PRIVATES

Inside, with the door locked, jeans fall to ankles, spit greases palms, hands tightly grip rigid cocks. There is a large, round hole on each of the three walls, and through every hole is a different turn-on , a sex show as hot and horny as the best fuck-flick.

But this movie is real.

The ten inch cock filling the hole below you is real. The hunk in the next stall, jacking off in a black leather jacket and chaps is real. In the stall behind you a fat, black cock pushes up against a white ass and ploughs inside. Right in front of you, eye level, inches away. That's real too.

ACTUALITIES

Basic Plumbing is a place where men do not hesitate to expand their fantasies. In the anonymous safety of hot shadows, concealed in smoky red lights, sexual hunger growls. These are carnal, omniver-ous appetites, bent upon debauchery.

A faceless voice whispers from a hole, "Stick your dick in my mouth."

A hot, wet mouth swallows your cock as your hands grip the handles above, supporting your body as you pump and ride into a soft, sucking mouth. You reach in your pants for amyl. Your right hand brushes a stiff cock. So does your left. You hit the amyl. Both your hands close around two bulging handfuls of dick, both greased and moving on their own, fucking your tightly clenched fists.

BATHTUB SEX

As Basic Plumbing fills up, the temperature rises, crotches bulge, inhibitions break down. It is 4 A.M. Sweat pours off rock-hard chests. Across the room from the glory holes, the sling bangs against the wall. In it is shackled a guy whose legs stick straight up in the air. A dude plants an arm half way up his ass.

Behind the sling, the bunkbeds are full of guys' butt-fucking, stomachs and balls slapping ass.

Across from the beds is a tub. A slave with a leather-studded collar around his neck kneels obediently inside, his mouth catching the jets of piss aimed from a half dozen swollen cocks.

MENS SANA

Everywhere the hypnotic odors of sweat and cum, the smell of fucking and the smell of dick, penetrate and fuse the air with lust. A deep, male groan often rises in ecstacy above the music; hoarse, breathless, guttural.

Stoned and sweating, a hard-on in your hand, there is another level you can cross over to. A bolder, Dionysian flame burns in the blood, and in the crotch.

IN CORPORE SANO

The men of Basic Plumbing have tapped the most primal, libidinal desires west of the MINESHAFT. Their hunt for gratification is uncompromising completely shameless. There is a total eclipse of restraint. Nocturnal-sleaze unleashed upon male flesh. The sweet defilement of men by men.

The energy at Basic Plumbing is intense, physical, and kinetic. The images are blatant, and startling in their severity. A compulsion towards the salacious captures one: the slide is ever downward .

This midnight underworld magnetizes the animals in men and draws them out, It's a lurid dream-world, saturated in sweat: inheritance of the urban cowboy, the redneck, the trucker, the sex which is male celebration and nothing but,

Basic Plumbing is witness to that celebratory heritage of male creatures of the night.

BASIC PLUMBING 725 N. FAIRFAX AVENUE LOS ANGELES, CA 90048

Call this number for information 653-3706

WAKE: Is this a Dewar's Profile? JACK: More like a Do-er's Profile. WAKE: Then this interview is your movie.

JACK: Are you ready for your close- up, Mr. Poole?

WAKE: You just direct it.

JACK: When was the first time you were beaten with a coathanger as a child?

WAKE: Never … as a child.

JACK: Then how, with the classic Boys in the Sand, Bijou, The Bible, and Take One, plus your Broadway and TV experience, have you been driven to deliver such richly "sick" male fantasies? WAKE: Pull out your coathanger and maybe I'll confess … Do readers really want to know the neuroses that make me a Celluloid Junkie? JACK: "You'll believe a man can fly." Men always want to know what makes a Super Do-er actualize what they only fantasize about.

WAKE: No shit.

JACK: Absolutely shitless. In fact, in Superman, director Richard Donner cribbed your technique. He sends Superman and Lois off into a fuckflight in weight- less black space. You delivered bodies fucking in directionless space as early as Bijou. You make male bodies float disconnected from . .

WAKE: Reality, I float them because if nothing is there, then everything is there. I'm almost purely into the bodies. Something in the way they move. The action and interaction of the muscles of the body.

My film loops are bodyscapes. I like to film people, I like to film them so they can see not only how they look, but how I see them when they do some really beautifully basic, personal things. They never see what I see when they're jerking off looking into the mirror. When they see the footage, that's the big surprise.

For instance, Louis DeVries in Night Driver has this incredible chest. When he's jerking off, his whole pec gives off a motion that is totally erotic; but he can't see it from his mirrored point of view. So I zoom right in on it. His pec is reacting as much as his hand and his dick are. Same reaction at the top of the body as at the bottom. And yet the camera allows the pec to be isolated from all else. You can study it, savor it - that's the word for bodies and parts of bodies and faces disconnected in sapce. SAVOR. You can savor flesh. No distractions.

JACK: Boys in the Sand, on the other hand, was noted for its beautiful sur- roundings: seashore, beachhouses. WAKE: That atmosphere was very controlled. That's why straight film reviewers took notice. Boys was the first gay film that straights perceived as not sleazy. Bijou, which followed Boys, is as intentionally sleazy as a film can get, yet there's really nothing literally sleazy in it. The sleaze in Bijou is suggested and suggestive .

JACK: I came out on Bijou. It was the most erotic movie I'd ever seen.

WAKE: Ha, When Bill Harrison walks into Bijou, you hear this carny music and the pinball machine. Noises calculated to set a mondo sleazo mood. But when you and he get inside, there's not any literal sleaze. Bijou is a dark drop down a gay White Rabbit's fantasy hole.

Take the woman at the ticket window. Fat. Heavy ugh-style make-up. Reading a wrestling magazine. Eating an orange with the juice dripping down the fat wattles of her mouth. What a FACE! The whole intro is calculated to be lowkey and low-down .

Then when Bill goes inside. He finds nothing but the black void. Yet your attitude is programmed for sleaze. You figure this place is the pits, but he sur- prisingly passes through a chamber of sculpture and those reaching hands. Is this art? The walls are covered with Playboy centerfolds and Bill's jerking off his enormous meat, thinking about what? The girls? The sleaze? I'm not trying to film, in quotation marks, "art."

JACK: The best art is the art that con- ceals art. Your sleaze-cover makes the art of your films work. At your films, guys get to go in and jerk off, but at the same time their intelligence isn't insulted.

WAKE: And that's a problem. Lately I've felt a bit self-conscious about "art." I sometimes see "art." That's self-indulgent. That's like forcing the Mona Lisa down someone's throat.

Fuck art.

I want to get back to the fantasy of it all.

JACK: Take One to me was an erotic documentary. WAKE: Yes.

JACK: It would make a good double-bill with something as mainline media as Word Is Out. You deal with people who have come out into their bodies, their heads, their sensuality - without politi-cising sexuality.

WAKE: There's more sex in Take One than in any movie I've ever made. And I never have a lot of come shots… Take One must have at least twenty. It had a lot of problems with censorship in L.A.

When two brothers ball for the first time in their lives that was documentary on film. It happened in real life while it

DRUMMER 14

Boys in the Sand, Bijou, Superman Anita Bryant, Roger, and Discipline happened on film. Somehow, instinctively, naturally, they knew exactly what brother-to-brother they were going to do; but nothing was set before the cameras started to roll. The trip was that they wanted to do a whole leather number . They wanted their friends to see how hot they were and what they were really into - just like I sometimes reveal myself on film and just like you sometimes reveal yourself in your writing.

JACK: Is everything autobio aphy? WAKE: Mostly, We better .eck with our analysts. Anyway, the brothers actually did a fistfucking scene which I cut because handballing is not allowed in L.A. Same for piss scenes. The LAPD busts you for both. What I did was cut it so you see the suggestions of everything that's happening: the greasing up of the arm. made almost a leather ballet out of it. I hate to say ballet, but you catch the ballet ruse. So it's a total penetration of the two brothers really experiencing each other for the first time. That's documentary reality. That's also many men's fantasy: to ball with their own brothers,

Then they took off the leather, and I scored in on the soundtrack the noise of kids on a playground, and if you listen really closely you can hear the last words on the track saying, "Hey! You got one just like mine!"

Then they play, wrestle, get into bed, and make love to one another.

That's when it happened for me.

"So many people say, 'God! you changed my life. I saw Casey Donovan sit on a dildo in Boys in the Sand. I heard on a batto in boys in the saw a beautiful man plug himself, suddenly that became alright for me. So I went out and bought one.' That's wonderful! Other men have seen my films and come out of the closet."

Up to then, they were doing all the things they thought they should do. That wasn't bad, the way they started. They were wonderful. But you really see them peel themselves down to some basic, honest relating, again, in front of the camera. They just let it all loose. JACK: So your camera's kind of a truth verite machine?

WAKE: Sort of, In Bijou, I do a self- tattling Hitchcock number. I jerk off in the multi-media section where the four guys have four orgasms while the girl takes off her clothes. One of the guys didn't come back to do his jerkoff scene. So Peter, who way my lover at the time, suggested I do it, since he was already in it.

So there I was, the big-deal erotic film- maker, my lover shooting me from the other room, and I couldn't get a hardon.

Then, THEN, I realized what all these actors go through. So I grabbed the pop- per and said, "Goodbye, Peter" and I completely forgot the camera. It was a take. Cut and print. So I assume that's what others do: forget the camera. Some, I'm sure, in fact, don't forget the camera; they turn on to it directly. Jesus! To say: "Here I am jerking off for all the world to see." What a trip! Even though my face wasn't showing. Just chest to thighs. So, really, my secret little approach to exhibitionism had nothing to do with ego or identity. We just needed some stand-in meat for that scene.

JACK: You're a fantasy source for a lot of people,

WAKE: A reality source too. So many people say, "God! you changed my life. I saw Casey Donovan sit on a dildo in Boys in the Sand. I heard men did that, but when I saw a beautiful man plug himself, suddenly that became alright for me. So I went out and bought one." That's wonderful ! Other men have seen my films and come out of the closet, guess I'm proof of Anita Bryant.

I make recruiting films, JACK: In Bijou the ending is highly suggestive SM and in The Bible the Samson and Delilah sequence is so hot a guy needs a popper to watch it. Given the fact that most gay men are basically middle- class and not much beyond kissy-face vanilla sex, have you ever thought about making a heavily ritualistic SM docu- mentary / fantasy film? WAKE: Moving is my SM film extravaganza. With Peter and Terry. Part

III.

JACK: To me, Peter Fisk is S&M by sheer presence. On screen he reads like an absolute, authentic Top. He really points out heavy mutual sensuality.

WAKE: Mutuality. Heavy SM to me implies heavy enjoyment on both sides. In Moving, you see that Peter as Top and Terry as Bottom both input some control to each other. In that sequence, they fucked united. Take your one hand and hit it with the fist of your other. Which feels the more? Both feel the same force except from different directions.

"Everything is done with mirrors. Gay people are done with mirrors. We are our own best creation. I want my audiences to hit their poppers and go through the doors my films hope to open to them. Filmmaking is an actualization of fantasy. Films give people permission to realize what they want. Film helps people function."

"Heavy SM to me implies heavy enjoyment on both sides. In Moving, you see that Peter as Top and Terry as Bottom both input some control to each other. In that sequence, they fucked united. Take your one hand and hit it with the fist of your other. Which feels the more? Both feel the same force except from different directions."

IACK: You've made Take One, Now you can make Give One!

WAKE: SM is in every movie I've made. SM is subtly essential part of sex whether or not homogenized homosexuals admit it or not.

JACK: You use ritual SM. Would you become visually literal with bondage,, torture toys, whipping? WAKE: On film? Because if you mean in real life, I've been there. That leather hanging there ain't no Nancy Grossman sculpture. Voyeurism of SM isn't the same as the experience. Voyeurism stays on the outside. SM experience means the pleasure of giving oneself away, the pleasure of submission, the pleasure of vul- nerability, as well as the pleasure of giving another man the chance to experience topping you into submissive vulnerability .

JACK: The media often confuse our ritual SM with news headlines like Dean Corll in Houston and, more recently, this John Wayne Gayze in Chicago, alleged molesters and murderers of nonconsenting young men.

WAKE: Those guys aren't into SM or even sex. They're into something psychopathic , Men like that have no more in common with us than Anita Bryant has with real singing.

JACK: What was your impression of the classic Born to Raise Hell?

WAKE: Hell? A well-made film. But then Macy's is a well-made department store. Neither gets me off. In Born to Raise Hell I saw no mutual pleasure. Only brutality. Maybe this is a failure of my perception. Where were the hard dicks? Where was the energy exchange? Rumor says that the fistfucking scene where the guy is tied over the bench started out consensually, but that the tied-up actor changed his mind on camera , They fisted him anyway. His protests turned into real screams. That's torture. Not SM, I'm not into torture. I'm into mindfucks, JACK: You like to mindfuck whole theaters full of men.

WAKE: Yeah, Yeah, Oh yeah!

IACK: You penetrate audiences. How about when you walk into a theater and catch a whole audience jerking off to one of your films?

WAKE: I spent an incredible year in New York at the 55th Street Playhouse. If someone I knew was there, like Nancy Grossman, the wonderful artist who does all the SM leather-bondage sculptures, I experienced the movie from an entirely different point of view. Another night twin brothers came in. A friend had fucked with them separately, so I was curious how they reacted to Take One's

One twin said: "They weren't really brothers were they?" I said, "Yes."

A scene from The Bible, according to St. Poole.

The other twin said, "It wasn't really their first time?"

I said, "Yes."

They looked at each other.

"Haven't you two thought I said, about it?"

They got edgy. Hemmed, Hawed. And said, "Uh, goodbye."

JACK: Gay films have no Pauline Kael to pronounce them hot, and Rex Reed sells his "criticism" to the highest bidding publicist. Besides word-of-mouth and box-office receipts, how can you tell if a gay erotic film satisfies its audience?

WAKE: Jack DeVeau of Hand-in-Hand Films says, "If they're walking around the theater cruising each other, the movie is hot," I say if they're walking around cruising, they're not into the movie. They're looking for another source to get hot. Truth is probably somewhere in be-

JACK: Bodies are what your films are all about. So what in gay pop culture do you predict as the realities and fantasies you will reflect from the mirror of your screen in the Eighties?

Using all the pornstars I could employ. Just like A Chorus Line. Have it all take place in a discotheque.

JACK: Sort of Queens of the Studnuts

Ballroom?

WAKE: Each star could reveal what he really wanted to do. For instance, Bill Harrison of Bijou is a fine actor who has appeared with San Francisco's American Conservatory Theater, If Bill were in the show, he'd reveal that he had played Beau in ACT's Bus Stop. A projection would come up showing him as Beau while descriptions of the property of the showing him as beau the showin while downstage a spot picks up a girl singing, as Marilyn sang in the movie, "That Old Black Magic." Suddenly Bill puts on a cowboy hat and he's Beau, doing a scene live on the spot.

JACK: Let's call Michael Bennett and bers, If we had twenty pornstars, the finale would have twenty scenes playing their fuckfilms simultaneously all around the theater. Can you see the wonderful Georgina Spelvin in The Devil in Miss Jones in a Grand-Finale Fuck-Movie Pro- system. If I charged one, anybody in the world can have one. I mean, I have parts of five companies and I have no money. How can I live in debt? What else is there? I shot most of my first film, Boys in the Sand, on a Mastercharge.

[ACK: How do you feel about having

WAKE: How do you feel about having kicked DRUMMER into gear? Actually, Cliff Newman who operates the Nob Hill Theater here in San Francisco and I got no credit. Not that it matters. Cliff, credited or not, is incredible. I'd seen Roger in L.A. Went backstage and introduced myself. We hit it off. I told Roger he should do some serious physique posing. "You're the only man," I said, "in this business so far who can make real muscle stuff work. You're built, hung, and beautiful. For God's sake, don't just go-go dance." That's all I said.

JACK: DRUMMER No. 21 did a full-blown article on Roger and what you did for him.

WAKE: Transferring Roger from L.A. to San Francisco was a trip just this side

MY FANTASY FOR THE EIGHTIES IS TO PRODUCE A LIVE BROADWAY SHOW. MULTI-MEDIA. USING ALL THE PORNSTARS I COULD EMPLOY. JUST LIKE A CHORUS LINE. HAVE IT ALL TAKE PLACE IN A DISCOTHEQUE.

WAKE: Technically, we're moving into the Videotape Eighties. All my films will soon be available through Irving on video cassette. Not only is the transfer quality excellent, you don't get grease all over your tape the way super-8 film, loaded during sex, looks like it was de- created a stampede to the boxoffice. Nobody's bothered to pick up where Roger left off when Roger disappeared.

WAKE: Gay erotic stars have short careers usually. Fresh meat is the name of the game. But a lot of these guys are really fine people. I went to a party at Falcon Studios. Curtis Taylor took me upstairs. There sat six guys who made Falcon films. My mouth fell open. Armies could have marched over my tongue. Me, the "sophisticated" filmmaker! I said to them all, "My God! I'm a fan!" Seeing them all in the flesh for the first time, I admitted how much I'd jerked off to their wonderful movies.

That's something about erotica: the energy exchange. When you shoot a film, or act in a film loop, or — as in your case with DRUMMER - write something hot, you put out a lot of energy. Much sooner than later that energy circles back to you when some guy in Dubuque jerks off to what you've done. Whenever I get a chill unexpectedly down my spine, figure some man somewhere just got off on something I put on celluloid. That energy exchange, not money and not "art," is the real reason I make films, or "art, these Falcon men act in them, or - I'll bet - you write.

My fantasy for the Eighties is to produce a live Broadway show. Multi-media. duction number? Maybe this is for the Eighties … Do you know any angel with a million bucks?

JACK: Sounds not too far-fetched. After all, you continually turn out good feature-film and loop product at Irving. You're known for your artistic discipline within a largely self-indulgent gay culture. The public believes you lead a hi-ho glamorous life,

WAKE: I wash my own dishes, JACK: And your creative product is good stuff.

WAKE: Discipline is my biggest problem . I'm in one way so disciplined that I could sing a couple choruses of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," Some rumors have it that I'm a drug recluse. Ain't so. I don't run around because I don't have time. Instead of 48 hours at the Slot, I feel better in my studio producing something. That gets me off.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not Maria

I worked till 6 AM the other night and was so horny I went to Buena Vista Park for sunrise services that lasted till 11 AM. Sometimes I kneel so much I feel positively religious. I came back, worked all day, and went to a private re-screening of my friend John Schlesinger's Day of the Locust.

If that's what you define as discipline, then I'm disciplined to the degree I enjoy what I do, I don't even think about money. With money, I'm totally undisciplined . I play. My playing makes money.

JACK: Yet you say you're always in hock.

WAKE: True. I've long wanted my own video. So I charged my videotape of Josef Von Sternberg creating Dietrich. When Cliff, who had already booked Roger sight unseen into the Nob Hill, asked me what the act was like, I tried not to prejudice him. I said, "Roger is personable, charming, dances well; he's a real showman; he has a great dick, muscles, and — I think — a nice head." I said nothing about Roger's L.A. act per se.

When Roger arrived at the Nob Hill two days before his scheduled opening, he auditioned for Cliff. When Roger finished, Cliff said, "If that's the act you intend to lay on San Francisco on this stage, you have your first week's guarantee and your ticket back. I suggest you use it. San Francisco will laugh you off the stage.'

I took a good deep breath and said to Roger, "Now that Cliff has said that, I'll tell you what I think. You're a very hot man. You've got everything but backup to pull you off. If you're willing, Cliff and I are going to take you apart and put you back together."

I looked back at his manager and said, "Jim, if we say too much, or if you've had enough, just stop us. But we're going to lay it on the line."

Roger was wonderful about it. He opened up. We added in the wet nylon beach pants and white headband that had made him famous on that centerspread Blueboy bicycle seat. We added in the beginning and closing classic muscle-posing presentation. Roger had the slides, but I had to shoot the movie and have it ready in two days.

It shot on negative stock straight through. Before the end of the 200-foot four-minute reel, Roger stroked it up

from scratch. Big, floppy, and soft to big, thick, and hard. And he shot. Heavy. Talk about lights, camera, action! We printed it and exhibited it on the Nob Hill screen precisely as it happened.

Another documentary. Such a hit! Cliff and I had never worked together before; but Cliff has always been supportive. He exhibits my films and allowed me to use the Nob Hill Theater itself as the shooting set for Take One. At any rate, on opening night, after a minor adjustment in the finale, Roger came back beaming. The audience tore the house down. Every night thereafter , Cliff kept working with the production , making the lights, sound, and visuals always a little different. He kept the act fresh. Roger ran for weeks to an SRO house. A really fine energy exchange .

JACK: How do you audition talent? Everyone imagines you have this incredible casting couch that never gets a chance to cool down.

WAKE: Usually I just fondle my whip and say, "Take off your clothes." Actu- ally, even though I want my actors to make love to the camera, I very seldom have them strip. Sometimes I do when in doubt. I mean, in an audition, with three of us interviewing the prospect, we might say, "Drop your jeans and get it hard." That's more for the shock therapy than for any exploitation. I cast basically by feedback, aura, securities, insecurities. I find faces as important, if not more important , to my films than genitalia.

Left: Wake wired for action. Below: The secret of Bijou is Bill Harrison's face. His smile is ultimate orgasm.

JACK: Are you insecure? WAKE: Is Flushing in New York? Everyone is insecure. Especially when you're both a private and a public person . To have to relate to people as the public Wakefield Poole — whoever the fuck he is in their minds — is difficult. Just like you getting chased by DRUM- MER groupies. People think I have hot and cold running numbers here all day long. Please don't tell them I don't. People see my movies and think I have answers. What I have is insecurities, Like: who's going to pay my Mastercharge. My life is no different from the movie-goers' lives. Except that it's mine. Jeez. This joint won't stay lit.

JACK: What's your favorite movie? WAKE: Usually, the last one I made. I really like to screen my films for friends. I really got off the night I screened The Bible for you, and you got up and walked over to me and asked for the poppers. How fabulous.

JACK: Your work deserves a very specific kind of "salute."

WAKE: Actually, rescreening my films is a bit like celluloid self-analysis. And I don't mean just trying to find mistakes I wish I hadn't made like the Pepsi can caught within a scene where it should never be. I mean, discovering stuff about the film that slipped in subconsciously when it was made and is only now after several more years of living becoming consciously apparent to me.

Sometimes I watch the actor's per- formance: Georgina, Bill Harrison, Har- rison, as I said, is an incredible actor. He structured his Bijou performance meticulously . Beginning to end. The secret of Bijou is that Harrison's face never shows doubt or pleasure. Then at the end, he smiles. That Harrison smile is the orgasm. His smile is the only thing the audience has not seen. They've seen his enormous cock; they've seen him suck men and fuck women. The only thing left is his incredible pleasureable smile. His face.

JACK: Fred Halsted, whose L.A. Plays Itself is an erotic classic, should learn that about his own filmmaking. Halsted's own face is his greatest asset. While his films are appropriately menacing, he too rarely uses a reaction shot of his own face. He should take a cue from early Warhol: Halsted's greatest film will be twenty

minutes of nothing but a close-up of his own face. I know he prefers not to be typecast into role-playing Top or Bottom, but anyone who is projected larger than life on screen or page is automatically perceived by the viewer as a Top. WAKE: That's the essence of cinema: face. Not tits or ass or cock or fist. Face. JACK: Hollywood traditionally cast heroes as men around 35.

WAKE: My men have grown progressively older as have I. I mean, I'd love to have growing old in my attic The Film of Dorian Poole, but I really get into whatever age I am. My heroes reflect my age. I'm 43, but I feel 32. Currently, I'm casting men in their 30's.

Beef has character chicken lacks.

Joe Markham, who has worked with Falcon and Brentwood, is a good example . He really is a film-loop star. One of my alltime favorites, We balled one night at Dave's Baths and I asked him to play in my new film. He said he was too old. The movie is called Windows, I couldn't use him before; but now he's the right age and he's hotter than he's ever been.

JACK: You cast a spectrum of types from the beachboy Cal Culver (Casey Donovan) to the nightcreature Peter Fisk. Great range for the audience.

WAKE: One from Column A. Two from Column B. Except for Bijou, I never cast any type consciously. For Bijou I cast seven specifically different types. Most often I cast from my friends. Cast- ing sort of "happens." One critic slapped my hand because there was no longhaired boy in Boys, so in Bijou I added one: Bob Stubbs. In fact, when I made Bijou, my hair was long. I was trying to be the Breck girl. Can I say that in DRUMMER? Then I cut it off. Cut it off with a straight razor.

JACK: That you can say in DRUM- MER, But why The Bible? Religion and sex? But then all your films are highly ritualized. Therefore: religious. Maybe you really are a religious filmmaker. You make the body a temple and sex a re- ligious act,

WAKE: You make me sound like Pope Poole I. I was raised very religiously. My biggest disappointment in life was when I could no longer believe all that traditional stained-glass stained-soul stuff. I remember the day I lost all faith. Yet my religious instincts are intact. I have a sense of worship. I worship with my camera. I worship everything: men, women, everything!

This sounds like My-Life-And-Hard-Times ; but I've been an alcoholic, on my back in a camelhair coat, lying in a snowdrift with cabs running by me on 6th

Avenue.

JACK: Was that the worst thing that's

WAKE: I could have gone to the Guyana Film Festival, But I loathe Kool-Aid . Actually, I'm a survivor. Like the song from Follies: "I'm Still Here." The worst thing that ever happened was the year I went dry. I had not one creative thought, Nothing in my head. Talk about unhappy. I was married at the time. My wife was wonderful; but there we both were, caught in a fundamental change in my career and life.

That's why I empathized so much with Kris Kristofferson in A Star Is Born. I dried up. I had energy and no place to put it. I knew I wasn't gone forever, just stuck. I watched TV sixteen hours a day. I'd call my agent, I'd go for a job, I was up to direct Lolita. I had a wonderful concept, but it was never done. It just wasn't my time. I couldn't even get ar- rested.

Fortunately, it was my wife's time. She was making money doing commercials . There was so much negative energy coming in, caused by me at that time, that nothing positive could possibly go out.

MOVING: Peter Fisk's fist begins to convince Terry how tattoos up to the elbow can disappear - up to the elbow.

thing that's ne to the eathe Kool- . Like the Here." The ed was the ne creative Talk about e time, My e we both I change in much with Is Born. 1 o place to orever, just ours a day. job. I was wonderful ne. It just ven get ar- rife's time. g commer-tive energy that time, ossibly go w can disap-

JACK: But you were a big success in the straight New York whirl. How'd you engineer that?

WAKE: Are you going to believe this? I started choreographing the Macy's Parade for NBC. Suddenly I got creative. What shit. That's when I worked with Anita Bryant, For two years we did the Orange Bowl Parade. Four months after

ACK: You used to work on the Ed Sullivan Show also, Your sequences with Edward Villella were way ahead of their time.

WAKE: Sullivan was one thing, Bryant was another. Anita and I are very similar: raised in the South; religious; we both like guys. I have six or seven ministers in mean / of / the [×13+]

When I was twelve, I played my first Orange Bowl. I sang "The Marine Hymn" while a bunch of recruits reenacted the flag-raising on Iwo Jima. When they make the ABC-TV movie of my life, I hope they start out with that number. Now that she's finished playing Judy in Rain- bow, I fantasize "Wake-at-12" to be sex with a male? them with scalding water.

JACK: Did you ever kill one with your dick in it?

WAKE: I don't believe in pulling out.

You've seen my movies.

JACK: Filmmaker talk with tongue-in -cheek.

WAKE: Like Holly Golightly, I'd rather be natural than normal. That's a subtle, but essential, difference in philosophy of living. Normal is what most people do because they see other people doing it. Natural is what you feel like expressing when you're being true to your-

I had a boyfriend, a childhood lover, from my earliest recollection. We crawled

through each other's windows to get at each other. Later my family moved to Florida and it tore my heart out to leave him. I thought everybody enjoyed and suffered this kind of thing. What did I know then from gay or homosexual? I knew natural. I just knew I loved this boy.

One summer he came down to Florida. It was the summer WWII ended. I remember hearing it on the radio as we sat on the porch playing cards, wearing shorts, dressed in appropriate Forties little-boy

The last time I saw him was at my grandmother's funeral. He called his wife, talked to his two little boys, told them he was spending the night with me, and we made love. I'm sure he's never made love to another man before or since. We never discussed it. Our love was a very natural thing

JACK: Has your name always been

Wakefield Poole?

WAKE: Always. Walter Wakefield Poole, III. My father was Walt. My grand- father was Walter, I was Wakie,

JACK: How do you feel about being the end — as most gay men are — of a long geneological line? Our personal collection of genes stops with us. We are sort of punctuation marks at the end of long sentences that descend from time immemorial .

WAKE: Then I want to be an exclamation point!

JACK: I'm going out as a question mark.

WAKE: My sister, now dead once said: "You're all that's left to carry on."

JACK: And look how you're carrying on.

WAKE: What's in a name? Peter Fisk changed his name legally when we made Boys. He hated his last name. It was over fourteen letters and very German.

JACK: I always wanted to relate to Peter. But I get speechless around him.

JACK: June 20. WAKE: What's in a name? I've left my films to go on. Guys, I hope, will be watching them 500 years from now. Hard to tell where my sister's bloodlines will be. I won't be here. I mean Wakefield Poole won't be here. I'll … Well, wait a minute and think about that.

JACK: For now, at least, your screen is a mirror.

WAKE: Everything is done with mirrors . Gay people are done with mirrors, We are our own best creation. I want my audiences to hit their poppers and go through the doors my films hope to open to them. Filmmaking is an actualization of fantasy. Films give people permission to realize what they want, Film helps people function.

IACK: That's your art.

WAKE: Maybe, Maybe, that's entertainment ,

One last thing I'll tell you before discretion gets back its hold on me. majority of gays who for all their gayness still cling to middleclass values. But I'll tell you a truly real moment in one of my films that says everything anyone needs to know, if in fact anyone cares to know anything, about me.

In Moving, when Peter pulls his hand out of Terry's ass, audiences gasp at the juices and fluids that come running out. When we were editing, I said to Peter: "That's not blood. That's not scat. Those are juices, life fluids. I can't cut that moment, because that is the REAL moment when the fluid comes out around the arm tattooed to the elbow. That's one interpretation of reality related man-to-man.'

Critics can play forever with who put what where in my films, I don't care. Just as long as they see, the way audiences see, that somebody has put some- thing somewhere.

IACK FRITSCHER

It felt great … having the gym all to myself for my final workout before the most important contest of my life … Mr. Bay Area! Surprisingly, (considering my recent escape from Thunder Cole) I was full of energy as I worked out on my chest. Six sets on the bench press with three hundred pounds. When I glanced in the mirror I could see the blood rushing to my pectoral muscles from the pumping I was giving it. I went from an incline dumb bell press (still for the chest) to a decline press with 100 pounds of iron in each hand. As the workout got more intense I could feel every muscle of my body come alive right down to my Achilles tendon.

I tried to figure it out as I went to work on the lat machine with 190 pounds … what was it … the wonder … the excitement of a truly great workout? The sweat pouring from my armpits … the back of my neck … in my crotch … my balls pulling into their sac … almost going up into my stomach and yet sometimes my dick getting hard … even dribbling pre-cum. Energy … power … king of the mountain … yeah, that was part of it … a wonderful part … but there is more to it … much more than that, I could feel a kind of ineffable rush to judgement as I finished off my lats and concentrated on my deltoids as I pressed two hundred pounds over my head. Earlier I'd squatted with 550 pounds … yeah, you gotta feel the pain if you're gonna make the gain … I was moaning and groaning as I did the last set of overhead press … increasing the weight to 220. I was crying as I managed eight reps but then I faced the full length mirror.

Yes, I'd done it. I was finished. I was ready for the Mr. Bay Area Contest. I was tempted to look in the mirror at my magnificent body but I pulled my eyes away. Yes, I knew that Rip Powell had awakened all the slaves … all of Killer's slaves and they would be the mirrors … I would see my reflection in their eyes. For a moment I contented myself with running my hands over my sweaty chest, under my arms and down between my legs, grabbing at my manhood, which was half hard. I pulled at my balls, tight in their sac. "Rip," I yelled. "I've finished my workout. I am ready!"

As if by magic Rip appeared in the doorway leading to the locker room. He was playing with one of his golden balls. "It is time then?"

I spoke quietly, confidently. "Yes, it is time!" Rip snapped his fingers and they entered silently, almost stealthily, some of them half asleep. Some of them I didn't even recognize. Then I saw Alastair Ames, the big dude who had owned the gym until I'd 'arranged' to have him sign it over to Killer McKenna. I saw Rufus and some of the others. Before long the gym held twenty young studs … all of them the exclusive property of my master … the one and only, Killer McKenna,

I had to hand it to the golden boy of baseball. On such short notice he'd organized the preview extremely well. He turned off a few lights, had set up some spots, and the gym was in darkness except for the improvised stage at the far end. "Good job, Rip!" I said as I jumped onto the stage. His face flushed with pleasure. He looked into my eyes and then down at my crotch. Ole Rip was always hungry for my dick. I was sure he was sucking off half the baseball teams in the major leagues. "Thank you, George!" Still he couldn't tear his eyes away from my crotch.

I stood motionless … in my sweat suit. Then I slowly, carefully took off the top, throwing it to the slaves beneath me. Disembodied hands grabbed for it eagerly. I didn't even bother to pose. I just stared down into their eyes. Yes, this was the beginning. I'd gotten an inkling of what I had to do in the basement john at the Embarcadero Yes, I was the creator, the painter … the sculptor … and my job was to mold them … to turn the audience into one adoring mass … one brain … on reflex and response … one feeling … adoration of me … it was that simple.

Now very slowly I untied the strings of my sweat pants. Before I took them off my hand ran down to my crotch, outlining the shape of my dick … then dropping the sweat pants … yes, it was a strip tease, but a strip tease with power and energy and my hot sweat. As one of my legs emerged from the sweat pants and they saw I was wearing a jock strap and there was a low, ecstatic moan almost in unison but not quite … the sudden articulation:

HE'S ALMOST AS GORGEOUS AS KILLER HE COULD BE MY MASTER ANY TIME

OH, TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

It wasn't enough. It was just beginning. They were still think-

ing. I wanted their reactions to come from the guts. Now my balls were once again hanging heavy and pushing at the jock strap. I stood motionless until the silence was complete and then I gave them my classic bicep pose, with my torso twisted at the exact right angle to accent the V. A pause … and then all the slaves stood up, screaming, applauding, yelling and I could feel the adulation caressing my body and stiffening my dick and making it run with pre-gism.

The words slammed into my burning head … yeah, show it hard. Why in hell not? With one swift movement I tore at my jock strap, ripping it off my body. I threw it at them. They fought like animals for it but when they looked back at the stage I was naked in the classic John Grimek pose, my legs spread wide. They gasped in unison and then went out of their collective slave heads. My dick was hard and dribbling with the reaction to their devotion. It was beautiful … a true collective happening … I could've started a revolution … they would've followed me through hell.

My body flowed from one pose to another and they never stopped their standing ovation until I hit my last pose. It was a back pose and when I finished it I whirled around, holding my hands high in the air and I gave them their ultimate re- ward. Without touching my dick I shot off into the undulating mass of Killer's slaves. And then it was over. It was a kind of a let down as I pulled on my sweat pants. I felt a sudden chill . almost a premonition of some strange event in the near future. Rip Powell was standing at the doorway and he was herding the slaves back to their respective beds … some in Killer's closet and others in sleeping bags in the smelly locker room.

My heart lurched in my chest. He'd hit it right on the button . Here it was the night before the biggest day in my life and where was my master? Yeah, probably off somewhere recruiting some new slave. The son of a bitch didn't have any heart and yet I loved him. "Ah … Rip, did

"All he told me was that he might be back in time for the contest, George!" "Might?" The word stuck in my throat.

"That's what he said."

"The mother fucking son of a bitch! Fuckin God damned Killer! I hate your guts!" "You hate my guts, Georgie Porgie?" The voice was deep and unmistakable and it sent chills down my back. whirled around, my guts twisted in a knot. Yeah, it was Killer McKenna standing in the doorway. He was wearing a faded old pair of blue jeans with patches on them and a sweat shirt that was too large for him but he looked more gorgeous than ever. "I…ah…I…didn't mean it…I…ah the fuck do you expect to win the contest tomorrow when you ain't got no confidence in yourself. Thank God you don't have to give a speech or even open your mouth … ignorant asshole!"

"I … ah … I … it's good to see you, Boss!" I gulped down my anger at his words.

"Shit, let me get a look at you." He strutted toward me. "Get out of those sweat pants."

Dutifully I stripped, standing in front of my master, trying to keep my knees from knocking together and my prick from getting hard just because he was near me. I tried to look away but I was breathing hard. It always blew my mind, the impact Killer had on my whole being. It was as if he were somehow imprinted on my soul. It was more than the way he looked and acted. What was it? I don't think it was the contrast of his jet black curly hair to his baby white skin or the 225 pounds of rock hard muscle on his six foot three frame. It was much more than that. It was a kind of supreme confidence , an arrogance, a take charge attitude. When Killer McKenna walked into a room you knew he was the boss … there were no doubts and everything was clear and somehow perfect. Everyone knew exactly what to do … who they were.

His thumb and index finger pulled at my waist … checking for fat … he pushed at the cuts of my abdomen, ran his hand roughly over my chest. Shit, I almost expected him to tell me to bend over and spread my cheeks! "Not bad, Georgie. You bin workin' out purty hard, huh?"

"Yes, sir. My arms are nineteen inches, sir and …"

"Well, we'l might place third tomorrow. You better get some sleep … hit the sack!" He moved to the door, his hand unconsciously stroking and adjusting his dick. "By the way, Georgie, if you do not win the Mr. Bay Area Contest don't bother to come back to the gym because the door will be locked. I've given Rip instructions to not let you in. You got that loud and clear?"

THE SON OF A BITCH. AFTER ALL I'D DONE FOR HIM. I'D TURNED THIS CRUMMY BANKRUPT GYM INTO A GOLD MINE AND NOW HE HAD THE NERVE TO TELL ME NOT TO COME BACK IF I DIDN'T WIN, I WONDERED DIDN'T KILLER HAVE ANY FEELINGS ABOUT ANY-

THING?

I looked him right in the eye. "I understand." I turned on my heel and went to the locker room and grabbed my sleeping bag. A minute later I was sound asleep with the other slaves.

They were all there, all of the leading contenders for the Mr. Bay Area Contest. Fifteen of them backstage at the Bay-view Auditorium but I knew I only had to worry about Thunder Cole and an Italian kid named Tony Padua plus a black dude from the Inner City Gym. Backstage, I looked around, trying to spot Padua. He was nowhere in sight but I did see the black dude. Earlier I'd seen him at the Rick Fanni Gym and he'd looked great. Now he didn't look so hot. It took me awhile to figure it out. Yeah, he had a huge Afro that dwarfed his head and body and somehow made him look out of proportion. Even his very wide shoulders looked narrow . Well, there was one guy I wouldn't have to worry about.

I looked around at the other contestants who were busily doing pushups and pumping up their arms and chests. One tall blond guy had a great torso worthy of Steve Reeves in his prime but he stood on legs that were like toothpicks. A Spanish dude had great legs, tremendous arms but no chest. I had to admit that most of them were a miserable lot.

It was happening at last. The Mr. Bay Area Contest had started. This would be the payoff for the months and months of hard work in the gym. I was surprisingly relaxed as I watched Steve Grymkowski from the wings. He was a guest and was giving an exhibition. I watched for a few moments but then turned away. Then I saw Thunder Cole. I watched as the bastard finished off his sit-ups, sat up and winked at me. He was totally poised and together. I felt the rage grabbing at my throat but turned away. I knew if I laid a hand on Thunder I'd get disqualified and he'd love that.

Again I looked for the fabulous Tony Padua. After all, he was supposed to be Thunder's chief rival for the title of Mr. Bay Area. And then I saw him. Wow! My dick stiffened in my posing trunks. What a hump! He was standing in a corner talking animatedly to his father, who was also his trainer. I had to admit he looked incredible even though he was short, about tive feet six inches. However, his proportions were classic, in the tradition of Franco Columbu, from his massive shoulders right down to the tiny waist and the heavy musculature of his legs. His posing trunks held a heavy hunk of Italian salami, It was the only part of his body that was out of proportion but I knew the judges liked guys with big dicks. For after all, weren't all physique contests primary purpose to find the sexiest macho stud? Tony Padua also had the dynamic Italian sexual look that would be a turn-on for the audience. Just one look at him and I wanted to ball him.

Tony kept talking to his father, using his hands. He seemed to be very excited. I took a few steps forward and listened.

"How many times do you want me to tell you …? You'll win in a breeze. It's no contest," His father spoke in a flat,

"Positive, son!"

"But Thunder is six feet tall and I'm wel … you know . . " I could tell Tony's father had to reassure him every ten sec-

onds. His voice was weary from it. "Son, his legs don't match his upper body. You'll win … believe me!

"You think so, Dad?"

"I know so, son. Just relax … okay?"

I stepped forward, shoving my hand out. "Hi! I'm George

Misa! I'm hoping to win third place!" "Hiya, George," Tony smiled. "You work for Killer Mc

Kenna, right?"

"That's right," I said. Up close Tony was even sexier. I wanted to drag him behind the curtains and suck him off. "Ah … I couldn't help overhearing you talking to your father and I agree with him."

awaken the audience.

"I don't know what …?" It was obvious Tony would

never be a Rhodes scholar.

"Thunder Cole doesn't have a chance! You've got it made, Tony. You've got the best build!"

His eyes widened with pleasure. "You think so?" "No doubt about it!" I grinned. "Look at those arms …

and those legs! You've got champion written all over you." "Yeah, but Thunder Cole. He …" "He isn't so hot," I said.

He leaned forward, confidential, "I heard … ah … well

Would my vibrations convince them?

that Thunder is a fuckin' queer."

"Yeah … you heard that?"

"Yeah , I heard it!" His fists were clenched as if he were fighting some unseen enemy. "If there's one thing I can't stand it's these God damned queers! They weightlifting business. They're a bunch of prostitutes … selling their asses and all that shit … they're giving us all a bad name! I ain't no fuckin' fag!" I gave him a big smile. "Hey, maybe we should put all gay

weightlifters into concentration camps. What do you say to

that?"

"It sounds like a great idea."

"Well, I'll talk to my Congressperson in the morning." It was then I came to my decision. There was no doubt about it, Tony Padua was a homophobic son of a bitch. "Hey, Tony, don't worry about a thing. The fact that Thunder is over six feet tall doesn't mean a thing."

I could see the fear and doubt in his eyes. "What do you

mean?"

I figured I'd get the knife in real deep. "And the fact that he has light brown hair and blue eyes doesn't really matter!' "It doesn't?" His mouth was wide open.

his reaction.

"Tony, just listen and listen carefully. Okay?" He nodded, I let him have it right between the eyes as I dropped my<br>bombshell. "Just remember, you've got to believe in the<br>audience and not those crooked judges." I thought Tony's father was going to jump out of his skin.<br>"What in hell are you talking about?"

I gave him my most sincere look, "I just know the audience is going to fall in love with your son, Mr. Padua," I spoke<br>quietly. "It's just a shame that the cards are stacked against<br>the best build on the west coast."

I thought the old man was going to have a nervous breakdown on the spot. "I…ah…I…I…?"

"It's the judges, sir. It's a set-up!"

"You mean…Thunder Cole…it's…?"

I nodded my head slowly. "It's nothing personal,

just big business. Thunder Cole has already been signed for the use of his name on a new line of machine weightlifting equipment that will be in direct competition with Nautilus.' "Oh, shit!" Tony said as he grabbed at his salami.

ment that will be in direct competition with Nautilus.' "Oh, shit!" Tony said as he grabbed at his salami.

"And this is just the first step," I continued to embroider<br>on my lies. "Next will come the big national and international contests with Thunder winning them all. Right to the ultimate

contest, Mr. Olympian … he is going all the way!" There was a stunned silence. I had to admit my timing was absolutely perfect. The Master of Ceremonies announced Tony Padua as the next contestant. He was in such a daze that he didn't even move. His father had to shove him onstage. He tripped over his feet as he went out and skidded to center stage on his ass. It got a big laugh. I watched as he went through an uninspired routine. I knew that laughter in a contest like this was a real killer. Tony Padua had had it, He was<br>not going to be Mr. Bay Area. I knew he wouldn't even place. He was through. It would be between Thunder Cole and me.

beautiful, muscular ass.

I didn't bother to pump up my body. I stood quietly in the wings, my eyes closed, breathing deeply, waiting patiently for the MC to announce my name. And then I was gliding onto

the stage, moving to the center, facing the audience. There was only a smattering of applause for the unknown George Misa. I listened for a moment … listened for their pulse beat. It was obvious that the vast majority had been to a hundred contests and most of them were slightly bored, waiting for their favorite to come forth. And wasn't the favorite Thunder Cole? I hit them with my first pose.

I don't think they were ready for it. It was a variation on a pose that Steve Reeves had done over twenty years before when he was first coming to the forefront, before he'd won Mr. America. But I knew it would be the variation that would

One moment I was preparing for the ritual but what I did broke all the rules of bodybuilding contests. I leaped high and came down in my pose. It was a pantomime of a karate chop … frozen in time and space … right down to the look of vengeance … the look of anger on my face. Before they knew what hit them … while they were gasping with surprise I went into a convention double bicep pose. But now I was smiling … but the smile was different … it was a smile of triumph … of victory. I was saying, "You are looking at the most beautiful body you'll ever see." I waited and waited.

It seemed like the silence of the audience would go on and on forever. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop…<br>no coughing … no shuffling of feet or rattle of programs. Then, very low at first and before long the audience was standing and screaming for more. I basked in their adulation and then I gave them another action pose, this time a sideways one of my belting an opponent in the guts, showing off my triceps and my quadriceps and then quickly to my crab pose, holding it as they fell in love with my lats and delts. As<br>the applause got wilder and wilder I could feel my dick harden. It was a grand and glorious feeling but I knew it was time to get off-stage before I shot off. I knew this was the time<br>for me to be just a bit subtle. After all, I wouldn't want them to know they had just gone through the homosexual experience of their lives. Some of them might freak out behind it,

And then I was offstage still with their 'waves of love' pounding in my ears. As I headed for the john my eyes flicked over to Thunder Cole. He was biting down on his lip and scowling. I winked at him as I pushed at the door. "I guess they sort of liked me, huh?" I said deadpan. I didn't wait for

I burst into the john so quickly that I caught the young man red handed. He was standing at a urinal with his legs spread wide, his eyes half closed, whacking away at his dong. He tried to push the stiff thing into his posing trunks as he turned away, the back of his neck beet red. As he tried to push past me without looking at me I put out my arm blocking his way. "Ah … what's the matter?"

I detected a note of fear in his voice, almost as if he expected to be arrested for beating his meat. "Nothing's the matter," I answered, as I eyed the stiff piece of meat in his posing trunks. "I watched you pose out there! You're really good!"

"Ah … you think so?" "Sure thing," I answered, still looking at his crotch.

There was a moment of silence and then I saw the cocky smile on his face. He was damned good looking, a Tony Padua look alike. Short and stocky with thick legs and a big barrel chest with plenty of hair on it. I pulled down the thin posing trunks and a thick polish sausage flopped out. I could feel its heat before I even touched it. Then I was down on my knees and had his dick all the way down my throat. It tasted so good. I grabbed his heavily muscled ass just as his body jerked crazily and both his hands wrapped around my neck as he rammed his dick all the way down my throat as a choking sob<br>burst from his throat. I could feel his hot sperm splash against the back of my throat and it tasted good … full of brewers yeast and dessicated liver … all good things. Quickly he started to jam it back into his posing trunks but I licked off<br>the last dribble of healthy cum. "Hey, man, you don't want<br>cum all over your posing trunks, now do you?"<br>"I…ah…guess not." He gave me a strange look.<br>I unl

Thunder Cole was in the same spot as when I'd gone to the john, waiting for the MC to call his name. The pressure was beginning to show. He was biting his fingernails. When he saw

me looking he quickly hid his hand behind his back. I moved toward him. I held out my hand, He gave me a strange look. "Good luck, Thunder," I said evenly.

Padua and me.

Taniman was one of the best fucks I've ever had in my life."

"Yeah, but … ah … you know …

"It was fun running naked down the street … the air felt

I looked Thunder over, I had to admit he looked great, I remembered my first impression of Thunder Cole … when he'd come into the Killer McKenna Gym, What had impressed me most was his supreme confidence. Yeah, he was the kind of a guy where the sun followed him … even on a rainy day. Even his light brown hair had a gloss to it, as if he were in the sunlight. Even though I'd created a sensation with my unusual posing routine I knew that Thunder Cole was still the odds on favorite to win the title. I might beat out Tony Padua. It was then I saw the pimple near his navel. Actually, it was about an inch beneath it. "Ah … what's that, Thunder?"

Bay Area for 1979, George Misa!

Thunder didn't look down but his hand moved quickly in front of his stomach, hiding it from me. "It's ah … just a

little ah … pimple."

"Yeah, but you're such a perfect specimen," I said with a straight face. "I could see it on some other dude, but you…

about it … I tried to cover it with pancake make-up … but it won't hide … it just won't!"

"Ah … let me think!" I paused for dramatic effect, "Well, for one thing the posing trunks you're wearing are all wrong!" "What makes you say that?"

"Well … they're like a postage stamp … they give you

that … ah … you know … " "You mean faggy look?" "Well, I wouldn't actually say faggy but …"

"They do, don't they?" "No, not really," I could tell it was working. He was biting his nails like crazy. "But you could kill two birds with one stone.

"What do you mean?"

"Hell, I've got an extra pair of posing trunks in my locker.<br>They come up an inch or so higher. They'll take away that ah

"Hell yes. Anything for a buddy."

I couldn't believe he was falling for it hook line and sinker. The posing trunks he was wearing were perfect for his body but Thunder Cole had a 'thing' about pimples. It was only a minute before Thunder was wearing my extra pair of posing trunks. They were all wrong for Thunder … wrong color … wrong cut … everything. They didn't even hide the pimple. "Hey, they don't even hide this pimple and …" Thunder finally got suspicious.

"They don't, do they?" I giggled.

On stage the Master of Ceremonies was speaking, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the young man who won Mr. Northwest California, the young man who won the most<br>muscular chest in last year's Mr. Bay Area Contest, the young man who may very well be the next Arnold Schwarzenegger. . the incomparable … Thunder Cole!" "Give them back, you son of a bitch!"

I held his posing trunks behind my back. Thunder grabbed me and wrestled me to the floor. He finally got his hands on the posing trunks. There was a rip and that was the end of<br>them. As I stood up I smiled. "Good luck, Thunder!"

The Master of Ceremonies was looking in our direction. He cleared his throat nervously, "The young man who may very well be the next Arnold Schwarzenegger. . the incomparable…Thunder Cole!"

Thunder Cole stood for a moment undecided. He looked like he was about ready to cry. He finally went onstage, I don't know if he was aware of it or not but he was biting his nails. I didn't bother to watch. I knew it was all over but the shouting (or lack of shouting). Listening to the audience confirmed my conviction that Thunder Cole was blowing it. There was a smattering of applause when Thunder finished his<br>routine. And then we waited for a few minutes as the MC

conferred with the judges and then came the announcement that there would be a pose off between Thunder Cole, Tony Padua and me.

When I walked on stage I knew. The audience stood up and<br>cheered and it was obvious that if the judges gave the title to either Thunder or Tony they'd tear the auditorium apart. All through the pose off I watched Thunder's face get whiter and whiter and that was my sweet revenge.

There was another conference among the judges and then the announcement from the Master of Ceremonies, "Third place, Thunder Cole. Second place, Tony Padua, The new Mr.

It was all over, I had won. And yet there was just one thing on my mind … one person. Where in hell was Killer? My eyes searched the audience … no Killer. And now, all the people gathered around me, congratulating me on my new title, on my victory but it was like ashes in my mouth. Where was he? I finally spotted Rip Powell in the audience. When he was finally able to push his way through he gave me a bear hug. "You're the greatest!" "Where in hell is Killer?"

"Oh, ah … I … ah …"<br>I could tell he knew. "Tell me the truth, Rip!"

"He went to the middleweight fight." I was stunned. "You're kidding?" "You wanted to know … so I told you!" "Did he say when he'd get home to the gym?" My mouth

was dry. "Ah … said he was going to the opening of the new Disco in Sausalito."

I couldn't help myself. Right on the stage I burst into tears.

"1 … l … just … l gotta get outa here … l …

The gym was a desolate, lonely place. I stared absently at some of the new shiny Natalus equipment that Killer was able to buy because of membership I'd sold. If it hadn't been for me this gym would still be bankrupt or maybe a warehouse. And I'd done it all for Killer McKenna. And I knew this was the end. How much could I take? I knew there was no way I could continue to live at the Killer McKenna Gym. Especially after he'd promised me he'd spend a whole night with me if I won the Mr. Bay Area Contest. He was a son of a bitchin' prick asshole. Sure, I may be a masochist but this was ridiculous .

As I walked to the locker room to pack the few things I possessed I couldn't help thinking of all the fantasies … all the dreams I'd had of this night … this night of love and sex with Killer … just the two of us … together … Wow! Even

now the thought of it gave me a rock hard on.

I banged the locker shut. A couple of T-shirts, posing trunks, a jock strap and my shaving equipment … that was it. It took me about a minute to put them in the overnight bag and then I was at the door of the gym proper. I stood motion-<br>less, staring. My mouth fell open. For a second I thought I was going to pass out. Was I hallucinating? I closed my eyes and then opened them. Killer McKenna! Yes, it was him, in the flesh, working out, looking exactly the way he'd looked the first time I saw him. He was wearing the same sweat pants and no top just like the first time. I stared as he pressed three hundred pounds over his head. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his powerful pectoral muscles, monster hills covered<br>with silky black hair. My eyes followed the blue-green vein that pulsed down across his stomach and disappeared into his sweat pants, down through his black pubic hair and into the fat eleven inch uncut dick.

Deliberately Killer dropped the weight onto the floor of the gym. The building shook. He reached for the string on his sweat pants and pulled. They fell silently to the floor, revealing his incredibly muscled legs. He was down to his jock strap. I knew it was the same one I'd smelled so many months before when I'd wrapped it around my head and jerked off and

Killer had caught me. Yes, all the memories .

Finally Killer looked at me with his baby blues. He reached down with both hands, grabbing the pouch of the jock strap.

"Well, Georgie, you earned it. It's your night!"

The gym tilted crazily. I had to struggle to stop from passing out. But I knew there was no way I wasn't going to enjoy every microsecond with my master … with the great fucking machine Killer McKenna, Getting down on my knees in front of my master I pulled at the jock strap

Frank Cross, a 51-year-old former priest and proficient S / M Top, demonstrates his homemade trapeze, a wondrously wicked device for securing a Bottom to tit clamps. The clamps attach to ropes. The ropes go along a pulley, and on the other side of the pulley are knots in the rope for hanging lead fish- ing weights. "If he's a heavy Bottom," Cross says, "you can increase the weights to increase the pull on his tits."

HIGH PRIEST

Cross, who wears leathers and sun- glasses like they were papal vestments, pulls out a large leather hide. An admitted fetishist, Cross adores black leather. He speaks of its "bouquet" and handles it with the awe and respect one associates with fine wine.

Cross moves to the subject of flagellation , speaking in rhythmic, ritualistic tones. "You're possessing the Bottom's cones. You're possessing the Bottom's mind, his body, his sensitivity," he says. "You're whipping out every sense of reality except pain. Pain … your brain … pain. Pain. You get his full attention."

"I love this man!" a woman shouts out.

Cross smiles, just slightly. He respects adoration from the Bottoms.

SHOW AND TELL

It's Show-and-Tell at a Society of Janus meeting, and the motley San Francisco crowd, sardined into a small room above a Market Street bar, gobbles up Cross' bits of S / M lore like manna from heaven. Cross was, after all, once a priest; and once a priest, always a priest. Now, the Society of Janus is his parish.

Cynthia Slater, an earth-woman in her hot 30's, wearing stilletto-heeled boots and spurs, takes the floor moments later, demonstrating particulars on her human bridle. Slater shoves the bit into her Bottom's mouth, straddles her, and picks up the braided reins that extend back from the headpiece. Slater yanks on it expertly. "Some people," she cautions, "have sensitive gag reflexes."

The litary moves along to thumb- cuffs, more whips and cats, ideas on shaving a partner's genitals prior to splashing hot candle wax. (Never use beeswax. It burns for real, not ritual!) When handcuffs get locked, we're tol don't panic. Call the San Francisco Fire Department. "In this town," Slater says, "they don't even bat an eye." In all, 16 "toys" that Mattel never heard of are discussed. What one person doesn't know about the most sensual refinement of a device, another provides.

DRAWINGS BY L.A. CAVELO

THE JANUS SOCIETY

"Grease up the end of the flange for whipping," Slater says. "It makes a greater sting without any mark."

Cross smiles his benediction at her wisdom. If he is the priest, she is the priestess.

Janus members know the best saddle-and -tack shops in the Bay Area, the friendliest leather gear outlet, the finest surgical supply store. You might say what the Juilliard School is to music education, lanus is to S / M.

EDUCATION BREEDS SAFEPLAY

All information, by Janus policy, aims at safety tips and precautions. Toys aren't capriciously brought in and creamed over, but rather discussed reasonably and practically. The erotic ele- ment is primary, "We try to tell people to never play over their heads or beyond their skills," Cross explains. "You can achieve an S / M high without crucifying people."

The meeting charges on with good- humored, even playful camaraderie.

These folks are all friends.

"Sensuality," Cross says, no note of preachment in his voice, "is the name of the game." "Mutuality," Slater adds. The lady knows pleasure in private, and guest- lectures in human sexuality at college

A surge of applause endorses the sentiments.

Nobody's here to score. Not officially, anyway. The assortment of men and women, gay and straight and bi, Tops and Bottoms and Negotiables, come not to orgy or to swap, but to share information . Janus was formed, according to the group's literature, "to exchange insights and to learn more about S / M in an ac- cepting social atmosphere."

And it's working.

GROUP PURPOSE

Janus is the only group of its kind in the United States, rivaled only by the older Til Eulenspiegel group in New York. Til also features rap and consciousness -raising sessions. Aside from the Show-and-Tell described above, Janus schedules programs like "Bondage Workshop," "Ask the Doctor," "The Gentle Art of Flagellation," and "Playroom Tours." Interested in an S / M speaker's bureau? Call Janus for a good time. A monthly bulletin with consumer reports, occasional S / M book and film reviews, as well as social events like a Halloween party are included in the membership package.

Janus has roughly (no pun intended) 50 members, and has recently branched into a women's S / M group named Cardia, and a Lesbian offshoot, Samois. Janus maintains a plurality of gay men. (Home- base is, after all, SFO.) A membership survey last year determined that 20% in the group are clearly-defined Tops, 55 to 60% are exclusively Bottoms, and the rest are Negotiables.

YOU'RE A JET ALL THE WAY

I ask Slater what motivates a person to join Janus. "First, a chance to share information and learn more," she answers.

"Second, a chance to meet partners. And third, a chance to be in a supportive, validating environment. Like when you first find out you're gay, you're afraid you're the only one in the whole world."

Slater, who started Janus three years ago, frequently lectures on the group's behalf. She identifies herself as a bisexual -Negotiable basically into sensual bondage. She sprinkles her talk with pop psych vocab. "Validating" comes up a lot. The "OK-ness" of being a Top or a Bottom. Slater stops well this side of est. What she says is intelligent, eye-opening, and well-reasoned.

Slater moved to San Francisco in 1971, and began actualizing her S / M fantasies. She and her male lover had problems making trips and toys click in scenes because of their lack of information . "You can't go to the library and

Berkeley Barb ads were mostly swing-swap -n-clap clubs. Commercial. Hetero- sexist. Very much "I'll kiss-off my wife for yours." The women were traded around like fuckable commodities on the

New York Stock Exchange.

At the same time, Slater tired of her non-S / M friends whose "heavy vicarious curiosity" became a judgmental mind- fuck. "They never really shared them- selves other than judgmentally saying, "I'm not into that." At the same time they'd be squirming on the edge of their ripped off. Even psycho-sexually molested."

Slater never minces.

Finally, she and her lover decided that in order to meet other S / M people, without the bullshit of the existing clubs, they'd have to start their own organiza- tion. It was August 1975. Their first move was a newsletter, advertised in the Barb, listing the monthly meetings at Cynthia's house. In those early days - before gay men started joining - a lot of heterosexual men persisted in "dogging the women," Slater says. "That was the only reason they came.

NO PRESSURE PUNKING

Today, there's a firm Janus rule regarding pressure. If someone asks for a date, gets turned down twice, he or she must drop it. "Anyone looking for a hot conquest," Cross said, "or for a bunch of men stalking and menacing each other, won't find it here."

CROSS PURPOSES?

The focus of Janus has also changed in those three years. Whereas information and support were the steady diet before, now there's a kind of cross- communication between Tops and Bottoms as well. "We try to get both sides to be more tolerant of each other," Cross says. "So many times a Bottom lets the Top take over completely, thinking he's done everything he needs to do just by presenting himself. Big deal! He expects the Top to be his animated dildo." Cross strokes his heavy leather. "On the other hand," he says, "Bottoms complain that Tops lack patience. They keep saying the

Tops need to go to school." "The real coup," Cross says, is "getting away from inflicting your fantasy on someone else. Both need to recognize the need for mutual turn-on, mutual susceptibility . Sharing, I found I have a built-in breaker-circuit. Unless my Bottom is enjoying , I don't want to play.'

IANUARY: TWO FACES

The name Janus comes from the twin-faced Roman god of doorways, symbolizing beginnings and endings. To quote Janus literature: "Some of us believe that the intertwined drives toward dominance and submission are common to all humankind … that expressed creatively, S / M can develop an exquisite and beautiful trust."

Trust is the operative word.

Slater corroborates: "The more I've gotten in touch with my S / M fantasies," she says, "the stronger a human being I've become. Even a bit of a humanist.'

Fantasies, Myths, Guilt, What S / M person ever had a smooth coming-out? Cynthia is articulate and moving on this subject. Perhaps she's used the spiel in her lectures. No matter. With Slater, practice makes perfect.

"Anyone who's a member of a sexual minority in this country," she says, "no matter how much work they've done in their head or how much external support they get, always carries a remnant of the crap that society has laid on them. You never get 100% clear of it. I have my moments when someone looks at me funny , and it pushes those buttons for me. But I can deal with it now because I have something that balances it out. I can walk into a Janus meeting and be surrounded by great people who validate me.'

SOME CRAP NEVER DIES

The crap she recalls lives right now, alive and sick, within the uptight, vanilla-gay , kissy-face gay community. Feminist circles, like queenly circles, go down in a nosedive of fear, resentment of, and downright attitude toward S / M.

A tremendous amount of flak rained down on the Janus Society when they applied to the 1978 Gay Freedom Day Committee for float privileges. Janus was finally begrudged a space. When they paraded that day on Market Street (with a placard saying "A woman's right to choice is absolute"), the howls could've been heard in San Jose, Middle-class gay pressure groups ultimately caused the parade committee to say, "We're sorry we let you in." It now looks as though Janus won't be marching at 1979's Gay Freedom Parade. Ain't we all just brothers and sisters? Fuck! If Anita don't getcha, some unliberated faggot will!

S / M COMING OUT

Women probably have the toughest time coming out as an S / M person. Even in "soft" or "vanilla" sex, society's heavy thou-shalt-not hand tells them to be less exploratory and adventuresome than men. "If you want to come out to men," Slater says, "you'll find a lot of

men equate being a Bottom with the traditional woman's role in the home. They show the same insensitivity that exists in daily life, so that playing with them can't be mutually satisfying. If you're a woman coming out as a Top, it's awfully scary to be a maitresse to an American male considering the lack of permission women are given to be assertive and initiatory.'

"Coming out to gay women," Slater continues, "you can expect to be trashed. I've been verbally attacked and abused in ways that utterly appalled me by my so- called sisters."

Pat Califia, 24, one of the coordina-tors of Janus, says the anti-S / M mentality is typified by Women Against Violence in Pornography and Media. The WAVPM is a righteous, indignant, eroti-phobic group that made news by getting the Rolling Stones' Black and Blue billboard (depicting a bruised and bound woman) removed from the Sunset Strip.

"Spanking, bondage, torture, and mur- der are lumped together in their minds," Califia says. "They want to ban pictorial sex altogether." She sees the group as reactionary and one that plays directly into the hands of neo-right anti-gay and anti-porn groups. Instead of attacking S / M people and the erotic art industry, she feels WAVPM should focus its tight little vaginal wrath on ineffective rape laws and police enforcement.

Califia, who grew up as Patricia Hardman before taking her name from the Amazon figure that appears in the California State Seal, is also incensed by WAVPM because of its bigotry toward gay men. "If there's any group in our society that's supportive of sensual sexuality, it's gay men. It also infuriates me to see one minority dump on another; it's like watching lobsters fight in a bucket.

Califia seems to have her head right

"The greater number of Lesbians think sex is nasty unless it's with someone you want to spend your life with," Califia says, "I like to play in public, I'm exhibitionistic . But there's no way I could march into a dyke bar and drag out a hot woman in handcuffs. They'd be up in arms.'

Califia has two lovers (one Top and one Bottom), a budding career as a writer of women's erotica, and an insatiable desire to transfer the privilege and power of male S / M into her own life. She has the distinction of being the first woman to violate the all-male sanctum of the Black and Blue, a popular San Francisco leather bar. The bouncer refused her admittance , but she brazenly marched past, dragging two women with her.

"DRUMMER, BECAUSE OF ITS KINKY AUTHENTICITY, IS BECOMING A SOLID FAVORITE AMONG KINKY STRAIGHTS AS WELL AS AMONG KINKY GAYS, AND THAT'S SOMETHING!"

C. SLATER

Pain. Torture. Should one believe the famous Richard Goldstein piece on "Flirting with Terminal Sex" in the Village Voice three years ago? Gold-stein suggested that the S / M aficionado ultimately loses control, finding his passion spiraling into realms of the senses he never dreamed of entering - like death.

The Goldstein piece used words like "Satanic." It equated S / M with Nazism.

Cross, who hated that piece, insists If is not a progressive thing, "You S / M is not a progressive thing. don't go from dressing up in uniforms, to bondage, to pain, to torture, to blood. No. As I've observed it, people have their own functioning level, and as long as they're comfortable they usually remain at that level.'

"Most of the men were amused and titillated," Califia says. "When I hand- cuffed both the women, threw them up against the wall and did a number on them, the only one who got blown away was some guy in a jockstrap and dog collar who kept saying, 'Is nothing sacred?' "

Frank Cross whom I interviewed in his home, afforded me a tour of his totally maxed playroom and water sports den. Cross is also concerned with dis- pelling myths. Demystification. "Phil Andros (legendary erotic writer for DRUMMER and other publications) is always quoting to me a major psychiatric researcher who says the main in- terest in S / M lasts 7 years and then burns out," Cross says. "I've been in it 15 years, and I'm probably better, more accomplished and patient than ever. One of the nice things about S / M is that it's not ageist, like so much of the homosexual culture. Leather and S / M can add a whole additional decade to a man's active sex life if he understands it and uses it properly."

Goldstein also isolated fist fucking as the pinnacle excess of S / M, an "apo- cryphal gesture." Cross argues that, though FF and S / M occasionally inter- sect, most fisting doesn't carry an S / M element. "It's purely sensual; it doesn't have that exchange of domination and sub-mission. It's more of a direct trust exchange."

Overcoming the kind of incorrect and malicious information in the Gold-stein piece is one of the Society of Janus objectives. The introductory Janus pamphlet defines S / M as "an exchange of power between two or more mutually consenting persons." Nothing more.

S / M does not necessarily involve leather or rubber, the literature says, or pain, or even sex. It is "by defini- tion consensual … (and) therefore antithetical to rape, violence, and murder." Take that, you WAVPM ladies!

Is Janus working?

Cynthia Slater replies: "I see us mak- ing progress. We've gotten some very good press from non-S / M magazines. I see changes in the professional world. When I started knocking on doors at institutions like San Francisco Sex Information and the University of California, I said, 'You're the frontrunner in the human sexuality field. You're taking the most humanistic view of sexuality ever. What are you doing about S / M?' They all said, 'Nothing. We don't know anything or anyone who's qualified, Will you help us?' So now it's part of their pro- gram." Slater smiles through opalescent skin and lights up an Eve. "Across the country, there are some people in the counseling and helping professions who don't follow the old approach of 'curing perversion' when they encounter an S / M- identified person. Perhaps most important are the changes in S / M people. It's just my instinct that Janus has something to do with it," Cynthia Slater says. "but I think people feel better about themselves because Janus is there." "Yeah," says Cross. "You can see it from the way they walk when they're out in leather.

For more information on the Janus Society, write to: Box 6794, San Francisco, CA 94101.

2

DRAWINGS BY A.JAY

The night before I had gotten my cell change slip and my work assignment notification. One said, "One Cellhouse, Cell No. 260," the other was just as brief, "Cellhouse Clothing

Room."

For the past two weeks I had been in the cell by myself, It was quarantine after I got here from the Reception-Guidance Center in Chino where I had spent the last six weeks after being sent there from the Los Angeles County Jail, Because I had tried to escape from Chino they had sent me here to Folsom. I had heard this was the to ighest joint in the state and I was scared shitless.

I whiled away my time for the past two weeks reading paperbacks and playing with my cock. The pig motherfuckers had taken everything away from me when I was arrested but at least they couldn't take my cock and balls. If there had been any truth to the old wive's tale, I would now be a blithering idiot after whacking off so much these past weeks. I grabbed at my semi-hard on. I sure hated wearing shorts, but I was told

Packing my few belongings in a pillow case, I wondered about my future in the joint, Since I had been in quarantine, I had received propositions and notes from studs who wanted to fuck around, but I turned them down without getting any body pissed off at me. Guys had offered me cigarettes and canteen, but I knew that if I accepted any presents I'd com- mitted myself.

I didn't have a mirror, but I knew I was goodlooking enough and my being 20 years of age made me attractive to most men … and, yes, women. I stood five feet ten inches in my bare feet and weighed 160 stripped naked. Since I was a kid, I worked out every day. Unlike a lot of guys who worked out for bulk, I was only interested in muscle tone and I concentrated on my entire body. Since I'd been locked up I did calisthenics every day. I was proud of my nine-inch cock with its large cut head. Maybe, I should find myself some faggot or jail punk. Naw, they're too much fucking trouble! "Jim West, let's go," a voice hollered at the end of the tier as the bar released the already unlocked door.

Quickly, I grabbed my pillowslip and headed out the door, The guard told me to leave Two cellhouse, pass through No. 5 into the main yard and go over to No. 1

As I traversed the yard, I could feel guys eyeing me, but I looked straight ahead, ignoring them. Eat your hearts out, bastards, I thought,

At the entrance gate to No. 1 cellhouse, the guard unlocked the massive steel gate. "Report to the cellhouse sergeant inside the cellhouse."

The small office inside of the doorway had a sergeant, guard, and a prisoner-clerk. They watched me approach the half-open Dutch door.

I gave the young guard the two slips of paper. Glancing at them, he handed them to a middle-aged, grizzled sergeant. "This is the new fish," he remarked.

O.K., show him where his cell is,"

"Sir, this is the inmate I was talking to you about."

I felt like a piece of meat that was being exhibited. What the hell was going on?

"Forget it, Long. I told you the custody office makes these decisions. you?" I still couldn't figure what this was all about. "Twenty," bert's 28. You know we can't put anybody in with someone who's more than four years older."

I decided to let them battle it out, I was beginning to wonder if there was such a rule, then why was I being put in with this Lambert guy. The inmate clerk smiled at me, but I ignored him because I spotted him right away as a flaming faggot. "You want to argue the point, go and see the watch lieutenant."

I could see that the guard was not willing to do this. "Come

" the young guard said as he came out of the office. on,

We walked up the center staircase to the second tier and down the long gallery to a cell near the end. Everyone must be at work because we didn't see anyone. The cell door of 260 was wide open. Before I could enter the cell, Long turned to me. "Look, West, if you have any kind of hassle with Lam- bert, you let me know and I'll bury him under the hole." He eased past me and stormed down the tier.

I was quickly getting the impression that this Lambert was some sort of trouble and that the guard, Long, didn't like him. When I entered the cell, I could see that the lower bunk was empty which surprised me since I had learned enough in the joint to know that the new man in the cell always got the top bunk, I wondered if this Lambert hadn't had a chance to move his mattress to the bottom one.

Sensing someone standing in the doorway, I turned and found a mean looking dude leaning against the bars. He was six feet tall with a shock of black hair and a wide moustache. His brown eyes were obviously assessing me. The blue shirt was open, revealing a broad chest which surmounted a tight, well-defined stomach. The narrow waist was cinched by a wide leather belt. The levis hugged monstrous thighs and a large basket protruded from the pants. "Hi," I said in a hoarse nervous voice. He merely nodded in

"Hi," I said in a hoarse nervous voice. He merely nodded in return, I felt as if I was being raped by his eyes as he surveyed them on the top shelf. I figured that I had to take the bull by the horns. "Are you my cellie?" "Yeah." The voice was deep, causing a tingling sensation.

"Do you want me to move your mattress to the bottom bunk?"

"No, leave it where it is." With those words he turned on his heels and walked off. I sensed something there and I wondered if I was going to have trouble with Lambert, Well, I thought, I can always get a cell change.

I spent the rest of the day getting settled in. The cellhouse sergeant told me that I would start working during shower time after supper.

Just before lockup and count, Lambert came back to the cell. He just jumped up on his bunk without saying a word and put on his radio earphones. I stretched out on the bunk for a few minutes when the count bell rang.

Lambert jumped off of his bunk and joined me at the doorway , waiting for the guard to come by. I was very aware of him next to me, even though our bodies didn't touch. There was an almost overpowering masculinity about him. I thought about his very promising crotch, but I was determined not to fall into the pit of a homosexual affair. In the past I had had my cock sucked while in high school by other guys who were turned on to me, but I figured that lifting weights and playing ball would use up a lot of energy.

Returning from supper, I passed Lambert standing near the head of the stairs, talking to another guy. I went down the gallery to our cell.

I found a blanket hanging over the door and the front of the cell. I hesitantly pushed the blanket aside to peer into the cell. A guy behind me gave me a shove and hands grabbed me from within the cell. I was so surprised that I was unable to react . Another hand shoved a pair of dirty socks into my mouth while my shirt was torn off of my back. Other hands released my belt buckle while my shoes were pulled off and I found myself hanging in midair from the many hands grappling with

I was tossed on my stomach atop my bunk as my levis were torn from my body. My shorts disintegrated and I found myself with my face buried in the pillow. Something cold was spread between the cheeks of my ass while a stubby finger probed my hole with the same stuff. Oh, God, I thought, I'm going to get fucked. I struggled with almost maniacal strength against the hands which held me, but there were too many of

"Hold him steady," a voice growled.

A blow smashed into the side of my head, almost knocking me out. The springs of the bed gave between my legs. I felt a cramp from my legs being held so far apart. The blunt head of a cock was probing at my cherry hole. I tightened the muscles

Someone reached under me and grabbed my balls and squeezed them. The pain shot up my groin and I felt tears behind my eyes.

With an effort I loosened the sphincter, but the muscles refused to cooperate. The combination of pressure and grease were working against me. I felt the head pressing into the hole. I let out a muffled scream as the shaft drove straight into the

GRABBING MY COCK HE CRUELY TWISTED IT, CAUSING TEARS TO COME TO MY EYES. "YOUR FIRST LESSON, BOY. WHENEVER YOU TALK TO ME, YOU CALL ME MASTER OR SIR." RELEASING MY COCK, HE GRABBED MY BALLS AND ROTATED THEM FORCEFULLY. "UNDERSTAND?" hole without pausing until I could feel the guy's balls smack against my ass. I thought that I would go insane from the pain. The pillow was snatched from under my head and shoved over The pillow was snatched from under my lead and snoved over my head to further squelch the squeals. In three long strokes the guy dumped his load of come into my ass. He was followed by a guy with what I felt was a short, ally, after what I felt was a lifetime, the son of a bitch emptied himself into me. Enough, my brain screamed! It was not to be so. The next stud penetrated me easily since my hole was well-lubricated from the other guys. I knew now that this was the biggest cock and with almost an air of contempt for me, he plunged into me violently and the force of his thrusts was causing my body to move up the bunk. The pain had eased off and I began to enjoy the sensation of the cock which was raping me. The guy reached under me and began to pinch and twist my tits, the pain seemed to heighten the experience. I no longer fought against the hands that were holding me. In fact, without thinking , I found myself raising my hips to meet the savage thrusts. The pace quickened and I found myself wanting everything he had to give me. Other than the strained breathing of the men in the cell, there was no real sound excepting the barely audible creaking of the bed springs. "Hurry it up, man, it's almost count time." "Aaagh," the guy screwing me groaned as he added his contribution to my already well-filled hole. "Lock up," a voice hollered from the front of the cell- house. The hands quickly released me. I pulled the pillow off of my head and the guys moving out of the cell. The last guy, the one who had just finished stroking my asshole, was hitching up his levis. Chuck Lambert came into the cell, removing the blanket from the bars. "Unless you're planning to put a show on for the bull, you'd better get your ass up," Chuck casually remarked as he folded the blanket and tossed it on the upper bunk. His matter of fact attitude indicated a lack of surprise over what had happened. As I eased myself over on my back and grabbed the springs in the upper bunk to help me up, I couldn't help wondering why he hadn't been there. Even though my ass was sore and raw with come oozing down my legs, I couldn't help feeling a bit of regret that it hadn't been Chuck. I shook this thought from my head as I swore to never let this happen again. My legs felt rubbery as I got to my feet. Chuck kicked the torn clothing under the bunk out of sight. "Get in the back and sit on the shitter until the screw goes by counting. They don't make you stand at the bars if you're on the crapper." I almost collapsed on the ice cold porcelain seat. My ass-hole felt like it was about to drop out into the water beneath. My strength was returning. I grabbed some toilet paper and daubed it against my tender hole. I examined it for blood and found none. I had to face up to the incredible fact that I had enjoyed the last fuck, even though my sore asshole didn't agree. The bowl rumbled as I expelled all the pent up air. The toilet bowl created an echo chamber and my fart re- one toller bown created an echo chamber and my fart reverberated throughout the quiet cellblock. "Sing out, baby," one voice hollered. "It must be cherry," cried another. After the guard paused in front of the cell and pa tiertender, a convict, came by and unlocked the cell door while a guard opened the bar. As we entered the clothing shack, I went over to a pile of levis and found a pair that fit me. I dropped the towel and started to put them on. Chuck snatched them out of my hand and tossed them on a shelf that lined the back wall. "Forget it, boy. We've got to talk." I wondered only for a moment why we couldn't talk with me dressed. I reached down, scratched my pubic hair and brushed my hand against my cock. That was something that surprised me, when the last guy was screwing me, my cock was rock hard. "What are you going to do about the little party you had?" "Party," I exclaimed. "Some fucking party. It was a fucking rape." Ignoring my statement, he repeated his question, "What are you going to do about it? Are you going to the man?" "Of course not," I retorted quickly. That had never entered my mind. I was con-wise enough to realize that to do that was to sign my own death warrant. "Now, about what happened to you. You know once these guys get you, they use you whenever they want to. You end up drawing a lot of heat on the cell." He paused a moment, "Look, I knew it was going to happen because the dudes came to me and asked me if you belonged to me and I wanted to say something about all of this, but I couldn't marshal my thoughts. Chuck walked up to me. With his right hand he started kneading and twisting my left tit, "You know what you need, boy?" "Yeah, to get out of prison." I could feel my cock rising and there was no way I could hide it. It was from a combination of reasons, the closeness of Chuck and the pleasure-pain of the tit work. Chuck ignored my smart retort. His face became grim as he stared at me with his hard expressionless eyes. Whispering he said, "You need a Master. Someone who can look out for you, someone who can fulfill you while you are mentally and physically controlled by him." I almost blurted out that this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard, but then I had to pause. What Chuck said had a scintilla of truth in it. My life had been a lonely existence before and since I had run away from home. Sure, I had friends, but they were never deeply involved in me. I had already discovered that prison could be a very lonely place even with 3,000 guys living arm to cheek with you. Tonight, the jungle had claimed me, had abused me and cast me aside. What Chuck was saying was that I was being offered the role of a slave. I didn't know just what it would encompass, but this my exuded a strength and sexuality which couldn't be denied. Would I be any worse off than I was now? Wouldn't I have someone who might even give me the love that I needed so badly? What did I give up in exchange? Freedom, it is really overtouted when you consider every man, whether in prison or outside, doesn't have freedom in any real sense. We are all subject to the whims of those in a position to exert power on us. Chuck had been watching me closely as these conflicting thoughts coursed through my brain. "Do you agree to being my slave, or do I throw you to the wolves?" "All right," I croaked. After I had said the words, I realized that I meant them and my cock set its seal on it by standing artfull attention. "O.K., we've got that settled. You're going to need a lot of training, but I'm going to enjoy the job." "Whatever," I shrugged my shoulders. Grabbing my cock he cruely twisted it, causing tears to come to my eyes. "Your first lesson, boy. Whenever you talk to me, you call me Master or Sir." Releasing my cock, he grabbed my balls and rotated them forcefullly. "U "Yes, ah, sir." As he released me, I sought to retrieve the levis, but he knocked them out of my hand. "You do nothing without my permission. Tonight you work in the shack buck naked, want everyone to get a good look at that slave meat of yours." "Please, sir," I pleaded, "Please, shit. You do what I tell you. O.K., you give out the towels and socks. One towel and two pairs of socks to each man. If they don't turn the same things in the dirty clothes bag, then they don't get anything." Pushing me aside, Chuck went out of the shack and stripped off his levis and got into the shower. It was the first time that I had seen him naked. The sight made me catch my breath. The first wave of men entered the shower area. I could see Chuck talking to the last man to rape me. They laughed and threw looks at me which I knew caused me to blush I felt sure at that point that Chuck had been the instrument of my rape, even though he had. It participated in it, He'd set me up! Chuck took his time. While I watched cock with his soapy hand toward me and I could see the penis was becoming engorged, either from the stroking or what he had in mind for me to do with it. I felt my mouth begin to salivate and I quickly looked away. The men began coming to the door to exchange their towels and socks. Reaction to my now obvious nakedness was mixed, some looked at me in open lust, others ignored my nakedness, while others were obviously contemptuous of me. I tried to take the reactions in good course, revelling in the lustful glances. Until I had made my commitment to Chuck, these sexual looks would have bothered and even frightened me, God, I'm acceptin' this state of affairs. The last dude to rape me came to the door after throwing in the standard or open me came to an open me and the standard of the standard or one. "You were mighty fine, babe," he remarked to me. Now that I could get a clear look at him, I saw his lean body and found him to be very The latter idea caused my balls to tighten in excitement. Chuck came into the shack with his towel o der and his levis over the other. He pitched the dirty bag and the levis on the shelf, I sensed that ing behind me and I felt that I wanted to feel hi mine but he made no effort to. Tillie, the cellhouse clerk, stood in the swishy faggot was fully dressed, either he had ered or planned to later. He opened the botte door, causing me to move back. "What's this s nudist colony," he tittered. The first wave of bathers had pretty well lef wave would be coming down from the tiers a minutes. Ignoring me, Tillie grabbed Chuck's cock a stroke it. Chuck wasn't encouraging her, but he any move to stop her. She led him by his cock the shack. Looking at me, she said, "Keep an e man, darling." Chuck leaned against a back shelf as Tillie got Chuck came into the shack with his towel over one shoulder and his levis over the other. He pitched the towel into the dirty bag and the levis on the shelf. I sensed that he was standing behind me and I felt that I wanted to feel his body against mine but he made no effort to. Tillie, the cellhouse clerk, stood in the doorway. The swishy faggot was fully dressed, either he had already showered or planned to later. He opened the bottom half of the door, causing me to move back. "What's this some kind of a nudist colony," he tittered. The first wave of bathers had pretty well left and the next wave would be coming down from the tiers above in a few minutes. Ignoring me, Tillie grabbed Chuck's cock and started to stroke it. Chuck wasn't encouraging her, but he wasn't making any move to stop her. She led him by his cock to the back of the shack. Looking at me, she said, "Keep an eye out for the man, darling." Chuck leaned against a back shelf as Tillie got on her knees. She started sucking at his cock, but in what I thought was a very unimaginative way. She kept gagging. Chuck made no effort to either encourage or discourage her. Although I was supposed to keep an eye out for the screw, I could not keep my eyes off of what was happening. Was this the way it was going to be, was Tillie to be his regular fuck and I would just have to stand around and watch it? What would my role really be? Maybe, he had changed his mind about me and he was just going to let me go my way. I should have felt a sense of relief, but I cannot truthfully say that I did. Would I have to change cells and jobs? Jesus, how did I get myself into this dilemma? Evidently, Tillie had had Chuck before, because she seemed to sense that he was about to come, but he showed no outward evidence of it. I could see that she had never taken all of his gigantic cock all the way into her throat, since she never got beyond midway. I had little experience sucking cock, but I was sure that I could have done a better job. the only evidence that Chuck was actually coming was the fact that he threw his head back and let out a sigh while Tillie again gagged as the load of come discharged with evident force into her mouth. Hastily, she got to her feet, wiped her mouth, and said, "Thanks sweetheart, that was just great. Until next time. Ta-ta." With a swish of her hips she walked past me and out of the shack. Chuck grinned at me, but I was so apprehensive that I could not force myself to respond in kind. He threw a towel at me and told me to go and take a shower. I left the shack and entered an empty shower. I tenderly washed my sore asshole. I could see that Chuck was keeping an eye out, I discouraged any conversation with the guys on either side of me as I hastened to get done. Returning to the shack I found Chuck wearing a shirt and levis. His feet were encased in a pair of Wellington boots which had been mirror shined. I didn't remember seeing them before. "Go on back and roll some clean socks, I'll take care of the He had not told me to get dressed, so I started rolling socks. I could tell that showering in the cellhouse was about over. I could hear Chuck talking to a guy in the doorway. I was unable to make out what was being said, but I was lost in my own thoughts. At this time last night I had been laying back in my bunk in guarantine wondering about my future. Now it seemed my future had been determined for me. I got the impression that the cons respected Chuck and feared him. There was considerably more to this dude than I had ascertained so far. My thoughts were interrupted by Chuck's opening the door. A tall lanky guy came into the shack, He wore a prison cap on his shaved head. His eyebrows were blond and could see that he was either nervous or anxious. He looked at me and then back at Chuck. "Go ahead, man," Chuck said. "You ain't got all night." The guy walked up to me, stood in front of me, unbuttoned his levis and pulled out an already hard cock. It was long and slender, tapering down to a small head. Lengthwise the cock was shorter than mine. I looked at Chuck. His features were stern and all he said was, "Suck it off." I never felt so humiliated in my life. Sure the rapists had humiliated me but I was forced into that, I realized that I was again being raped and because Chuck was my Master I had no choice but to obey him. Gingerly, I took the cock into my mouth and began to suck it. The guy must have just showered because I could taste and smell the soap. He grabbed my head and eased the cock into my throat to the balls. He began to rhythmically thrust and withdraw it, allowing me no control. I was being face fucked. I was just another hole to this dude, a hole without a personality. I couldn't get excited over this mechanical abuse and I knew that my cock hung softly between my legs. The dude's breathing became shorter and the pace quickened until he drove the head of his cock down my throat and pour his come into me. At least I hadn't had to taste it, but as the larger bursts were spent the guy had me suck him dry. The taste was bitter and I hated it. During the assault tears had formed in my eyes and my nose was running, but I had made no attempt to wipe either away. When he pulled his cock out of my mouth, I grabbed a clean towel, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. The guy had never said a word to me and he didn't even say thanks. Turning to Chuck, he said, "That was good, man. I'll bring the stuff around in an hour. I'd like to get some more of that." "We'll see," was Chuck's only comment as he let the guy out After the guy had left, I got up from the floor. "That wasn't right, Chuck." With surprising speed Chuck came over to me and knocked me down with one blow to the head. He kicked my exposed stomach, causing me to retch. "What the fuck do you mean it wasn't right? You lousy motherfucker no-dicklicking son-of-a -bitch, I ought to stomp your goddam ass into the concrete. That dude paid good money for his head job and you acted like some nun who had never seen a cock before. You ever do that again, I'll line up the whole joint and let them have at you and then I'll sell you to the funkiest bastard in the joint." He paused to catch his breath. "Another thing, and I'm not going to tell you again, everyone in this fucking joint can call me by my name, but you don't get that privilege. You call me Master or Sir." With those final words he pulled his wide leather belt out of his pant loops, "Get up," he snarled. My stomach was sore but I got up. "Now grab your ankles. That's what I call, 'assuming the posi- gripped my ankles. I stood in that position with my back to the door. I heard Chuck closing the top of the Dutch doors. I didn't hear him come back but the swish of the belt through the air announced my sound beating. The first blow landed on my ass, almost causing me to fall over. I gritted my teeth as blow after blow fell on my tender ass, legs and back. When it was over, I re- mained in position but I felt my hard cock pressing against my stomach. "Get dressed," he ordered. As I stood, I could see that Chuck had a raging hard on. I found that I wanted his cock badly. I knew that I wanted to get off, but I wanted him more. "Please, sir, may I suck your cock," I asked, pleadingly. "You have to earn it, asshole. You haven't shown you deserve it." I grabbed a pair of shorts from the size 28 bin, but before I could step into them, Chuck snatched them from me. "You don't wear shorts." "But, sir," I pleaded, "if they ever have a strip shakedown, I'll end up going to the hole." "Let me worry about that." I put on the shirt and levis. My shoes were in the cell, so I followed my Master out of the shack back to the cell. The tier- tender locked the door after us. "Do you want any hot water, Chuck," the convict asked after he had withdrawn the key from the lock. "Yeah," he answered. As soon as the man went to get the large watercan of hot water, Chuck turned to me. "Strip naked and put the bucket in the doorway for the hot water." I was learning, I guess, because I unhesitantly removed my pants and shirt and took the can from under the sink in the rear of the cell and put it by the barred doorway. When the tiertender returned, he poured the water but he kept glancing at me and I could see the hungry look in his eyes. "Make some coffee for us," Chuck said. As I took the bucket to the back of the cell and prepared the instant coffee, I could see that Chuck and the man were talking, but I wasn't able to hear what they were saying. The only thing I could catch at the end was "five packs of Camels." The guy left. In a few minutes he returned and passed the packs of cigarettes to Chuck. Turning to me, Chuck grinned, "Steve just bought a little time with you." I looked at the wizened man with the dirty teeth and ill-fitting clothing. My gorge raised as I thought about having to suck this creature off. "Get your ass up to the bars, we ain't got much time. Steve wants to suck your cock." With almost an audible sigh of relief, I approached the bars as the tiertender squatted outside, ready to receive my big cock. Putting the head into his hungry mouth, I felt my growing need rise in my groin. My cock hardened but I could feel the man's teeth scraping along the shaft, "Watch the teeth, ' I warned. Since the man couldn't move his head with-man , out drawing attention, I had to face fuck him. He was a great fuck, an experienced cocksucker. As I gained momentum in my thrusts, Steve got a better grip with his mouth and he was working on my cock like a wet suction machine. I closed my eyes to blot out the ugly gnome and imagined Chuck was down on me. My balls began to boil and I felt the semen gather for its discharge. I felt my brain explode as burst after burst filled the man's mouth. After the last spurt I jerked the cock from his mouth and went into the back of the cell and poured a bit of hot water into the sink to wash my cock off, "Thanks, Chuck, that was great. Your slave's got the sweetest come I ever tasted." The man walked away from the cell. I expected Chuck to congratulate me for my performance, but instead he slapped my ass with tremendous force. "You lousy bastard, what are you trying to do, shame me in front of the guy?" "Wh-what do you mean, sir?" I couldn't understand this seemingly senseless explosion. "'Watch the teeth, man,'" he mimicked me. His voice became hard and relentless. "If a customer wants to chew your cock to shreds, you haven't got any say so. There isn't a guy in this joint who's got the balls to really damage my property, so I don't ever want to hear that shif from you again. Under- stand?" "Yes, sir. I didn't know." "Well, you know now." Handing me a cop of coffee, he took the other one and stretched out on my bunk with his head against the bars. "Sit on the shitter and drink your coffee. From my position on the icy cold seat, the soles of Chuck's Wellington boots were directly in front of me but my eyes were captured by the tantalizing bulge in Chuck's crotch, I was somewhat ambivalent about Chuck and his cock, I hadn't entirely accepted my role of slave, but I had seen enough of his cock and body to wonder if I could fully serve it. A strange guy came by and handed Chuck two cartons of cigarettes through the bars. Chuck tossed them on the upper bunk and grinned at me. "You're a money machine, baby. That's for the blow job you gave down in the shack. When I finished my coffee, I laid the cup on the shelf. "Now your mouth's nice and wet, get over on the side of the bunk and start licking your Master's boots. Get them shiny for me.' I knelt by the bed and ran my wet tongue over the boot's toe. The rich smell of leather engulfed my nostrils and I found myself being turned on by it. I took long swipes at the polished leather with my tongue. The base job was beginning to excite me. Instead of having to work up more saliva to keep the instead of naving to work up more saliva to keep the job going, I found my salivary glands were working at full speed so I had enough to continue the job. "Get into the welt and clean out all the dust." I ran my trongu Puzzled at his remark, I asked, "I'm finished, sir." I moved back to the porcelain toilet seat. Hesitantly, took the boot into my two hands and slowly started making swipes at the dirty sole. I could taste the grit and dirt which were caked there. I wondered if I would pick up some sort of disease. It would serve him right if I died, I thought. After I finished the first one, I attacked the other with almost a maniacal vengeance. This act of aggression on my part seemed to have an effect on Chuck because I could see him rubbing his crotch with the palm of his hand. All this time my cock had been at half staff, but the seeming promise of Chuck's cock iron hard cock. Although he couldn't see my cock, Chuck immediately guessed what I was doing, "Knock it off. I told you that I own you and that means all of you, including your cock." I sighed and put my hands on the foot of the bunk in front of me so Chuck could see them. "Take off my boots," he ordered, I pulled each one off and laid them neatly side by side against the wall, "Now, take off my socks with your teeth." I gripped the toe and tried to pull it of the top of the sock and edged it off by pulling on the top and the bottom of the sock. After it was off, I used the same pro- cedure with the other one. Chuck lying near the bars must have heard the guard coming down the tier, but he didn't say anything. Imagine my embarrassment when I saw the cop stop outside of the doorway while I was sitting on the crapper with a sock hanging from my mouth. He merely grinned, shrugged his shoulders and walked on. "I wonder what he thought you were doing," commented Chuck as I put the last sock inside of the boots. Lifting up Chuck pulled off his shirt and told me to hang it up. As he lay back I saw the well developed pecs. There was only a little hair encircling his tits. Fine hair caressed his navel and there was the promise of more beneath the waist band, "Get over here," he directed me. "Kneel down, I want you to unbutton my fly with your mouth and get my cock out with your mouth. If I feel your teeth, I'll bust your ass." The top button was easiest because I gripped the corner of the cloth by the button hole with my teeth and pulled it so the button slipped loose. By jiggling the outer flap I was able to open the next one. The third was unbuttoned while the fourth one gave me a fit. By a combination of my teeth gripping the cloth and bit of jerking, I got it loose. The last one just popped free from the pressure of Chuck's swollen meat. Parting both sections of the fly with my mouth, I began probing my tongue into the lush black pubic hair, finding the root and trying to get a grip on it by hooking my tongue so I could lever it free from the binding cloth. Inch by inch the cock moved upward, when it had progressed far enough where I could get a purchase on it, I covered my teeth with my lips and seized the pole and released it from its own prison. I guess I was learning because I made no attempt to do anything more without my Master's instructions. Chuck just lay there with his arms behind his head. His cock was jerking up and down as he eyed me cooly. "Get my pants off," he said. Standing, I pulled them down as he lifted his ass to permit me to get them off. I hung them up and turned back to Chuck. "Get on the bed between my legs," he ordered. I knelt between his pillar-like thighs, "Make me feel good, dicklicker." I grasped his raging hard on, the veins et themselves in my palm. I bent over and flicked my tongue over the drooling slit of his monstrous cock. I wondered if I could ever get it into my mouth; I giggled to myself when the thought struck me that maybe all I could do was bark at it. Woof! Woof! The clear fluid seemed just a bit salty to me. I ran my tongue over the sensitive ridge on the cock's head. I could tell from Chuck's body language that I was driving him up the wall. Without hesitation, I took the entire shaft into my mouth, forcing it past the glottus, trying my best to control my gag reflex, and moving the muscles in my throat in an attempt to massage the head. Just as I was starving for air, Chuck forced his cock out of my throat. "You're killing me, man." I knew he meant with pleasure. "Suck my balls." I dropped his heavy cock on his stomach, its fir its shaft hiding his navel. I licked his musky, moist balls. I took one into my mouth, running my tongue around its surface while I sucked on its velvet covering. Dropping one I pro- ceeded to attack the other with a surprising relish. My fervor communicated itself to my Master and he lifted his legs high and wide, catching his toes in the bedsprings above him. "Eat my ass, fucker." The ball plopped out of my mouth. I hesitated but Chuck's hand urged me on. I licked long strokes up and down the crack of his ass before I began the main course, the hairy puckered piece of flesh under his balls. At first I just licked its perimeter as I held the hard cheeks of his ass apart. I could see that my preliminary work had loosened the taut pucker, allowing me better access to his shit chute. I started darting my long, pointed tongue into the hole, taking my time and progressing deeper and deeper into its tart tasting recesses. The pace of my tongue quickened as Chuck rolled his hips to receive the hot prong. At last he pushed my head away, offering me his cock again. Before I began on it, I flicked my tongue and cleaned out the reservoir of pre-come which had gathered in his navel. Grabbing his iron by its root, I stroked my mouth over half of it, allowing my teeth to barely abrade the rim of his cock head. Chuck shoved me aside and jumped out of bed. "Enough." That was all he said, I thought maybe I had hurt him and was going to get my ass whipped. Instead he went to the back shelf and produced a tube of K-Y jelly from a cigar box. "Get on your back on the bed. Your ass needs a bit more stretching." "Please, sir, I'm pretty sore." "It needs more breaking in. Count your fucking blessings that it's not my fist. Just make up your mind, I'm going to fuck you. Now throw up your legs. Give me a hard time and I'll dry fuck you." As he had before me, I caught my toes in the upper bunk, while he crouched between my legs. His finger searched for my sore asshole and found it. I gritted my teeth, resolved to bear what I felt sure would be unbearable. One finger, then two, entered my asshole with a large cool blob of K-Y, most of it I was sure was lost outside of the tight sphincter. Taking more K-Y, Chuck stroked it up and down his shaft. Thrusting my legs farther apart, Chuck began his assault. "Don't say a word or holler." Slowly the head entered the tight hole and without warning Chuck drove the entire cock into my abused hole. I gritted my teeth, but the pain eased off quicker than the first time. Slowly, Chuck began his driving strokes. As the cockhead prodded my prostate, I found myself seeking the penetration. As the cock was pulled out to the entrance chamber, I would twist so that the raised per- imeter of the head would assail my prostate. "Oh, yeah, that's it, punk," groaned Chuck as his strokes gained speed. Very quickly, he was slamming into my butt, which didn't allow me to make full use of his cockhead on my prostate, but I found the driving force of his piston charges was the most fantastic aphrodisiac. I felt my balls churning, even under the restriction of his stomach. I wanted to hold off, but I couldn't, God, I thought this has never happened to me before. My head tossed from side to side, I clamped down on his cock with my ass. The tight grip evoked a groan from Chuck's lips. The first ejaculation caused my groin and head to explode; it occurred as Chuck lifted up off of me to make his next thrust. The come hit him under the chin, but he had reached his carnal Nirvana and could care less. The very next drive slammed his load into my welcoming butt. He held it in me as I worked the muscles of my ass, milking it. Chuck rolled off of me next to the wall. "Get your face down there and see how much come you can suck out of it. Clean the cock off with your mouth." The pubic hair was damp. I took the greasy cock into my mouth. There were brown flecks along the shaft, I could taste my ass. I had never eaten a shifty cock before, but it seemed right to me. I only got a drop of come, but I stayed there nuzzling it until Chuck pushed me off. I sat on the edge of the bed, not sure just what to do. Chuck's eyes viewed me speculatively. I felt that he was assessing me, but we had done it all and there was nothing else to do. "O.K., let's talk a few minutes," Chuck began. I turned on the edge of the bed and sat facing him. I wanted to touch him, but I didn't dare to. "Nothing, sir." "Well, you'll probably know a lot more about it before we're through.' "You've been through a lot today, but it's just the be- ginning of your training, I've been into this trip for years, but I never met anyone in this joint who turned me on like you do. In time it will seem the most natural thing for you to consider yourself my slave." He reached up and took my nipple in between his fingers, kneading it. Then he savagely twisted and pinched it, causing me to gasp from the sharp pain. My cock started to thicken bed. Bend over and take my cockhead into your mouth. Without any hesitation I grabbed his half hard cock and took the head into my mouth. I started to suck, but Chuck said, "No, don't suck it. Just hold the cock in your hot mouth." In a moment I felt a flow coming into my mouth and I knew right away that Chuck was pissing. "Swallow my hot piss. Don't lose any of it, or I'll knock your ears off." I gulped the fountain, tasting the acrid coffee. As I was able to swallow quickly, I knew that Chuck was controlling the flow. The flow seemed unending, but it managed to dribble to a stop.

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LE BEAU MEC

Continued from page 63 tional involvement and excitement with her johns. Doux doesn't even pretend. This scene alone makes the entire film special, in fact, worth the price of admission .

Doux isn't really serious about sex. At this juncture in his life, physically en- dowed as he is, sex seems to be the best way to focus the world's attention on himself. The celluloid fantasy experiences of him handcuffed to a table and fucked by a cop, or playing the gangster, polishing his pistol while he is sucked off, are his whimsical way of reiterating his total detachment from any real involvement in sex, or with anyone for that matter. These are only funny titillations for the audiences' fantasies.

Lest I be misunderstood, these words have been only in praise of MEC. But the point of this coverage is noting future failure. LE BEAU MEC will fail as film footage precisely because it succeeds too well. It succeeds at approaching some level of artistic excellence, indeed, at going beyond the suck-fuck genre of most male visual erotica.

Less is more. And such is true with MEC. Because Doux has given us less, he's given us considerably more. Consistently, the camera backs off, refuses to show all, tickles our curiosity only to pull away, teases our cocks and then stops short of letting us cum, and touches our fantasies, demanding our involvement to complete them. And here's the rub: the kind of people who cum on the seats of theaters that are going to show LE BEAU MEC don't want art, don't want quality documentation, don't want to fill in the artistic holes the director knows can make a movie hot. Let's face it: porno people who make it to porno theatres want porno. These people do not want to get too in touch with the real world (the kind of real world that LE BEAU MEC exposes us to). They want to stick to their fantasy worlds and they want those worlds spelled out in a continuous flow of hards, asses, and cum. The moments in MEC when director Wallace Potts interviews Jean-Paul Doux are sure to be cock-downers for the porno queen who demands no interruption in the flow of juices, no break in fantasy's the flow of juices, no break in fantasy timing, no tuning into a too-real, gutsy characterization of a parisian hustler. Porno people aren't going to tell their friends about LE BEAU MEC. Some will appreciate its documenta so where does a tonery French visitor go when it gets tired of the male-flic cinema scene? Certainly not to a neighborhood theatre. The friendly PTA would hardly permit. And not to television, at least without a lot of edi more of other excellent flics that tried, and died

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THE LEATHER EMPORIUM 1730 Divisadero / San Francisco 94115

735 LARKIN STREET 441-7737

UGH GUSTOME

KeeRIST! If youse guys are gonna send us your hot pictures for publication , at least include your FACE. Who wants to look at a disconnected cock? DRUMMER is a magazine, not a glory hole.

Also include some pert pertinent info: what you like to do, prefer to have done, or otherwise play with after the lights go down low.

If anything in DRUMMER is out of the closet, certainly it's our TOUGH CUSTOMERS section. IF YA DO IT, BE PROUD OF IT! This is almost the Eighties , doncha know!

So dump your pics or greasy Polaroids and letters into an envelope 'n' send the fuckers to: Tough Customers, c / o Drummer , 1730 Divisadero, San Francisco, CA 94115.

If youse guys wanna get some hot re-plies from our horny, raunchy readers include your full mailing address. If you're not into raunchy mail 'n' males, indicate that youse DON'T wanna have your address printed.

Editor

Feel free to show my picture to anyone. Would also enjoy visitors wishing bondage by a thorough Master.

CLIFF (ILLINOIS)

PAUL (FLORIDA)

Wet and very wild. This tough customer's handle is IRVING. P.O. Box 3846, SF, CA 94119. Irving?

DENNIS

MORE LETTERS

Continued from page 7 cops struggling is stiffening, but where are the HANDCUFFS? I dig those shiny steel restraints and love to see them hanging on the belt of a hunky man be he a cop or not.

I'm sure there are others out there who share the same fetish. I want to see those cops struggle to the ground and the loser get those cuffs clicked on his wrists and left on.

Handcuffs are a symbol of macho power and dominance. I was arrested once for traffic warrants. The cop was a young hunk just newly on the force. When he said "I'm sorry sir I have to handcuff you" and locked those cuffs on . well it's difficult to hide a hard-on with your arms cuffed behind your back!

HANS S.F.

UNIFORM RESPONSE

J.P.'s letter ("Uniform Info Pleez," DRUMMER 24) cries out for an answer. The American Uniform Association is a group of more than a hundred men across the country who are roused by a uniform and the character that uniform symbo-lises : pride, integrity, fraternal loyalty and spirit. The AUA is not a club: many of its members already belong to a local uniform or motorcycle club. Nor is the Association an activist group: it has no political affiliations. The AUA organizes events for men in uniform and keeps them informed through a quarterly newsletter .

On the gay scene as in the straight world the line is sharply drawn between men in uniform and interested civilians. Uniform is a fraternity, not a correspondence club. Wearing uniform is the way to reach other men in uniform.

Though some insignia and equipment are restricted, uniforms are widely available. See "Uniform" in your Yellow Pages. Request a catalogue, know exactly what you want, and ask for it. In the NY area the largest uniform outlet is Some's, 65 Route 17, Paramus NJ 07652. The best patrol boots come from The Dehner Company, 2059 Farnam St., Omaha NE 68102. Both outfits print catalogues.

Some points: Avoid confrontation. Don't loiter in public wearing provocative insignia. Avoid uniform that could be mistaken for that of local law enforcement personnel. Never identify yourself falsely. Act responsibly: be a credit to the uniform you wear.

Membership in the AUA, like the large "guest list" for AUA events, continues to grow solely through personal recommendations . Talk to a man in uniform.

For more information, write Uniform Association. American Box 366, Newark DE 19711.

ACCOLADES

Thank you for your letter of December 13 advising me of my renewal of Drummer, new LF number and extend- ing a welcome to a new resident of San Francisco.

I couldn't consider myself a responsible adult if I did not take this opportunity to express my pleasure and feeling of fraternity at the exceptional way I have been treated of late by the Drummer organization, treatment which I can vouch is not the rule with most publishers , and certainly not the rule with most of the personnel associated with gay male organizations I have had contact with in the last few years.

Drummer has obviously gone through some trying and confusing times, most of which your readership will never comprehend or appreciate; speaking as the author of at least one trate letter over what I considered to be a lack of professionalism as judged by the apparently poor logistics of getting the magazine on and off the press and in my mailbox slot where I thought it belonged (never, I might add, by the spirit, philosophy or quality of the contents, verbal or gra- phics) I can say that it is easy to fly off the handle and give vent to ill feelings without knowing or caring about the recipients at the other end of the U.S. Mail. That is why I feel motivated to tender a full and formal apology at this point in time to anyone who may have my missive was a surprise, a delight and a tremendous ego boost. That the effort was made to assuage my distemper on a personal and personable level shows him to be very much a professional; that the effort was made to follow it up as indicated by your letter shows him to be a good human being as well. Believe me, I appreciate both.

Drummer was the first contact, in any substantive way, with the leather life- style, or probably more correctly, the thing that first made it surface. That was Issue No. 1, so in some ways the two of us started together, and perhaps even grew up together. I can't, with any real assurance say that I'm entirely happy that it did, but most likely that is because of the lack of direct contact and the liability of living in the "provinces," the rural hinterland of Connecticut, I know that my attitudes will be tested as I acclimate to the San Francisco environment - I will understand more, become more responsive . The major reasons for coming here were professional and cultural rather than sexual or modal (though the latter are not unimportant) (indeed!) so I have the premonition that my survival here will be easier. San Francisco is not the Emerald City: I did not come seeking Oz. If anything the draw was the ambience which is mirrored in the attitude and treatment that has come through my limited association with the people of Drummer, I am hopeful that it will continue outside. Maybe the Leather Fraternity membership will aid in the process; it may prove to be incidental. In either case, the bottom line is that I feel a great deal of tangential support that has come out or the letters, the expressions of good will, the display of common purpose, the kindnesses. It deserves a thank-you, and I offer it now with all the Holiday spirit oriented state. Please spread it around.

I will consider it the greatest good fortune if I get the opportunity to meet some of the stellar characters which your last issue showed to inhabit your halls so that I can make some of these expressions in person. I have a feeling that I will be a contributor to Drummer before too much time elapses; I have already penned a lengthy letter (a tome, actually) to Editor Jack Fritscher but curiously can't seem to send it: I remain a bit in awe of his skill.

In any event, the best of Good Cheer to you and your staff and to those who

Thanks for the copy of The Alternate. I'll make sure to pick up the next couple of issues as it seems to be an interesting and incisive publication.

LH.L San Francisco

HUMBLE

My master got pissed-off because I didn't get him a subscription to Drummer for Xmas. Well, I'm ordering now (en- closed application plus our first ad). We have been buying it at the local leather store. It has given my master some wild ideas.

Last week, for example, I had to wear a jock-strap to work and piss in it during the day. I also was instructed to write him a 'hot' letter, begging him for cock, piss and begging to be fucked and detail some fantasy. On the last page of the let- ter, I had to deposit a load of cum.

To accomplish this feat, I went to the men's room and into a stall. Once inside l scooped out the writings and checked the glory hole while I followed his instruction to "strip." I did. "Play with your tits and beat off." I had begun to beat-off when some guy went into the next stall. I had my orders. The load went on the paper instead of into this stud's mouth.

Many times when I get home, his tape recorder is on the kitchen table. A couple of days ago I came in to find the recorder setting out. I switched it on and listened. "Welcome home Asshole, between now and the time I get home, you will get all into readiness. You will think of my cock in your ass. When I come in I want you on your knees, stark naked, your collar draped around your neck and your piss-stained jockstrap over your mouth and nose.

When he arrived, he found me cowering inside the door just as he ordered. He reached down and yanked my tits and grabbed my balls. After he slapped my ass, he turned and left the room without saying a word. When he returned later, he had put on his vest and cod-piece. As the slave I am, I begged to be allowed to suck him. He denied me. He ordered I do push-ups while he drank beer. I was too slow so he attached tit clamps and ordered me to do more.

Thank you, Drummer Sir! Now each night I run to the kitchen. humbly slave M Catonsville, MD

LE BEAU MEC

Continued from page 63 tional involvement and excitement with her johns. Doux doesn't even pretend. This scene alone makes the entire film special, in fact, worth the price of admission .

Doux isn't really serious about sex. At this juncture in his life, physically en- dowed as he is, sex seems to be the best way to focus the world's attention on himself. The celluloid fantasy experiences of him handcuffed to a table and fucked by a cop, or playing the gangster, polishing his pistol while he is sucked off, are his whimsical way of reiterating his total detachment from any real involvement in sex, or with anyone for that matter. These are only funny titillations for the audiences' fantasies.

Lest I be misunderstood, these words have been only in praise of MEC. But the point of this coverage is noting future failure. LE BEAU MEC will fail as film footage precisely because it succeeds too well. It succeeds at approaching some level of artistic excellence, indeed, at going beyond the suck-fuck genre of most male visual erotica.

Less is more. And such is true with MEC. Because Doux has given us less, he's given us considerably more. Consistently, the camera backs off, refuses to show all, tickles our curiosity only to pull away, teases our cocks and then stops short of letting us cum, and touches our fantasies, demanding our involvement to complete them. And here's the rub: the kind of people who cum on the seats of theaters that are going to show LE BEAU MEC don't want art, don't want quality documentation, don't want to fill in the artistic holes the director knows can make a movie hot. Let's face it: porno people who make it to porno theatres want porno. These people do not want to get too in touch with the real world (the kind of real world that LE BEAU MEC exposes us to). They want to stick to their fantasy worlds and they want those worlds spelled out in a continuous flow of hards, asses, and cum. The moments in MEC when director Wallace Potts interviews Jean-Paul Doux are sure to be cock-downers for the porno queen who demands no interruption in the flow of juices, no break in fantasy's the flow of juices, no break in fantasy timing, no tuning into a too-real, gutsy characterization of a parisian hustler. Porno people aren't going to tell their friends about LE BEAU MEC. Some will appreciate its documenta so where does a tonery French visitor go when it gets tired of the male-flic cinema scene? Certainly not to a neighborhood theatre. The friendly PTA would hardly permit. And not to television, at least without a lot of edi more of other excellent flics that tried, and died

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O.K. guys, here is our revised 1979 listing of saloons, bunks and tubs where you'll uncover DRUMMER men. No need to drop those bucks for those expensive "guides." It's all here!

We have gone to many sources in preparing this comprehensive DRUMMER guide, but most of our info came from you, our faithful readers. So we'd greatly appreciate hearing from you about any openings, closings, changes or moves in your area. Remember, an up-to-date listing only benefits you. Our big goal for 1980 is a DRUMMER WORLD GUIDE … so send those letters.

ARIZONA PHOENIX

Connection 4211 N. 7th St. Nu-Towns Saloon 5002 E. Van Buren Ramrod 395 N. B TUCSON

Dale's Graduate … 23 W. University Blvd. Toole Box … 347 E. Toole Ave.

CALIFORNIA

ALAMEDA

Alameda Steam Baths . 1001 Santa Clara Ave. ARCADIA (off 210 F'way) Longbranch Saloon … 131½ E. Huntington

FRESNO RED LANTERN … 4618 E. Belmont Ave.

IRON SPUR … 11086 Garden Grove Blvd. SADDLE CLUB . 8192 Garden Grove Blvd. LONG BEACH

MIKE'S CORRAL . 2020 Artesian Mr. Cherry 5823 No. Atlantic Blvd. STALLION . LOS ANGELES / HOLLYWOOD

Academy Restaurant . 6236 Santa Monica Blvd. Basic Plumbing (private club) . . 725 N, Fairfax BULLSHOT … 739 No. La Brea Detour … 1089 Manzanita Nr. Sunset Jct. Eagle … 7864 Santa Monica Blvd. 8709 Club Baths (private) … 8709 W. 3rd St. 8709 CIUD Batns (private) … Hyperion Baths … Manhandler … 2692 So. La Cienega Melrose Baths … 7269 Melrose Ave. ONE WAY … 42 . 612 No. Hoover … 4219 Santa Monica Blvd. RUSTY NAIL … 7994 Santa Monica Blvd. The Play Rite … 5459 Hollywood Blvd. Silver Paddle Spa (baths) . . 4356 Sunset Blvd. SPIKE BAR … 7746 Santa Monica Blvd. Stud … 4216 Melrose Ave. 2006 Bar … 2006 N. Figueroa St. . . 1941 Hyperion Wranglers … LOS ANGELES / VALLEY

. . 12319 Ventura Blvd., Studio City Boots Drive Shaft 13751 Victory Blvd., N.Hollywood Glens Turkish Baths 4653 Lankershim Bl., N.H. Hayloft . 11818 Yentura Blud, Studio City Mag . . 12 / 36 Magnolia Blud, N. Hollywood Roman Holiday Baths . . 11435 Victory Blud. The Serpent 8 Club Baths 4109 W. Burbank Bl. The Signal 10522 Burbank Blud, N.Hollywood PALM S

PALM SPRINGS / CATHEDRAL CITY C.C. Construction Co… 68-449 Perez Rd. Dave's Villa Caprice (motel & spa) 67-670 Carey An Old Friend (motel) 1830 Racquet Club Rd. Party Room … 67-977 Hwy. 111

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. . 858 9th Ave. Crossroads … Den … 264 W. 43rd St. Eagle's Nest … Glory Hole (private club) 139 11ft Ave. Half Breed 168 Amsterdam at 68th St. International Stud 733 Greenwich St. Kellers 384 West St. at Barrow Main Man 305 Columbus Ave. at 74th St. Man's Country 28 W. 15th St. Mineshaft Say [×37+]

The Strap 18th St, at 10th Ave. Ty's 114 Christopher St. Wall Street Sauna 1 Wildwood … 308 Columbus Ave. at 74th St. ROCHESTER

Adonis Sauna …

NORTH CAROLINA CHARLOTTE

Club South Baths of Charlotte

New Brass Rail … 3513 W. Wilkinson Blvd. Original Brass Rail … 105 W. Morehead RALEIGH

The Capital Corral … 313 W. Hargett The Mousetrap … 1622 Glenwood Ave.

OHIO CINCINNATI

Badland's Territory … 419 Plum St, CLEVELAND

Club Steam Baths 1448 W. 32nd St. Club Cleveland II Baths 1293 W. 9th LEATHER STALLION 2203 St. Claire Ave. COLUMBUS

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

Lenny's Other Side … 3330 Secor Rd. THE RUSTLER SALOON . 4023 Monroe St. San Francisco Sunbaths … 3330 Secor Rd.

OREGON PORTLAND

Club Continental … 531 S.W. Park Ave. Dahl & Penne … 604 S.W. 2nd Majestic Hotel & Club Baths 303 S.W. 12th Av.

Other Inn 242 S.W. Adler Olympic Baths 531 S.W. 12th St. Tavern ('Half Moon') <t

PENNSYLVANIA PHILADELPHIA

Barrick's (baths) … 1813 Sansom St. Cell Block … 206 So. Camac 247 / Corral … 247 S. 17th St. Post …

Rathskellar … Red Star … 143 N. 10th St.

PUERTO RICO

SAN JUAN Lion of St. Mark's Baths … 205 Calle Luna Main Street Bar … 257 Calle San Jose

San Francisco Inn … 263 Calle San Francisco Ten Twenty Club . 1020A Ashford (Condado)

TEXAS

Private Cellar … 1221 W. 6th St. DALLAS Bachelors Quarters Baths … 3116 Live Oak Chuck's Truck Stop … 3019 Haskell Club Dallas Baths … 2616 Swiss Ave. Nail … 1804 N. Harwood Sundance Kid … 4025 Maple 4117 Maple Tex's Ranch … Throckmorton Mining Co., 3014 Throckmorton

651 Club … 651 So. Jennings

… 710 Pacific St. Barn … Club Houston Baths … Countryside … 1318 Westheimer

Exile 1011 Bell Locker 1732 Westheimer Mary's 1022 Westheimer

VIRGINIA NORFOLK

… 131 Brooke Ave. RICHMOND Ritz Bar … Male Box … Shepard & Idlewood

WASHINGTON SEATTLE

Dave's Baths 2402 1st Ave. Dave's Baths … 2402 1st Ave. JOHNNY'S HANDLEBAR … 2018 1st Ave. MARSHALL'S OFFICE … 1224 Howell Zodiac Club Baths … 1117 Pike St.

WISCONSIN GREEN BAY

Man Hole … 207 So. Washington MILWAUKEE

Club Milwaukee Baths … 704-A W. Wisconsin On Broadway Health Club . 158 N. Broadway WRECK ROOM … 266 E. Erie

CANADA MONTREAL

Continental Montreal (baths)

456 La Gauchetiere Bud's …

… Church at Granby Ruddy's Backroom Bar (behind Crispins)

64 Gerrard Barracks, Ltd. (baths) … 56 Widmer St.

Club Baths 231 Mutual St. Dudes 10 Breadalbane St. Parkside Tavern 530 Yonge

Roman Sauna … Shaggy Horse … 818 Richards St. Shaggy Horse Health Club

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