MALECALL/Dear Sir:

THE DRUMMER EXPERIENCE

Attitude begets attitude. And DRUM-MER is a specialty mag requiring some understanding. DRUMMER is a sophisticated bag of fantasy and reality. Our articles and fiction assume a certain posture. DRUMMER gives guys reflections of themselves not to be found elsewhere. DRUMMER dares to show and tell things some guys only jerk off to when alone with their popper late at night. This kind of truth often scares the gays whose Superegos are afraid of their Id. shit out of missionary-position vanilla

HEAD SHAVING

Print the movie stills in your Mag of that great blond movie star, Jan Michael Vincent getting his head shaved bald as a Marine recruit in the movie made for television about 4 years ago, when he was still an unknown. It was called Tribes and released in England as "The Soldier Who Loved Peace." At the very start of the picture his head is shaved and he plays most of the movie that way.

The current film Boys in Company C just shows them after they are given a crew cut - not real life and missed a

DRUMMER is the stuff dark dreams are made of: perfect men of perfect dominance commanding men in com-<br>pliant situations. To the unsophisti-<br>cated queen, THE DRUMMER EX-PERIENCE appears as violent as rape. To men with sense, DRUMMER clearly reflects sexual encounters, even therapy, between consenting adults. What freaks the blueballed out is their inability to distinguish real violence from the ritual of ruff-n-tumble sex. Censors always attack outside themselves what they find most frightening in their own souls. Guys who are scared of DRUMMER are per-<br>haps frightened that given the right time with the right man in the right place they might, in fact, consent to realizing in bed the never-do-nothin'-nice-n-easy fantasies that lurk in their most secret heart of hearts.

great shaving scene.

Are your writers running out of S&M scenes? Then get the paperback edition of football hero Lance Rentzel's auto-<br>biography — page 73 tells of his initia-<br>tion at Univ. of Okla and page 121 tells of his Air Force Reserve head shave.

Let us see some: before, during and after head shaving pictures of young<br>studs, like you described in your current<br>issue in "Soldier." But where was the picture of that model being shaved? And not just a picture of a bald head but the actual shaving, as that makes a stud into a slave.

Up until 1969, when the student protests and too many women students changed the customs of many colleges, most of the private Southern colleges<br>required all Freshman to get their heads shaved paid by the upper classmen. At Clemson Univ., Clemson, SC, not only<br>were all heads shaved but were then painted by the upper classmen. The Frosh had to parade around with their painted heads at the first football game of the season.

DRUMMER is about Daddies. DRUM-MER is about Saviors, DRUMMER is about the daring Animus of the human spirit. DRUMMER is about finding the apt projection of that part of one's own self that will control and discipline self the way only self can. Only on the literal surface is DRUMMER about DI's, rapacious bikers, and aggressive bodybuilder coaches who make you do push-ups until you eat their shorts. Under-<br>neath, DRUMMER is about needs the self can fulfill only by disciplining itself. The fact you can jerk off to DRUMMER's words and music is the sugar that helps this psychological sorting go down.<br>THE SECOND COMING OUT

Even now, many of the California high schools have frats that require any long haired or top athlete to get a head shave.

Let's see those young studs being<br>turned into slaves - and the first lesson is a shaved head.

B.N. New York

DRUMMER is for men who are having or have had their Second Coming Out. The First Coming Out is easy. A young guy comes out into his genitalia, usually in his late teens or early twenties. Lots of guys think that's it: now they're grown up sexually. DRUMMER doesn't think so. We know the kicker: the surprise of the Second Coming Out that goes beyond cock and ass.

GETTING OFF

itself in true S and M - Sensuality and Mutuality - with other men.

DRUMMER is a mag for men of the <br>Second Coming. DRUMMER is not for ordinary playguys in touch with Christopher Street honchos. DRUMMER is a reality statement for men of sophisticated sensuality. Sure, we have a lot of attitude about our attitude. If DRUMMER did not exist, we would have to be invented.<br>DRUMMER feeds your appetite.

The Second Coming Out usually happens in the late twenties or early thirties, and is a trip of total body sensuality. A grown-up man finds there is more to sex than his crotch. His total body makes erotic demands to play and to please

And nobody feeds you better! - Jack Fritscher

You and your staff put out a great magazine! Keep up the good work! I've noticed readers often give you some interesting suggestions - and that, un-<br>fortunately, more often than not you don't follow up on them. Well, it IS your magazine. But what the hell - here comes another unsolicited piece of advice . I'm into collecting old photographs of Americana, and I wonder if you couldn't send a few of your reporters out into the archives here and there to dig up photographs of mob violence, turn-of-the -century college hazing, and posed <br>S&M too. You could do a series on <br>violence in America similar to the Famous Sadists articles (but with photo-<br>graphs) or an article or two (or three)<br>on changing college customs. And some of the old erotic photographs are the best ever produced. That's my suggestion and<br>advice: do it! You have the nation's<br>leading S&M periodical, Drummer, and my friends and I, at least, are going to continue to buy you - hoping you don't get stuck in a rut and start turning out repeats of themes you've already done well and subjects you've already treated the best anyone has ever done.

Though I'm not into boots myself, I do enjoy your articles on them and the<br>boot fetishist. The new things you do

print are very, very good!

JIM Berwyn, PA

FANFUCKINGTASTIC

Fanfuckingtastic!!!

Somewhere between December 23, 1977 and January 1978 my cock began to get hard in anticipation of issue 20 of Drummer.

Well, having had a hard on for two<br>months I must admit I was ready to shoot, and when you shot Drummer onto the newsstand, that's exactly what I did, all over myself.

You guys have succeeded in making Drummer a truly mastubatory, macho magazine.

magazine.

From reality to fantasy "you got it!" The coverage of the CMC Carnival, Night Flight and I-Beam all of which I attended; to Jack Fritscher's - Pissing\nin the Wind -- were all HOT; and informative as to what's really happening in the homosexual leather, macho world.

Keep it up hot, sweaty and horny!!! J.W.

San Francisco, CA

ANITA'S COMING

Seeing the final episode of "Holo-<br>caust" on TV reminded me that our<br>brothers (called "strickjungen") suffered the same atrocities at the hands of the Nazis. The goal of the new Anita/Nazis

WRESTLING

seems to be a repeat of this monstrosity.

So I give a defiant fist of salute to Jack Fritscher (in the "Gay Jock Sports") article for calling us to steel ourselves against this latest onslaught against human rights. The time has come for every macho man to let his presence be felt: from the streets, from the gym, from the wallet, or wherever. You who sit idly by and condone the suffering by your silence will soon find the Anita/Nazi castration team on YOUR doorstep.

I got very turned on with issue No. 20. Especially your coverage of S.F.'s Big<br>Party of 1977 - "Night Flight." One of the super charged events of that evening was a hot, sweaty wrestling/strip match between two hunky studs. Did your Drummer photographer happen to catch it?

JAKE S.F.

Dave Atlanta, GA

You bet your sweet ass he did! Pic is below. ED

TOUGHER, LEANER

A couple of comments:

I certainly appreciate the speed with which my order for Drummer 19 was filled; actually I was astounded at re-<br>ceiving it within 9 days of my order.

Issue 18 appeared locally back in the fall (maybe October?), and then nothing was available until No. 20 appeared a couple of weeks ago. I hope whatever problems Drummer was having have been overcome, since it has long been the selection of choice among the gayporn

NIGHT FLIGHT Wrestling photo by Lorin Gillette

As 19 and 20 seem significantly better than their predecessors; Drummer seems to have taken on a tougher, leaner<br>look with which I heartily agree. While I enjoyed almost all the earlier issues (I have the complete file), I was more than a few times put off by what I saw as an unnecessarily silly approach to some as-<br>pects of the S&M culture. I'm not against humor, since it can be very effective, but I'm happy that I didn't detect that excessive frivolity in the two recent issues.

BEAUTIFUL, HE SAYS

Your magazine hits the true note. It has everything going for it, don't change anything.

I'm on my knees anytime to the masters creating this beautiful music.

A Slave

------- Subscription Service … TO SUBSCRIBE OR RENEW: name CHANGE OF CITY address ADDRESS AND RENEWAL: 51010 Please attach piease the mailing label from the front cover when print) writing about service or change of address, Allow ZIP 3 weeks for ap change of address code to take effect. Thank you. new subscription 1 year $30 (12 issues) renewal Add $12 for 1st class. MAIL TO: DRUMMER 1730 Divisadero San Francisco, California 94115 facessassassassassassassassassassassassassa

So, you certainly have my support, and I'm looking forward to the next new

issue eagerly.

R.E.B.

CAPITULATION

Help! Stop!

Can't take any more self punishment. After subscribing to DRUMMER I heard other sounds from other magazines, and let my subscription expire. Please forgive and ease my pain (just a little bit though) by sending up to date information.

By the way the other mags were just little toy drums for kids. You've got the men - and good ads. Enclosed is a SASE.

Name Withheld

COWBOYS AND HORSES

Hey Buddy:

I want to let you know that us cowboys here in cowboy land really dig your

or our Drummer. Sometime you should

do a REAL cowboy report. We here are<br>NOT like your CITY cowboys. No way are we like them.

If you want to know what the real life of a gay S&M cowboy is like let me know and I'll give some true facts of life here — we have everything going from horse sex

How about running something on Don Talon - ax master - he's sure a hot man.

JIM Kalispell, MT

SMOOTH AND NAKED

Since your first issue, I continue to enjoy your publication … always with an eye to finding new ideas to try out on my slave. Have been at it now about 81/2 years and he is 6 feet 2 inches and was basically straight when we began our relationship . He enjoyed it and came back<br>indicating early on his fantasies and desire to be: tied and whipped. Wanted to keep him coming back so … he got what he wanted and needed and my somewhat unusual mind was off and running into the S/M scene.

Now, his full white ass and my stout paddle get along just fine and his tits are tender and touchy most of the time from my clamps. On the phone he identifies himself as my toy, plaything and slave, and when I ask "What is he for?" he answers: "Anything ya wanna do ta me."

What do I enjoy most? Shaving him, and keeping him smooth and naked. When we started out, he had a mustache and a full beard as well as long hair. First I got his crotch shaved and in spite of some grumbling kept it that way. Second , he was bad, and for his punishment I shaved his armpits. Once done, he had to keep them shaved and learn to shave his crotch. Third, I went to Europe and and wrote from there-"When I return, I want your beard and mustache brought to me … in a bag, I came back and he<br>brought it to me and has had to remain clean-shaven. Fourth: soon thereafter, he was at my place and showered and shav-<br>ing. While I watched him smoking a<br>cigarette on the bed, I said: "Now shave<br>your legs." Our eyes met. He shaved them. Fifth: naturally, it wasn't long afterwards 'til I had him shave his arms. (I have all that hair in various containers.) I know he is all mine and 100 per cent

Take a bite anywhere and I don't get a mouth full of hair. Best of all, get 'em shaved and keep 'em that way and believe me, they are yours. He would be<br>damned embarassed in front of a gal-or most guys-so he stays dressed when he is not with me and hurries to get undressed to show me his body, so smooth and naked … yes. He knows what he is and who he belongs to. He has been shaving so long now that he feels funny not shaved.

It's fun to run into him somewhere where he doesn't expect me and all I have to do is quiz him about when he "shaved." And, I can see him getting a hard-on and he knows, as we talk, when I take out an alligator clip and switch it to another pocket, what's in store for him. I like especially to hear the tone of his deep voice change and can see his breathing speed up. It is sort of like a spider play-<br>ing with a fly. You know when you've got 'em hooked and can just hang in there and sort of play. He always follows me outside and eagerly to my car. And inwardly I laugh as I see his crotch bulging.

Now I am into getting another slave. Why? Well, I would enjoy starting a

second collection of hair. Ha!

Bob Redondo

ANG ON! In bars triangled from LA to NYC to SFO, the hot new take is coronas, panatellas, and maduros. Longer than your dick and thicker than your finger, cigars are IN. Along with your boots, your downfilled vest, and your CAT ballcap what goes best with beer can in the cab of your buddy's new 4-wheel pickup? Answer: a good tasting, aggressive cigar bit down hard between a hard-driving man's teeth.

Some guys never think of cigars as erotic. They oughta think again while they whistle along with The Eagles: "EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME." Some guys say, "Cigars? Never." Never say never. Today's never is next Saturday night's fetish. The fact is, cigars are the latest, hottest fever on the macho gay scene.

When you think about it, what besides cock better fits a leather / western / uniform man's face? Cigars, as symbols and for real, are pleasures the sensual hardass man can use for a very, very, very hot time.

NONSMOKERS' SURPRISE

In their first cigar encounter, even guys who smoke nothing but grass end up surprised that their nose has a sensuality beyond sweat, smegma, poppers and Coke. A cigar experienced from inside a scene is a totally different trip from the cigar your dad smoked in your family's old Studebaker with the windows rolled up. (Depending on your particular fetish: maybe not totally.) When you're a man, you put away the attitudes of a child. You're not afraid to sophisticate your head.

Cigars actually taste and smell terrific when the right man seduces you into their pleasures. Give a cigar a go once. Forever after you'll get hard fast at the sight of a young, blond trucker stopped at a traffic light with a butt clamped in his perfect white redneck teeth. You'll feel a deeper urge when you watch fresh USMC meatloaves strutting down the boulevards of Oceanside celebrating their first leave by treating each other to some hot-buddy cigars. And then there's those lockerroom jocks jawin' down on an A & C Grenadier.

QUARTERBACK'S BUTT IN GEAR Oakland Raiders quarterback KENNY STABLER says: "Cigars are for victories. At least that's how it seems to me. Because I've never felt like smoking a cigar after losing a game. No matter how far ahead we were at halftime, I could never light a cigar up before the game was over. Stabler's That would be too cocky word] even for me. Since I've been playing pro ball, I've smoked a lot. I'll tell you true, a cigar's one beautiful smoke."

Stabler could sell his butts mail-order. COP CIGARS

One cop-freak in Milwaukee, which has the most handsome young foot patrol in the USA, hangs out in coffee shops frequented by the best blue knights. Hard young cops are as partial as hot gays to cigars these days. Some of them swing out of their squad cars, half-smoked butts in their faces. They drop into the diner, order some coffee, lay their cigars in the ashtray when the food arrives, eat, and half the time exit with their butts abandoned . The cop-freak eases past their booth and scoops up the genuine, au- thentic cop-butts. (Authenticity, before all, is the essence of any true fetish.) At home, he bags the butts in his Seal-a-Meal, storing the baggies for a good night's fetish jerk-off: rubbing the cigars on his cock and balls, shoving them up his ass, wetting them in his mouth, lighting them up, pulling into his body the same rich, sweet smoke the cop only hours before had inhaled into his dark and hairy chest.

At one with that cop, he comes. "Cigars," he says, "are my main turn-on . I've been smoking cigars off and on since I was 14. The first hardon and jack-off session I ever had was from watching a good-looking actor on a TV program smoke a cigar. The sight of a straight guy with a big cigar in his mouth and several more big ones sticking out of his shirt pocket never fails to get my cock stiff. I can get turned on just standing in front of a cigar counter watching what kind of guy buys what kind of cigar. Cigars are a whole expressive attitude. Sometimes I light up a cigar and stand in front of the mirror and jerk off."

Ain't nothing wrong with that.

"I like big, thick, long cigars: maduros, emperors, coronas, and magnates. My main fantasies revolve around kinky, cigar-smoking sex with a partner who also turns on this way: rolling a cigar in my mouth that's been up his ass and vice versa; licking the spit off his cigar after he's rolled it in his mouth; transferring a cigar back and forth from his mouth to mine while we smoke it, inhale, and kiss each other man-to-man with mouths full of smoke. You get the drift." MEAN TOKERS

Any scene you can think of, you can bet some guy somewhere is beating off to it. All you gotta do is find him. Some tokers are natural takers. Smoking is, after all, an essentially aggressive act. Two cigar-buddies wrote wanton ads and the best fifth of the gay macho world beat a path to their doors.

W / M jock, 27, good-looking cigar smoker, wants submissive males 25-50 to light my fire, lick my grimy boots, pig out on my sweaty asshole. Into uniforms, with stogie, with heavy humiliation. Beg for my sweaty pits. Suck my cum-filled jock, Eat my butts. Be my ashtray.

Oiled bodybuilder seeks mutual macho cigar lover to puff away while I pose for you as I smoke a big, fat cigar. Into mutual oil, cigar, and muscle scene, Not usually heavy

s and m, but will stub butt out on willing but of very willing depraved muscle slave.

Is this why NEWMAN and REDFORD smoked cigars in The Sting? Is this why O.J. SIMPSON and LEON SPINKS prefer to be photographed with cigars? Is this why DICK NOLTE smokes cigars heavily on and off the movie set? Cigars are a measure of image. So why even question the latest macho turn-on.

Any erotically adventurous gay guy will say: "If you can name anything I haven't done, it's only because I haven't had the time—yet." CIGARS LIKE CHAMPAGNE:

AN ACQUIRED TASTE

Sometimes having a secret fetish is a lot like being a closet case. For a long, lonely time you're the only freak in the world. Then comes the night you discover a buddy who, in the deep of the dark and the heat of his passion, confesses to a kink as closeted as yours. And there you are: Instant Brothers. No longer alone and feeling weird.

Sometimes a guy has a great rap on why a certain fetish intrigues the hell out of him, One of the most honest is a California biker who does a cigar "take"

worthy of a man who has the courage of his perversion. "I'm a totally dedicated cigar freak. Right now I'm smoking my favorite— Garcia y Vega Gran Premio. It's the biggest, best-tasting cigar I've found yet, but I keep looking for bigger ones that have as good or better flavor. I can smoke these motherfuckers all day long, and frequently do. "I was into cigars before I was out of grammar school. My folks owned a drug store in San Jose then, so getting them was no problem. I used to have a couple of buddies who smoked with me, but for some reason I had sense enough to know that it was just a 'teenage kick for them while I was getting sexually turned on. By the time I was a senior in high school, I was shoving them up my ass and smoking them while I jacked off.

"Then I moved to Santa Rosa, got my first Harley, and used to get my kicks by having a few beers and riding the Harley through town with a big cigar in my mouth and pissing in my Levi's as I went along. (In case you haven't guessed, I'm also a piss freak!)

"I have a friend here who is also into smoking Gran Premios and when we get the pre together he usually wears only boots, chaps and a leather vest, and he likes to smoke cigars and drink beer while I play

Tom Hartman: "The universe is going to pieces and you're lying there reading Town and Country and smoking that crummy cigar." Merle Jeeter: "I'll have you know this cigar came in an aluminum tube with him. He's a real professional cigar smoker-really digs it and does it well. I love to watch him smoke, and he knows it and loves to be watched. (He also has a bike and likes to ride around with a big cigar in his mouth to attract attention .) By the time he has finished three half-pints of beer (I get it second-hand), he is usually pretty far down on his second cigar, and he likes to fuck me in the ass while he finishes the second cigar. He chews the ends, rolls the cigars around in his mouth, inhales-really turns my ass inside out just watching him. He also likes to flick the hot ashes on me, spit tobacco juice on me, belch while I'm kissing him, and fart while I'm rimming him.

"Then we switch roles and I do the same thing to him. We have talked about getting into snuff but haven't done it yet. Have to leave something to look forward to. I know a few other guys who are into smoking cigars that have been up someone's ass, but not too many.

"I can turn on to any kind of sex with a guy into cigars, whether he is smoking them, I am, or both of us are. I dig being fucked while smoking a cigar, especially if the guy doing the fucking is smoking one, too. And the other way around is just as good. I like to suck off a cigar smoker, and dig getting sucked off while smoking. "I have met some guys who are into smoking two or more cigars at a time. This can be a fuckin' turn-on, too.

"In addition to big, fat cigars, I like the really long, slender ones. I also personally prefer the dark ones to the lighter ones, but I'm not that particular.

Any cigar smoker turns me on.

"I'm 40, 5'9", 160 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes, eight-inch cock, and always eager to meet other dudes into cigars. I'm also into boots, Levi's, leather; however, age, race, build, whatever are all immaterial if the dude is into cigars. I have to admit it's a fuckin' turn-on to see a young dude puffin' on a stogie, though! Tell all those DRUMMER guys to keep on puffin'."

BISEXUAL BLOWS GAY SMOKE

When I asked my oiled bodybuilder for some leads on a mutual cigar smoker, he recommended a hot and free-swinging bi-guy in Southern California. We met in Hermosa Beach at that seaside restaurant where supposedly Leonard Cohen saw Suzanne take his hand. In that mixed crowd, alone in a corner booth, Doug told how cigars were his only connection to gay activity. "I suppose I can be honest in saying

I am a little frustrated in trying to satisfy my fantasies and sometimes I feel like I'm the only guy in town with my little secret fetish.

"Cigars and cigar smoke get me hot. Whenever I see a guy smoking a cigar or with one hanging out of his mouth, I go crazy. Especially if the guy is in leather or is a super-macho type. "As far as my experience into my trip, I've met only one person. I met a guy in Palm Springs. He was 42 years old, attractive, balding, and heavily tattooed. He was about 6'5" and 280 pounds. He had a big gut. He was more on the straight side than gay, but the two of us got on fine until he moved back to

Wyoming. "I guess our scene was pretty much of a role-playing situation. He liked to sit on the toilet and have me suck his cock for hours. He would hang his cigar out of his mouth while I went down on him. When he took a drag, he liked to wet-kiss me and exhale his hot smoke into my mouth. What turned me on the most was while I was on my knees servicing him, he would constantly work on my tits with his fingers. And he would talk to me and tell me it took a real man to smoke a cigar and I agree.

"He liked to fuck me with a cigar in his mouth and when he sucked on my nipples, he held his cigar between his fingers and played with my other nipple. We liked to sleep together. We had a good time and he was a good trip. I sure miss him. "The only other adventures I've had types who would are just macho trade types who would hang cigarettes out of their mouths while I sucked them off, usually at rest stops.

"I want to emphasize that I am bisexual . I do not turn on to the gay life-style . I like very macho men who don't look or act gay. Believe it or not, I've taken a lot of straight guys to bed. Most of my sex is with married or bisexual men. I do not relate to too many gays.

"I am completely french active. I have, at times, had fantasies of having a cigar-smoking man go down on me and me perhaps fucking him. But the situation has never happened where this could have occurred.

"I do have one reoccurring fantasy. At my place of employment, the president of my company, who is a very naturally elegant and tailored gentleman, always has a long, expensive cigar in his mouth. He is very refined-looking and very much a real man, Whenever I see him I fantasize on what it would be like to be with him alone while he smoked his cigar.

"Another thing: on occasion I go to redneck bars and watch truckers and cowboy types with cigars. Being shy in a bar, I don't make out a whole lot. But sometimes , when it's late enough and some cigar smoker is high enough, I get to get it on with what a lot of times I just have to be content looking at. "Sometimes, too, I offer a guy in a straight bar a cigar. I always carry two or three in my shirt pocket. I get hard holding the match up close to his face, watching him puff and pull on that big cigar. He has no idea, at that seemingly innocent moment, what he's doing for my sex life. That is really and truly a CIGAR RAPE."

CIGAR CHAIN LETTERS

Some guys trade cigars like good Scouts trade comic books. Before a butt is completely burnt out, six or seven men may have smoked up to an inch apiece of it before they mail it on to the next guy. The cigar itself usually arrives in a well wrapped box. Rolled around the long brown cylinder that grows shorter as it makes the cigar-chain rounds is a letter of erotic instructions.

A lineman for CILCO (Central Illinois Light Company sent along the following directions with a cigar burnt half down on one end and well chewed on the other. He likes to drive his panel truck while he holds his burnt-out butt in his teeth: "Hey Stoker:

"The enclosed cigar has been lovingly prepared for your jerk-off by a generously endowed guy who, like you, loves to stroke and come while smoking a cigar. So take out your cock. Put on your cock-ring . Grease up. Light the cigar. Doesn't it smell great? Take a couple of long drags as you start stroking yourself. Then, think of me and how I got off on that same cigar. From my mouth to yours, The hands that I jerked off with touched that cigar and now you're touching it, too.

"I love guys who smoke cigars, all kinds, including the fuckers who stick their meat in assholes. But I like big meat, regardless: thick, huge pricks with nice, long, uncut heads and a deep-set rim around the head. I love to wrap my lips around the head and twist and twist and drive the guy horny mad. Then I piston him 'till he creams in my throat and I taste his delicious cum mixing with the taste of our cigars. Cum and cigars- ain't that a double dip! "Hope you're enjoying your stroking and smoking. Putting a cigar in your mouth is like having a prick there. Fuck it in and out a bit, holding that cigar like a he-man stud. Try putting your fingers around it as you slip it in your mouth and let the lit part be toward the palm of your hand. Then take it out of your mouth and watch the prick-end smoke by itself.

"Wish we could be together! I'd like to suck you while you smoke. Hope you enjoy smoking the same cigar with a guy who's sucking you-it's great. Between sucks, when you're getting hot, hold the cigar out to him and let him take a couple of drags and blow on your cock as he goes back to work. Then you can kiss while mutually smoking the same cigar and smell and taste each other's cigar breath and moisture. "Are you creaming yet? If not, keep going and come! Now, take out a fresh cigar when you're hard again and stroke and smoke some more. Finish about a third of it, then shoot. Then mail the cigar to me and tell me how you enjoyed it. I'll smoke another third and send it on to another cigar buddy and that way we'll complete the mutual jerk-off round.

"By the way, I'm eight inches uncut. I'm medium thick with low-slung balls. I like to stroke and i / o and smoke a cigar on the phone. We could really get each other hot. Do it once a week. You can call me collect any evening or week-ends. Keep trying if you can't get me the first time. Have it greased and hard and horny and tell me all about your technique. We'll shoot together over cigars. How about it? Do it soon. Send me your cigars and cum. Here's to lots of mutual cigar jerk-offs. "Yours in thick blue stogie smoke,

S&M CIGARS

On Ringold Alley, south of Market Street in San Francisco, behind The Brig and not far from his favorite hangout, The Black and Blue, is a loft set up for heavy scenes by a guy who came to The City back in the Summer of Love. He

worked his way from the Haight to Fol-som and he brought his astrology and his reincarnational feeling with him.

He's into cigars.

He's into knives and needles. He's into cosmic endurance.

"I'll tell you why I need, want, and prefer tripe," he says. "In my last ex- istence, I was tortured."

"To death?" I ask.

"By men with cigars. By men with knives."

"Where?" (I get told a lot of shit.) "When?"

"Germany, I'm sure, The late 1930's,"

"Sounds like a drug fantasy."

"This is reincarnational memory. I remember the looks on my executioners' faces. They held cigars right in their teeth. I wasn't more than about nineteen. Their hands seemed gigantic to me. Hard. Disciplined, Cold. They held me down on a cement floor. One by one ach soldier took his cigar from his mouth. I was naked. One man burned me with his cigar, I refused to scream. Another took a puff. His cigar glowed very hot. He burned me. I would not scream. I could tell them nothing." He massaged his crotch.

"They smiled and laughed. They liked what they were doing to me. The smoke around their faces and hair was blue and thick. They tied me stretched to iron rings in the floor. The made a contest of torturing me. They called the game THE FIVE-MINUTE CIGAR. They were young soldiers. Gaming. Every five minutes the whole night long, every five minutes they burned me then cut me. Burned and sliced me. Every five minutes . Before dawn they ground out their butts on my body and stabbed me to death. Finally I screamed. I died that time to looking into their smiling faces."

"This sounds," I say, "interesting. But like one too many acid trips." "My actions," he replies, "speak louder than my words."

He leads me to the rear of his loft, into a special workroom he had built. The cubicle is small, dark, and cold: not unlike the room he described in his story. He motions me to a stool in the corner. He positions himself before a large mirror. He stares straight into his own image, conjuring his other self, stripping himself slowly as his intensity increases.

A man torturing himself is an in- credible sight.

I sit silent, an observer at his private blood ritual. From the signt of his muscular torso, he must work on himself at least once a week. He is a beautiful man: marked, burned, and cut with intricate designs.

In remembrance of his old blood spilled in that cellar, he takes deep pleasure in the slow lighting of his cigar, holding it, thick, brown and smoking, in his mouth, rolling it side to side, tasting it on his tongue, hot, spit-thick, and heavy. He breathes the smoke deep into his throat. His cock hardens.

He takes iron pleasure in pushing multiple needles through the skin of his belly and chest, nipples and foreskin. He holds the glowing red cigar tip, hot with his passioned puffs, against the needles through his flesh, conducting the heat from the cigar down the steel needles into his skin, cauterizing the pierced meat of his body. His cock, pierced and warmed, grows large in his endurance of the pain.

He lies back, puffs, inhales the smoke deeper, like a blue fist down his throat, smoking now as they had smoked then, until, with one final glowing red puff, he holds the smoldering cigar quickly against the shaft of his cock. He shoots, his spilling load sanctifying, making bearable his remembered agony. In this way, his head copes. He joins what of the reincarnated past he cannot change. Only in the energy of his present lust is he strong enough to match the energy-drain of his last, past agonized death by cigars and knives. "I am," he explains to me later, "a victim and a celebrant of bloodlust." SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES

Someday smoking, like jerking-off, may be illegal in public. One good consolation : prohibition improves mystique. Fetishes, offbeat by essence, are always better as a low-profile trip. (Where would the fun of, for instance, rubber be if everybody wore rubber in public instead of under their three-piece suits like they're supposed to?) Smoking, after all, is a National American Fetish. I mean, where the fuck is Marlboro Country? Inside that best of all sex organs: our heads. That's where the fetish connections happen. Smoking in and of itself has nothing to do with sex, but advertising tells us different. Advertising programs the connections in our heads. Smoking, males learn, is what Real Men do.

The essence of a sexual fetish is that the fetish is not a mindless habit. A fetish demands full erotic attention. Habitual cigar smoking is too mindless to be a fetish, although cigars can be a habit with the man who then becomes, precisely because of his habit, the object of the cigar fetishist's full sexual attention. In the following case history, the cigar-smoking bodybuilder has a straightforward cigar habit; my erotically attuned friend, Dan cigar fetish.

After a recent physique contest in LA, iron-pumped Dan, who works out with the Big Boys at Gold's, pointed to one of the runner-up contestants meeting his girl on the steps outside the auditorium. Standing with her on his hip while talking to his body-buddies, Mr. Muscles pulled out a cigar, fired it up, and gave attitude like the winner he very nearly was that night. His group lingered for almost twenty minutes. Dan moved downwind to inhale the cigar smoke blown carelessly away by the bodybuilder. (Fetishists thrive on the fact that you can do almost anything you want in public because, when you come right down to it, everybody else is so wrapped up in their own trip they have little time to really notice what you're doing anyway.)

When the physique star and his girl broke away from their group, we followed them to the vicinity of his car. When he unlocked her door, he wanted one more hit off his cigar, now burned down to a short butt. His huge bicep pumped up big as he curled his cigar up to his lips for the last drag. He inhaled deep, then dropped the butt to the concrete.

Dan said under his breath: "God! Don't let him grind it out with his boot.'

Mr. Muscles drove off. Dan closed in on the butt like Galahad on the Grail. He took his prize home and did unspeakably wonderful things in the dark. Love is, after all, where you find it.

SIGAL

Sarge is hot. Really good looking. You offer him a cigar. He takes the box slowly. He pulls the cigar out slower. Long. Fat. Brown. Wrapper crinkles. Cigar is soft inside cellophane. Sarge tears wrapper deliberately with his strong teeth. Feels cigar. Smells good. Aroma. Wet lips, Inserts first one end of cigar. Then other. Licks it smooth and wet. Taste feels sharp on his tongue.

You kneel between his spread thighs. Look up to watch him reach into his fatigue pocket for a match. Cigar locks in his teeth. Poised. Wet. You wait for the moment. Incredible moment. When a man strikes fire. Lifts it to his face. Match in one hand. Cigar in other. You watch his face. You know the taste of a cigar linger- ing in a thick moustache.

Sarge rubs his hand across his crotch. Your mouth burrows down into his fatigues. Your eyes look up into his face. Instead of lighting the cigar, he holds the match. He stares straight into your eyes. The butt of stogle juts square from his mouth, Surrounded by moist lips. Locked tight in his teeth. The match burns. Sarge gives the cigar another slow, long lick. He clenches it hard. Your hand moves faster in anticipation of the moment the match will touch the tip. When deep blue smoke will rise from the hot, red coal.

Sarge touches the match to the cigar. Burn point, Smoke curls, Fills his mouth. Rises in a rich blue halo around his face and close-cropped hair. He pulls on it.

You kneel adoring between his legs. Worshipping cock. Worshipping his face. The cigar smoke is his incense. Is your incense. The cigar is a thick cock. Wet. Hot. Burning. Commanding in his face. He exhales the smoke down on you. Spews smoke down on you. The smoke has volume. The smoke is thicker than popper. The taste in your mouth is better than you imagined. The smoke lifts you higher. He puffs. He puffs and between his thighs you sniff the smoke he exhales. You snort the aroma.

You go down on him, Your eyes never leave his mouth. His cock is in your mouth. You pull your lips out. To the head of the dick, It's your trick, You know it. He knows it. It's your signal. You want him to hit his cigar and hold its heat. Hot against the back of your neck. To keep your mouth buried root- deep on his dick. The back of your neck carries faint erotic marks of past cigar-sucks . You want his heat. You want his fire. You want his cum. You want the wet splash and the hot burn. You want the smell of cigar in his hair and moust-ache . You want the smell of his sweat. You worship his mouth. His prick.

You strip off your shirt. You drop your jeans. You hold your mouth open wide, coming up off his cock. Your wide wet oval of mouth goes down on his cigar butt smoking in his mouth. He puffs it heavy and hard. You wrap your mouth wide around the burning cigar. You in- hale the smoke billowing from his mouth, curling up and out of his hardbitten teeth. Again in perfect balance. Sarge on the cigar's wet end, You on the hot, Cigar-locked together like two men fuck-ing . One up the ass of the other: the fucker orders the fucked not to move, not to dare even flex his ass or the cock buried hilt deep will shoot despite the fucker's warning. Two men on one cigar. Smoke shared. His eyes roll back in his head. Close to your face. Down the length of hot cigar. You see all.

You feel him piss. Warm. Wet. All over your belly. You worship his face, His mouth. His cigar, His cock, His body. His energy heats you more than match to a rich dark Havana.

Your eyes beg him. Your empty mouth pulling back from his cigar-mouth begs him. Your hands frame a small area on your belly, above your cock.

He looks at the space like a firebomber over target.

You need him. For once finally you need him to do it. Your eyes say he must. Please. Your face shows your need. Please. Your hard cock shows your com- mitment. Please. His own meat hardens. More. With three last stoking puffs on the butt in his mouth. You need it, He wants it. Again a balance, Control between you both, Consent, Mutual under- standing. You need what he can give. He likes what you can offer.

Sarge pulls his cigar stub from his mouth. Your hands milk his cock. Pull his meat. His hand lowers the glowing tip to your groin. Your eyes lock to- gether. Your eyes beg him. Your cock moves fast in your one hand. His cock moves fast in your other. His thick arm, butt curled into the palm of his hand, moves down between your moving arms. The glowing tip is inches away from your belly. Three inches. Two. You can feel the heat from the tip moving warm toward your skin.

The energy locks totally between the two of you. Perfect partners. His eyes search your eyes one last time. Never has any man so totally offered what you so totally need.

A shadow falls heavy across his eyes.

It says NOW.

His fist with the burning cigar butt moves in for that last body-inch and holds. The pleasure. The pain, His heat pours into your belly, Contact: the brief-est second. A tick of pain. Seared. You come. Now, You come. His face moves in to yours. An inch away. You rock. Jerk your cock, Worship him him. Together you separate. His hand moves away from your belly. Your belly moves away from his hand. He keeps his eyes locked into yours, Balance.

Sarge tucks his dick toward your groin. He licks his hand. He shoves his cigar back between his teeth. Locks it down. He pumps his hard greasy cock over your red-spotted belly. He pumps his dick hard. Until the smoke filling his mouth, his nose, his chest fills your mouth, your nose, your chest. Until in the blue haze around the pair of your faces, his cock comes wet and hotter than any cigar, shooting healing seed, salving juice over the loving brand that will all too soon fade to a light lover's mark. Made by him. Made by this man. Made by this toker. This taker. To carry hidden and secret for the rest of your life.

Somewhere out there, Sarge waits for you.

Because you know what Sarge has and Sarge knows what you need.

- Jack Fritscher

Blake 78

During World War II, the practice of torturing prisoners of war prevailed wherever Japanese troops were in occupation. They indulged in the practice throughout the war, and there was so much uniformity in the methods used that there can be no doubt that it was the result of a definite policy adopted by the armed forces with the knowledge and approval of the Imperial Government. Army and Navy units all used the same methods, but the torturers par excellence were the dreaded Kempei Tai, the Japanese counterpart of the Nazi Gestapo. The Kempei Tai, however, unlike the Gestapo, were the

Army's Military Police administered by the War Ministry, and a Kempei Tai Training School, where many of these methods of interrogation were learned and practiced, was maintained and operated in Japan by the same Ministry. The Kempel Tai had full powers of arrest and investigation, over both civilians and military, and in their particular brand of interrogation under torture were past masters. Like the German Gestapo, they had obtained plenty of experience before the war, for the Japanese Empire had been engaged in some kind of warfare since 1931 and the Kempei Tai had had plenty of time in which to perfect their technique.

The captured copy of a Japanese Army training manual also confirms other strong evidence that torture was officially approved as a necessary aid to interrogation in certain circumstances . This manual was entitled Notes for the Interrogation of Prisoners of War, and was issued by the Japanese Hayashi Division in Burma on August 6, 1943. The following are a few extracts from this illuminating trreatise:

The following are the methods normally to be adopted:

"(a) Torture. This includes kicking, beating and anything connected with physical suffering. This method is only to be used when everything else has failed as it is the most clumsy. Change the interrogating officer after using violent torture, and good results can be obtained if the new officer questions in a sympathetic manner.

(b). Threats.

"(1) Hints of future physical discomforts, for example , torture, murder, starvation, solitary confinement, deprivation of sleep.

(2) Hints of future mental discomforts, for example , not to be allowed to send letters, not to be given the same treatment as the other prisoners of war, to be kept back to the last in the event of an exchange of prisoners.

Thousands of Allied prisoners of war experienced excruciating torture at the hands of the Kempei Tai. It is impossible to appreciate what these unfortunate and innocent victims of lapanese brutality suffered unless a brief description is given of the principal methods employed.

"The Water Treatment: This was almost invariably applied . The victim was bound, or otherwise secured, in a prone position and water was forced through his mouth and nostrils into his lungs until he lost consciousness. Pressure was then applied, sometimes by jumping on his abdomen, to force the water out. The usual practice was to revive the victim and repeat the process as required.

"Burning: Torture by burning was practised extensively. This was generally inflicted by burning the victim's body with lighted cigarettes or cigars, but in some cases lighted candles, hot irons, burning oil or scalding water. The application of heat was usually made to sensitive parts of the body, such as the nostrils, the eardrums, the navel, the sexual organs.

'Electric Shock: Electric current was applied generally to the most sensitive parts of the body, as in the burning tor- ture. "The Knee Spread: This was a very frequent method of forced to kneel with a pole, sometimes as much as three inches in diameter, inserted behind both knee joints so as to spread them as pressure was applied to his thighs, sometimes by jumping on them. The result of this torture was to separate the knee joints and so cause intense pain.

'Suspension: Another very common form. The body of the victim was suspended by the wrists, arms, legs or neck, and at times in such a manner as to strangle him or pull the joints from their sockets. This method was sometimes combined with flogging during suspension.

'Kneeling on Sharp Instruments: A very painful form of torture. The edges of square blocks were mostly used as the sharp instruments. The victim was made to kneel on the sharp edges for hours at a time without relief. If he moved, he was

flogged. "Removal of Nails: The removal of finger nails and toe nails, usually pulled out with pliers, was not uncommon, and the well known Chinese torture of driving small bamboo chips under the nails was also frequently practiced.

"Finger Bandaging: The fingers were bandaged together with a stick placed between each one. Extra pressure could then be applied by tightening the bandage by means of a piece of cord. This was extremely painful, and if it did not fracture the fingers they remained bruised and swollen for several days.

In addition to these standard methods of torture used by the Kempei Tai in every theatre of war and in all the occupied territories, Allied prisoners of war and civilians suffered many other forms of inhumane treatment and cruelty, the most common of which was flogging, universally used in all internment camps, in all prisons, in the labor camps, on board the prison chips and at all Kempei Tai Headquarters. Special in- struments were used in many of the camps, such as pieces of wood about the size of a baseball bat. Prisoners were sometimes forced to beat other prisoners, and they received internal injuries, broken bones and lacerations of the skin. Frequently they were beaten into unconsciousness, revived and then beaten again.

Among the Kempei Tai's torturers there were some individualists who invented variations of their own. One Malay Indian, who was a magistrate at Kuala Trengganu, was accused by the Tempei Kai of being a spy. He was left tied up to the leg of a table all night, and in the morning was nearly kicked to death. Later he was buried up to his neck and submerged in

Mental torture was commonly employed. A striking example of this was given in evidence before the Tokyo Tribunal, when witnesses testified about the ill-treatment which the Doolittle airmen received from the Kempei Tai after their capture. Having been subjected to all the standard forms of torture, they were taken, one at a time, marched blindfolded for a considerable distance and then halted. The victim then heard voices and marching feet, the sound of squad halting and loading their rifles as a firing party would. A Japanese officer then approached the American pilot and said: "We are the Knights of Bushido, of the Order of the Rising Sun. We do not execute at sunset but at sunrise." The prisoner was then marched back to his cell and told that unless he talked before

A major part of the ongoing "mental torture" was the way prisoners were forced to live, inadequately housed and fed, with only the meanest of sanitary facilities. After just a few months of captivity, one strapping American captain, weighing 190 pounds when captured on December 8, 1943, figured he was "down to 160 now, but that was tempting enough for the lice and the other seen and unseen bugs who never seemed to sleep. Each morning we were allowed out into the courtyard to wash. We took turns under a cold tap. It was-n't much of a wash because the guards hurried us. We were only allowed two minutes in all. The stench of our cells was indescribable .

"Part of the Jap torture," he continued, "was to string men up by their arms. Several times, on my way back to my cell from the courtyard, I saw the water cure being given. The Japs never closed the doors of the offices where they did they questioning and often I'd stop and look. The guard with me never objected. He wanted to see the fun.

"To begin with, all prisoners were stripped naked before questioning. The Japs believed that this gave them a great psychological advantage. When a man refused to answer questions or if they weren't satisfied with his answers, they would place him on a desk top, face up. They would roll up a bath towel into the form of a cone and place it firmly around his mouth and nose. Meanwhile they'd be filling a five-gallon can with water. They would add kerosene and urine to the water. "Then they would pour this through the opening at the top of the cone and the victim had to either swallow the vile concoction or strangle. His belly would swell and then the guards would strike him sharply across the stomach with a light steel rod. Usually the man would lose consciousness. They had a sort of hoist and tackle in the rooms they used for giving the water cure. They would hoist the naked man up by his heels and allow the water to drain out of him. As soon as he recovered consciousness they would repeat the dose. Sometimes they would hit the victim too hard with the steel rods and the stomach would burst. "When they finally got around to questioning me, I felt sure I was in for the water cure. I had to strip off my prison clothes and walk into Kawai's office stark naked. To me this was rather a childish performance. I might have looked ridiculous , but I didn't feel ridiculous, and the whole Jap idea was to make you feel ridiculous and inferior.

"You can't torture me, you know, Lieutenant Kawai," I said, smiling. 'To begin with, it won't do any good because I have told you the truth. And, in addition, I won't allow it.

"The guards made me kneel in front of the desk. That is the routine position you assume for questioning by the Kem-pei Tai. You kneel on a metal plate with your hands at your sides. If you lean more than a few inches forward you lose your balance and instinctively throw your hands out in front of you to save you from falling. This is a signal for the guards to beat you. I had spent so many years on the decks of rolling freighters that keeping my balance was no trick to me, though my knees, of course, were screaming blue murder. Just kneel on your carpeted floor for five minutes with your hands at your sides and you'll see what I mean." This American Naval officer never did talk.

The stripping of prisoners, a basic Kempei Tai tactic, was virtually universal, and it is hard to avoid concluding that there were sexual connotations not too far beneath the surface. Victims required to totally expose themselves seem very often to have been the biggest and best built. Here, for example, is what happened to a young American soldier referred to only as "Jim" (to spare his family), described as "a kid from Yonk-ers , played football in high school; he was a big handsome

Polish youngster, well-built and husky."

Suspected of planning an escape, Jim was "dragged over to Jap headquarters. They took off all his clothes - they even took off his G-string - and stood him at attention, and 'Little Caesar' (nickname for commandant) began to practice judo tactics on him. He clouted Jim across the face with the heel of his hand, threw him to the ground, kicked him all over the body and in the groin, and stamped on his face with his hard-heeled black leather officer's boots. The beating that followed was the worst any of us ever had to take. Hashi kept it up steadily for three hours.

"That three-hour beating was only the beginning. Jim was sentenced to twenty-one days in the guardhouse, a bare shed with three walls and wooden bars across the fourth side. Jim was kept stark naked the whole time; he didn't even have a blanket. The guards would take turns giving him orders, and laugh. They made him stand an hour at attention, then kneel for an hour, then stand halfway erect. He had to stand at attention eighteen hours a day. He was made to empty the Jap latrines, but he was never allowed to empty his own bucket. He was beaten every day for three weeks. Afterward, he just dragged himself around and his flesh sagged from his bones. His strength was gone."

Corey Ford and Alastair MacBain have written the story of three American captains, Gene Dale and Bert Schwarz of the Air Corps and John Morrett of the Field Artillery, who were taken prisoner when Bataan fell. They made the "March of Death" and for two and a half years worked as slave labor in the infamous penal colonies, under Kempei Tai supervision, of Davao and Lasang. They escaped when a Japanese prison ship carrying them north was torpedoed. Their story is told in the first person plural:

"We met at Davao. We happened to be assigned to the same work deatail of American prisoners, planting rice; the three of us were side by side in line. We would bend over together and stick the rice seedlings into the black muck, take one step backward in unison, stoop and plant another row. The Jap guards walked the dikes above us, holding Enfield rifles with bayonets fixed. If we faltered, we would get a hobnailed boot in the ribs, or a rifle butt across a naked thigh.

"We always worked naked. The Japs took all our clothes away when we worked outside the prison compound. They were afraid we would escape into the jungle, and they even took our shoes away. Going barefoot had a curious effect on the men's morale. Any good American likes to walk with his head up, but when he is barefooted and walking on rough stones, he has to look where he is going. He keeps his head lowered, as if he were cowed or ashamed. Maybe the Japs had that in mind. "They worked us from dawn to dark. The mud was hip-

deep, and covered with blue slime, it stank like a carabao wallow . We would stand on the dike and touch our bare toes to the mud, like a kid testing the water, and the smell would almost make our stomachs turn over. But once we got covered with it, we didn't notice it any more. We rubbed it all over our face and under our arms and in our crotch, to keep off the red jungle ants and gnats that swarmed up our legs and bit us raw. There were colonels and majors of fifty or over, and kids barely eighteen. All of us had diarrhea or dysentery, and if we stopped to relieve ourselves, a guard would take his rifle by the barrel and swing the butt over his shoulder and bring it down again, as the prisoners wearily walked the endless miles to San Fernando. "As foot traffic piled up," one eyewitness reported, "brutality became more general. One guard told his prisoners that Americans were 'soft' and forced them to take their clothes off and stand naked in the blistering sun, at attention. On the last mile of the 55-mile trek to San Fernando, prisoners had to run the gauntlet between two lines of Japanese trucks. Soldiers in the trucks swung their rifle butts as the men staggered past."

The Kempei Tai training could be encountered at almost any given time or place. An infantry patrol ambushed in New Guinea was reduced to two sergeants and two privates before being brought into the intimidating presence of Colonel Ito Kazuko, Commander of the 14th Imperial Japanese Marines. The sergeant who lived to tell this tale described how "Lowe, Macklin and myself, the only other survivors - beside Sergeant McKenna - of our combat patrol, were trussed up in a kneeling position, our hands tied behind our backs, slip-knots around our throats and drawn taut about our ankles so that any attempt to escape would quickly strangle us. Encircling the small jungle clearing were hundreds of jeering Japanese soldiers; while overhead, the hellish New Guinea sun beat down fiercely, broiling our faces, sapping the strength from our bodies.

"Beside us, sitting cross-legged in a camp chair, his black "beside us, sitting an ornamental samurai sword resting cavalry boots shining, an ornamental samurai sword resting across his knees, Col. Kazuko viewed the proceedings with grunts of approval. When all of us except McKenna were trussed-up in a kneeling position beside Kazuko, we knew he was chosen to die first. Calmly, resignedly, his hands still tied behind his back, Mac was led over to two palm trees spanned by a bamboo cross-bar about seven feet off the ground. As he stood towering above the dwarfish Japanese who scampered about him, stripping off his clothes, I was choked up at the courage of this man.

"Without warning, he was knocked to the ground by a judo chop to the back of the neck, a rope looped around his ankles, thrown over the cross-bar, and his body was hoisted into the air feet first. Col. Kazuko picked the soldier who would have the honor of torturing McKenna to death, a stocky Imperial Marine who was being rewarded for extraordinary heroism in battle. Briskly, stoically, the Jap fixed his gleaming bayonet to the end of his rifle, simulated a few thrusts to warm up, then began slowly circling McKenna's naked dangling body, measuring him for the thrust of his wicked weapon.

"I watched McKenna's body, strung upside down like a carcass of beef, twist and writhe from the slashing torments of the Japanese bayonet. Ten minutes later, Mac's lifeless body, trailing blood and guts, was dragged off through the sticky New Guinea mud. 'Good show, eh Sarge?' Kazuko taunted as he leaned out of his chair and rapped me sharply across the back of the neck with his lacquered riding crop." Such scenes, it appears, were the rule rather than the exception. Kempei

Tai had done its work well.

More classic techniques were the fate of the handsome aide, Lt. Brown, to Col. Olsen, when singled out for "special treatment" when suspected of operating an illegal radio. In his own words, the lieutenant recalls that after a Japanese ultimatum, "Col. Olsen turned to me. 'Brown,' he said very quietly, 'they have given you the choice of being shot or spending 39 hours on your knees and 10 days standing at attention. As father to son, I say this to you: Tell them to shoot you.' "No,' I said, shouting, 'No! I'll knee!!'

As I was being led away to the guardhouse, I managed to hold my head high and my back ramrod-straight. Keeping a rigid grip on myself, I obeyed orders to strip and kneel down, my toes out straight behind me, a long bamboo pole behind my knees. In a few minutes the first agonizing pains told me what was ahead … "I believe I lived through those days only because I escaped into semidelirium soon after I knelt down. A Japanese "three-star" (non-com) stood nearby to kick me if I attempted any slight change in position. The physical scars still have, but much of the mental image has been wiped out. I remember vaguely that whenever a mess kit of rice was sent to me the Japanese would dump out all but a spoonful and load that with salt to make it inedible. For the first four days I was given no water. After that they allowed me two or three swallows a day. And I remember something of the immeasurable agony of the 'water treatment' inflicted by the 'three-star ,' who inserted a hose into my body and filled my abdomen until it nearly burst, then beat my inflated midsection with a heavy bamboo pole … I somehow got through both the 39 hours of kneeling and the 10 days at attention, where I held a bamboo pole 16 hours a day.

The Olsen-Brown relationship serves to point up one of the more invidious of the Kempei Tai techniques, the concept of "blood brothers." That was the Japanese name, but what it actually meant was "mass punishment." All prisoners were divided into groups of ten, and those ten were held responsible for one another. If one of them did anything wrong, all ten would be "strafed" - stripped and stood in line and slapped back and forth by the Nip guards. If one actually suc- ceeded in escaping, the remaining nine were shot.

The Ford-MacBain report on the three captured captains reveals an interesting variation on this system. If one of the ten seemed to become ill, the Kempei Tei "would play doctor, pretend to feel the pulse of the malaria victim, and then strafe him and make him stand in the pouring rain for two hours with nothing on. Sometimes they would get tired of slapping us, and try something new. A detail of thirty of us working in the rice paddies failed to satisfy the guards one afternoon, and they lined us up in pairs and ordered us to strafe each other. The Japs walked up and down the lines of naked men, and it one of us didn't slap the man opposite hard enough, the guard would pull the offender out of the line and club him with a

"A lot of the Jap soldiers were out-and-out degenerates: they were constantly making passes at our enlisted men, pinching them and flicking them as they walked by. They liked to order frequent 'shakedown' inspections, and they would laugh and point at us and make obscene gestures. They would keep us standing there stripped and tell us dirty jokes in broken English. A few Japs in camp actually tried to look like girls, wearing bright-colored shirts and walking with a mincing step and puckering their lips when they spoke.

Humiliation, as is by now obvious, was integral to Kemper Tai procedures, especially as applied to captives of high rank. It has been reported that "the higher an officer's rank, the harder and dirtier the work he was put to, such as cleaning out the latrines and washing the G-strings of the Japanese in the garrison. To avoid these onerous chores, escape tries were frequent, although 'attempting to escape' meant death — death preceded by 48 hours of torture. A man caught was stripped naked and tied hand and foot to a post just outside the fence. He was methodically beaten with clubs and rubber hose every two hours, the testicles being always included in the areas of the body beaten. He would be given no food or water. At the end of the 48 hours, all the prisoners in the camp were compelled to come out and witness the man digging his own grave and to see him shot. Then, all the men who lived in the barracks shared by the executed man were stripped and flogged."

This is but an extension of the "blood brother" concept, ruthlessly applied in the case of an attempted escape. There is the report of three American officers who were apprehended one night at a camp in the Philippines for attempting an es- cape: "The Japanese waited until morning and then stripped the Americans of all their clothing. The three men were then marched out into the Cabantuan road to a point which was in full view of the camp. Their hands were tied behind them, and they were pulled up by ropes to an overhead purchase so that they had to remain standing, but bent forward to ease the

Then began forty-eight hours of intermittent torture. The Japanese periodically beat the men with a heavy board. Any Filipino unlucky enough to pass along the road was forced to

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strike the men in the face with this club. If the Japanese did not think the Filipinos put enough force into their blows, the Filipinos themselves were beaten. Where the three men were standing, the earth was spattered with blood for several feet in all directions. Their half-conscious groans and cries were horrible to hear. At the end, they were battered beyond recognition , with the ear of one prisoner hanging down to his shoul-

Kempei Tai, not surprisingly, allowed for individual ingenuity , as attested to by this eyewitness report on the torture of one Cpl. Johnson, a scapegoat escapee: "'Take off your clothes,' he was ordered. Wordlessly, Johnson climbed out of his prison uniform and the paper sandals which the Japanese had issued to the men in exchange for their leather combat boots. At bayonet point the naked corporal was marched to a sentry post near the camp water pump. Masao, the commandant , filled two large buckets with water. Then he placed one in each of Johnson's hands.

"'Hold them high,' the commandant instructed. 'If you lower the pails or spill any water, this sentry here will shoot you.' He turned and walked away. The punishment began as dusk settled over Tokyo No. 3. It was a long night. Within a very short time the pails felt like giant hands that kept pulling his arms toward the ground. His muscles strained and the agony crept through his body inch by inch until he felt as if he were on fire. Shortly after dark the cold began to bother him. Japanese nights are chilly, and a refrigerated sea-breeze swept in from the ocean only a few hundred yards away. The icy breeze on his sweat-soaked skin made him tremble violently . His teeth chattered and his arms shook. He began to sob.

"The sentry watched him impassively. As the water in the buckets began to slosh dangerously near the rim of the pails, the Japanese guard cocked his rifle. The sharp click of the hammer being drawn back filled Johnson with a life-saving fury. Through sheer will-power he pulled himself together. "'Masao, you're a sonofabitch,' he whispered.

"After that he gritted his teeth and kept repeating the phrase like a litany. He was still saying it, over and over, when the orange sun came up out of the sea, and they came for him and took the buckets out of his numb and bloodless hands.

Another G.I. told of a particularly inventive technique heavy with homosexual overtones, to which he was subjected by two Nip non-coms he revealingly dubbed "Seargeant Ma- bel" and "Sadie the Sadist," aided by a third, "Doctor" Mat- sui, "I knew the Unholy Threesome meant business becuase Mabel's face was distorted by the twisted little nervous grin that always meant trouble, and Sadie had that wild look in his eye. The Japanese officer was all dressed up in his best uniform and his highly polished boots glittered in the dim light of the room, but even the high shine on his boots was over- shadowed by the brightness of the big Samurai sword that he carried unsheathed.

"Matsui stepped close to me. I stood at rigid attention, Japanese-style, my arms frozen tightly against my body, weaving a little bit because it's not as natural a position as the American posture of attention and it puts a strain on a man's muscles - especially when a man's standing on a pair of high, wooden clogs as I was doing.

"Matsui stuck the big naked Samurai sword between my legs, and then, slowly, gently, he started to flick it with his wrist so that the sharp edge of the blade beat a steady, easy tattoo at my naked crotch. I tried to lock him on with a steady stare but he wouldn't have any part of that. He was staring at my crotch, rapping at it like he was trying to flick away a fly. Then he started to bring the blade up a little harder, and I fought back an urge to flinch away. Mabel and Sadie were delighted at my discomfort, but happily for me, Matsui tired of the fly-flicking sport although I knew he was disappointed that I hadn't moved. I guess that the big beads of sweat on my forehead must have satisfied him that I was sufficiently shaken.

A British officer's first person report shows that the Kem-pei Tai refinements were not limited to American prisoners. They took me to my cell. Days went by I was not taken to the latrine and the cell was soon fouled with my own filth. I was fed only boiled sorghum and water. I began to suffer

"Two weeks passed. Then I was taken to Noguwaka's of- fice. There was a purple flower in the vase, Funny how you notice those things. Noguwaka was manicuring his beautifully kept nails, 'Are you ready to confess now?' he asked blandly. I shook my head. 'You have nothing against me. If you did you would confront me with it.

"From that moment my year of torture began. The tortures were large and small, prolonged and brief. Here are just a few of them: "Four men took turns questioning me, operating in four-hour relays of two men each. During these prolonged interrogations they made me stand in awkward positions, like with my feet spread wide apart and my nose against the wall. If I changed position even slightly I was given a blow with a pistol butt that made my head swim. If I collapsed I was kicked until struggled to my feet again. They seemed to have a fiendish knowledge when I was really collapsing or only feigning. The questions went on until I passed out, and were resumed the instant I regained consciousness. Sometimes they went on for as long as a week. The key words were 'Confess! Confess! Then you can sleep.' "A variation was not to question me at all, but merely to keep me from falling asleep. My two torturers would seat me in a chair and sit a couple of feet away, facing me and not saying a word. Sometimes they chewed raw onions or garlic, then leaned forward, breathing in my face. You have no idea how unbearable that treatment can become after a few hours. I fought to keep awake but inevitably my head would sag forward . Then I'd be aroused by a stinging blow across the mouth.

"Toward the end of this no-sleep treatment I couldn't stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time and my face was a swollen mass of flesh that pained like a toothache. When

Kempei Tai practitioners seemed especially vicious when given the opportunity to apply their arts on macho Australian soldiers and sailors. The unique results of thei efforts are documented in this report of the discovery of two dead Aussie G.I.'s: "One of these bodies was lying on the ground with his hands tied together in front of him, and his trousers pulled down around his knees, and tied down to his boots by his belt. He had the tops of his ears cut off and about twenty knife or bayonet wounds in his body. His hands were tied in front of his chest and his forearms were cut as though he had been trying to protect himself. His buttocks and genitals had been frightfully mutilated. About six feet away, the other body was tied to a tree, with his hands behind his back. "In the same area of the jungle two other soldiers had been tied to a sago palm facing inwards with their arms lashed around its trunk. Both had several bayonet wounds all over the buttocks and in the rectum. Another soldier, who had also been tied to a tree, appeared from his wounds to have been used as a bayonet training dummy.

This affidavit, by a Captain Kendall, continues, "On the track leading from Waga Waga to Lillini I saw the body of another Australian soldier with his hands tied behind his back, lying face downwards. He was tied with string. The top portion of his skull was lying forward as if it had been cut through with a heavy knife or sword and had been chopped from the rear. He also had lacerations criss-crossing his back and shoulders . They appeared to be knife or sword wounds, and had cut right through the shirt into his flesh.

Australians caught while trying to escape might have yearned for such a death, as in this report of four who were so unlucky. "The four Australians were brought out of the detention barracks. They were stripped naked and hung by their wrists from overhead poles. The guards took turns wielding the bushido, a short, deadly cat-o'-nine-tails that bit into the flesh and pulled away skin every time it struck. When all four men had passed out, they were ordered cut down. A hose was turned on. Dirty green water shot out of the nozzle at very high pressure. The powerful stream was set on the unconscious men full blast. Within seconds the icy shower had revived them, but the salt in the water, driven into their raw flesh, was almost overpoweringly agonizing."

Lt. Weynton, another Australian captive, was suspected by the Kempei Tai of having operated a radio set. In his own words, "I was immediately beaten about the head and shoulders with a riding whip. I was again asked the same questions and again denied all knowledge. The Kempei Tai then held

me down, tore my shirt off and burnt me underneath the arms with lighted cigarettes … Three days later I was again taken out for interrogation, beaten and burnt as previously. In addition they applied ju-jitsu holds to me, throwing me round the room and causing me great pain by twisting my arms, neck, legs and feet.

"On 28th August I was taken by the Kempei Tai to another building for interrogation and treated once more in the same way. Because of the denials I made I was further tortured with cigarette butts, tacks were put down my finger nails and hammered so that they entered the quick, and I was tied by the wrists to a beam and forced to kneel on the ground with my legs out behind me. A beam was placed over my ankles and two Kempei Tai officers see-sawed on the beam in such a way that the arch caused by the natural bending of the foot was subjected to extreme pressure. After about two and a half minutes of that torture I became unconscious and came to only after a bucket of water had been thrown over me. I was unable to walk for approximately four days.'

And then there is the woeful tale of a six-foot-three-inch Australian sailor named Harper, navigator of the cruiser Perth which had been sunk off Java, who suffered this punishment for attempting an escape — as told by his "mate": The guards grouped together for their usual conference which always reminded me of a football huddle. They sprang apart. We waited tensely. The interpreter bellowed: "'Harper!'

"Harper stepped forward the required six paces. The inter- preter screamed the punishment: forty-eight blows.

"Harper's ragged pants and shirt were stripped from him. He was ordered to face us and raise his arms above his head. The gaunt figure — he had wasted from 200 pounds to 130 — threw a gangling, grotesque shadow which stretched to our si- lent ranks. The guard in charge of Harper's cellblock stepped forward and took up a stance about three feet behind and a little to the left of Harper. Grabbing the shaft in both hands, he drew the club back and then, with a powerful, full-shouldered swing, brought the wood whistling through the air to land with sickening impact on Harper's kidneys. Harper had his legs spread wide, but the force of the blow was so staggering that we could see his body lurch slightly forward.

Again and again in that bright silence the guard, working himself into a fury, swung the club against Harper's naked back. We counted, as we always did, the blows. At twenty-three , the guard was spent. There was blood on the club now. He handed it to another and the beating went on without pause. Harper's shadow weaved slightly at our feet but his eyes were fixed on a point above our heads. He had not uttered a sound.

"Forty. Another guard, fresh and strong, took up the club. It seemed impossible that any human could stand under the fury of those last eight blows. The shaft literally screamed through the air. At each blow, Harper's great, wasted frame quivered and shook. Forty-eight. At a command from a guard, Harper lowered his arms and walked, unsteadily, back to his place in the line. As he turned, I could see the raw expanse of his back. The flesh hung in shreds. Harper was out on his feet.

But perhaps the Japanese-Russian animosity resulted in the most awful of the Kempei Tai excesses. One short document serves to illustrate the Nipponese attitude: "The mutilation of the bodies of Russian soldiers on Russian territory as early as 1938 during the Lake Hasan incident, was quite common . A young lieutenant was wounded and taken prisoner by the Japanese during an attack on the Russian lines one evening . On the following morning, after a successful Russian counter -attack, the young officer's body was found.

"Five stars had been carved on his back. A large star, with the hammer and sickle, was carved on his chest. Cartridges had been hammered into his eyes, the skull was fractured in many places, and both wrists and ankles had been smashed. His penis had been cut off and an anti-tank shell driven into his stom- ach. The soles of his feet were scorched, his fingernails torn off, his tongue cut out and his ears cut off. No detail of muti- lation had been omitted."

Still, perhaps, such torture was not entirely gratuitous, at least when one considers this story of the Russians' treatment of a group of Japanese prisoners: "All prisoners were marched to the center of the prison compound. There, tied to poles, were 17 Japanese soldiers. A cordon of Russian guards stood around them, holding large, savage police dogs.

"What happened next was incredible. The officer gave his instructions in Russian. The guards cut away the 17 prisoners' uniforms leaving them naked. Then several Russians from the camp kitchen approached the prisoners. Each man bore a kettle of steaming stew. The dogs, held tightly, were going wild. Gaunt and starved, the big animals were in a frenzy from the smell of the food.

"The Russians took ladles of the stew and gravy, and carefully smeared the food over the genitals of the Japanese pri- soners. Then the Russians stepped back.

'At a signal from the commandant the obviously starved dogs were released. At once the great brutes dashed forward, driven wild from the sight and smell of the stew. Never, never can one forget the screams and shrieks of the prisoners as the sharp teeth of those savage brutes began their grisly repast, Finally , the guards rushed in, beat the dogs senseless with clubs, then dragged them away. Only one prisoner died immediately.

World War II was great fun, but it was just one of those things.

STRIP-SHAVING THE RAW RECRUIT

* * *

By Jack Fritscher

A RECRUIT'S FIRST "HOUR" in the Marine Corps takes only 56 minutes. But to the recruit it seems a lifetime!

Arriving any time of the day or night at the San Diego Marine Corps Recruit Depot (or the counterpart at Parris Island, South Carolina) the would-be Marine instantly knows that he's here for

He's ordered to "FALL-IN" on the painted footprints oustide the receiving barracks. He listens to the no-nonsense receiving non-commissioned officer (NCO): "You're now standing in front of receiving barracks. Hundreds of thousands of young men have entered here, gone through recruit training, and come out Marines. You can, too! "While here you will be treated like men, in return, we expect instant obedi- ence to all orders and regulations. When a Marine fails to carry out orders, he is punished. You will be punished if you fail to carry out orders."

The recruit is reminded that he volunteered , that he took an oath "to serve honestly and faithfully." He then learns the basic position of attention and the fundamentals of the Uniform Code of Military Justice are explained to him. He learns the three most important responses he'll make during his eight weeks of recruit training: "SIR," "YES

SIR," and "NO SIR." This "welcoming" and orientation "talk" lasts precisely five minutes.

He is then double-timed into the barber shop for his "free" haircut.

Here, sullenness or aggressiveness disappear as quickly as his hair. In three minutes flat. "And when you feel the air hose on your head, you'd better be movined." ing out of that chair and there better be another recruit in that chair. Do you understand?" "YES, SIR!"

Shaven head shining, the recruit is then issued the essential health and hygiene gear that he'll use until he's allowed to go to the post exchange to buy toilet articles. All issued items except clothing are deducted from his first monthly paycheck of $90.60. It takes just eight minutes for the recruit to get this gear and inventory it.

During the next five minutes, the recruit loses any remaining vestiges of civilian life. He's stripped of civilian clothing, relieved of unauthorized personal effects, rushed through a shower.

Uniform issue and inventory takes all of five minutes. From the skin out, the recruit then dresses in Marine clothing. This takes him just 10 more minutes. The final 20 minutes consist of an indoctrination lecture and the completion of essential paperwork.

To laymen and recruit, it's amazing. A young man who only a day before took half an hour just combing his hair had been completely "cleared in" in 56 minutes. More important, the recruit had learned a Marine Corps lesson in "doing things quickly."

Before actual training begins, the recruit will get a complete dental and physical check-up and have a chance to send his "civies" and other unauthor-

The new recruit is assigned to a recruit platoon of approximately 80 men. Four platoons constitute a "series," and there are three or four series in a com- pany. A recruit battalion consists of three or four companies and there are three battalions in the San Diego Recruit Training Regiment (RTR) as there are at the Parris Island, South Carolina, Re-

Intensive physical training and instant obedience are the keynotes of recruit training. But the brain isn't ignored either. Each recruit is given a wallet- sized "Marine Notebook" crammed with facts and lore covering nearly every facet of life in the Marine corps. General conduct , regulations, history and traditions. military courtesy, close-order drill, the M- 14 rifle, the proper cutting of toenails – these are some of the subjects. It is not rare to see a recruit studying his "note- book" while standing, waiting in line. Formal classes in military history, cus- toms, and traditions are also on the re-cruits' schedules.

The eight weeks in RTR are divided into three basic elements.

Initial training at the Depot culminates in the fourth week with a stint of "mess and maintenance" duty (or KP).

The second phase fills the fifth and sixth weeks and consists of thorough training in marksmanship and weapon familiarization at the Edson range at nearby Camp Pendleton. At Pendleton, the crecruit becomes intimately familiar with the M-14 rifle. He also learns his second most important lesson: a Marine is first and last, a rifleman.

After the rifle range, the recruit begins his final phase — a return to "advanced" training back at the San Diego Depot, with the hope of graduating upon completing these last two frantic weeks.

To graduate more recruits, and conversely , to reduce training rejects, the San Diego Recruit Depot operates a Special Training Branch (STB). STB tries to salvage those recruits who for physical or mental reasons are "mar- ginal Marines" and can't keep pace. Rather than discharge them under less than honorable circumstances, they are assigned to one of five platoons which emphasizes girding up of the recruit's particular shortcoming.

"Mother's boys" who can't make the transition from civilian life are assigned to the Motivational platoon, "Softies" go into the Physical Conditioning platoon, Minor offenders against rules and regulations become members of the Correctional Custody platoon. Those who show hostility to the military environment are sent to the Evaluation platoon. And recruits who have become sick or have been injured and therefore can't keep up, are assigned to the Casual platoon to await reassignment when they recover. All five platoons in the STB stress "military identity" to help the recruit make rapid, individual progress so that he may return to the regular training platoon.

In perhaps the understatement of the age, the Marine Notebook advises the aspiring recruit: "The treatment you will receive here will be different to.'

Marine recruit training has the reputation of being the toughest "basic" training of all our military services. It is a reputation sustained in part by the fact that Marine Corps recruits are overwhelmingly volunteers and not "draftees," and by continued emphasis on physical fitness.

In addition to the familiar "conditioning" course (known in other places as a "confidence" course or "obstacle" course), the recruits also muscle through an endurance course, drill with legs, run the combat readiness testing in full field gear with weapons. They take physical drill under arms, pass the Com- mandant of the Marine Corps (CMC) Physical Readiness Test, and daily sweat through a relatively new type of Marine

physical exercise called the Circuit Training Course — a bodybuilder that combines isometric exercises and weight lifting. All of these are in addition to the routine muscle-toning, physical fitness training and testing, the hand-to-hand combat training, the bayonet drill, and the flailing away at each other with "pugil sticks."

Another big reason for the Marine reputation of ironclad recruit training is the fabled Drill Instructor (DI).

To the recruits, his DI is the most important man in the world. It is through his DI that a recruit begins the transformation from cavalier civilian to controlled Marine.

Recognizing the powerful influence of the DI, the Marine Corps selects NCO's for his assignment with infinite care. Among the criteria for this job are exceptional leadership ability and outstanding military experience. There are two schools for Drill

Instructors: one at Parris Island, South

Carolina, and the other at San Diego, California. The curriculum for DI's runs eight weeks, including two weeks devoted to the Marksmanship Instructors Course - for those who finish. But because of the exacting physical and mental demands laid on a DI for this unique leadership responsibility, nearly 12% are "reassigned" during the school and do not graduate.

If the raw recruit knew what was going on at the DI school, he'd probably feel that his lot wasn't so tough, after all. The NCO who trains to be a DI works harder and longer than the brand new Marine aspirant. The DI gets up earlier, and works later. His physical training is more rugged, more sustained. His expertise at close order drill must be more precisely demonstrated and his physical bearing and wearing of the uniform must be flawless .

The Marine Drill Instructor has a manifold responsibility. He must lead the young recruits by demonstrating mental, moral and physical strength. He must be patient and understanding. He must be firm, fair, and impartial, must demonstrate that rare ability to speak forcefully without profanity despite long and countless repetitions of command. ("Your OTHER left, clown," does more to encourage a recruit to think during drill than does swearing at him.)

The relationship that the Corps tries to encourage between the DI and the recruit is that of demanding teacher and hard working scholar — of stern father and willing son. It's a tough but making Marines assignment allows no room for irresolution.

And when he has finished his eight weeks basic, the recruit knows that because of it all, he is a better man. He's quicker, harder, stands straighter. He is no longer a recruit — he's a Marine. A new Marine, an inexperienced Marine, to be sure - but a Marine.

Killer McKenna was motionless except for the monster between his legs. Licking my lips, I watched it go soft. A dribble of cum formed on his dickhead and I wanted desperately to lick it off. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his ten inches of manhood. A moment later the angry red knob disappeared into his foreskin and the dribble fell to the carpet.

Of all the men I've met in my twenty-one years on the planet Earth I've never met a stud to compare to Killer McKenna. He was my fantasy come true. Now he moved toward me, his fat dick bouncing against his hairy leg. "1 gotta say … you've been a good boy and I've got a present for you!"

My heart jumped into my throat. Was Killer going to let me suck his dick. I wondered. "Ah … thank you … ah … sir!"

He whirled around, pointing to Victoria. She was lying naked on the exercise bench with a large glob of Killer's sperm dribbling out of her cunt. And what was Victoria doing? Chewing her inevitable piece of gum and reading The National Enquirer. "Go on." Killer spoke softly.

"Go on what, sir?" I asked, hungrily eyeing his uncut prick.

I was practically drooling. "What's with you?" He shook his head. "You never look in

"He shook his head, "You never look in my eyes. You're always staring at my fuckin' dick!" "I'm sorry, boss!" I mumbled as I looked into his bluegreen eyes, "I…ah…" "Georgie, would you like to suck out my gism from Vic

'Oh, could I, sir?" "It's all yours, Georgie Porgie!" He pulled at his dick and strutted over to the exercise bench, his hands on his hips. "Clean that cunt out good!"

I've never eaten cunt before but all I could think of was Killer's gism in her hot pussy. It was the greatest. Victoria wrapped her legs around my head as I eagerly licked her burning hot orifice. I gulped down Killer's cum along with her pussy juice. I moaned as I shot my third load into my sopping wet blue jeans. Then I looked up. She was still chewing gum and reading about some sex murder. Then she pulled on her clothes, grabbed her purse and left for Woolworth's. Now the ordered. The seven foot giant was still wearing his leather jock strap with the zipper down the front. "Shit, every time I turn around I get me a new slave. This one is going to have to work his butt off just to pay for his food!"

Yeah, my worst fears were confirmed on the spot. Killer had added the seven foot giant to his stable of slaves. I knew if Killer kept adding new slaves to his stable he wouldn't even remember my name. And after all I'd done for him.

I guess I didn't have to worry because Killer whirled around, a tape measure in his hand. "Your bicep, asshole!"

I quickly tensed my bicep and he measured it. He shook his

"I don't want to hear any fucking 'buts,' you cocksucker!"

He yelled. "I … ah … I think …" "And I don't want you thinking! I want you working out. All day long. Christ!" He scratched his balls in frustration. Your bicep was a goddamned eighteen inches last week!

It was only seventeen inches last week, sir, and … I never finished the sentence. The son of a bitch cold cocked me and the next second my head bounced off the plush carpet. For about five seconds I felt like I had two heads. "I…ah…bin workin' out hard…ah…ah"

He smashed his fist into the palm of his hand. "Shit! You ain't never gonna win that Mr. Bay Area Contest. You're a fuckin' joke. A joke! You hear me, asshole?"

"I'm going to win first place, sir!" He laughed sardonically. "You seen any of the body-builders entered this year? They make you look like a ninety-eight pound weakling. If they saw you on the beach, they'd kick sand in your face!"

"I'm going to win first place, sir!" "What a laugh." He moved toward the lobby. "Thunder

Cole is comin' over for a workout. He's got himself 21 inch arms and he's the favorite to win the Mr. Bay Area Contest." "His arms are only twenty inches." The words just popped out of my mouth. For a second I thought he was going to punch me out again but he didn't. A moment later he was gone.

For the next six hours I worked out like a demon, concentrating on my triceps, biceps, and my latisimus dorsi. When I finally sagged to an exercise bench I felt like a basket case. After my drinking a quart of orange juice to regain some energy, Rip Powell measured my bicep. "Eighteen and one-eighth inches," he announced.

A feeling of ennul engulfed my body. For the first time I had my doubts. How in hell was I going to win the Mr. Bay Area Contest? Was Killer right? Was I Kidding myself. I des- perately wanted a cigarette.

Suddenly the gym was quiet, almost motionless. All the weightlifters were staring hard at the young man who had entered with his tote bag. He was only six feet tall but he had a spectacular build that had champion written all over it. His magnificently muscled chest tapered down to an incredibly tiny waist. He smiled at all the attention and his teeth were perfect, extra white against his tanned face. I recognized Thunder Cole, the odds on favorite to win the Mr. Bay Area Contest. After a moment he moved toward the locker room with the grace of a panther. I could see that the son of a bitch had everything to win. He had the main ingredient: supreme confidence that he was the best looking stud in town.

My heart sank when I saw him in his gym shorts. I was hoping that his legs would be skinny but they were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. The son of a bitch looked perfect! Even his light brown hair had a deep gloss to it. Yeah, the kind of a guy where the sun followed him, even on a rainy day! It seemed like there was only one solution.

Kill the bastard!

It was about two hours later. I'd finished vacuuming the plush red rug and I was sick and tired of watching Thunder Cole work out and then stare at his gorgeous body in the mirror. Christ, he examined every part of his body except his asshole! I shoved my hand into my sweat pants to scratch my sweaty balls. I was looking away from Thunder, into the mirror, and I saw his eyes flick at my crotch. I whirled around, staring at him hard. Quickly his eyes darted to the lat machine, back at me and then away again. In that moment his supreme confidence seemed to desert him. It was almost as if the sun was not shining on him anymore. I wondered. Was the beautiful son of a bitch hot for my dick? I knew I had to find out. I played it cool, not saying a word to him but for the next hour I showed off, practicing my posing routine in the mirror, showing off my abdominal muscles and continually grabbing at my crotch.

It was ten minutes before closing time when Thunder Cole finally finished his workout and headed for the locker. The gym was deserted. I ordered Rip to lock the front doors. I had

I found him in the steam room. I sat directly across from him, my legs spread wide. The hot steam felt great on my cock and balls and I got a half hardon. I could see out of the corner at it. I gave it a slow jerk, pressing hard against the head. "You mother fucker!" I said. "You're actin' up on me, aint'cha, just because you ain't had no hot pussy since yesterday!"

He cleared his throat nervously. "Ah, are you talkin' to me?"

"I'm talkin' to this horny motherfucker between my legs.

It's got a mine of its own." "Oh, I see." He gulped.

I stared at Thunder hard, then my eyes went back to my dick. It was getting real hard. "Always lookin' for a hole to shove it in. Any fuckin' hole. In fact," I said, talking to my dick, "you don't give a shit if it's a hole or not. Remember that night I took a hot piece of liver and you fucked it? Wasn't too bad. Better'n nothin!'

Thunder's mouth was open. I could tell right off that he was a dummy. "Shit, the son of a bitch ain't gonna show up!"

He bit. "Who?"

"Some cocksucker. Don't know his name. He's bin wantin' to suck junior here for a long time and I'm finally in the mood for a good blow job."

Thunder Cole gulped and nervously shifted position, his mammouth muscles rippling. He was so good looking it took my breath away. He was a combination of Robert Redford and Clark Gable but with the body of a Steve Reeves. His grey-green eyes were staring at the ceiling of the steam room but slowly they lowered until they were focused on my hard prick. I caught him staring at me so he pulled his eyes away and bit down on his lip. His towel was draped over his massive legs but when he shifted position I could see he had a hard on. A clear ooze was dripping from the head.

That was enough of a signal. Arrogantly I stood up, the excitement grabbing at my guts. Just the thought of slamming my dick into his pretty Robert Redford mouth turned my body into a searing flame of desire. Now I towered over him, my legs spread wide, my prick in my hand. "Chow down!

For a second I thought he was going to run out of the steam room. His tongue moistened his pink lips nervously.

My lips distorted into a sneer, "They'll get in line for a blow job!"

And yet his eyes were glued to my stiff dick. "Shut up and suck!" Brutally I grabbed his ears and slammed my burning hot prick down his throat. He gagged and tried to pull away but it made me hotter than a pistol. I wrapped my forearms around his head and fucked his face with all my might. It was heaven! The ecstasy started in my toes … a moment later it puckered my asshole … boom . . boom … boom … I slammed it home hard, holding his head against my crotch hair and wow! My load jerked out of my swollen dick and slammed deep into his throat. I thought he was going to throw up all over the tile of the steam room.

There was a rush of cold air and Rip Powell, the golden boy of baseball, stood in the doorway, still with one golden ball

hanging out of his blue bikini. "God damn shit! I didn't know Thunder Cole was a cocksucker!"

'Not bad. Think I'll call him Fuckface. That's not bad.

Fuckface Cole, How in hell could anyone with a name like that win the Mr. Ray Area Contest?"

Rip grabbed at his blue bikini and a moment later his golden dick was waving in the steam. Thunder was still on his knees, his hands to his face. Suddenly he spit out the hot load I'd deposited in his mouth. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. "What the fuck you doin'?" I screamed. I grabbed his hair, slamming his face into the tile. "Who the fuck told you that you could spit out my load?" I yelled. "I don't like being rejected like that! Lick it up! Right now!"

I rubbed his handsome face hard against the warm tile. He was stubborn at first but finally his tongue began to lick at my still hot gism. "Eat that fuckin' cum!"

Wowie! What an ass! It won't quit!" Rip Powell gave Thunder's butt a hard whack and then his index finger disappeared into the pink hole. "Tighter'n that chicken I fucked back on the farm," he moaned. "I'll bet he's a fuckin' virgin." He pressed the dripping golden head of my spunk that before he knew it Rip's fat dick was in his ass. "What the fuck are …?"

Rip slammed his rod all the way up to the hilt. It was definitely a home run. Just the sight of Rip up Thunder's beautiful muscular ass made me horny as hell. It was also the sight of Thunder's tortured face. I grabbed his ears and jammed my dick down his hot throat for the second time. This time out Thunder didn't gag. I closed my eyes and relaxed, already for a nice slow blow job. When I felt my climax coming I'd pull out and push Thunder's head down to my balls and asshole. He got damned good with his tongue. My mind whirled. Maybe it was the combination of the sensuous steam and Thunder's voluptuous mouth. I dunno. Maybe it was watching Rip's golden dick slide in and out of Thunder's gorgeous butt. My mind whirred backward . Through the hot steam of the past. A hot summer on a twenty acre ranch near Gilroy, California. Dad had a job selling insurance so he put me on this ranch for the summer. It was run by Joe Amfield, who made me go to Mass every Sunday . I hated him for that. I was, let's see, not very old, and already smoking.

Then there was Manuel. I never did find out his last name but he was Portugese with thick black hair and brooding hazel eyes. His skin was almost black from the sun. He'd come to the ranch to break in a beautiful brown and white Palamino. Manuel was in superb physical condition and I helped him built a corral for the Palamino.

It was impossible to get to know Manuel. He was a silent man, a lonely man. He slept on a bedroll in the barn and I'd watch fascinated as he would roll a Bull Durham cigarette with one big, calloused hand. His tight blue jeans were filthy with horseshit and I could tell he didn't wear any shorts as I could see his big cock through the worn material.

It was late July and burning hot and muggy in the bunkhouse . I slipped out the back door, carefully closing the screen door. Stepping over the cow shit I went behind the barn. I had a stash of cigarettes under a brick. It was a dark night. The moon was hidden by sullen thick clouds. I'd just lit a cigarette when I heard the sound of crunching leaves. I quickly hid my cigarette. "I smoke tailor mades onct in awhile." The voice was deep moved closer. It was Manuel. He was naked except for a dirty towel wrapped around his waist. He sat down next to me and I offered him a cigarette. His shoulder brushed mine and I felt the wet hardness of the man. Evidently he'd been swimming

He didn't answer, just sat there, smoking his cigarette. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. I hadn't realized what a terrific body Manuel had even though he was as old as my father. I stared at the dirty towel around him. I wanted to reach over and grab his dick. He must've read my mind. "Go ahead, kid!"

He pulled the towel away. His thick dick was pointing at the sky. The clouds scuttled away from the moon and I gulped at the sight of his fat prong and the heavy halls that sagged between his legs. Clear liquid glistened on the big knob and a second later I had his dick in my mouth. He didn't move a muscle as he let me do all the work. I had a hall with Manuel as I licked his big balls and ate out his asshole. He moved only once, to reach for another cigarette. There was something about Manuel just sitting with his back to the barn, motion- less, that turned me on. I began to suck his dick wildly and still no movement. Then I could feel the head of his dick swelling. He jerked his cock out of my mouth and I felt the warm sperm splash against my face. Then his calloused hand rubbed it into my face. Without a word he picked me up in his brawny arms and carried me into the barn and threw me into the hay. He grabbed me again, placing me across his lap and he began to slap my ass. At first it was gentle but he had powerful hands. It hurt so much I began to cry. He kept on, slapping my ass harder and harder and suddenly the pain was gone and I could feel the gism boiling in my loins. I was on the verge of shooting my load when he shoved two fingers up my bunghole and I screamed in pleasure as I shot all over the hay. He held me close for a moment, staring down at me with the touch of a smile on his face.

He pushed me off his lap. "Go to bed, kid!" He got up and moved to his bedroll. "Tomorrow night, same time!"

It went on and on like that through July, August, and the beginning of September. But after that first time Manuel never said a word. One night he used his belt on me and I guess he got carried away and when he'd finished there was blood on my ass. He spent an hour just kissing my butt. It felt great and

It was time to leave the ranch. Dad quit his job as an insurance salesman and was going to pick me up on the following day. Again we were moving, this time to Los Gatos where I'd enroll in the local high school. That final day at the ranch Manuel had broken the Palomino. He had visitors from Eureka. Three Portugese buddies. All of them were cowboys and they had the same athletic build as Manuel, a build that is stocky and muscular. Dark, sunburnt faces with shining white teeth and curly black hair. And one of them had a gold tooth in front.

I'd packed my bag and looked for Manuel. I wanted to say goodbye. Evidently he'd gone into town with his buddles. Somehow I felt deserted, alone. Even though Manuel hardly ever said a word just being around him gave me a good feeling. I went behind the barn and lit my last cigarette. The moon, three quarters full, lit the long distance to the corral. I could see a touch of a movement. The Palamino was restless. I wondered if he missed Manuel too, if he were lonely.

It seemed like the hot summer would never end. I was stripped to the waist. Suddenly I felt a slight stirring and then the abrasive feel of rope against my naked body. The rope tightened until it was digging into my flesh. I started to yell but then I saw the dark shadow moving toward me. Rough hands grabbed me and I was on the ground, helpless. Manuel stood over me, holding the other end of the rope. It was the first time I'd ever seen him smile. Dim shadows behind him. I

They were lifting me up. I closed my eyes, fighting back the tears as the rope burned into my flesh. The acrid smell of cow shit. The dull thud of a slammed door. We were in the barn. Opening my eyes, A dim forty-watt naked light bulb barely touching the shadows. I felt the fear grab at my stomach as the four men stripped silently. What were they going to do to me? My eyes riveted on Manuel as he tiptoed to the corner of the barn where branding irons were stacked against the wall. His hand shot forward. I must've screamed because the next moment my head slammed back and Manuel's face was an inch away from mine. I could smell the garlic on his breath. His blazing eves pierced into my soul. His lips moved and the spit shot out of his mouth, splatting against my face. I stopped hollering.

Manuel sat on a bale of hay, motioning to his naked buddies . Now they surrounded me. Then one of them stepped forward and the fire was gone from behind my eyes and I could see clearly for the first time. My terror disappeared into the stagnant air of the smelly barn. He was better looking than Manuel. At least ten years younger. Thick, black eyebrows and a lantern law that jutted forward arrogantly. His chest was matted with hair. His thick hair was let black and kinky. With one hand he lifted me up and his buddy quickly grabbed two wooden horses and placed them a foot apart. The lantern-

DRUMMER 24

jawed young Portugese threw me over them. My nose was half an inch away from a huge blob of cow shit, a fresh pie. Now the young cowboy grabbed me by the hair. His smelly dick pressed against my cheek. Just as he found my mouth and slammed his slab of meat down my throat, I felt the hand pressing brutally at my tender asshole.

The cowboy fucking my face was like a jackrabbit. Five seconds, maybe less and he jetted his creamy load down my throat. He let go of my head and slam … bam … my face plopped smack into the middle of the cow shit. Then I screamed bloody murder as I felt the hand jamming deep into my tender asshole. "Cut it out, you motherfucker. Cut it … out!"

The sock was filthy and I almost choked as Manuel shoved it in my mouth. I almost threw up but I knew there was no place for the vomit to go. I began to cry. First one finger up my bunghole … two … three … why didn't the mother-fucker at least use some spit or axle grease? FOUR FINGERS … my God … my head whirled crazily from the fire burning up my ass … then another world … a world of flame and reds and crazy oranges and then a multi-colored whirlpool and I was falling into infinity … deeper … deeper … forever … falling … falling …

Before I hit bottom, Manuel slapped me. I was staring into his face. He'd untied me from the wooden horse, but I could feel the pressure on my asshole. But the terribie pain was gone and my body was filled with a kind of bliss I'd never felt before . Glancing over my shoulder I couldn't believe my eyes. The lantern-jawed Portugese cowboy had his arm up my ass, all the way to the elbow! Manuel held me tightly against his chest. Rough hair, almost like a Brillo pad. Manuel kissed me. Gently. Tenderly. His hand touched my dick. A moment later his lips pressed against the mushroom head of my dick. I screamed as I shot off in buckets of gism, most of it splatting against Manuel's face. With my cum dribbling down his face he pressed close, rubbing the wetness into my face. Then I felt a whoosh. I was sure my guts had fallen to the floor of the barn. A rush of cold air. The Portugese cowboy had pulled his hand out of my tender ass. Then Manuel carried me into the bunkhouse and put me to bed, tucking me in. Without a word he turned on his heel and left, as silent as ever. I never saw him again. The next day Dad picked me up and the ranch became another memory.

Memories … memories … ah, the past … but this wasn't the past. It was now. In the steam room. The golden boy of baseball had Thunder Cole on the floor and was tucking him in the ass. Dog fashion, I could see the glazed look on Rip's face. He was about to shoot off. I kissed him, jamming my tongue down his throat just as his body began to jerk spas- modically. Thunder Cole had changed his tune. "Fuck my dirty ass, fuck it!" he was begging. Jam it all the way in, all the way in!"

Then Rip pulled his dick out of Thunder, grabbed his bikini, and headed for the door.

"Hang around, Rip," I ordered. Thunder tried to stand up, but I kicked him. Shoving his head down to the hot tile I used my left hand to probe his bunghole. "Was gonna use some grease but don't need any. Sloppy as hel!!"

Two, three, four fingers and then my thumb. A quick, hard shove and up to my knuckles. Thunder began to thrash around but Rip's arm shot out. A hammerlock on the leading contender for the Mr. Bay Area Contest. My arm was up his bunghole . To the wrist. To the elbow. It was almost too much. Here I was with my arm up the sexiest ass in the Bay Area. I couldn't help it. I shot my load all over the hot tile of the steam room.

"Shit, Georgie, why in hel! did you waste it?" There was a hurt look on Rip Powell's face. Quickly he got down on his knees and slurped at the last gob of gism that dribbled from my dick.

Suddenly the swish of the door. Cold air and my master, Killer McKenna. In his inevitable sweatpants. "What the fuck!" he growled and I bounced off the tiled wall and fell in a heap on the floor of the steam room. Thunder Cole jumped to his feet, his face beet red, and was out of the steam room in a flash.

I'd never seen Killer so mad before. "Georgie, I ain't puttin' up with your shit no more. This is it! Pack your bags and get the fuck outa here! You're fired!"

I couldn't believe my ears. Anyway, how in hell can you fire a slave? You'd think he'd at least sell me or something. 'But, sir, 1 … ah …

"You heard me, asshole!" He roared. He stormed out of the steam room.

I was right behind him. I knew I had to speak up. "But, Boss, I was just developing the bicep of my left arm. You don't know. It's a quarter of an inch smaller than my right one!"

That stopped him. He whirled around. His eyes were devilish. "That's the lousiest excuse I ever heard!"

"It's the truth, sir!" I lied in my teeth. "Georgie, I don't need you no more."

"What?" I was so flabbergasted I didn't even say 'sir.' "

Then I heard the most sadistic laugh I'd ever heard in my life. It sent chills coursing down my back. "I got Thunder Cole!" "Hugh?" My mouth fell open.

"You some kind of a retard, kid?" He was grinning from ear to ear. He looked like a happy kid who'd just won the football MVP award. "Thunder Cole is gonna represent the

Killer McKenna Gym in the Mr. Bay Area Contest.

It richoceted against my head like a sledge hammer. Wow! The son of a bitchin' doublecrosser. Yeah, that was why Thunder was here today. Killer had been doing some extra curricular activity. Yeah, he'd probably cornholed Thunder and made him his slave for life. He'd gone out and recruited the Number One Asshole. The top contender for the title. And yet I still couldn't believe that Killer could do this to me. bent double laughing.

"But you promised. You did!" "Promised what, asshole?

. that if I won the Mr. Bay Area title … you "That . know what I'm talking about."

The son of a bitch couldn't stop laughing. I thought he was going to collapse to the floor. He grabbed his crotch with both hands. I tried desperately not to look but I couldn't help myself . My eyes rivited on his monster basket. The ten inches he was clutching in both hands. Dear God, would I ever be free of

Killer McKenna and his ten inches of uncut dick? "Killer always keeps his promises." His face was suddenly solemn, almost enigmatic as he moved toward me. Slowly he undid the strings of his sweatpants and let them fall to the floor. My heart almost stopped beating as I ate up his all-male body with my hungry eyes. His fat dick began to grow. I wanted to fall to my knees and worship the big monster, love it for all eternity. Now his deep voice was a bare whisper. "Win the title and you get a night with this!" He waved it at me. "But … if you're not sponsoring me how can I enter?" I asked. "I got you entered without an affiliation with the Killer McKenna Gym." "You ashamed of me?" I was on the verge of tears. "Look, kid, what can I say? Thunder Cole wants my dick up his ass as bad as you do."

"But, sir, the gym here … it's my only home. I . . gone.

I felt hot and sticky as I turned the shower on full blast. I soaped my body vigorously but after a moment my hand grabbed my dick. Despite myself I couldn't help but have the image of Killer in my head. Killer and me alone for a whole night. A wonderful fantastic night. The right night. The night after I'd been crowned Mr. Bay Area. I began to moan softly as I jerked at my dick crazily. Yeah, Killer McKenna had my legs up in the air and was jamming his huge ten inch monster up my bunghole. I shot all over the shower wall. Whew!

TO BE CONTINUED

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STATIONS a love poem in symbols

Preface

The following stanzas are stations. It is your duty to read them. Listen to them good and hard. They are symbols, they are commands.

Nothing that follows must be analysed or complicated. You have no right to search for "mysterious" meanings in it. Something may be revealed to you, but you must not pretend you have found the meaning. Simply read what is

A WARNING FROM OSCAR:

"All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril."

— from Preface to Dorian Gray

I. BOOTCAMP

"The Marines are looking for a few good men." — U.S.M.C. recruiting slogan

I must've been eight or nine when, like a fated day in Bethlehem, I went to the movies and saw Marlon Brando in Leather

(the old Yale theatre in my home town used to show those classics before it was popular to do so. I saw "The Wild Ones" sometime in the late fifties on the screen)

And James Dean. "O Saving Victum open wide!" A generation by Messiah Magic dreamt of that black skin, that deadly skin, that cornered animal engine, that warm, thick grease.

II. HAIRCUT

All things followed in religious procession after that; What the jockstraps and the sneakers held. what the jockstraps and the sheakers held. The I-shirts and the jeans. What powerful legs burst into sweating, heavy crotches from roots of Hiking boots. And sailors' easy, horney dreams. All things tight and bulging,

All things ugit and obriging, the deadly afternoon kiss of tabernacles … Cowboys screw their partners on the sunset, coffee-lit plains, and sailors give handjobs to marines.

"Wait till you see the wang I got down my o

III. BUYING YOUR FIRST LIGHTER AT THE PX Moose Wang They called the dumb, hard muscled blond farmboy — Moose Wang

The way it hung there, sort of thrust out, then down, when he sat in the sauna at the gym, was enough of a reason to call him that.

Ritual is Innocence.

All young boys like clothes that show them off —— that new chest, that hot thing between their legs that at twelve or thirteen starts causing their eyes to go blank with pleasure when alone\nin their Holy rooms. The genius

IV. CAUGHT WITH YOUR CRANK IN YOUR HAND BY THE D.I.

"And it's you my love, you who are the Stranger … "

Leonard Cohen

Oceans pound in and up through stone —

Slam! — the question Slam! — the answer Slam! — the hardon Slam! — the oblivion

Fists then, and heavy, hairy arms.

Tonight the sea turns and groans like a horney marine in his rack.

I can see the white spew up. I hear the hard slam — and the sigh. and the sign.

All things have their turn heaving high like straining hips. The sea, well greased, leather and sweating, as any Prometheus chained to those California cliffs, the balls are gently licked, savoring the smell and slams the ocean arm. I see the white spray after the thunder, burst up between the rocks. Dark old passions such as these.

V. MAKING THEM CRAWL THROUGH THE MUD "And I'm gonna shove that knife right down yo' throat …" Mick Jagger

This right here! Eat it all up baby, that's right, chew on it, baby … chew on that big ole root baby.

Open that ass up, baby, real wide, motherfucker, amaze me motherfucka, amaze me, right . . up … to the … el

As Palm strewn Sundays lead to betrayal, and we learn to hate what we become, I found myself at The Eagle.

"If you're man enough to take it." Intensiev excited over the crucifixion of Marlon Brando. Marines handcuffed. Sailors tied. J ocks bound up. My own insides pricked and burned by toys I could never understand. Tearing the veil only increases its number — two veils instead of one.

Farther and deeper is what I think

Baudelaire

Underneath a werewolf druidic moon on cliffs like Egyptian monuments and by the sea (which is all pounding inside of me, pressurized) (finally sank down into the sand beneath you. Above me, (what is the secret thing of top and bottom?) Your frame, tall and bone, nothing on it but flesh and

(that is your mystery), Your hand fed a ten inch dreamt of hunk of flesh down my throat.

Your balls, big and heavy, swinging low, smacked against my jaw with no harm, except in their intention.

Who wouldn't succomb to that sweet delicate urine and cum and salt fermented inside your secret jeans, your fatal thighs? All smells combined and slight and teasing darker, wooden root-like desires, Your crank glistening as any chrome bar with each successive layer of spit white each successive layer or spir any mouth, in adoration, vested and slickened your cock in it. And when you placed your hand firmly against my jaw, and slipped your hard thumb into the corner of my mouth, the Snow Quee the Snow Queen Int me! I went dizzy, and fired off a gift\nprecious and asesome as jeweled Russian eggs, landing and dripping against the small of your long, high back… "And he's climbing a stairway to heaven." VII. DRILL become mere nonsense, groans and grunts and roars. Cruelty expected, and demanded, — the wild animal

Cruelty expected, and demanded, — the with animal is cornered hot and heavy up against a wall, drunk and angry, smashing a beer bottle against the brick, the fist-fucking arm thrusts out a dagger of broken glass, "Alright

"Naked I wait They love's uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knees; I am defenseless utterly.

I am defenseless utterry. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers… In the rash lustihead of my young powers… I the moson, written 1890-1892 by Francis Thompson, written 1890-1892 The Priest is vested at his altar. Back in a neolithic nightfall, the hairy ape wraps himself in a Bison skin and leans hefore a hise and leaps before the fire. My fist, now smashed against the cliff you are caught in. And how you will long after that red stripe down my leg. When the rock is shattered, then I will fall down on you in the dust, grains of sand will mised with the sait of my kirr.

I will fall down on you in the dust, grains of sand will mingle with the spit of my kiss, your muscles will be vindicated, only to begin again. But now my grunts and cries are golden in their violence and frustration, for

William Sufleski

An All-Talking All-Fucking Shooting Script by David Hurles and Jack Fritscher

Who did you do in the war, Daddy?"

INTERIOR: NIGHT. WARDROOM OF USMC BARRACKS. CORPORAL POWELL, 22, powerfully built and hung, lies stretched back in a bunk, his booted feet spread wide, his USMC fatigues dropped down around his calves. He jerks his cock in CLOSE-UP as the scene opens. At the SOUND OF KNOCK- ING, CORPORAL POWELL is joined by CAPTAIN O'MALLEY, his superior of- ficer. CAPTAIN O'MALLEY is 32, handsome, husky, muscled, and very well hung. O'MALLEY is a Marine career man who knows exactly what he wants and more exactly how to get it. POWELL: (SOFTLY, JERKING HIM- SELF) Ahhh, sucking those guys off today . Jesus. In the fucking john. Ahhh. I been thinking about Weiser for a long time, man, uhhohh, fucking goddam, ohh. (LOUD KNOCK AT DOOR) Who is it?

O'MALLEY: Captain O'Malley. P: (TO HIMSELF) Captain! Oh god, the Captain! (OUT LOUD) Just a second. (MORE LOUD KNOCKING) Yessir!

O: What's going on in there, Corporal? (POWELL OPENS DOOR)

O: Why do you have the door closed when the barracks is empty? P: I don't know, Sir. I usually just close the door, Sir.

O: At ease, Corporal. P: Thank you, Sir. O: Have a seat.

P: Thank you, Sir. O: Corporal Powell, are you surprised

P: Yessir. You're not usually here at night, Sir.

O: I came to talk to you about something I received in my office today. P: Yessir.

O: I have a report on you from the Colonel.

P: Sir?

(LONG PAUSE AS CAPTAIN O' MALLEY CIRCLES AROUND COR-

PORAL POWELL)

O: The report says that you've been hanging out in the latrine. You hear me? HANGING OUT IN THE LATRINE, CORPORAL! CORPORAL POWELL …

O: And sucking cock in the latrine

O: That's what the report says, Corporal . (PAUSE) Is it true?

P: Uhhh.

O: Corporal Powell, speak to me when I talk to you. I'm your Captain.

P: Yessir. O: Captain.

P: Yessir, Captain, Sir. O: Are you a cocksucker? (LONG PAUSE)

P: Uhhh, nossir, I ahhhh, I've sucked a few, Sir, but … I'm not …

O: You're not a faggot?

P: Nossir, nossir. O: That's good news. But I'm a little disturbed about the report. The Colonel wants me to report back to him on this. So that's why I came to see you.

P: Sir, I don't want to get kicked out of the Marine Corps, Sir. I love the Marine Corps, Sir, and the Honor Guard …

O: You'd better love the Marine

O: But you're a cocksucker. You been

O: You suck only Marine cock?

P: Yessir.

(CAPTAIN O'MALLEY STUDIES CORPORAL POWELL UP AND DOWN)

O: I think I'll keep this report locked in my desk and not to pass it back to the Colonel. You understand, Corporal Powell?

P: YESSIR.

O: I expect to get something out of this.

P: Yessir.

O: I expect to get something out of this. Do you read me, Corporal?

P: Not exactly, Sir.

O: I want you to suck my cock.

P: Your cock, Sir?

O: MY COCK. The Captain's cock. You see that thing hanging down in the pants?

P: Yessir.

O: The pantsleg? P: Yessir.

O: You see that big fucking cock through there?

P: Yes, Captain. O: You think you can suck that big piece of meat?

P: Yes, yessir.

O: You better check it out. You better take it out of my pants. You better take a good look at it. (COR-PORAL POWELL KNEELS AND UNBUTTONS CAPTAIN O'MALLEY'S

O: Captain's Marine cock?

P: YESSIR!

O: Alright, Corporal. Wrap your lips around the head of that big dick.

P: Yessir.

O: See what you can do. (POWELL MAKES SUCKING AND MOANING SOUNDS.) Suck that thing right. Get down on it and swallow that thing. Swallow that the swallow that the cock-captain o'Malley Slaps Cor-PORAL POWELL.) EAT IT!

P: YESSIR!

O: Captain wants a good blowjob … The captain wants a good blowlob, you fuckin' … Corporal Cocksucker, suck that big prick. Suck that big prick, Corporal . Corporal Powell, suck it. Uhmmm. P: (CHOKING SOUNDS)

O: The Captain likes the Corporal's mouth wrapped around his big prick. You hear that?

P: Yessir!

O: Captain O'Malley likes that big cock going in your mouth, sucking me off. Yeah, suck that big cock, Corporal. Come on, Corporal Powell. Come on, Corporal Powell, suck that big fuckin' Marine cock that big fuckin' Marine cock. cock, that big fuckin' Marine cock, slidin' up and in your mouth. (POWELL SUCKS HARDER.) Yes, you like that don't you? (CAPTAIN O'MALLEY SLAPS CORPORAL POWELL.) Speak when I talk to you.

P: YESSIR!

O: Alright, suck. Big fuckin' Marine cock. You got yourself a big fuckin' Marine cock now. No little … You got yourself a man's cock. Yeah. Ahhhnn. The Captain's gettin' hot. The Captain's gettin' hot. Ummm. The Captain's gettin' fuckin' hot. (AGGRESSIVE FACE-FUCKING) The Captain's goin' to shoot a big load of come in your mouth, Cor- poral Powell. YOU HEAR ME?

P: (CHOKING SOUNDS)

O: YOU WANT A BIG LOAD OF COME? The Captain's come?

P: YESSIR .

O: TALK TO ME. Want a big load of a fucking good cocksucker. Uhmmm, the Captain's getting hotter. The Captain's getting hotter. The Captain's getting real hot. Ohhh, the Captain's going to shoot a big load. Ohhh, OHHHHH. OHGAWDD. TAKE THAT COME, CORPORAL. TAKE THAT COME, CORPORAL. TAKE THAT COME, CORPORAL. TAKE THAT COME AND SWALLOW IT. Swallow that come, Corporal. Come on, Corporal Powell. Swallow it. Drain it all out of there. Drain that come out of the Captain's cock. Drain all that come out of the Captain's big cock. P: (MOANS, CHOKES, SWALLOWS) O: You like that come???

P: Ummmmm. (VERY LOW TO HIM-SELF ) His toy's as big as Weiser's. O: Speak up. I can't hear you.

P: Yessir. I was just remarking, Sir, on the hugeness of it. How it choked me. It's so much bigger than any other cock I've had.

O: The Captain's cock is big?

P: Yessir.

O: You say the Captain's hung?

P: Jesus.

O: Corporal Powell?

P: Yessir.

O: Speak up when I talk to you. P: It's like a fuckin' donkey, Sir. O: The Captain's got a donkey dick?

P: Just hanging down, Sir. (COME DRIPS A LONG WEB OF O'MALLEY'S JUICE INTO THE CLOSE-UP OF POWELL'S FACE) Jesus. Oh, shit.

O: Lick the end of it. Where the come (O'MALLEY GUIDES POWELL'S HEAD BY FORCE) Right there.

P: Yessir.

O: Get it all out. Okay, that's enough. The Captain is satisfied. For the moment.

P: Yessir.

O: (BUTTONING HIS UNIFORM) Okay, we're going to have a little deal, Corporal Powell.

P: Sir, a deal?

O: A deal. From now on you're going to stay out of the latrine. You understand ?

P: Yessir.

O: And from now on you're going to suck my cock. Exclusively.

P: (SLOW, WITH FEELING). Yessir. O: My cock, and nobody else's cock. Just my cock. Do you understand, Corporal ?

P' Yessir!

O: When I call you, I want you available to suck my big fucking donkey dick. P: Yessir.

O: You understand? To chow down on my dick. P: Yessir, Captain.

O: You be out of line one time, that report comes out of my desk and goes to the Colonel. Understand?

P: Yessir. Captain, 1 …

O: WHAT?

P: Can I still be in the Honor Guard, Sir?

O: You can be in the Honor Guard as long as you keep sucking my fucking dick. You understand that, Corporal Powell?

P: Yessir.

O: As long as your mouth works, you're in the Honor Guard. As long as your mouth sucks me exclusively, you stay in the Marine Corps.

P: Yessir.

O: Okay, I'm leaving now, P: Sir?

O: What? P: Will you stay for a few minutes? Will you lie down with me, Sir. (VERY LOW) Will Captain O'Malley lie down with Corporal Powell, Sir?

O: Lie down with? You want the

Captain to lie down with you? P: Yessir. (PAUSE) Please Sir, lie down with me, Sir.

O: Take my boots off.

P: Yessir … O: You know the Captain … used to have . . another corporal … Corporal Schmidt, you remember Corporal Schmidt? . . the Corporal you replaced?

O: He was a very big fucker. You know what the Corporal used to do for the Captain? (O'MALLEY AND POWELL LIE DOWN TOGETHER.)

P: What, Sir?

P: Your big … Jesus! O: Before you were stationed here.

P: I never would've suspected, Sir. That guy Schmidt was huge. He was almost built as you, Sir.

O: How big is your chest, Corporal?

P: Forty-seven, forty-eight.

P: Yessir.

O: He was exactly 51 inches.

P: Sir, he was huge.

O: He had big big pecs. Yeah, he had nice tits, too. (O'MALLEY STROKES POWELL'S PECS) But you got nicer tits.

O: You've got nice nipples. The Captain's going to play with your nipples. I'm gettin' hard just thinking about Corporal Schmidt: how I used to play with his chest, how he used to suck my cock. I want you to suck my cock again, Corporal Powell.

P: Yessir.

O: You want it?

P: Yessir.

O: Get on it. Come on. Suck it again.

(POWELL GOES DOWN OBEDIENTLY ON O'MALLEY) I think the Captain will come again. Suck me good. Suck me good. Come on! Corporal Powell, suck me good. Suck me good and hard. Suck that big donkey dick. You like that big donkey dick? P: (WITH HIS MOUTH FULL) YES-

SIR!

O: OK. Suck it, I'm going to play with your tits. Captain O'Malley is going to play with your tits. Umm, nice, nice tits, nice nipples on that big chest, (PO-WELL SUCKS AND GROANS FROM HEAVY TIT WORK) Nice big nipples. Yeah, nice big nipples. Suck my balls. Lick my balls.

P: Yessir.

O: Take those balls in your mouth. Take those balls. Yeah. Suck those big hairy balls. Big, hanging, hairy balls. Come on, Corporal Powell, suck those big hairy balls. Ummm, scab your tits … Lick those balls, Corporal. Lick those balls. Lick those fuckin' balls. You like these tits being played with?

P: Oww, gawd, yeahhh … Jesus, I never knew that. Fuckin' cock …

O: Hey, c'mon get down on that big dick, get on that dick. I'm gettin' hot again. The Captain's gettin' hot. The Captain wants to shoot another load in your mouth … shoot another load in your fuckin' mouth, Corporal Powell. C'mon, suck that big prick. Suck that fuckin' big prick, Corporal. Suck the Captain's big prick. Ummm. You like that

P: Ohhh … (SOUNDS OF CHOK-

ING)

O: The Captain's gettin' hot again … The Captain's gettin' hot again . C'mon, suck it, Corporal. Suck that big dick (TRAILING OFF) … P: UHNNNNN, UNNNNN (CHOK-

ING).

O: Get that fuckin' cock, ohh the Captain's gettin' hot. Ahhh, GODDAM-MMM. (COME SHOT: HEAVY LOAD FROM CAPTAIN O'MALLEY SHOUTS OVER CORPORAL POWELL'S ALL FACE.) Corporal Powell. P: Yessir.

O: Captain O'Malley thinks you're getting better each time. (O'MALLEY STARTS TO REGAIN HIS COMPO-SURE .) Corporal Powell?

P: Yessir.

O: Do you remember that Corporal Schmidt I was talking about?

P: Yessir.

O: Corporal Schmidt got promoted. P: Yessir.

O: Because Captain O'Malley promoted him.

P: Why, Sir?

O: Because he was a good cocksucker. He was a good Marine, But he was also a good cocksucker.

P: Sir. O: Now, you goin' to continue to suck my cock good?

P: Yessir.

O: A good Marine. A good cocksucker. P: Where did Corporal Schmidt go,

O: Corproal Schmidt was put in charge of Olympic bodybuilding for the Marine

Corps in Washington.

P: What a plum job, Sir. O: Corporal Schmidt got what he de- served, Corporal Powell.

P: I been working out for a long time, Sir, just trying to get into that program.

O: You got a long fuckin' way to go before you measure up to Corporal

Schmidt.

P: Yessir. O: Remember, I told you Corporal Schmidt had a chest fifty-one inches wide.

P: I met him, Sir. I couldn't speak when I first met him. That blond giant.

O: He was a good cocksucker.

P: Just lookin' at him … Q: You know what happened?

P: What, Sir?

O: I found out that Corporal Schmidt was suckin' the bodybuilders off. And Corporal Schmidt was not supposed to be fucking with the other Marine bodybuilders .

P: Yessir.

O: He was supposed to suck what? P: THE CAPTAIN'S COCK, SIR.

O: The Captain's cock.

P: Yessir.

O: He was cheating on the Captain. P: Yessir, He shouldn't have done that,

Sir. O: Your're so fuckin' right. And Cor-

P: How, Sir?

O: The Captain got pissed. And, you know, Corporal Schmidt had a very nice butt

P: (LOW) Yessir…

O: You know what the Captain did with the Corporal's but?

P: (CLOSE SHOT: FEAR ON CORPORAL POWELL'S FACE)

O: I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, CORPORAL POWELL.

P- Learly imagine. Sit

P: I can't imagine, Sir.

O: Corporal Schmidt started taking the Captain's big donkey dick up his butt-hole

P: Oh, Jesus! That'd kill him, Sir.

O: It didn't kill him.

P: … a big man . . O: He learned to love it. Corporal Schmidt got so that he had to have the

O: Constantly, Had to have the Cap- tain's dick up his ass.

P: I never would have thought, Sir . . O: You'd be surprised how wide open your butthole can become after the Captain's cock gets up in it a couple times. You know what that Corporal

P: What. Sir?

O: When his fiancee came to the base on her vacation . .

P: What'd he do, Sir?

O: He was enjoying the Captain corn-holing him so much, that he sent that fuckin' girlfriend of his back to Des Moines, and came directly to the Captain, so the Captain could fuck him again. And that night I fucked his butthole, four fuckin' times. I rammed this big donkey dick up his butthole four fuckin' times that day when he sent his girlfriend back to Des Moines, Iowa …

P: Gawd, Sir.

O: . . because Corporal Schmidt

loved the Captain's cock.

P: I can't imagine a big fuckin' man like that bending over. God, that's sicken-

O: Sickening, Corporal Powell?

P: Oh, man, that's a faggot. O: (PISSED) The Captain…Look… A lot of Marines here on the base are gettin' cornholed by their buddies. But when you can have a Captain put it to you, and you know how big this Captain's fucking cock is. It's for the Corps. For the fuckin' Marine Corps. Just look at the fuckin' rod. One more look.

P: That fuckin' big rod. O: You know … P: Fuckin' big dick, Sir.

O: You know, the bigger the cock, the easier it is to take it up your butthole. You know that?

P: Man, it would split it. You mean it didn't split him, Sir?

O: It did split him.

P: He opened wide open for the Captain , Sir?

O: The first time he bled. A little. P: God, I can't even imagine some- thing like that.

O: The second time, and the third time, and the sixth time, there was never a problem. Corporal Schmidt loved it. Corporal Schmidt loved gettin' fucked by Captain O'Malley. And you know what the Captain wants to do to you?

P: Nossir.

O: You wanna stay in the Marine Corps? P: Yessir.

O: You wanna get promoted?

P: Yessir.

O: Then Captain O'Malley thinks he'd better take a look at your butt.

P: Ahhh, Sir, I can't do that, Sir. O: Corporal, Corporal Powell.

P: YESSIR.

O: Captain O'Malley wants to see your butt.

P: Yessir.

O: Captain O'Malley wants to see it now. I want you to drop those fuckin' shorts and let me see that butt.

P: Yessir. (CAPTAIN_O'MALLEY O: C'mon SLAPS CORPORAL POWELL) Let me see that butt.

P: Yessir.

O: Okay. Hit the edge of the sack and bend over. Let's see what we can do with it,

P: Awwwhh, Sir. Please don't fuck me, Sir. O: Ummmmm. Captain O'Malley thinks the Corporal has a nice butt. Stick it up here in my face. Let me see the opening here. Spread it!

P: Oh, god.

O: Corporal Powell?

P: YESSIR.

O: You've got a nice butt. A nice firm butt. A good size, not too big, but just right for Captain O'Malley.

O: Just right for the Captain. Just right. (CLOSE SHOT: O'MALLEY SLAPS POWELL'S SWEAT STREAKED ASS) The Captain likes it. The Captain likes that butt. (MORE SLAPS ON THE ASS) Look at that juicy hole. P: Please, Sir.

O: Look at that nice juicy hole. Do you know what the Captain's going to do to that hole?

P: What, Sir?

O: The Captain's goin' to lick it. He's going to stick his tongue up in it.

P: Ohhh, Sir. O: Fuckin' . .

Sir … (LONG SHOT: FROM ANGLE ACROSS THE BAR- S, THE CAMERA SEES CAP-P : Sir . HIGH RACKS, THE CANALLEY AND KNEEL TONGUE THE EXPOSED ASS OF COR-PORAL POWELL)

O: (BACK TO CLOSE SHOT) UMM. Captain O'Malley likes that hole, sticking up in his face, nice virgin hole, nice virgin Marine hole. Gonna get it wet,

P: Ohh, Sir, please … please don't fuck me.

O: I'll fuck you if I feel like it.

P: Oh, nossir.

O: But right now I want to lick it out. Lick it clean.

P: Ohhh, Sir. Nossir.

O: I want to lick your butthole clean, Corporal Powell. (CAPTAIN O'MAL-LEY RIMS.)

P: Nossir, all during high school . . oh, yessir … I avoided getting corn- holed then … (LOW) Oh, yessir. Don't fuck me … Don't, Sir. Please, Sir.

Don't, Sir. Please, Sir.

O: Corporal, that's nice. You've got a fucking nice butthole … a nice butt-hole . . it's good for my fuckin' big tongue . . my fuckin' big tongue likes it. It likes lickin' your butthole. Yeah, Corporal Powell's got a nice butthole. Wood, Captain O'Malley likes your butthole. Corporal Jumpus 1874 hole, Corporal, ummmm. Let's take a look at this big cock hanging underneath.

G: A nice cock. Maybe we can pull it all the way around.

P: Ahhh!

O: All the way around, stick it straight out, straight out between your legs, like this.

P: Ugggghhh!

O: Sure looks good. How many inches you think this is, Corporal?

P: I don't know, Sir.

O: It looks to me like about nine. Nine fuckin' inches of hard Marine cock.

P: Ohhh, God!

P: God, that's driving me crazy, Sir.

O: Do you like the way the Captain strokes it?

P: YESSIR!

O: ummm. The Captain likes stroking it too.

P: Ohh, god! … Ah, Captain!

O: Don't you fuckin' come, Corporal. You hear me?

P: I'm so fuckin' … (O'MALLEY SLAPS POWELL'S ASS) … Captain, Sir, oh Sir. Yessir … YESSIR!

O: Don't you forget it.

P: Oh goddam, Captain O'Malley, I never felt anything …

O: We're gonna use your throat too, because you're gonna take care of the Captain while you're here at this barracks . You understand? P: Yessir.

O: (O'MALLEY SLAPS POWELL

AGAIN) Fuckin' suck this after it's been used.

P: Yessir.

O: Alright. Now you just lay right there and the Captain's going to grease his big donkey dick up. You hear me? (SILENCE) You hear me, Corporal? (O'MALLEY THREATENS WITH HIS OPEN HAND.)

P: Ohhh, Sir …

O: You're going to take the Captain's dick. You might bleed a little bit.

P: Nossir, nossir . .

O: You're going to bleed a little bit, because you're nice and tight. The Captain can tell when he sticks his tongue up there that you're nice and tight. The Captain's gonna get your cherry. The Captain's gonna cop your cherry, Cor- poral. You hear that, Corporal Powell? You hear me?

P: Yessir.

O: The Captain's gonna get your cherry. You gonna give the Captain your cherry.

P: Ahhh! O: YOU GONNA GIVE THE CAP-

TAIN YOUR CHERRY?

P: Yessir.

O: You gonna give the Captain your fuckin' cherry?!

P: Yessir. (CLOSE SHOT: POWELL'S FACE HIT BY O'MALLEY'S PALM)

O: If you want to stay in the Marine Corps, right? You wanna stay in the fuckin' Marine Corps? Then you're gonna give me your fuckin' cherry, Corporal. Get me some grease. Get me something that I can stick it in there with. C'mon, move it, man. Move it.

P: Yessir.

O: Ummm. Grease the Captain's cock up, c'mon. Grease the Captain's cock up. Corporal. Grease it up.

P:Covering the Captain's big dick with oil

O: It feels good on the Captain's donkey dick. Grease that big fucker up!

P: Yessir. O: That big fucker wants in your butthole.

P: Please don't, Sir.

O: It wants to pump your butthole.

P: Please, Sir.

O: The Captain's gonna fuck your butt.

P: Oh, Jesus.

O: The Captain's gonna make you feel

O: You're gonna want this cock all the time.

P: Nossir.

O: The Captain's gonna fuck you regularly.

P: For the Corps, Sir.

O: Gonna fuck you regularly. P: For the Honor Guard, Sir. O: Now, I want that ass turned over. I want you on your stomach. P: Yessir.

O: Now, let's put your butt up on a pillow. A nice pillow. So you can get ready for the Captain.

P: Ahhh.

O: The Captain's gonna get big and hard … big and hard. He's gonna get you all greased up in your butthole. Awright? He's gonna put some grease up in your butthole. Right down there in that crack.

CAPTAIN O'MALLEY

Continued from page 35

That beautiful juicy, juicy tight crack.

P: Shit!

O: That Marine crack. Awright.

P: (HESITANTLY) Yessir! O: Okay.

P: Yessir.

O: And you're not going to cry, are you? Marines don't cry.

P: Nossir.

(CAPTAIN O'MALLEY SLAPS COR-POWELL'S ASS SEVERAL PORAL TIMES)

O: Áwright? P: Yessir.

O: The Captain's gonna fuck you in the butt.

P: Yessir.

O: Okay, now let's get into it. Captain's gonna go sorta slow to start with. Right? The Captain's gonna go sorta slow to start with. Okay … P: (MOANS SOFTLY)

O: Now, let's just put the fuckin' head in, awright

P: (LOUD MOANS)

O: Stick the fuckin' head in … you feel that head goin' in? You feel that

O: Bite your hand, now bite your hand, the Captain tells you to bite your hand. Bite your hand. (MORE SLAPS AND MOANS) C'mon, Corporal Powell, you can take it. You're a man. You're a factor of the your hand. big man, a fuckin' Marine. You can take a big cock. You can take a cock. C'mon, you can take a cock up your butthole. Open that butthole up for the Captain. C'mon, Corporal Powell. Captain O'Ma-ley wants to fuck you.

P: (GROANS, GRIT AND GUTS) MOANS, AGONY,

O: That's right. Keep shitting. We'll just push it back up in there. We'll push that ass back up in there. We'll open you up wide. Fuck you deep. Hard. Because you're the Corporal.

P: Yessir.

O: The Corporal in charge of taking care of Captain O'Malley.

TWO-SHOT holds featuring faces of CAPTAIN O'MALLEY and CORPORAL POWELL as the CAPTAIN continues to fuck the CORPORAL to mutual orgasm. To show time passing, DISSOLVE both faces slowly down under a MONTAGE of MARINES on maneuvers, in close-order drill, in combat practice with pugil sticks, in motivational discipline, in heavy USMC brig confinement, sweating in the shimmering heat of the obstacle course, scaling ropes, crawling through mud at a feet, showering, shaving, spit-DI's shinning boots, cleaning rifles, at mail- call, at mess. MONTAGE DISSOLVES into CLOSE-UP face of CORPORAL POWELL, alone, jerking off in the half- lighted WARDROOM, NIGHT. Hall lights come on over transom. A rectangle of light falls across POWELL'S face, torso, and dick.

CONTINUED NEXT MONTH

MEN'S BAR SCENE SOCIAL NOTES:

GOES TO A SLAVE AUCTION A

Slavery hasn't been abolished. It's been improved upon. Used to be on the ol' plantation, a master had to care for his slave to maintain him in top fucking condition. Nowadays, factories and com-panies work men like donkeys and when day is done, dump them. Who cares if workers drop in their tracks? Meat is cheap. Scabs are plenty. Call them replaceable .

THAT'S THE STRAIGHT WORLD FOR YOU!

Gay men, on the other fist, rarely let reality slip. Like Shakespeare's fool, who always knows the truth of what's happening more than any other character in the play, gays act out fantasies that straights for themselves nurture into mid-dleclass , middle-age, middle-West nervous breakdowns. Gays know exploitation when they sniff it, and gays can better endure the straight business world by day because we live the gay actualizing world by night. If your boss acts like a second- hand Simon LeGree, what better balance than to go off to San Francisco's ARENA on. Wegoods with force first band on Wednesday night for a firsthand actualization — if not downright exor- cism - of playing slave and playing master.

PETER PAN UBER ALLES

If gay men have anything, it's the sense of play and fun that most straights lose at puberty. That may be, after all, the essential difference between straights and gays. Gays rarely lose that wonderful childlike quality of make-believe play.

That gives us an edge. Straights often know the price of everything and the value of very little. Gays know prices, but we also know the value of humor, ritual, and therapeutic

TOUGH SHIT

DISCUS THROWER

Talk about quick release. We'd be willing to say that cow-chip throwing moves along faster than any other sport. You just get in there, heave, and get out. And we're real good at it. Jim Cox, competing in last fall's California Cow Chip Throwing Contest in Exeter, sailed his first throw a world record 180 feet (old record: 176' 10"). Jay Johnson also broke the record with a toss of 179 feet. As in any organized sport, the CCT is carefully regulated. Chips must be at least six inches long and cannot be modified. Unless you can somehow train a cow to produce to specifications.

DOWN IN THE DUMPS: IT CAME FROM BENEATH ANITA BRYANT

Anita Bryant's campaign against homosexuals has succeeded completely in diverting attention from an almost unspeakably squalid scandal in her own life. A medical study, commissioned by this magazine, has reached the astonishing conclusion that, even by the most ultraconservative computations, the religious leader has already released a minimum of 9,360 units of excreta, or as doctors call them, stools. The dimensions of this monumental legacy may be seen in the fact that her stools to date, given an average length of 6", total 4,680 feet, or well over three times the height of the Empire State Building. Their weight totals 2.34 tons. The work this has presented to the Sewer Department in Miami, where Ms. Bryant has deposited the overwhelming bulk of her faecal matter, is incalculable. It is this department which is charged with the responsibility of processing and disposing of her wastes so that they do not contaminate the city's beaches and water supply. Un- treated, her stools alone would be sufficient to destroy Miami as an ocean resort and to afflict the natives with a series of diseases as varied as they are painful. But numerous other cities, wehre Ms. Bryant makes appearances and uses toilets in motels and backstage at auditoria, have had to deal with smaller deposits at one time or another. The image of Ms. Bryant sitting on toilets and releasing her wastes through her anus with such frequency and in so many locations is not a pleasant one, but one that in medicine we must confront and are trained to deal with.

MANHATTAN REVIEW

CHICKEN SHIT MARINE

CANADA. - The hairs on sailors' thighs are short and stunted because their pants are tight. At least Canadian sailors used to wear very snug bell bottoms; don't know what they wear nowadays. That bit about their thigh hairs is a piece of miscellany I picked up from my first suck job. We were both 19 or so. He was butch, blond and rather drunk. But I'll start at the beginning. As a student, I used to spend weekends at a seaport town near the university I was attending. I used to stay with an older man, still a very good friend, who used to go out at night and pick up sailors we would share back at his place. He loves sucking too, but goes ape over ass nowadays. One night he brought home the drunken blond sailor. He to get sucked by the hour. My friend got sucking him in the can, the sailor sitting on the toilet seat with his fly wide open and big cut cock jutting out. I was new to sucking . Up till then, I had just liked getting done and had never cared to reciprocate. I listened at the closed door of the bathroom as my friend was schlurping over the sailor's dick. Then he came out and said I could try it if I liked. I was trembling as I knelt and discovered for the first time in my life the pleasure of sucking cock. We all ended up in the bed. Our sailor friend sprawled back and let us suck away to our hearts' content. He took a long time coming because he was drunk, and wanted to make quite sure that each of us got enough cock. I came in my shorts without anyone touching me. Sailors are funny. Sometimes we'd land one hot and horny from being with a girl and seeking release. One I remember lay back to be asleep. He let me unzip his fly and suck him off. He came with a grunt and heavy breathing, but didn't open his eyes or "wake up." Another beautiful, slim, blond sailor (this was when I was 20 and so was he) would wa though he were afraid I might not like it. Once I fucked him and he loved it. Sailors, and all those other men I sucked off — God bless them all. They helped keep me sane when I was working out a lot of things in my student days 10 years ago.

MANHATTAN REVIEW OF UNNATURAL ACTS, NO. 39. /$1 per copy.

Boyd McDonald, Box 982, Radio City Station, New York, NY 10019

JAMES DEAN STANDS FOR PIG SHIT

true ietnam VIETNAM. My mind tonight focuses on the brief sexual encounters and somehow forgets the hardships and narrow escapes from death. The horrors I barely remember. More vividly I relive hugging the smooth skin of a young dental technician, sucking the hard muscle of a combat Mar This is, you see, my true story. You won't read this kind of truth in TIME. I haven't talked much about my experiences in Nam. Most people seem ashamed about our involvement in that war. I get the feeling that nobody wants to hear more Vietnam stories. Now, maybe with a decade passed, I can tell mine. Or at least the high points. The American TGIF was alive and well every day in 1967 Vietnam. After a ten-hour work day we'd pile into a lounge for booze and snacks.

Houston, Tx. 77210 Dealers call The Wizard at (713)526-OZZO Illustration By Mike Nafzinger

IMMER views the Flicks

LUE COLLAR

The dirty monotomy and noise that goes on 24 hours a day, 7 days a week along the assembly lines of an auto plant are the focus of Blue Collar, a grim film produced by T.A.T. Communications Company for Universal. Relief is provided only by the hustlers: those making book, selling one kind of drug or another, or pushing prosties. Another kind of distraction is provided by the despised foreman, "Dogshit" Miller (Borah Silver), whose hourly inspections are punctuated by sarcastic jibes.

Were it not for Technicolor and language that matches the color of the title's collar, one might think he was watching one of those mid-thirties Warner Bros. films with John Garfield. The gloom is pervasive, slicing through life as matters go from bad to hearse. (The death of Smokey James, searingly played by Yaphet Kotto, is one of the most gruesome in recent movie history.)

No group in this movie comes up smelling like roses: the union is as corrupt as the management. In Blue Collar, after all the double-dealing and violence and bloodshed, nothing changes. One villain replaces another, and the anonymous faces begin to merge. The ending is a freeze frame of naked hatred.

Brothers Leonard and Paul Schrader developed the screenplay from source material "suggested by" Sydney A. Glass, and Paul himself directed. Unpredictable Richard Pryor tops the cast in a role to a great extend custom-written for him, and he shares billing with that almost-a-star, Harvey Keitel. In support are such heavyweight character actors as Harry Bellaver, Borah Silver, and Cliff De Young. Hunky Ed Begley, Jr., is typecast as a naive youngster new to the assembly line. (You remember him running around in his shorts on Mary Hartman, Mary Hart-man ).

The operative philosophy of frustration is best summarized by Kotto, whose voice from his uneasy grave underscores that final freeze frame: "Everything they do, the way they pit the lifers against the new boys, the old against the young, the black against the white is meant to keep us in our place." This is not a sentimental visit on the waterfront. Blue Collar is a hardbitten slice of Ameri- can life.

RECORD REVIEW

It's almost four in the morning. You're at the tubs and you're feeling sleazy, greasy and not quite ready to go home. Lying in your room filled with the smell of male sweat and sex, you light a joint and relax, allowing yourself to flow with the rhythmic music coming through the speakers.

The music has an unusual sound. You become aware that what you are hearing sounds like rock music played simultaneously over the soundtrack from the Kabuki sequence in Brando's film about post-war Japan, SAYONARA. There is a strange oriental guitar sound, odd percussion noises and an insistent rhythm.

You open the door to clear some of the smoke. You stand in the doorway surveying the passing traffic. A man nods and you respond by moving back into the room. He enters. Towels drop. The music underscores your rhythms: the stroking of cocks; tits pulled and squeezed; mouth-sounds on cocks and assholes; the smacking noise of sweating hips on greasy buttocks. Your partner groans loudly and repeatedly. The music crashes its crazy oriental rock into your consciousness and you realize that its hypnotic, exotic textures have been an important part of your sexual experience. The man leaves. You listen.

Alone, the twang and thwack of the Japanese instruments are alien to your Western ears. Some of the music is multi-layered and unusual. Some of it is a rock jam session with overtures of Eric Clap-ton's classic, LAYLA. You think you may not want to listen to it at breakfast when you are straight and non-sexual but you remember that you sure did fuck to it.

You check the time. The record stores will be open in a few hours. Time to go downstairs to talk to the hot d.j. to find out what he's playing

TITLE: BENZAITEN ARTIST: Osamu Kitajima LABEL: Antilles Records, AN 7016

Original Japanese rock combining Western modes with classical / traditional Japanese musical forms and instruments. Performed by the 27 year old Japanese composer with the assistance of Japan's Kabuki Theater's top percussionist, Kabuki Kisaki Katuda.

- Skip Navarrete

END PRODUCT THE FIRST TABOU Dan Sabbath & Mandel Hall Preface by Abby Rockefeller

END PRODUCT: THE FIRST TABOO by Dan Sabbath and Mandel Hall, Preface by Abby Rockefeller, URIZEN BOOKS, N.Y., 1977, 287 pp.

Sometimes it's best to just dive right into a shitty job. Shit used to be something that we dropped behind us as we scooped out the maze of life. No more. In End Product: The First Taboo shit as- sumes a life of its own, rising from your American-Standard porcelain bowl to become money, power, sex, sin, plus twelve vitamins, fourteen minerals (in- cluding silver), chlorine, and eight natural soaps. Shit, we are told, as it wends its way through the intestines taking its own sweet time, might well be considered an organ of the body. It nurtures us and the friendly flora which protect our health. And it doesn't taste so bad either. Trouble is, we don't know shit about it, and have even less respect for it.

BROWN BAG LUNCH

End Product sets out to remedy all that, and except for a bit of overkill, succeeds in the end. Did you hear about the family in Des Plaines? In 1974, police responding to a reported break-in discovered something that would not attract your average thief. The floors of the family townhouse were covered with over 100 cubic yards of garbage and human excrement. That's a lot of shit. It took ten workers from the Department of Public Works, using gas-masks, to dig things out. Can you imagine watching Johnny Carson in a bedroom surrounded by ankle-to-knee-high shit? And each morning the mommy went off to her job as an R.N., the daddy to the supermarket, and the three kids to school. (I sure would have hated to sit next to one of them.) The plain fact is, their own shit didn't smell so bad to them.

After reading a few more such stories

Drummer Reads The Books and very strange facts, I flashed that perhaps this was all a put-on, sort of a "Carlos Casteneda dreams a crap," or a young writer thinking that this was how Mark Twain really got his start. But no, right in the proper place for such things were seventeen pages of notes, citations, and references. So, intellectually forti-fied , I trudged on looking for the dirty parts.

SHIT OR GO BLIND

I learned that everytime we have to strain to succeed, we risk a heart-attack, mental shock mimicking epilepsy or de-lerium tremens, possible coronary thrombosis or cerebral hemmorrhage, or rupture of the speen. We risk all this because we eat lousy, and don't have the sense to squat (like Boy Scouts) and let our body take care of things more naturally. And then, after we shit, we all walk around crazy if our asshole didn't wipe clean enough this time.

But what, I pondered, about disease, plague, famine, and spiritual death, from (gasp!) eating shit. If the first taboo is shit, and the last taboo is cannibalism, what fearsome territory lay between. I washed my hands and continued. Somewhere in here must be the answers: how to convince the unwilling to eat your shit (aww, just a taste); or, what way to prepare yourself to volunteer for heavy-duty action; how to know when you've rimmed enough ripe buttholes and you're ready for the real thing. I searched for directions on how to stifle the gag impulse , and think beatific thoughts as you convert the offering into the flesh. So many questions seemed unanswered. EAT SHIT

Reading on, I soon found that not only is it a fairly common practice for animals to eat shit (remember when your dog used to do it, and you thought he was just afraid of getting smacked with a newspaper?). In fact we eat shit all the time, unknowingly of course, but plenty of it is present in our food, particularly if you are a gourmet and given to eating little creatures whole. I learned that shit did not appear in the dictionary until 1961; that the Library of Congress, with 16,000,000 volumes, lists only one with shit in the title, and it's missing (no doubt many more are full of shit). The Motion Picture Code doesn't even mention defecation . You can go to a movie and watch folks fuck, but in film, people do not shit. I could now tell you that the oldest surviving creations of man are fossilized shit: or that some babies shit before they breathe, most do before they eat, and many people do after they have died (passing over the fact that you always do when being executed or dying a violent death). The biography of our lives is sandwiched in shit. YOU ARE WHAT YOU DUMP

So, back to basics. What is this stuff we call shit? Well, shit is you. Shit is not simply unused food. A little of it is fibre that you did not digest (and it's true that we meat-eaters shit much less than people whose diet is mainly grains, fruits, and vegetable matter). Most shit, however , consists of dead cells and dead bacteria: the stuff of life, now dead. When you kiss your shit goodbye, you say farewell to your own past. Shit in your intestines is inhabited by a hundred trillion little creatures of over three dozen varieties. We could not live without them, so they are part of us. COPROPHAGES I HAVE KNOWN

How well I remember the first time someone wanted to eat my shit, or (he didn't care, really) have me eat his. It was in the 60's, and people barely admitted rimming yet. He was a hippie (which then had mystique) and we had just had super-sex. How well I remember his balls, the biggest I'd ever seen, like two extra-large eggs in a velvet sac. And then he told me what he really wanted. Struck dumb, I ever so slowly edged away, trying to find a way to retreat in time, so as to erase that terrible sugges- tion. (We did have grass, but far less popper then!) Recovering myself, (and declining), I had to ask why he would suggest such a thing. I could not understand . But he was patient with this young fool (I was 22) as he imparted his secret knowledge to me. "To eat shit of another person," he told me, "is a very another person," he told me, "is a very spiritual thing. It is as close as you can get to another human being. It is a way of becoming part of them." It is, I later realized, the very heaviest compliment. EAT SHIT AND DIE?

Well, is it safe to eat shit? End Product never quite tackles that. We are told that it is safe to eat your own, since you're certainly not going to get someone else's polio from your own shit. And further, that aside from high cholesterol content, fresh shit is unlikely to ever cause anything other than a bit of dysentery. (It is shit lying exposed that becomes a breeding ground for typhoid, cholera, and worse. Those little devils know a good

Continued on page 81

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strike the men in the face with this club. If the Japanese did not think the Filipinos put enough force into their blows, the Filipinos themselves were beaten. Where the three men were standing, the earth was spattered with blood for several feet in all directions. Their half-conscious groans and cries were horrible to hear. At the end, they were battered beyond recognition , with the ear of one prisoner hanging down to his shoul-

Kempei Tai, not surprisingly, allowed for individual ingenuity , as attested to by this eyewitness report on the torture of one Cpl. Johnson, a scapegoat escapee: "'Take off your clothes,' he was ordered. Wordlessly, Johnson climbed out of his prison uniform and the paper sandals which the Japanese had issued to the men in exchange for their leather combat boots. At bayonet point the naked corporal was marched to a sentry post near the camp water pump. Masao, the commandant , filled two large buckets with water. Then he placed one in each of Johnson's hands.

"'Hold them high,' the commandant instructed. 'If you lower the pails or spill any water, this sentry here will shoot you.' He turned and walked away. The punishment began as dusk settled over Tokyo No. 3. It was a long night. Within a very short time the pails felt like giant hands that kept pulling his arms toward the ground. His muscles strained and the agony crept through his body inch by inch until he felt as if he were on fire. Shortly after dark the cold began to bother him. Japanese nights are chilly, and a refrigerated sea-breeze swept in from the ocean only a few hundred yards away. The icy breeze on his sweat-soaked skin made him tremble violently . His teeth chattered and his arms shook. He began to sob.

"The sentry watched him impassively. As the water in the buckets began to slosh dangerously near the rim of the pails, the Japanese guard cocked his rifle. The sharp click of the hammer being drawn back filled Johnson with a life-saving fury. Through sheer will-power he pulled himself together. "'Masao, you're a sonofabitch,' he whispered.

"After that he gritted his teeth and kept repeating the phrase like a litany. He was still saying it, over and over, when the orange sun came up out of the sea, and they came for him and took the buckets out of his numb and bloodless hands.

Another G.I. told of a particularly inventive technique heavy with homosexual overtones, to which he was subjected by two Nip non-coms he revealingly dubbed "Seargeant Ma- bel" and "Sadie the Sadist," aided by a third, "Doctor" Mat- sui, "I knew the Unholy Threesome meant business becuase Mabel's face was distorted by the twisted little nervous grin that always meant trouble, and Sadie had that wild look in his eye. The Japanese officer was all dressed up in his best uniform and his highly polished boots glittered in the dim light of the room, but even the high shine on his boots was over- shadowed by the brightness of the big Samurai sword that he carried unsheathed.

"Matsui stepped close to me. I stood at rigid attention, Japanese-style, my arms frozen tightly against my body, weaving a little bit because it's not as natural a position as the American posture of attention and it puts a strain on a man's muscles - especially when a man's standing on a pair of high, wooden clogs as I was doing.

"Matsui stuck the big naked Samurai sword between my legs, and then, slowly, gently, he started to flick it with his wrist so that the sharp edge of the blade beat a steady, easy tattoo at my naked crotch. I tried to lock him on with a steady stare but he wouldn't have any part of that. He was staring at my crotch, rapping at it like he was trying to flick away a fly. Then he started to bring the blade up a little harder, and I fought back an urge to flinch away. Mabel and Sadie were delighted at my discomfort, but happily for me, Matsui tired of the fly-flicking sport although I knew he was disappointed that I hadn't moved. I guess that the big beads of sweat on my forehead must have satisfied him that I was sufficiently shaken.

A British officer's first person report shows that the Kem-pei Tai refinements were not limited to American prisoners. They took me to my cell. Days went by I was not taken to the latrine and the cell was soon fouled with my own filth. I was fed only boiled sorghum and water. I began to suffer

"Two weeks passed. Then I was taken to Noguwaka's of- fice. There was a purple flower in the vase, Funny how you notice those things. Noguwaka was manicuring his beautifully kept nails, 'Are you ready to confess now?' he asked blandly. I shook my head. 'You have nothing against me. If you did you would confront me with it.

"From that moment my year of torture began. The tortures were large and small, prolonged and brief. Here are just a few of them: "Four men took turns questioning me, operating in four-hour relays of two men each. During these prolonged interrogations they made me stand in awkward positions, like with my feet spread wide apart and my nose against the wall. If I changed position even slightly I was given a blow with a pistol butt that made my head swim. If I collapsed I was kicked until struggled to my feet again. They seemed to have a fiendish knowledge when I was really collapsing or only feigning. The questions went on until I passed out, and were resumed the instant I regained consciousness. Sometimes they went on for as long as a week. The key words were 'Confess! Confess! Then you can sleep.' "A variation was not to question me at all, but merely to keep me from falling asleep. My two torturers would seat me in a chair and sit a couple of feet away, facing me and not saying a word. Sometimes they chewed raw onions or garlic, then leaned forward, breathing in my face. You have no idea how unbearable that treatment can become after a few hours. I fought to keep awake but inevitably my head would sag forward . Then I'd be aroused by a stinging blow across the mouth.

"Toward the end of this no-sleep treatment I couldn't stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time and my face was a swollen mass of flesh that pained like a toothache. When

Kempei Tai practitioners seemed especially vicious when given the opportunity to apply their arts on macho Australian soldiers and sailors. The unique results of thei efforts are documented in this report of the discovery of two dead Aussie G.I.'s: "One of these bodies was lying on the ground with his hands tied together in front of him, and his trousers pulled down around his knees, and tied down to his boots by his belt. He had the tops of his ears cut off and about twenty knife or bayonet wounds in his body. His hands were tied in front of his chest and his forearms were cut as though he had been trying to protect himself. His buttocks and genitals had been frightfully mutilated. About six feet away, the other body was tied to a tree, with his hands behind his back. "In the same area of the jungle two other soldiers had been tied to a sago palm facing inwards with their arms lashed around its trunk. Both had several bayonet wounds all over the buttocks and in the rectum. Another soldier, who had also been tied to a tree, appeared from his wounds to have been used as a bayonet training dummy.

This affidavit, by a Captain Kendall, continues, "On the track leading from Waga Waga to Lillini I saw the body of another Australian soldier with his hands tied behind his back, lying face downwards. He was tied with string. The top portion of his skull was lying forward as if it had been cut through with a heavy knife or sword and had been chopped from the rear. He also had lacerations criss-crossing his back and shoulders . They appeared to be knife or sword wounds, and had cut right through the shirt into his flesh.

Australians caught while trying to escape might have yearned for such a death, as in this report of four who were so unlucky. "The four Australians were brought out of the detention barracks. They were stripped naked and hung by their wrists from overhead poles. The guards took turns wielding the bushido, a short, deadly cat-o'-nine-tails that bit into the flesh and pulled away skin every time it struck. When all four men had passed out, they were ordered cut down. A hose was turned on. Dirty green water shot out of the nozzle at very high pressure. The powerful stream was set on the unconscious men full blast. Within seconds the icy shower had revived them, but the salt in the water, driven into their raw flesh, was almost overpoweringly agonizing."

Lt. Weynton, another Australian captive, was suspected by the Kempei Tai of having operated a radio set. In his own words, "I was immediately beaten about the head and shoulders with a riding whip. I was again asked the same questions and again denied all knowledge. The Kempei Tai then held

me down, tore my shirt off and burnt me underneath the arms with lighted cigarettes … Three days later I was again taken out for interrogation, beaten and burnt as previously. In addition they applied ju-jitsu holds to me, throwing me round the room and causing me great pain by twisting my arms, neck, legs and feet.

"On 28th August I was taken by the Kempei Tai to another building for interrogation and treated once more in the same way. Because of the denials I made I was further tortured with cigarette butts, tacks were put down my finger nails and hammered so that they entered the quick, and I was tied by the wrists to a beam and forced to kneel on the ground with my legs out behind me. A beam was placed over my ankles and two Kempei Tai officers see-sawed on the beam in such a way that the arch caused by the natural bending of the foot was subjected to extreme pressure. After about two and a half minutes of that torture I became unconscious and came to only after a bucket of water had been thrown over me. I was unable to walk for approximately four days.'

And then there is the woeful tale of a six-foot-three-inch Australian sailor named Harper, navigator of the cruiser Perth which had been sunk off Java, who suffered this punishment for attempting an escape — as told by his "mate": The guards grouped together for their usual conference which always reminded me of a football huddle. They sprang apart. We waited tensely. The interpreter bellowed: "'Harper!'

"Harper stepped forward the required six paces. The inter- preter screamed the punishment: forty-eight blows.

"Harper's ragged pants and shirt were stripped from him. He was ordered to face us and raise his arms above his head. The gaunt figure — he had wasted from 200 pounds to 130 — threw a gangling, grotesque shadow which stretched to our si- lent ranks. The guard in charge of Harper's cellblock stepped forward and took up a stance about three feet behind and a little to the left of Harper. Grabbing the shaft in both hands, he drew the club back and then, with a powerful, full-shouldered swing, brought the wood whistling through the air to land with sickening impact on Harper's kidneys. Harper had his legs spread wide, but the force of the blow was so staggering that we could see his body lurch slightly forward.

Again and again in that bright silence the guard, working himself into a fury, swung the club against Harper's naked back. We counted, as we always did, the blows. At twenty-three , the guard was spent. There was blood on the club now. He handed it to another and the beating went on without pause. Harper's shadow weaved slightly at our feet but his eyes were fixed on a point above our heads. He had not uttered a sound.

"Forty. Another guard, fresh and strong, took up the club. It seemed impossible that any human could stand under the fury of those last eight blows. The shaft literally screamed through the air. At each blow, Harper's great, wasted frame quivered and shook. Forty-eight. At a command from a guard, Harper lowered his arms and walked, unsteadily, back to his place in the line. As he turned, I could see the raw expanse of his back. The flesh hung in shreds. Harper was out on his feet.

But perhaps the Japanese-Russian animosity resulted in the most awful of the Kempei Tai excesses. One short document serves to illustrate the Nipponese attitude: "The mutilation of the bodies of Russian soldiers on Russian territory as early as 1938 during the Lake Hasan incident, was quite common . A young lieutenant was wounded and taken prisoner by the Japanese during an attack on the Russian lines one evening . On the following morning, after a successful Russian counter -attack, the young officer's body was found.

"Five stars had been carved on his back. A large star, with the hammer and sickle, was carved on his chest. Cartridges had been hammered into his eyes, the skull was fractured in many places, and both wrists and ankles had been smashed. His penis had been cut off and an anti-tank shell driven into his stom- ach. The soles of his feet were scorched, his fingernails torn off, his tongue cut out and his ears cut off. No detail of muti- lation had been omitted."

Still, perhaps, such torture was not entirely gratuitous, at least when one considers this story of the Russians' treatment of a group of Japanese prisoners: "All prisoners were marched to the center of the prison compound. There, tied to poles, were 17 Japanese soldiers. A cordon of Russian guards stood around them, holding large, savage police dogs.

"What happened next was incredible. The officer gave his instructions in Russian. The guards cut away the 17 prisoners' uniforms leaving them naked. Then several Russians from the camp kitchen approached the prisoners. Each man bore a kettle of steaming stew. The dogs, held tightly, were going wild. Gaunt and starved, the big animals were in a frenzy from the smell of the food.

"The Russians took ladles of the stew and gravy, and carefully smeared the food over the genitals of the Japanese pri- soners. Then the Russians stepped back.

'At a signal from the commandant the obviously starved dogs were released. At once the great brutes dashed forward, driven wild from the sight and smell of the stew. Never, never can one forget the screams and shrieks of the prisoners as the sharp teeth of those savage brutes began their grisly repast, Finally , the guards rushed in, beat the dogs senseless with clubs, then dragged them away. Only one prisoner died immediately.

World War II was great fun, but it was just one of those things.

CAPTAIN O'MALLEY

Continued from page 35

That beautiful juicy, juicy tight crack.

P: Shit!

O: That Marine crack. Awright.

P: (HESITANTLY) Yessir! O: Okay.

P: Yessir.

O: And you're not going to cry, are you? Marines don't cry.

P: Nossir.

(CAPTAIN O'MALLEY SLAPS COR-POWELL'S ASS SEVERAL PORAL TIMES)

O: Áwright? P: Yessir.

O: The Captain's gonna fuck you in the butt.

P: Yessir.

O: Okay, now let's get into it. Captain's gonna go sorta slow to start with. Right? The Captain's gonna go sorta slow to start with. Okay … P: (MOANS SOFTLY)

O: Now, let's just put the fuckin' head in, awright

P: (LOUD MOANS)

O: Stick the fuckin' head in … you feel that head goin' in? You feel that

O: Bite your hand, now bite your hand, the Captain tells you to bite your hand. Bite your hand. (MORE SLAPS AND MOANS) C'mon, Corporal Powell, you can take it. You're a man. You're a factor of the your hand. big man, a fuckin' Marine. You can take a big cock. You can take a cock. C'mon, you can take a cock up your butthole. Open that butthole up for the Captain. C'mon, Corporal Powell. Captain O'Ma-ley wants to fuck you.

P: (GROANS, GRIT AND GUTS) MOANS, AGONY,

O: That's right. Keep shitting. We'll just push it back up in there. We'll push that ass back up in there. We'll open you up wide. Fuck you deep. Hard. Because you're the Corporal.

P: Yessir.

O: The Corporal in charge of taking care of Captain O'Malley.

TWO-SHOT holds featuring faces of CAPTAIN O'MALLEY and CORPORAL POWELL as the CAPTAIN continues to fuck the CORPORAL to mutual orgasm. To show time passing, DISSOLVE both faces slowly down under a MONTAGE of MARINES on maneuvers, in close-order drill, in combat practice with pugil sticks, in motivational discipline, in heavy USMC brig confinement, sweating in the shimmering heat of the obstacle course, scaling ropes, crawling through mud at a feet, showering, shaving, spit-DI's shinning boots, cleaning rifles, at mail- call, at mess. MONTAGE DISSOLVES into CLOSE-UP face of CORPORAL POWELL, alone, jerking off in the half- lighted WARDROOM, NIGHT. Hall lights come on over transom. A rectangle of light falls across POWELL'S face, torso, and dick.

CONTINUED NEXT MONTH

MEN'S BAR SCENE SOCIAL NOTES:

GOES TO A SLAVE AUCTION A

Slavery hasn't been abolished. It's been improved upon. Used to be on the ol' plantation, a master had to care for his slave to maintain him in top fucking condition. Nowadays, factories and com-panies work men like donkeys and when day is done, dump them. Who cares if workers drop in their tracks? Meat is cheap. Scabs are plenty. Call them replaceable .

THAT'S THE STRAIGHT WORLD FOR YOU!

Gay men, on the other fist, rarely let reality slip. Like Shakespeare's fool, who always knows the truth of what's happening more than any other character in the play, gays act out fantasies that straights for themselves nurture into mid-dleclass , middle-age, middle-West nervous breakdowns. Gays know exploitation when they sniff it, and gays can better endure the straight business world by day because we live the gay actualizing world by night. If your boss acts like a second- hand Simon LeGree, what better balance than to go off to San Francisco's ARENA on. Wegoods with force first band on Wednesday night for a firsthand actualization — if not downright exor- cism - of playing slave and playing master.

PETER PAN UBER ALLES

If gay men have anything, it's the sense of play and fun that most straights lose at puberty. That may be, after all, the essential difference between straights and gays. Gays rarely lose that wonderful childlike quality of make-believe play.

That gives us an edge. Straights often know the price of everything and the value of very little. Gays know prices, but we also know the value of humor, ritual, and therapeutic

SHIT

Continued from page 69 thing when they smell it.) The book abounds in historical nonsense, but fails to suggest that eating an apple after getting into scat, not only keeps the doctor away but also freshens the breath. PISS ET CETERA

Most disappointing of all, I was expecting a book about end products. I guess the title should have been a warning . The book was about shit, Period. But what about the body's other products, lovingly named Egesta by many? What about spit, lugers both white and green, or snot, piss in its endless variety, bou- quets of sweat, bitter ear wax, the miracle of mucus from the eyes which not only turns to sand but also cures warts. What about puke, or pus, or our very breath, fulsome with the products of our continuing life? Our bodies keep producing, producing, producing. And there's someone out there hungry, hungry, hungry. Personally, whenever I see a hot stud spit on the sidewalk, I get a thirstful desire to suddenly become a streetcleaner. SHIT: A DENIAL OF DEATH

Man's main task in life becomes the denial of what his asshole represents: that, in fact, he is nothing but body, so far as nature is concerned. Nature's values are bodily values, human values are mental values, and though they take the loftiest flights they are built upon excrement , impossible without it, always brought back to it. The fact is, we fear our shit because it represents decay and death. Eat shit and challenge death; it might even be the spiritual adventure that I was told of so long ago. WHAT IS THIS SHIT?

The book, as a whole, is a lot like chili. A tingle at the top, a great rumble in mid-passage, and pleasurable relief at the end. The authors are not credited with any other work, and the publisher is bushleague. It could well have been self-published or bear the invisible im- primateur of the C.I.A. The preface by Abby Rockefeller, whose patrician obligation is to educate and to inform, rages on about the linguistic weight of the word shit. She might better have seized the opportunity to plug her Clivis Mul- trum, a household waste and shit composting unit not requiring water. It's been reported that her great-grandfather would have given an awful lot for a good BM in his later years.

A BOOK FOR THE JOHN

Even during the California drought of the last two years, it was tacitly agreed by society that you didn't need to flush after pissing, but for godsake don't leave the bowl full of turds. But I've dabbled and smeared long enough. Just remember, we may be temporarily able to get shit out of our body but we can never get it out of our consciousness. Sabbath and Hall know that. Now we do too. Now if Abby Rockefeller could just drop a load!

David Hurles

R.F.M. Products

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sexplay. Unlike the women's movement and other movements, we have a sense of humor about ourselves.

Many straights, and here we grossly overgeneralize because after all "some of our best friends are straight," take life literally. Too literally. One guy plus one guy always adds up to a couple of three-dollar bills. A slave is a slave is a slave. The word SLAVE conjures up visions of The Emancipation Proclamation and the Marquis de Sade. Symbolically, former

LA Police Chief Ed Davis, the fascist who would be governor, thinks of slaves by legal, literal definition. Has Ed Davis never knelt in romantic fealty before his wife, adoring her whatever-she-has-to-adore?

And would those straights who condemn slavery ever recognize that they are 8-to-5 slaves Monday through Friday, with their wives and kiddies held hostage by their boss who says, "You must work overtime every night this week and I know you won't mind since your kids need the orthodontist and you need me to pay you to pay him and if you don't like it, there's a hundred people outside the door who want your job." That's the essence of straight slavery as perfected in the world today. by JACK FRITSCHER Photos by BOB HEFRON

GOES TO A SLAVE AUCTI

GAYS WON'T EAT CERTAIN SHIT

There is some crap up with which gays will not put. Having wives and kids and the whole two-car catastrophe held hostage by terrorist bosses is one of them. That's why we can play sensually with the very slavery that straights earn their keep by. BE THE FIRST ON YOUR

Sensual play is the Name of the Game at the ARENA. On the block, stand hot bodies "sold" for playmoney to the highest bidder. Are you a Top in search of a new Bottom? Bid the world as your limit. (That's how Ari got Jackie!) Are you a Bottom who's always wanted a Top you've been afraid to approach? So there he stands, dripping with chains and at- titude, in full leather, up for auction to the Bottom who bids the highest.

The auctioneer, schooled in the erotic patter of the old Folsom Prison auctions, displays the wares of the slaves with a spiel to harden your cock, not your heart; and that's an essential difference between gay slavery and straight. The essence of real straight sexual slavery is most currently exposed in Louis Malle's Pretty Baby where the young virgin is sold without feeling. The ARENA's gay slavery is a theatrical ritual acted out over a mutual bond of consent. And with a sense of humor. PRIME MEAT

Nobody forces a guy to strip naked and kneel in oiled bondage on a block, displayed to a group of drinking, smok- ing, bidding men. Nobody forces a blond bodybuilder to come to the ARENA, sweaty from the gym, wearing a torn white teeshirt over his pumped pex and veined biceps. Nobody forces him when he asks to be hung from a beam, hooded, until some merciful master bids high enough to take him home to the foot of his bed.

Nobody forces the leather-biker Top drive his Harley Sportster into the ARENA where he sits, legs spread wide, waiting for the Bottoms to bid his Top

The ARENA slave auction is the gay- world equivalent of the best of college mixers. The auction action breaks down the isolation of guys too shy to talk to one another and allows matches to be made, if not in heaven, then at least at the corner of Ninth and Harrison in San Francisco. The crowd of bidders parties together surveying the meat. The boys on the block overcome their own shyness or parade their exhibitionism or act out what needs they feel free enough to act out in the wonderfully permissive world of gay sociability. BIBLE BELTING

Sometimes play is the world's best therapy. And the unfun straight world, so afraid of us in the Dades, St. Paul's, Eugene's, and witchhunting Wichita's, could take a cue from us. Everybody in America ought to play more. Thursday mornings, after the 11 PM Wednesday ARENA auctions, a lot of gay men go smiling off to their responsible straight world jobs. And don't those certain smiles just kill the unsmiling, unplayful, jealous straights who long ago, listening as usual to the literal word of that 4,000- year-old folk document the Bible and to the words of that closet-case St. Paul who deserved to be knocked from his high away the things of a child." "Well," as Annie Hall would say, "La dee da!"

he oiled his washboard belly, "How am I different from Arnold Schwarzenegger or any other bodybuilder in a Mr. America contest? All my life I've liked playing with other boys and now with other men. You can't imagine how good I feel up there on exhibition in that hot spotlight, listening to those bids going up. What the fuck do you think I spend so much time every week at the gym for? To show off my body. I like guys and I want to sort out the ones who really want to get at the part of me that right now is the part I want to parade around. We'll mutually satisfy each other. Yin. Yang. I'm not a slave to anybody or anything, not even to my cock. Hell, this slave auction is just a bar promo gimmick. It's like bingo night at St. Philomena's Catholic Church. No money changes hands. We all get into it because it's a good show. It looks good and fe

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DOMINATION BY SUBMISSIVE MEN

Neil Marks in the January, 1978 Blue-boy writes with great insight on "ATTI- TUDE." I'll take my space in DRUM- MER to continue the dialogue. His idea of "attitude" is the Colt-type of super masculinist posing. "The implication of this combination (Colt-like physical characteristics ) for the onlooker is that the fantasy man in question will take sexual control and allow his object (the viewer) to give up (sexual) control: basically he is your hot Drummer type S / M fantasy man. The super confidence the FAN- TASY has is the turn on and what you surrender to. Not necessarily do you give in to the real man. In fact, often when (and if) he exposes himself to not be the fantasy bargained for the attraction is dead. Then what are you balling and what does it mean (if anything)?

The strength of the fantasy is enough. Why indulge in the reckless game of life as it really is? Sex is the real Fantasy Island. You're NOT going to meet the REAL thing. Not ever. Because the real man can never exist as strong as you will create him in your own mind. But is that sexually valid or is that forever chasing rainbows? So what do you want? When the fantasy can be as rich as your imagination , reality (beloved by some as much as it is) pales in comparison. Should you feel guilty because your fantasies are superior to your realities? (Does my editor, who knows I can't type, want any less to ball with me?) FUCK IT! Why even bother to be human if you cannot use all at your disposal and enrich your life. Do you really WANT your fantasy to actually exist?

"For one to play attitude he must accept the axiom that attitude means sexual confidence or an acceptance of certain general standards of sexual ar- tistry." I'll take it. I wonder (for myself) which world in fact IS real. I create men in my mind out of bedpartners and get pissed off when they don't STAY in their image (at least through the fuck). Nothing is worse than picking up a hot dude, after a "qualifying" conversation, then finding out that he is SURPRISED that you really meant whatever your rap was. The artistry of sex, of course, is an applied creative art. Day-to-day you aren't the stud that you are when you walk into your favorite bar. I think a lot, analyze, and generally work over the character that I have created not only for the bars but also for my porno persona. I like the character I play in porno movies and he is a real character. He is NOT me, but he certainly is IN me.

Marks gets intriguing as he tries to explain the bottom man. "The mythology is that if one allows himself to be physically penetrated, he is giving up control. By the same token, it is widely thought that one who is physically penetrating is taking control of the situation ." That IS what the myth tells us, but WE know that it is far from the truth. The actively passive man certainly is NOT out of control of the situation. The alert bottom can control almost any sane top, and very simply, without losing the sexual tension of the scene. He directs the top man into the scenes. In many ways the top man is sexually exploited and forced into narrow roles by the bottom. There is SO much he can't do that maybe he would like to do, but doesn't 'cause it would reduce his image. Gays also get trapped into straight stereotypes of macho-masculinity. The old gay stereotypes of the gay stud who is greek active and french passive PER-IOD clearly needs to be liberated. At the risk of sounding the revisionist it is time to treat ourselves as men simply celebrating sex with men. Gayness so frightens straights because it is so attractive. Why should we S / M top studs inhibit ourselves? We all certainly have been dominated (in the sense of fucking in a certain style to please our bottoms) by submissive men. I'm not saying that you should run down to your local disco. I am suggesting that we not be trapped by our attitudes . Clearly, we can keep our macho and expand our awareness at the same time. Read Donna Summers' poem on the

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SHIT

Continued from page 69 thing when they smell it.) The book abounds in historical nonsense, but fails to suggest that eating an apple after getting into scat, not only keeps the doctor away but also freshens the breath. PISS ET CETERA

Most disappointing of all, I was expecting a book about end products. I guess the title should have been a warning . The book was about shit, Period. But what about the body's other products, lovingly named Egesta by many? What about spit, lugers both white and green, or snot, piss in its endless variety, bou- quets of sweat, bitter ear wax, the miracle of mucus from the eyes which not only turns to sand but also cures warts. What about puke, or pus, or our very breath, fulsome with the products of our continuing life? Our bodies keep producing, producing, producing. And there's someone out there hungry, hungry, hungry. Personally, whenever I see a hot stud spit on the sidewalk, I get a thirstful desire to suddenly become a streetcleaner. SHIT: A DENIAL OF DEATH

Man's main task in life becomes the denial of what his asshole represents: that, in fact, he is nothing but body, so far as nature is concerned. Nature's values are bodily values, human values are mental values, and though they take the loftiest flights they are built upon excrement , impossible without it, always brought back to it. The fact is, we fear our shit because it represents decay and death. Eat shit and challenge death; it might even be the spiritual adventure that I was told of so long ago. WHAT IS THIS SHIT?

The book, as a whole, is a lot like chili. A tingle at the top, a great rumble in mid-passage, and pleasurable relief at the end. The authors are not credited with any other work, and the publisher is bushleague. It could well have been self-published or bear the invisible im- primateur of the C.I.A. The preface by Abby Rockefeller, whose patrician obligation is to educate and to inform, rages on about the linguistic weight of the word shit. She might better have seized the opportunity to plug her Clivis Mul- trum, a household waste and shit composting unit not requiring water. It's been reported that her great-grandfather would have given an awful lot for a good BM in his later years.

A BOOK FOR THE JOHN

Even during the California drought of the last two years, it was tacitly agreed by society that you didn't need to flush after pissing, but for godsake don't leave the bowl full of turds. But I've dabbled and smeared long enough. Just remember, we may be temporarily able to get shit out of our body but we can never get it out of our consciousness. Sabbath and Hall know that. Now we do too. Now if Abby Rockefeller could just drop a load!

David Hurles

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P.O. Box 1025 Glendora, CA 91740

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Interview Tom Of Finland WITH ROBERT OPEL

Tom: I dreamt about being an artist, for a long time it was only a dream, I wasn't sure I could make it work, but for the past five years now I'm able to make it as a professional.

Opel: When did you first create the images that we know as the Tom of Finland Men?

Tom: I got my inspiration from pictures I saw in American body building magazines. I was very excited by them. I found the American type so attractive I started to draw them.

Opel: Do you feel sexual about your work?

Tom: Yes, otherwise, it wouldn't work. If I do a commission about a situation that really doesn't excite me, I notice that the work is bad. From the beginning I drew from my fantasy world be- cause the real world didn't provide me with what I needed in the way of sexual stimulation. Even today when all things seem possible, when I draw I record my fantasies. When I first started to draw I felt embarassed because I thought, well everyone can see through my drawings and know exactly what's going on in my head. But I've gotten over that and I draw exactly what I want to and I draw those situations that excite me.

Opel: You seem to have touched some universal space because a lot of people seem to get off on the same ideas.

Tom: I was surprised because they were very personal and to find out that a lot of other people had the same ideas, it made my work worth something and made me continue.

Opel: Do you live in Finland now? Tom: Yes, this is my first trip to America.

Opel: But your work isn't seen in Finland?

Tom: No, pornography is illegal and the images I create are considered to be pornographic.

Opel: Could you be prosecuted in your own country if you became visible as an artist there?

Tom: Yes, so I am known by very few people as an artist.

Opel: Where did your drawings first appear?

Tom: A friend of mine in Finland got a copy of Physique Pictorial and he saw some drawings in that magazine and he told me that I should send some of my work to them and they might publish it. This was in 1957. So I sent some pieces to Bob Mizer who was the publisher and he ran them. He also gave me the name Tom of Finland because he couldn't pronounce my name and he thought his readers would be confused by a Finnish name. So I use this name professionally.

Opel: A lot of your work consists of stories, a series of drawings that form a scenario. You are a great storyteller.

Tom: Well that seems to interest people. I started doing this because there were some people who approached me who wanted a story depicted in 20 or 30 pictures; and I liked this very much so I began to draw stories from my own fantasies.

Opel: A series that I like is the one that involves circus performers. Beautiful men trapeze artists who fuck with each other in the air.

Tom: I always found men who worked with the circus to be very exciting. They had beautiful physiques. I wondered how it would be if they were fucking with one another. So I made them fuck one another .

Opel: Mostly you draw men, but I have seen some women that you've done. Do you like to draw women too?

Tom: I would like to draw women more, but I am homosexual and I am turned on by men. I just don't have the same stimulation when I draw a woman.

Opel: Do you get a hard-on when you draw these images?

Tom: Yes, oh yes.

Opel: Do you come when you do the final drawing in one of these very sexually exciting stories?

Tom: No, I hold off because I have to keep going; drawing more pictures.

Opel: I've jacked off many times to your images, and I know a lot of other people who have come all over them; you've given a lot of people some intense orgasms, which may be the very best thing you can do for someone.

Tom: I try.

Opel: There is a certain sense of exaggeration in your work. Do you really know many men who look like those you draw?

Tom: No, many people have told me not to exaggerate so much and I have tried to go back to drawing more normal figures but I noticed when I tried to do this there was no reason to draw. Today the photography is so good and the bodies of the models are so fine, I don't find a reason to duplicate that or compete with that. I deal with fantasies, directing attention to certain areas of the body; but sometimes I feel that I exaggerate too much.

Opel: You draw great asses. Tom: I love asses, and so I do them very well.

Opel: Does it excite you to come here and have a show of your work and meet people who are turned on by your images?

Tom: Very much, it is very important to me to know that people are excited by my work.

Opel: Your men, even in the more intense Sado-Masochistic situations always seem to be having a good time when they are fucking.

Tom: I like to see people enjoying what they do. The men in my fantasies always enjoy each other. In one series the police force one of the men to have sex with them but he eventually gets the policemen to do it without force because they all like it so well.

Opel: Most of your work that ap- peard in America was not authorized by you; is that right?

Tom: That's right. Most of the work was reproduced from magazines that appeared in Europe and Scandinavia and I received no compensation for that. I have some commissions now from people in America for which I will be paid. And I have some representatives here and we have done a calendar together for which I receive a percentage from the sales.

Opel: Are you going to continue to draw the same images or are you considering some new directions?

Tom: I hope to leave all this one day and begin something new.

Opel: How many pictures have you drawn since you first started?

Tom: Well, I didn't keep a count when I first started but there are about two thousand. I have been doing the same thing for 20 years now and I need to grow. I need to make something new. I'll make a flower for you.

Opel: Wonderful, I'll have it made into a tattoo.

Tom: You won't be able to have it made into a tattoo, it will have too much color. Our relationship has a lot of color and I would express it in this.

Opel: I'll have Cliff Raven do it. The idea that you exist, Tom is quite exciting. I'm happy to know you and I'm very glad to have this time with you, and to share it with the readers of DRUMMER.

Tom: Thank you. The people here have been wonderful. I finally get to meet all the American men who turned me on so much in the photographs I have seen. They are very special to me.

'S BARSCENE MEN'

WESTERN / LEATHER [×6+]

CLUB SAN FRANCISCO

San Francisco's Rich Street alley: off of Bryant Street. Warehouse and factory lined. Hard macho men working late hours, talking dirty. You saunter slowly, hang it out in one of many doorways, work your crotch up, watching, checking it out, the workers, the men moving down through the alley. Feel the sexual energy wanting a work out, right here in the alley or if you want it more constructed, in the bath warehouse at the end of the alley: CLUB SAN FRANCISCO. A line of hot Levi-crotched dudes wait to get on Buddy Night, Unemployment in. Night, $1 locker Night, or any night.

COME IN AND SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING

Check in at the front desk, A room or a locker? It doesn't matter because there's sex happening everywhere in this three-story sex warehouse. A giant sculptured dick greets you in front of David's record booth, which pumps pulse-fucking sounds everywhere. Take off what you don't need and put on what you do need in the sweat-smelling locker room lined with athletes getting it ready for action. Up on top of the lockers two hairy-chested ma-cho dudes, legs spread, eating out each other's ass. Putting on a sex show in jock straps, sweating, getting off, being watched, watching.

Cruise the place over. Private big- bedded, big mirrored rooms lined with horny studs in doorways beckoning action . Stop in, check out the equipment and see if it's what you want. There's plenty around. Keep the door open and a three-way can happen in minutes.

Cruisers and bruisers hanging out in dark corners and stairways. Veined hands working their piss-stained, used jocks. Eye contact. Work it and watch it being worked. You know how to turn yourself

If three isn't enough, try the dark bunk room with different leveled mattresses. Dudes waiting for any type of group action. Or the angled orgy room, sinister, mean. I'm here and I want SEX, hot, fucking STUD SEX. There's plenty of room for any type of sex movement. Join in or lean back, watch and work yourself up.

Wander into the room for glory-hole suckers. Get it hard, shove it through, get it sucked. Hands grabbing onto the top of booths, asses pumping dicks through the holes. All the way to the base, fucker!

SEX HEAT O.D.

Once isn't enough in this place. So break for a rest. Relax, watch TV, or chew on some food from the snack bar and watch the hot bodies relax in the oversized jacuzzi in view of your table. Giant tropical fish move about in a large tank. Smoke a joint. Rest it up. Check out who's moving about. Catch the sounds of pumping weights. Feel your crotch jump fantasizing about studs working out.

In the mirrored gym room, Pecs bulging , pulling pounds of macho weight, Hair-lined stomachs tightening doing sit ups on angled boards. Athletes in jocks watching their muscles bulge in the mirrors . Hands rubbing jocks, smelling workout sweat from their crotches. An exhibitionist's / voyeur's / smeller's paradise.

Follow the odored jocked-athlete into the john and smell his crotch. Get your

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EN'S BARSCENE MEN'S

WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO [×3+] and feel the warm work-out piss stream anywhere you want it to flow. Cool tiled floors and hot, thick-streamed piss to turn you on in a dark toilet booth or

Large open shower rooms filled with soap-lathered men spreading soap every- where, pumping dicks until they're covered with white, thick soap lines, bending over to clean out their asses and show what they're giving away. Eye-crotch contact. Hard-chested men leaned up against tiled walls shooting off thick-wadded cum from spread legs and lathered crotches into the steam-filled air. Move into the steam room and hear suck sounds and see the sex shadows. Check and feel out what's happening to whom.

Men moving, standing everywhere: Levi's, construction helmets, pierced tits, underwear, jocks, work boots, white socks, black leather, posed and waiting for action. Take your pick and see if the space is right and then move with it, wherever it takes you. Twenty-five hot fucking employees doing their work trips, being aware of where they're at, and getting off themselves as a fringe benefit.

Enough? No. Fuck films happening in a carpeted room at the top where you can check out others checking out the films. Hardcore oversized pricks being used for what they're there for, to get off. Stay as long as you want. It's open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It's been under new ownership since November . It's moving now and will move fur- ther with future plans. It's the hot CLUB SAN FRANCISCO, subdued, but action- packed, at 330 Rich Street (Rich / Bryant). Call to find out when it's happening in San Francisco (392-3582).

To the best of DRUMMER's knowledge, all of the following establishments are alive and living and catering to the Levi / Leather / Macho Male. We'd also appreciate it if you would keep us informed of any 'n all openings and / or closings of macho watering holes in your area . . or let us know what we have missed. It will help us keep on top of the DRUMMER style action. Here's cum in your eye!

ARIZONA PHOENIX

Connection … 4211 N, 7th St. Ramrod … 395 N. Black Canyon Rd.

CALIFORNIA

ARCADIA (off 210 F'way)

Longbranch Saloon … 131% E. Huntington GARDEN GROVE

Academy (restaurant) 6236 Santa Monica Bivd. BULLSHOT 739 No. La Bras Bunkhouse 4519 Santa Monica Bivd. Detour 1088 Manzanita nr. Sunset Jet. Eleven-Seventy Club 1170 No. Western Ave. FALCON'S LAIR 742 No. Highland Griffs Academy (restaurant) 6236 Santa Monica Blvd. Stud … 4216 Melrose Ave. Wranglers … 1941 Hyperion

LOS ANGELES / VALLEY

Boots . . 12319 Ventura Blvd., Studio City

Drive Shaft . 13751 Victory Blvd., N. Hlywd. Hayloft . 11818 Ventura Blvd., Studio City Nag . 12136 Magnolia Blvd., N. Hollywood The Signal . . 10522 Burbank Blvd., N.Hlywd. PALM SPRINGS

An Old Friend (Motel) 1830 Racquet Club Rd. Party Room … 67-977 Hwy III PALO ALTO

Whiskey Gulch Saloon 1951 E. University Ave. SACRAMENTO

Corral …

SAN DIEGO

BEE JAYS … . 750 India St. | Dugout

SAN FRANCISCO AMBUSH … Badlands … 4121 18th St. THE BLACK & BLUE … 8th at Howard The Brig … FEBE'S … 1501 Folsom … 527 Club | Solid

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1738 Polk Street, San Francisco, California 94109, Phone (415) 885-5773

8th & HOWARD, SAN FRANCISCO

TERN / LEATHER / MACHO / WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO / WESTERN /

WESTERN / LEATHER [×5+]

NORTH CAROLINA

CHARLOTTE Original Brass Rail … 105 W. Morehead RALEIGH

The Capital Corral … 313 W. Hargett

OHIO

CLEVELAND

LEATHER STALLION . 2203 St. Claire Ave. COLUMBUS

The Loft . . 622 S. High St. (above The Grotto)

Tradewinds II 117 E. Chestnut TOLEDO 117 E. Chestnut Lenny's Other Side 3330

OREGON

Dahl & Penne … 604 S.W. 2nd

PENNSYLVANIA

PHILADELPHIA Cell Block … Post …

PITTSBURGH

Rathskellar … 1226 Herron Ave.

TEXAS AUSTIN

… Private Cellar …

Bon Soir … 4527 Cole Boot Camp … 2508 No. Fitzhugh Sun Dance Kid … 4025 Maple Tex's Ranch … 4117 Maple

FORT WORTH

… 651 So. Jennings HOUSTON 651 Club …

Barn … 710 Pacific St. , 1011 Bell Exile … Inside Outside Country … 1322 Westheimer Levi's … 2400 Brazos Locker … 1732 Westhelmer Mary's … 1022 Westheimer

VIRGINIA

Ritz Bar … 131 Brooke Ave.

RICHMOND

Male Box … Sheppard & Idlewood

WASHINGTON

JOHNNY'S HANDLEBAR … 2018 1st Ave. MARSHALL'S OFFICE … 1224 Howell

WISCONSIN

GREEN BAY … 207 So. Washington Man Hole …

WRECK ROOM …266 E. Erie

WYOMING

. East 16th St. 1620 Saloon … (Plain's Hotel Bldg.)

CANADA MONTREAL

Bud's … Trux … 1426 Stanley (3rd floor)

TORONTO

Barracks, Ltd. (baths) … 56 Widmer St. Parkside Tavern … 530 Yonge St. St. Charles Tavern … 488 Yonge St.

VANCOUVER

Play Pen South … 1369 Richards St.

THE SPIKE

NEW YORK'S FRIENDLY LEATHER BAR

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

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IN PASSING

WITH BOB OPEL

oneandonly

BUDDY DAY - MON. & FRI. STUDENT & MILITARY RATE AT ALL TIMES

Club San Francisco FORMERLY RITCH STREET

330 RITCH STREET - (415) 392-3582

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