colon tube and the bardex in a scene. For fun pain variations, imagine administering a two quart enema of soapy water, and then placing a butt plug in the ass to hold the water in, or if you wish to carry it a bit farther, sealing the butt plug around the edges with hot wax, or taping it in with adhesive tape. Or giving a turbulent enema or a piss enema of the Master's piss, and having the slave wear some very tight jeans, or possibly white pants, to the bars for a casual drink? Or having two enema bags filled, one with hot and one with cold water, the tubes of both connected to a Y attachment, and then giving the recipient a blast of hot, then a blast of cold to really confuse his nerve endings. You can also insert a colon tube full length, and then by placing a vibrator on the end of the tube, send shudders through the boy receiving. Or if you in a stuffing mood, blindfold the slave and stuff a bag of Kraft marsh-mallows up the ass (capacities run from 9 to 33 of them), and top if off with a nice wine enema. Rubber pants are also great fun, as after you wear them for a few hours, they become hot and slippery and sweaty inside. It's nice then to peel them back, insert the nozzle, and then roll the pants back up which you're giving the enema. You can also place one tube in the ass for giving the enema, and another one, with the clamp shut, one end in the ass, and one in a bucket, so that if the pressure is too great, and the poor fellow is tied up or something macabre like that, you can drain a bit of the water out. Also a sure groaner is giving an enema and having the slave do a sit up or two to suck you off, or you just might want to sit on his full belly of water and edge your cock to his little lips. All of these things have many variations, and not all of them have to be in an S&M pain-type trip. The psychological plays can be just as effective. There is the humiliation angle of having to take an enema in front of someone else. There is the obedience angle of having to hold the water or whatever until the Master says enough. There is the bad little boy tactic for punishment. And even the hungry ass technique where the little tyke wants as much of everything he can get up inside of him. A big enema answers that in a jiffy. And of course, an ultimate highlight of the water trip is fucking or getting fucked with a warm enema inside. It is very much like enter- ing a warm ocean and for the receiver it is the ultimate full.

The last item that we should touch on is the wine enema. This is the ultimate of experiences, and the high of highs in the enema trip. Again some caution is indi- cated. You should not shoot straight wine, because of the alcohol content. Warm wine when entering the ass tends to yield a burning sensation. This is nothing to be alarmed at, especially if you have mixed the enema properly. A good mixture is 1 / 3 to 1 / 2 wine, 1 / 2 water, depending on your tolerance to alcohol. A cardinal rule however, is that the enema must be given SLOWLY. If you are using an in-line pump, three squeezes at a time is plenty, stretching the trip out to 20 to 30 minutes. If you are just using a bag, release the shut off for a count of 3 to 5, then stop and wait 3 to 5 minutes before proceeding. Also, do not move too much while you are doing the enema. The wine is not as easy to hold as water, and you don't want to blow the trip too soon. You will definitely get high, and you may not even know just how high you are. We do not suggest driving at all after a wine enema. Just stay in your playroom and have a GOOD time.

As to the kind of wine to use, try a cheap red, but prepare yourself for the fact that when you hit the head you are not bleeding to death . . the wine is red. We have found the cheap burgundy to be the best. Sweet wines are definitely out. Vintage wines are a waste. Bubbly wines are turbulent. However, champagne is pretty hot.

As a final mention, let us repeat again to do things with a proper amount of consideration and caution. We are not of the opinion that S&M is a hurtful experience . We believe that bringing another person to a point of release or intense passion is not harmful in the least, but decent and understanding. We hope that our leather brothers enter into their scenes with love, not hate.

We hope that you have learned a trick or two from this little article. Perhaps you will develop to a real tube shooter, or bag beggar, or perhaps not. But give it a try. It is healthy you know. And perhaps we'll see each other in the bars sometimes in our "U.S. Enema Team" T-shirtsmartin P

MER Views The Flicks star wars

I am told audiences are applauding the crawl of technical credits at the end of George Lucas's Star Wars, and I am only mildly surprised. Seeing most films, as I do, at private studio screenings, I am accustomed to hearing dutiful smatterings in homage to everyone from Gaffer to Best Boy. But ovations by a paying audience are usually reserved for scenes of mass mayhem or quadruple car crashes. Still, as implied, Star Wars provides the most spectacular special effects ever seen on the silver screen (2001: A Space Odyssey not excepted), and the public's spontaneous acknowledgment of that fact is gratifying.

In all, there are 363 different effects, as compared with 2001's 35. An entire planet is blasted into multi-colored cosmic dust before your very eyes, space ships breathtakingly cavort in supersonic dogfights, motion beyond the speed of light is indicated, an entire city dwarfs New York's World Trade Center twin towers, a space-port bar caters to nightmarish mutants that put the most outrageous of Muppets to shame, holographic projections beguile the eye and mind.

Yup, what we have here is a real something -for-everybody-type flick. For the kids (of all ages) there is the simplistic, comic strip, hero vs. villain plot. For the adults (ditto) there is the wonderment of all those effects. For boys (of all sexes) there is Carrie Fisher, Eddie and Debby's lovely, if low-busted, daughter, interestingly flawed by what appears to be a bungled nose job in the Nannette Fabray tradition. For the girls (ditto) there is either the gee-golly-gosh teenager portrayed by 25-year-old Mark Hamill or sexily cynical Harrison Ford's impersonation of a wholesome Burt Reynolds.

Finally, for the intellectuals, there is a sub rosa history of cinema featuring memorable moments from Melies to Millius, with special bows to Lang, Fleming , Eisenstein, Ford and Huston. Or, your cerebral type can cogitate about the actual identity of the mysterious "Force" (Godhead? Pure Energy? Abstract Thought?) that shotguns for the good guys, and delight in the showdown between About Chinese, and the cont gdys, and define in the state of the sage and David Prowse's Ming-the-Merciless take-off as Lord Darth Vadr, whose ultimate escape would seem to presage an inevitable sequel.

The script - Lucas's fifth rewrite - is heavy on plot but heaving on dialog

("Will this never end?" and "This is madness!" characterize the glittering Tin Man-like robot, Threepio — 3PO — feyly enacted by Anthony Daniels). The score of John Williams, if traditional, is blessedly understated and splendidly played by the London Symphony Orchestra over a superlative sound system. Seventy individuals and five firms are listed in the awesome technical credits, to say nothing of nearly half a hundred "creators," as opposed to a mere 25 actors.

To give credit where it is unquali- fiedly due, primary kudos go to Production Designer John Barry, followed, in no particular order of importance, by Gilbert Taylor's incredible cinematography , John Dykstra's supervision of Special Photographic Effects and John Stears' supervision of Special Production and Mechanical Effects, Stuart Free- born's inventive Make Up, Peter Diamond's Stunt Coordination, Roger Christian's amazing Set Decorations, etc., etc., etc.

Unfortunately, in this "long ago and far, far away galaxy," everyone is excessively overdressed (don't let that central figure on the ads fool you - no such male cleavage appears on the screen), even in the intimacy of their Solari- like desert habitations (courtesy of Tunisia). But this is a small price to pay for the fastest two hours in recent movie history. Twentieth Century Fox, we thank you for taking this gamble on George Lucas. But, as Variety would have it, boffo B.O. is its own reward!

- Ed Franklin black oak conspiracy

Jesse Vint is at it again. What few of his bones were left unbroken and square millimetres of flesh unscarred as "Bobby Jo" or when he crossed Macon County Line are given their due in the New World Pictures R-Rated release, Black Oak Conspiracy. This time out, he also functions as his own co-producer (with Tom Clark) and co-writer (with Hugh Smith), claiming "I'm in my element as a producer . One bad thing about acting is that you're not always in control of your fate, but as a producer you get to exercise a certain amount of control.

When one so ingenuously accepts that kind of responsibility, he is automaticaly vulnerable to whatever praise or blame is in order for the result. Here, it is a mixed bag, but Vint must take his licks from the critics as readily as he subjects himself to the brutal harassments of the clutch of villains peopling this film, in the course of which he is progressively framed, chased, beaten, and burned.

All of the mayhem is pegged on your standard good-guy-vs.-small-town-red-necks formula that has proved so dear to those who inhabit boondock drive-ins. Vint, as Hollywood stuntman Jingo Johnson, returns home to Black Oak and learns that his mother's mysterious disease

and a mining company land swindle are linked by a scandal that threatens to parodying a once-promising talent) takes time out from his extramarital affair with a partner in crime, Nurse Beulah Barnes (Mary Wilcox, working very hard) to track Jingo's every move. There is dirty work afoot! Enigmatic Doc Roades (Will Hare) is close-mouthed about the strange blood disorder that afflicts only local residents, and a father-son team of mine owners and their hired thugs aggressively get into the act. Happily, our beleaguered hero does manage a tender night of nude bliss with former sweetheart Lucy Metcalf (Louisiana-born Karen Carlson in her first, and interesting, major film role).

Among other townsfolk is an array of actors who seem to have taken up permanent residence in these kinds of towns: Seymour Cassel, Robert F. Lyons, Vic Perrin, Darby Hinton, etc. Their very presence lends an uncomfortable familiarity to the proceedings, all under the energetic direction of Bob Kelljan. (Those many Toms and Bobs and Dons behind the scenes provide a major clue to the quality of this effort - under more prestigious circumstances they would almost certainly be Thomases and Roberts and Donalds.)

E.F. eruption

As cavalierly unreeled by a bumbling projectionist, the first answer print (still in need of color correction) of producer -director Stanley Kurlan's porn flick Eruption offered, in addition to some nice Hawaii locations, one great big positive value - the celebrated John Holmes cock. Rarely seen in repose, that enormous organ, as familiar a filmic land- mark as Elliot Gould's hairy shoulders, dominates this movie the way the Washington Monument towers over D.C.

Having become a national treasure, this Holmes guy (onetime "Johnny Wadd") merits at least cursory examination . Attached to that awesome tool is a lanky, David Carradine-like body topped by a Frank Converse head (itself, in this instance, topped by newly-permed blond locks — and, yes, empirical evidence indicates Mr. Holmes is, unquestionably, a natural blond). His line reading, although more often than not limited to a muttered "bullshit" or "asshole," reveal some degree of intelligence, and he has learned to move with authority even when dressed. So, naturally, he gets top billing.

The big publicity push, however, is focused on Hustler centerfold star Leslie Bovee, a middling attractive brunette with good tits and an aversion to wearing clothes. She gives head effectively, even when confronted with Holme's phallic challenge, but one is forced to conclude that when it comes to acting her breech exceeds her gasp. Banal as screenwriter Justin Welton's dialog might be, it surely deserves more proficient rendering than is accorded by Ms. Bovee's monotonous

Dialog implies plot, and, sandwiched awkwardly between loop-like couplings (the film is more spliced than edited), plot there is. Strongly reminiscent of the 1944 Double Indemnity chestnut involving frustrated wife-impotent husband- sexy insurance man, it serves primarily to allow the performers to replenish their vital jucies. The meant-to-be-a-surprise- ending comes off more half-cocked than

Hitchcock.

But the success or failure of Eruption will depend on audience response to the explicit sex scenes. Accompanied by the predictable complement of sighs, sobs, grunts, groans, and risible ad libs ("Oh, do it to me, I love it!"), we are privy, in addition to standard boy-girl twosomes , to two interesting threesomes. One of these, in a pool, involves two guys (who never touch each other) and one gal; and the other, in a gymnasium, two gals (who certainly do touch each other) and one guy. Relentlessly sexist, the phallus-fixated direction insists that gals do all the heavy work, while guys just lie back and enjoy being serviced.

Jack Mathew's photography, basically of the voyeuristic persuasion, includes some anatomically informative Extreme Close-Ups of genitalia, slow motion cum shots, and an occasional split screen device that enables the audience to view, simultaneously, the details of the sex act and the facial reactions thereto. Except for the initial mating of Holmes and Bovee on a beach — his Swept Away pounding matching that of the surf - where the insertion of his sand-covered cock made at least this critic cringe emphatically, all the bodies involved are, from heads to toe, almost obscenely squeaky clean.

Among those present in a cast of tens, you will especially remember attractive and admirably-hung Jack Aldis in the pool scene, and, if your taste runs to a well-fed Gabriel Kaplan lookalike, Wynne Golburn as the unidentified stud in that non sequitorish gynmasium sequence. However, in the long (!) run, those end- less inches of John Holmes are the rule by which this flick will ultimately be measured.

With this new sensational "pull-toy" you won't have to. This hollow tube has a vibrator at one end and your tube at the other. Together they make beautiful, pulsating music. So if you are tired of coming up empty, make a new friend and traveling companion today.

TUNNEL OF LOVE …$19.95 (includes vibrator & batteries)

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MIDNIGHT EXPRESS by Billy Hayes (with William Hoffer). Thomas Congdon Books, E. P. Dutton, 201 Park Avenue South, New York, N.Y., 10003. Hard- bound, 280 pp. $7.95.

Billy Hayes in the late sixties was your typical boy-next-door: blond, blue-eyed, wiry slim, tightly-muscled, athletic, a wrestler, surfer and lifeguard. As were so many kids coming to maturity in those dismal years, middle-class Billy was a college dropout (Marquette), into gras and hash, wandering aimlessly around Europe, typically representative of the mislaid generation. Until October 6, 1970, that is, when he was busted for stupidly attempting to smuggle two kilos (about four pounds) of hashish through Turkish customs at the Yesilkoy International Airport outside Istanbul.

Subsequently, from his twenty-third to his twenty-eighth year, he lived a literal nightmare in Turkish prisons and a mental hospital, tortured and degraded. All of this is reported in graphic detail in Midnight Express, the book he wrote (with William Hoffer) which has been selected by the Book-of-the-Month Club and Playboy Book Club, purchased by a paperback publisher, and soon to become the basis of a movie produced by Peter

Guber Filmworks (The Deep).

Hayes, in partial payment for those five lost, prime years, surely deserves everything he can get. A victim of the Nixon administration's decision to clamp down on Turkish heroin trafficking, he was used by the vindictive Turks as a showpiece - the first American apprehended . He was given a longer sentence than customary, a sentence ultimately (and heartbreakingly) extended from four to thirty years! (His hairbreadth escape, via the "Midnight Express," is worth a book of its own.)

The real villain in this book is actually Billy Hayes' own government, playing politics with one precious life.

From the moment of his apprehension, Hayes' blond hair and good looks sub- jected him to "special attention," applied in a variety of humiliating ways: "The chief on my left hit me a quick backhanded fist to the groin … stripped the clothes from my body … searched me. I stood there stark naked and extremely uncomfortable. Since I'd been in Turkey I'd come to think that many Turkish men tend toward bisexuality. Every cab driver, every waiter, every bazaar vender had seemed to leer at me. Now standing naked in front of the customs officers 1 felt the same hungry stares. They made no effort to conceal their interest."

Shipped off to Sagmalicar prison in Istanbul, the special treatment meted out Billy Hayes escalated. On one occasion , when he got into a fight trying to hang on to his single bed sheet, he was dragged, wearing only pants and shoes, to a punishment cell. There, "They tore my shoes off. Then my pants. I kicked and screamed … They grabbed a heavy rope and wrapped it around my ankles. Two guards held either end of the rope, pulled it apart, and dragged my bare feet up into the air." Then, one of the guards, with "a thick wooden club about four feet long and two or three inches wide," applied falaka to the soles of those bare feet.

Hayes explains that "homosexuality was a legal and moral crime, but it was rampant in the prison. The very guards who were supposed to be in control of this situation seemed to gain sexual this stuation seemed to gain sexual pleasure from binding and beating a man with his pants off." When pushed into one crowded room, Hayes recalls, "I felt a hand rub my behind. Then it reached down to caress my testicles." yielded to a "call of nature" and squatted down over a hole cut into the floor, Hayes notes that "a Turkish prisoner came over and squatted down in front of me. He began to masturbate while he stared at my penis."

Though not gay, Hayes eventually becomes lovers with a young guitar-playing Swede (now a band leader) identified only as "Arne." The two of them developed a touching morning routine. "I woke first," Hayes reminisces, "and slipped on my shorts. I walked barefoot over to Arne's bunk and laid a hand on his shoulder. He woke quiet and smiling. We gathered up our blankets … Sometimes , into the early morning, we just sat. Sometimes we made love."

Certainly in no danger of being confused with great literature, and perhaps overly-susceptible to the easy cliche, Midnight Express nevertheless maintains a steady narrative force on the foundation of its lived reality that automatically places it in the category of one of the best true prison-and-escape stories of our time. This one is a must.

- Ed Franklin

THE FALCONER, by John Cheever. A Borzoi Book published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 201 East 50th St., New York, N.Y., 10022. Hardbound, 211 pages. $7.95.

John Cheever's Falconer is not the homosexual love story so many of my straight colleagues have been startled into believing it to be. It is, rather, the saga of a 48-year-old man, husband and father, who discovers through imprisonment that his desire to live surpasses his need for love. This discovery is as much a surprise to the reader as to the protagonist, and brings about a denouement as satisfying as it is unexpected.

One of our finest and least acclaimed writers (his only accolades are the 1958 National Book Award and the Howells Medal for Fiction in 1965), John Cheever has too long been denigrated as a darling of The New Yorker cocktail party set — an evaluation apparently based on his impecable prose style and O'Hara-like ear for the way people talk. With Falconer, he should reach the broad readership that is his due, an audience heretofore either unwilling or unable to respond to his earlier novels, The Wapshot Chronicle, The Wapshot Scandal, and Bullet Park. "Falconer," the name of a Correc- tional Facility (Cheever lives outside Ossining and teaches at Sing Sing), exists both as a plane in space and a state of mind. Convicted of fratricide, drug-addicted English professor Ezekial Far- ragut is assigned there to cellblock F: "F stands for fucks, freaks, fools, fruits, first-timers, fat-asses, phantoms, funnies, fanatics, feebies, fences and farts," he is told.

The stultifying horrors of prison routine , revealed between subtle easings into flashbacks that flesh-out both character and situation, comprise the substance of the book. Its shadow is the novelist's artistry at inference, allowing readers to apprehend as well as understand. One short scene of dialog, for example, is all Cheever needs to etch a vivid picture of Farragut's bisexual, bitchy, frustrated wife, without resorting to one word of literal description.

Jody, the hustler inmate with whom Farragut falls in love, is drawn only as "a slight young man with black hair." They have sex two or three times a week (of the softcore variety), and Jody is sud- denly motivated to reveal the tricks of

his trade: "One. Let the other fellow feel that all the good ideas are his. Two. Throw down a challenge. Three. Open up with praise and honest appreciation. Four. If you're wrong admit it quickly. Five. Get the other person saying yes. Six. Talk about your mistakes. Seven. Let the other man save his face. Eight. Use encouragement. Nine. Make the thing you want to do seem easy. Ten. Make the other person seem happy about doing what you want. Shit, man, any hustler knows that. That's my life, that's the story of my life …

Such insights abound in this beautifully -structured, spare, compassionate work. Attend, for a moment to this rumination: "Hanging plants, Farragut thought, were the beloved of the truly lonely - those men and women who, burning with lust, ambition and nostalgia, watered their hanging plants. They cultivated their hanging plants and he guessed that they talked to them since they talked to everything else - doors, tables and the wind up the chimney.

There is a conventional villain, deputy warden Chisholm who "gets his kicks out of watching men in withdrawal" from their addiction, but the true evil is a penological system that idly allows the nurturing of such a type. Farragut may rail against "the sovereignty of his unruly cock … the most critical link in our chain of survival," but it is the debilitating environment that forces this focus upon him. His affair with Jody raguely disturbs him ("he had not loved a man since he left the Boy Scouts … (rolling) naked off his last naked scout- master"), but it enables him to retain his sanity.

Falconer is a very, very sane book, accurate in argot, refined in style, disturbing in impact. As one man's journey from here to infirmity and back again, it is worthy of a place alongside the best of

Ford Maddox Ford.

E.F.

VOYAGE, by Sterling Hayden. G.P. Putnam's Sons, 200 Madison Ave., New York, N.Y., 10016. Hardbound, 700 pages. $12.95.

Sterling Hayden's Voyage, the ballsy actor's second novel (his first - and much less ambitious, Wanderer, was modestly received by critics and public), is a 700-page plunge into the seas of the Western Hemisphere during calendar year 1896 — a tidy 365-day period cannily- chosen to dramatize the thematic strands of social injustice and political philander- ing that tie a multiplicity of characters

Divided into five "Books," the 106 staccato-like chapters lurch dizzily, by land and by sea, across half the known world and deal with characters from every conceivable stratum of American society. Primary among these are robber- baron Banning Butler Blanchard, awe- somely-hung ship captain Irons Saul Pendleton, society butterflies Lois Mont-gomery and Mrs. Montague Cutting, sadistic first mate Otto Lassiter, seaman Simon Basil Harwar, and writer-spokes- man Gordon Fitshugh Stirling (sic)

Hayden has structured his book as carefully as a spider's web, starting at an infinity of outer threads and working implacably inward toward a vortex that enmeshes and entraps. Two major plot- lines are the ironically-juxtaposed journeyings of a huge, steel-hulled, four-masted, square-rigged barque and a luxurious private yacht. The former hellship, "Neptune's Car," is carrying coal from the East Coast to San Francisco, while the latter, the "Atalanta," eve of the Bryan-McKinley Presidential election, but it must be noted that author Hayden is more at ease storming around the Horn than he is sniffing around the smoke-filled backrooms of a Chicago political convention. Indeed, such is the apparent accuracy of 19th Century seamanly argot and nautical terms that the inclusion of a Glossary would have added significantly to complete understanding ("Her dories were double-griped. Her trysail - a wedge against the night - stood like a sheet-iron wing. Her foresail and jumbo were reefed. And her jib was where it belonged, out of the way, triced up and swathed in gaskets, high above the bowsprit").

Vigorously masculine images, however, tend toward the universal: "snout like a thick phallus," a moustache like "a winged asshole," the hull of the barque "red … the color of hot blood," and "she's (the wind) blowin' like a pansy in the Turk Street Baths." Floggings, brass knuckle beatings, shanghyings, tar-and- featherings, all are set forth in a deluge of adjectives that bespeak a well-thumbed Roget tucked away among the actor/ author's shelves.

Part historical adventure, part political tract, part social document, over- ambitious and over-written, Voyage is nonetheless successful as a celebration of the indominatable human spirit, pin- pointed in writer MacLeod's agonized decision, near the climax, to remain with the barque, "forgoing the easy exit, hanging on till the bitter end - whatever that might be - thus, perhaps - and it really didn't matter - transcending himself

- E.F.

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A TOUCH OF LEATHER / 751 4th Ave.

DRUMMER 72

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JBS WITH THE BIKE CLUBS WITH TH NYC MC CLUBS New York City: Leather mecca of the East Coast, and home of 14 closely-knit clubs.

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Runs & Even

MEN'S BARSCENE MEN'S BA

WESTERN / LEATHER [×13+]

0 By MYKEL BOARD

A freshly whitewashed storefront stands on the corner of Christopher & Hudson streets in New York City. Huge glass bulbs hang over the doorway illuminating the place where once there was a name. Ads calling for entrants in the "Mr. Thick Dick" and "Long Dong" contests flutter half-taped against the windows.

Inside, wooden racks hold cellophaned porno magazines: Skateboard Hero, Joy Boy, Hard Up, the bi-racial East Meats West.

A counter displays various erotic devices. Most amazing perhaps is the full-sized hard rubber arm, ending in a clenched fist. The man behind the counter tweeks playfully at the plastic knuckles.

"You gotta use a lotta Crisco to take that one." he says.

A turnstile is in a doorway in the back corner of the store. Behind the turnstile sits a chubby blond person of indeterminate sex. His hands jangle the coins in his newsboy apron.

You hand him coins or a bill which he exchanges for 50-cent pieces. After inserting the coin in the turnstile, you slip into the backroom.

Half a dozen little booths stand ready to show films at 43 seconds for a quarter. They are never used for that purpose. About 10 o'clock the early crowd begins to arrive. Everyone takes his place-one to a booth. An unwritten law seems to permit only two poses:

Mostly bearded men in tight Levis and plaid shirts or brown leather jackets stand in the doorways leaning on their right shoulder. They hook their right thumbs under their belts. The left hand rests palm outwards on the doorjamb; loose and ready for action.

Smooth-faces, more passive men sit in the corner of the little booths, each resting their hands demurely in his lap.

The later arrivals pick from among the booths like from windows at the Automat .

A blond boy walks up to a standing man. He unzips the jacket in front of him and opens the shirt beneath. The boy's tongue darts across the left nipple and it hardens to a glistening point. The taller bearded man grabs the younger's wrist and pushes it to his crotch. The denim bulges beneath his hand.

The boy opens the fly and works his fingers over the tip of the just-freed cock. A few drops of fluid ooze out under his touch.

The snake-like tongue follows a path of hair down the chest to the pulsating rod below. He teases the tip before swallowing it till he gags. Wrapping his left arm around the man in front of him, the boy drops his right hand to his own fly and releases his hard cock. He strokes his cock to the same rhythm he sucks on the one above.

Variations of this scene soon fill almost every booth. Before long the participants spill onto the floor and into the other booths. A shadowy human mountain range: standing peaks and kneeling valleys.

Further west on Christopher Street is the Studio Bookshop. You enter their backroom through a pair of swinging saloon-type doors-after paying your fifty cents to the cashier.

More men kneel at The Studio than at St. Patricks Cathedral on Christmas Eve. The movie booths in the back are plastered with signs:

"Please don't deposit any money in the machines. They don't work."

Those breathless or bored have a wooden grandstand along one wall from which to watch the action. Above the grandstand, a couple or three enjoy the more horizontal position of intimate shelf space.

At the Studio Bookshop, even the backroom has a backroom: an open courtyard behind the building. A slice of nature for those who like to give and get theirs under the stars.

The bookstores are least classy, most functional of the backroom places. There are no games. No drinking. No floor shows.

A big step up from the bookstores are the backroom bars. The most popular of these are the International Stud, The Anvil, and The Toilet.

In the front room of the Stud, a tall half-bald man misses his pool shot and slams the cue against the table. Opposite him, four doors crowd the wall in back of the pinball machine. "We've got the only take-your-pick johns in the city." brags the bartender.

On the first door-they are all painted black-is the warning: DEFINITELY NOT!, emphasized with a red exclamation point. Next to that is a gentler, question- marked, "Maybe?"

These bathrooms are usually empty, as men line up for the third and fourth doors.

The third pictures a provocatively shaped cactus plant and the legend, "OUCH!". The last door stands completely black with only the Superman "S" on its front

These bathrooms are only minor diversions, four Donald Ducks in the Disneyland of backrooms. The entrance to Fantasyland is through the archway at the end of the bar.

A Busby Berkely movie fills one wall of the backroom. Standing room only- except for the few kneelers who manage to work themselves into a corner.

Goldiggers of 1933 is playing on the west wall. Two silouhetted rows of soldiers march in opposite directions. Joan Blondell laments the plight of the World's Forgotten Man, punctuated by the sound from the floor of rasping zipper teeth,

After a time for rethreading and nking, the new feature begins: "Jock drinking, the new feature begins: Itch."

Opening shot: A football field, Pigeon-toed , babyfaced footballers bump into solid jocks while vaguely playing with the ball

On the backroom floor a few people "Ahhemm" their throats clear. A tall bearded man about 40 kneels in front of a dark muscular 18 year old. The boy is passive. His bare eyes stare blankly into the crowd. The kneeler has a twitch. He reaches up to unbuckle the belt, now at eye level. There is no resistance from the blonde.

On the screen, one of the players-a broad-built man with a perfectly trimmed mustache-jabs a young Latin in the chest with the side of his hand. The other throws back a blow that just grazes his chin.

The muscleman punches back. The Latin pulls away. Whenever the Latin pulls back, the muscleman uses the time to strip off another piece of clothing, Soon he's bare and faces his opponent with two fists and a nine inch lance.

The Latin does a quick turn and sends his right foot toward his opponent's balls.

DRUMMER 76

SCENE MEN'S BARSCENE M

WESTERN / LEATHER [×6+]

The muscleman sidesteps, grabs the flying leg and comes down on top of the Latin. He locks his tanned arms behind his back and forces the Spanish face against the lockerroom floor. With his free hand he pulls down the Latin's pants and plunges a finger into his ass. Then he pulls out the finger and places the tip of his huge cock against the tight opening. He lunges. The boy lets out a silent scream.

"lieeeeee, love to love you back!" blares the disco record. On the floor a laugh breaks the mood, and a thousand glaring eyes turn toward the offender.

This is serious business.

Things are a bit jollier at The Anvil, although not until you get inside. An evil giant blocks the doorway.

"When was the last time you were here?"

If you make the mistake of saying "Never", you will continue that situation. "Last Wednesday."

"Oh yeah? How much did you pay to get in?"

I had heard the guy ahead of me. "Two dollars."

What'd you get for your two dollars?" "Not you." I said, snapping my fingers in most sincere disappointment.

He smiled, gave me two beer tickets and waved me in.

Through the door, Turn right, Through another door. A blue streak flashes across the ceiling. An acrobat swings over the bar, his legs wrapped around a wooden trapeze. The light from a rotating mirror-ball exaggerates the acne scars his beard tries to hide.

Suddenly two men swing across the room. The other, clean shaven, wears a leather collar around his neck with a chain from it down his chest. The other end is invisible, tucked into the front of his jeans. They join and swing together with their legs entwined.

I set my beer on the bar and settle to watch the artistes.

A hiking boot kicked my arm. "Could you please move? I gotta dance here." came a voice from above.

I looked up. The hiking boots were on the feet of a young black man whose only other attire was leopardskin BVD's, the front of which seemed to contain two ostrich eggs and a baby boa. I moved the beer quickly and he danced by along the bartop.

On a separate stage away from the bar was yet another dancer. This one, sprayed with glitter, sparkled in the light, giving a glorious sweaty appearance without the odor or effort needed to produce it.

If his dancing was not outstanding, his clothes more than made up for it.

To start at the top, he wore a derby. His upper torso was draped in a denim vest. Below gleamed the huge zipper of his leather jockstrap, something which must occasionally cause much inadvertent pain. Continued on Page 81

It frequently seems that a lot of the truly hard-on leather bars are all clustered together. Shit, nobody has to tell you what they mean when they say Folsom Street. Or Santa Monica Boulevard. Or the Dockstrip in New York.

Then there are the wild mavericks, the bars that somehow don't belong where they are. And, just for that reason, they seem to have a special quality. The Gold Coast in Chicago. The Interchange in Detroit. The Triangle in Denver.

And add to that last list Chaps in New York. Chaps is located in New York's Upper East Side, home of Bloomingdale's, radical chic, and Uncle Charlie's. It's the spiritual mecca of all the trendy gay stuff you see advertised in After Dark.

So when John Ford told a few friends that he wanted to open a dynamite leather / Levi bar on Manhattan's Upper East side, the predications were about as encouraging as a bad case of hepatitis. But, son of a bitch!, if Chaps hasn't turned out to be one of the hottest, horniest, and humpiest bars around.

And you can blame John for it all. A native of Iceland, John is just as hunky as the Chaps clientele. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

He started with a long narrow bar and amply endowed it with amply endowed bartenders, sawdust floors, a pool table, and what appears to be all the artifacts from the Southwest he could get in the cargo hold of a 707. "People said it wouldn't work," confesses John. But it did and to such an extent that he can relax a bit now. "After six months I felt we had attracted the right crowd so we abolished the dress code (leather or western, no ties or women). We still have one rule though: no drag queens."

Clearly, John doesn't fuck around with a good thing. Responding to his people, Chaps has instituted a "Trash Nite" which occurs roughly on the last Wednesday of the month.

It's a semi-private affair (check with the bartender for details and a ticket) and for five bucks you can suck on two cold beers and as many inches as you can handle.

'Trash Nite" expands the concept of the bar considerably and while it doesn't become a notorious pants-around-the- ankles backroom (New York's got those too, you horny bastard) it does promote an intimacy found at places like San

Typically, the guys in Chap's are heavy into Levi's and good sex, and John is frequently pressed into service as a matchmaker by some dude with a specific request. There's even been some fist-fucking done on the pool table and while that's not regular entertainment it does show you that Chaps is eager to lend a hand in helping you get your rocks off.

There are various activities through the weeks with movies on Monday, dances on Sunday, and possibly some club nights in the future.

Perhaps the most ambitious undertaking is yet to come. John seems to be fast acquiring the majority of the block and will soon open a hotel, two restaurants , a leather shop, and possibly a bath house. "Sort of one-stop shopping," says John with a sly grin. More like one-stop fucking I'd say.

So you can see, it doesn't really matter where you're located. What matters is where you're at.

RISCENE MEN'S BARSCENE ME

WESTERN / LEATHER [×13+]

Continued from Page 77

A silver-tipped black cane swished in his white-gloved hands. To the left. To the right. Trying to pick up the beats he missed with his two-step.

To the right and in front of the stage are the men's and "Ladies" rooms. As there are no women allowed in the Anvil, "Ladies" must mean something else.

The curious can watch the less than private performances in the doorless men's room. All plumbing is in full view of the dance floor.

Before continuing this plunge into the pleasurable perverse, I have a confession to make. I am afflicted with stricture.

This is a scientific euphemism for a nervous condition where you just can't piss in front of others. Sometimes I have to stand for half an hour until the coast is clear. I was hopeless at those Parisian street pissiors.

Saved by the closable ladies room door! Built just for those who shared my affliction.

I waited until the last man left and quickly entered. There was no lock on the door. (There never is at a backroom bar.) I propped one foot against the door and hopped on the other to get within aiming distance.

Outside the trapeze artists were less clothed than before. Mustacheman and his collared friends are down to their leather jockstraps. The chain, however, still runs from his neck to inside the strap. Neither has taken off his hiking boots. Mr. Dog Collar wears Earth Shoes.

I turned away from these antics to explore the backroom, where a projector on a high platform shows 8mm porno films on a tiny screen across the room. Under the platform is another enclosed room with a trough-like sink along one wall. The only illumination comes from the porno projector. When the movies are on, you can see two shows at the same time.

In the reflected light, you can also make out the entrance to still another room, the interior of which is totally black.

I groped my way inside. Something soft pushed against my chest. I grabbed for a wall.

The pushing grew more intense as I tried to pry my way to the other side of the room. In front of me I felt a large naked ass, like two half melons. It pushed against me. Then a mysterious hand reached between us, fumbled with my zipper and lowered my pants. was hard. The smell of so many tight bodies and the thrill of such complete anomynity pumped blood into my once limp cock. Before I knew it, I was deep in the ass in front of me. From somewhere below, a tongue reached up to tease my hanging balls. As I pumped, the tongue worked its way back to tight little hole, driving me wild.

"Further! Deeper!" came a whispered voice in front of me.

I pushed onward. Soon I could hold myself no longer. I moaned and reached around to grab something for support. A fat cock sprang from somewhere into my hand. I pumped this thick dick as I pumped myself into the ass ahead of me. We came together.

Afterwards, I shouldered my way out of this room and back on to the main floor. The dancers still wore their white socks and boots, but that's all-except for the boy in the collar. Finally I saw where the chain led-to a little ring about eight inches below the waist.

Seeing what that boy could fit through that tiny opening immediately restored my faith in the ability of a camel to thread a needle and the Rockefellers to get to heaven.

After The Anvil, there is only one place left to go: The Toilet. The back-room of backroom bars.

In this most derelict section of derelict Chelsea, winos loll on the stoops around the entrance. Remembering the trouble I had being admitted to the Anvil, I wore tight black Levi's and a leather jacket to The Toilet.

I picked my way past the garbage to the entrance. "Here comes another one." yelled a wino. I smiled. A street level elevator brought me up to the second floor. I paid my three beer.

An elderly man with tufts of hair in his ears stepped out of his pants in front of me. He folded them neatly and handed them to the coatcheck boy. The sign on the door said:

'Coats 50 cents. Clothes $1.00."

I checked my jacket.

Passing a storeroom (more furniture and less smell than a backroom) I turned right and went to the bar. To the right was a slide show, rather mild compared to the black and blue movies of the Stud or Anvil. Mostly pictures of muscular bearded men, often partially dressed in a construction hat or football helmet.

Ultraviolet light bathed the dance floor. Should anyone dance, they would have a sickly purple complexion. Should they smile, they would have phosphate white teeth. No one dances. No one

My natural tendency to take a beer and sit on the nearby bench to watch the show earned me a poke in the back of the head. The bench is made for kneeling, not sitting. The wall features a sign: ARMY GLORY HOLES, and a series of holes at different heights and diameters.

Behind this very thin wall likes part of the backroom which makes up 75% of The Toilet. As the night progresses, the wall above the bench gradually begins to look like a huge multipegged hatrack. The benchkneelers have their choice of fleshy pegs.

But the real scene at the Toilet is the

L-shaped backroom-a concrete floored labyrinth of folded passageways, hills, platforms and other surprises. The focus of these, quite naturally, is the toilet. The backroom lighting is worthy of a Hollywood set. Perfectly placed red lanterns cast shadows over partial parti- tions.

The toilets themselves are divided into two sections, with two stalls in each section. One section is dark and the other barely discernable.

Opposite the toilets is the other side of the glory holes. Men line up shoulder to shoulder pressing their noses against the wood in front of them as they press their cocks through the holes.

On the toilets sit naked men (except for the classic white socks and hiking boots), one to a stall. These men function as human urinals-or anything else called for

These aren't the modern equivalents of carnival geeks-dregs of society forced by dispair into ultimate degradation. These men love their work.

I walked by the toilet on my way to explore the further reaches of "The Pit."

As I passed, I heard: "Pssst, hey you. Come here."

It came from one of the toilet stalls. I looked in and saw a flesh boyd, its head in darkness. The stomach rolled over its lap and sagged between the legs. A hand declined.

But a good looking, dark-haired stranger agrees. The fat man lies on the concrete floor and the other squats over his tace.

The upper man grunts as he forces the shit out of his body. A few drops of piss spurt from his cock during the effort…then success.

The fat man moans with pleasure as the first load hits his face. Then more, again and again, fast and loose. When things are over, a pink tongue rises from the brown-smeared face and licks clean the little hole which gave him so much pleasure.

In the corner of one of the stalls in near blackness stands a low sink used by those few who prefer porcelain to tongue.

At The Tollet, the ventilating system, like the lighting is designed for a variety of tastes.

A fan blows out of the dark "Platform Room" and an open window airs a lighter passageway. But in the Pit-and of course in the toilets-the air is motionless. The smell alone will bring you to your knees. Subway bathrooms are flower gardens by comparison.

Breathing as little as possible, I returned to the bar for my third drink. Suddenly I felt a pressure in my bladder. The Toilet! My stricture! I can't even piss in front of people let alone into them!! I clamped my knees together, walked to the elevator and went out to piss privately, on some side street.

RSCENE MEN

WESTERN / LEATHER [×5+]

To the best of DRUMMER'S knowledge, all of these bars are still alive and living in Leather. If you can keep us informed of openings and / or closings of Leather Bars in your area … or let us know what we have missed — it will keep us all informed of where the Leather action is.

The Upstairs … 314 N. Foster

ARIZONA PHOENIX

Ramrod … 395 N. Black Canyon Rd.

CALIFORNIA

ARCADIA (off 210 Fwy)

Long Branch … 1311 / 2 E. Huntington Dr.

GARDEN GROVE

SADDLE CLUB…8192 Garden Grove THE IRON SPUR … 11066 Garden Grove LOS ANGELES / HOLLYWOOD

Bunkhouse … 4519 Santa Monica Detour … 1087 Manzanita … 1170 N. Western Ave. 1170 . FALCON'S LAIR … Griff's 5074 Melrose Aver.

Headquarters 1941 Hyperion Ave.

Jaguar 7511 Santa Monica Blvd.

LARRY'S 5414 Melrose Ave.

LEATHERMAKER 2518 Sunset Blvd.

Manhandler Saloon 2692 S. LaCienega

ONE WAY 612 N. Hoover

OUTCAST 42 THE SPIKE … 7746 Santa Monica Blvd.

LOS ANGELES / VALLEY

Driveshaft … 13751 Victory Blvd. Farmhouse … 12319 Ventura Blvd. Frank's Buckeroo Inn . . 902 Hollywood Way The Signal … 10522 Burbank Blvd.

NORTH LONG BEACH

MIKE'S CORRAL … 2020 Artesia Blvd. STALLION … 5823 N. Atlantic Ave

PALM SPRINGS

… 67-977 Highway 111 Party Room . . SACRAMENTO

Montana Saloon … 7604 Fair Oaks Blvd.

SAN BERNARDINO SKYLARK … 917 Inland Center Dr.

SAN DIEGO

BEE JAY'S … 750 Indio St.

OF / THE / STATE [×12+] de / la / constitución [×11+] OHIO 1 EPS 1 UT 5 0 H 10 614 461

Thirty West Cota … 30 W. Cota St.

COLORADO

DENVER

Our Den … 5110 W. Colfax Triangle …

Box Car (on Nevada Ave. near Air Force Acad.)

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

EAGLE … 904 Ninth St. NW Eagle in Exile … 953 Ninth St. NW Louie's Spartan Lounge … 305 Ninth St. NW

CONNECTICUT

HARTFORD

Warehouse … 61 Woodbine

THE SPIKE

NEW YORK'S FRIENDLY LEATHER BAR

11th Ave. at 20th St. (212) 989-8913

EN'S BARSCENE MEN'S E

WESTERN / LEATHER [×6+]

NEBRASKA

Diamond Bar … 516 S. 16th St.

NEW YORK

NORTH CAROLINA

RALEIGH

The Capital Corral … 313 W. Hargett St.

WESTERN / LEATHER [×6+]

"fighting words"

We are indebted to the SAN FRANCISCO SENTINAL for the following editorial by Charles Lee Morris, who, we feel, says just about what we would say ourselves.

"So-called gay folks would just as soon kill you as look at

Thus spake the Reverend Jerry Falwell at a Miami rally thrown together by Anita Bryant as part of her vicious anti-gay crusade.

No, Reverend Mr. Falwell, we're not out to slaughter any- body.

But let me tell you, sir, that we're hopping mad and ready to fight. In Miami. In Pennsylvania. In New Hampshire. In Lit- tle Rock. And even, sir, right here in San Francisco. Fight for what, you ask, Mr. Falwell?

For our right to survive. For our right to walk down the street and share a glorious moment of freedom unchained by the shackles with which you religious bigots would enslave us.

And sir, we're ready to fight you in the courts, in the voting booth, in the halls of august and not-so-august legislatures , fight you in the echoing chambers of Congress, and - if need be - we'll fight you in the streets and trenches to preserve our freedom from your tyranny.

My God, sir, what gives you the right to impose your religious beliefs on the course of civil law? If you hold that right unto yourself why shouldn't the smallest, most fanatical splintered religious sect have the same right to impose their convictions in the same manner? You, sir, oppose homosexuality. Other religions oppose the consumption of Coca Cola. Haven't they the equal right to sanction that belief in law?

Or can't you comprehend that in this country, by our Constitution , religion has nothing whatsoever to do with civil law?

You and your gang of bigots have declared war on us. And we shall resist. We will fight you every step of the way if you persist in your evil campaign against us. We have been forewarned by the experience of six million Eu 220,000 known gay people who perished in the Nazi campaign not unsimilar to yours.

We'll not let you once again deprive us of our freedom, treat us like freaks, allow your children to taunt and attack us while you praise them (as were good Jew-baiting German children) for their "manly" defense of an image which exists nowhere in reality save in your distorted view of yourself.

Nor, be warned, will we allow politicians to trample over us at will because they fear the power of your vote. The justice on our side is far more potent in the long run than the dis- torted, twisted picture of "law" you can conjure up in the name of organized religion.

We'll not be fooled by high-sounding campaigns like "ma- jority vote" and vote for measures which would strip us of our political allies and destroy our influence.

You, sir, have given us adequate warning. We are alert. We shall remain vigilant. We see your evil for what it is. History has taught us the destructiveness of your ways. Should your campaign drag more of us into concentration camp ovens, know now that we'll not go meekly.

In fact, we won't go at all.

ALL MALE omcat ookstores

5 HOT LOCATIONS

NEW YORK CITY 38 W. 28th Street (212) 684-9846 500 Hudson Street at Christopher (212) 929-3064 (a landmark in the gay capitol of the world)

CAMDEN, NJ 1350 Admiral Wilson Blvd. (609) 365-9888

PHILADELPHIA 1919 Market Street (215) 567-8354 120 S. 13th Street (215) 732-9894 OPEN 24 HOURS

HOT LOCATION FOR STRAIGHT MATERIAL ADULT WORLD: 1236 Arch Street, Philadelphia (215) 972-9031

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