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On this occasion of the fourth anniversary of DRUMMER, it falls to the publi-that I should compare things as they were then with things as they are now. Or at least line up the Anniversary Issue with issue number one.

It was a brave little forty-page attempt which rolled out of the bindery in June of 1975. That first issue had to be farmed out to a surly printer down the street as our pressmen seemed incapable of making our reluctant presses print anything. Issues two through seven were printed on them however, and then we got out of the printing business forever, I hope. We took issue one around to the local newstands and sweettalked them into handling this new magazine which looked like nothing that anyone had ever tried before. To date everyone and his cousin had tried, with varying degrees of success, to do a gay version of Playboy. Then along comes this DRUMMER that didn't seem to be an imitation of anything.

Issue eight had our first four color cover showing Val Martin being body painted. It seems especially fitting that this anniversary issue should present Val. He was kind enough to come up to San Francisco with his friend Bouchard to pose for DRUMMER photographer David Sparrow.

The Leather Fraternity, which started the whole thing, has grown by leaps and bounds, producing its imitators as well. DRUMMER's "Unclassified" has gotten itself classified, more than tripled and become "Drumbeats" a few issues ago. Hopefully our members and readers have made hundreds of friends through those pages.

I personally have made many, many friends through these DRUMMER years, some in person, some through correspondence , some merely voices on the telephone . Having just come out of a lengthy seige in the hospital and an even lengthier one recuperating, I was amazed and pleased by the volume and the content of the messages of concern and friendship from many unexpected quarters. During this incapacitation, I became even prouder of the DRUMMER / ALTERNATE organization . Our people gave much of them-the call of duty to see that all went well. we can't ask for much more than that. Some lucky gay publications attract dedicated people who see their jobs as an important part of one of the sources of sher to Say Something. It usually follows gay communication. There is an acute scarcity of communication in our national community.

These last four years are filled with the whitened bones of publications that have bitten the dust for one reason or another . Even at their worst, they had something to say. The better ones will be sorely missed. As this issue goes to press comes news that GAYSWEEK has suspended publication. The BODY POLITIC in Canada is fighting for its life against the bookburners of that country. DRUMMER has readers in virtually every country in the world. Some of those readers brave their individual governments to even possess a gay publication. As the Chief Davis', Anity Bryants and John Briggs' descend back into their well-deserved oblivion, other opportunists in every county come forward.

With this issue DRUMMER begins a new distribution schedule and moves into its own building in the South of Market area in San Francisco. All mailing and shipping will be done direct from and by the DRUMMER offices for the first time.

We have a lot of people to thank for the past years. But probably uppermost on the list would be the DRUMMER reader, who, after all, is the one we do the whole thing for. Newstands report our readers to be the most loyal of any gay magazine. There are many places where standing reservations are left for the next issue. We have reports of back issues of DRUMMER bringing exorbitant prices. While the price structure of DRUMMER changes with this issue, it is due to printing and paper costs. We have continually filled DRUMMER with more pages of original copy, more fiction, photography and art than anyone else. To sell a magazine for 3.50 a copy and thirty dollars for a year's subscription, the value must be there, even in these inflated times.

DRUMMER continues to be one of the few gay-owned, gay-operated national publications and continues to enjoy the support and loyalty of its segment of the community. As we enter our fifth year of

The Publisher

MALECALL / Dear Sir:

FOOT IN MOUTH AND …

I agree with E.W.'s letter in issue No. 27 (Turkish Tootsie Torture).

You promised to have foot fetish in your fetish of the month, but never really went past the leather / boot fetish.

I'd really love to see and read about feet, and I'd like to see photos of men using their tongues to lick the smelly bare feet of their friends and masters.

My slave has to lick my feet, and I make sure he is able to tell my stinking socks from his own, blindfolded. He knows I also get off on his own toes too, and that I get really angry when he doesn't smell natural.

Here in New York at the Mineshaft, there is a sign which clearly states that the only perfume or scents allowed are good old sweat. Come East, why don't you, and film a few scenes from the 'Shaft. (By the way, since you seem to know a little about the 'Shaft, then you should have been here when the Toilet was open. The 'Shaft is but a dull replica of that wonderful, now closed, palace. There anything went on. "Leave your clothes at the door and be a whore" was their motto.) I'd dig reading other people's remembrances of these places,

Most of all, I'd love to read about foot fetishes in the near future.

F.N. New York City

TONGUE SERVICE

I recently wrote about the "Care and Training of the Male Slave" book that I paid for and didn't receive. Well, today I received the book in the mail.

I apologize for writing the letter. I have a knack for jumping the gun.

As a self-imposed penance I'm offering boot-licking and crotch kissing until my tongue falls out of my mouth. Collectable at your convenience, of course,

Gratefully, a satisfied reader.

J.M. San Jose, CA

DYNAMITE DAN

I've never written a letter to a magazine before and never thought I would until Issue 27 hit the stands. I've been through many cities and many men but never have I come across a man like your hiking centerfold Dan. A fantasy of being out in the wild and finding something like that has given a whole new dimension to my backpacking days. A great body, superb pecs and tits and that hot face and throat just waiting to be explored . Excellent!

Secondly, I wish to thank you for choosing my picture to be among those on your first Tough Customer page in issue 25. It was both an honor and a pleasure. Thank you,

Keep up the great work.

Dale Connecticut

Boots, bondage, piss, pain, shaving and cigars - you are determined, it would seem, to root out and celebrate whatever turns your readers on. So I wonder if you have given a thought to gloves: the biker's heavy black gauntlet, hanging from an epaulet … the immaculate white index of the inspecting officer … the stretch and snap of a rubber surgical glove, pulled up to the elbow … the suppleness of kid, that fits like a second skin … the rough palm of a construction worker's glove, like the calluses underneath … the muffled sensation of a boxing glove, laced tightly over the wrist … the almost unbearable smoothness of velvet, as fingertips stroke a naked abdomen . .

I confess to a certain thrill at the sight of a man in full leather placing his gloved hand on the leather-sheathed thigh of another. The hand moves up to the crotch, bulging in anticipation, and I feel it in my own. That anonymous hand, that force in the shape of a glove: it tightens around the balls as the penis swells …

Perhaps, in your encyclopedic files, you could find some photographs of gloves - and the men who use them.

L.M. N.Y., NY

YOUR HUMBLE SERVANT

I have reached my limits! I can take it no more! All those trips to the newsstand for Drummer, only to find none there, are more than I can bear. And worse, once I am there I will buy some other magazines I don't really want, just so the trip isn't a total waste. Does that make me an incurable M? Oh, sirs, I hope not.

But there is only one newsstand I know that ever has Drummer (in front of the bus station — where else? — and, no, I was not going to make the trip anyway). And usually they have every magazine except Drummer. Yes, I know pain is supposed to feel good, but the pain of coming home without Drummer doesn't — I would rather cum with Drummer.

So, please, sirs, send me subscription copies hot off the press. The pain of paying for a whole year at once is enough to make my checkbook hard, even tho it's only plastic leather.

And those guys at CMC Carnival in Issue 20 were enough to make me hard - and then some! Please, more hot hunks like that.

And, sirs, I know I don't deserve it, but please, please, try to do a feature (story and pictures) on David Hodo of Village People. That would keep me hard all month!

Thanks for the hottest mag around.

Bob Illinois

(One David Hodo pic, cuming up! — Ed.)

PUNKY

I just finished reading Prison Punk: Part I in issue 27 five times. I have never considered myself a part of the S / M scene but man I sure would not hesitate to trade places with that prison punk. It almost makes me run out and get arrested .

I'm black and around 27 years old and I really tripped out on that wild scene, I can't wait until the next chapter.

Some of the other things I can't get off into, but I would like to see more prison sex.

I must hurry now and read it again and again.

Thomas Houston, TX

LIGHT ON THE GRITTY

The photo spread of Jim Knight, in issue 28 represented what I'd like to see more of in DRUMMER. A definitely macho man who enjoys titwork, with a very well selected tattoo on a solid and muscular deltoid.

I'd like to read more fiction concerning bondage and nitty gritty S / M, but your recent issues seem light on the subject.

M.K. San Francisco, CA

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PROVINCETOWN PHUNKY PROVINCETOWN PHUNKY PROVINCETOWN PROVINCETOWN PHUNKY PROVINCETOWN PHUNKY PROVINCETOWN

The Captain and His Ship, 164 Commercial St., 617 / 487-9794. A very pretty house owned and operated by a gay man and his lover; the man just was elected to the Provincetown Board of Selectman, by the way.

Fisherman's Cove, 145-7 Commercial St., 617 / 487-1997. Has apartments for rent as well as a few rooms.

Haven House, 12 Carver Street, 617/ 487-3031. One of the friendliest guesthouses . It is also one of the few with a swimming pool.

Heritage House, 7 Center St., 617/ 487-3692. A new guesthouse that is making an all out effort to attract a leather clientele.

Sea Drift Inn, 80 Bradford St., 617/ 487-3686. The leather guesthouse, famous among members of East Coast bike-clubs . This one, as are most of the others, is always booked in advance. Never, ever, arrive in P-town without a reservation . Especially on a holiday weekend.

George's Inn, 9 Court Street, (617) 487-9005 is a cozy, convenient guest-house with a congenial staff. Not hard-core, but comfortable.

(All these guesthouses are year round businesses. If they're booked up, the owners will be glad to help you find another place to stay.)

RESTAURANTS

Food is one of the delights of a visit to Provincetown. If you're into seafood, get ready for a real treat. This place is an actual, honest-to-God fishing port. You'll be in nirvana. To those of you who are from outside New England, fried clams may sound something less than appealing , but swallow your pride and your memories of Howard Johnson meals and have them here. There are also many Italian, Portuguese and French / Conti- nental restaurants. The best bet is to ask the proprietor of your guesthouse. He'll give you the best information current; most guesthouses, in fact, keep a copy of menus of the town's eateries in their sitting room, so you can pick and choose the type and price of food you want. (One of the rules of running a guesthouse in P-town is that you must keep your clients eating well if you want them to return. The recommendations you get are very likely to be on target.)

Still, there are some places that we can recommend after having tried them

The Clambake, 247 Commercial St. Excellent, reasonable food with an accent

on seafood and possibly the best fried

The Hideaway, 229 Commercial St. There probably isn't a real "leather" restaurant in Provincetown, but the two gay women who own the Hideaway make this one of the most comfortable places if you want to wear full leather to dinner. They're very careful about their help and they read Drummer just to keep up (You must make a reservation here.)

Ocean's Inn, 386 Commercial St., adds a touch of elegance, if you're into it, to Cape dining. Very theatrical. And very, very good.

BRUNCH

We seem to have turned this into our own special meal. And it works especially well in a summer resort where people thrive on brunch before the beach and dinner late at night. All three of the already mentioned places have fine brunches ; here are some other recommendations :

Cafe Edwige, 333 Commercial Street. Very popular. Get there early.

Poor Richard's Buttery, 432 Commercial St., has an outpost in Key West.

Post Office Cafe and Restaurant, 303 Commercial St., for quick, but good and large meals.

BARS

There are more gay bars in Province-town during the summer months than there are in Boston. We couldn't list them all here, but why bother, you're probably interested in only two of them:

Atlantic House, 4-6 Masonic Place. This is the granddaddy of them all. There are three bars in the complex: a disco, a little bar with fireplace and one of the best jukeboxes on the East Coast, and the Macho Room - the name says it all.

The Cellar, in the Crown and Anchor Motor Inn, 247 Commercial Street. This is a new effort to create a heavy leather bar in a complex that includes the only gay bar open all year round - the Back-room .

BEACHES

The whole coastline of Cape Cod is a a beach, ocean or bay-side. But, The beach, is Herring Cove. Anyone can tell you how to get there. It's a long walk, an easy ride, from the village. Herring Cove provides you with one of the most interesting miniatures of society you'll ever want to see: at the parking lot, if you turn right, you go into Straightland, overrun with families with children, to the left, you have to walk through a forest of lesbians before you start seeing groups of gay men. As you continue, the men be- come bigger, butcher and more interesting . You start with them in groups in bathing suits, start finding them single, then they've gotten down to jockstraps after a while, then nude, then nude with cock rings, and then - then you've arrived at the dunes. Vast stretches of wastelands stretch out from the end of the beach. If you thought that park sex was hot in your home town, you've never seen anything like the sex that the leather clad, sweat soaked men get into in the sand.

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THE LAW

There were some bad news reports coming out of Provincetown last year, hysterical news about busts. Bullshit. There was one occasion when the State Police did bust a local gay bar that had pushed the Yankee sensibilities too far by opening a back room. (It may be the only time in history that someone was actually charged with: "Assault and battery with a deadly weapon: A Black Leather belt"). In the dunes, the National Seashore

Rangers (very hot men) may ask you to "move along," but basically, they patrol very infrequently and their new boss has ordered them to stop giving out citations for nude sunbathing.

One of the hottest of the many gay- owned businesses in P-town is George Powers' Designer Dock at 344 Commercial St. You must make it a stop on your trip to the Cape. You'll find gold and silver goods a cut above the quality you're used to.

One of the special attractions in the store is a series of finely detailed models of motorcycles done in solid sterling

(not silverplate).

The large one stands about four in- ches, and makes up for its height with a whopping $1850.00 price tag. The smaller models are a more reasonable $65.00. All are exclusive imports from Italy and represent well-known manufacturers' cycles. (Here, the large model is a Moto Guzzi; the smaller ones are Harleys.)

George also has a selection of erotic silverwork that he would be delighted to show to Drummer readers!

In town, the atmosphere of the bars and a few friendly words from your guesthouse proprietor will tell you the limits of acceptable behavior. Essentially, it's the more freed-up then any big Eastern city, except New York.

Your guesthouse, by the way, at least those we've mentioned, will not be in the least concerned if you trick in. If your trick ends up staying for too long they'll tell you before it gets to be a problem.

The drinking age in Massachusetts is now 20. Watch out. This is one place where the state and local police won't give an inch: do not buy booze if you're a minor or for someone who might be a minor.

The local police have one other area that they've been harsh about: Do not smoke dope on the town streets. In your guesthouse, on the beach, fine. But not in a bar or on the street. For some reason it's become an issue with them. And Massachusetts has strict penalties. Why bother risking it?

If you go in for nocturnal activities, take the time to go out to the dunes. They'll be there, and there'll be privacy there. If you let carnal need get in the way of common sense and try to duck into the bushes in the village proper, you'll be in trouble. All the land in town is private property, and any land owner, gay or straight, will call the cops if you're messing with the lawn or flower gardens.

Use a minimum of discretion in P- town and you'll have a maximum good time.

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Jur Pecs Belong to the Sundance, Kid BY JACK FRITSCHER

Tits are the great underdiscovered underground pleasure of 20th-century foxes. Male tits are to male sex what fine tuning is to television. Dick and butt are primary erotic zones as obvious as the mouth for cocksucking. Ma

A nose can learn that a whiff of 'pit is headier than a hit of popper. A tongue can learn that a kiss down the throat can be quite continental, but rimming is a guy's best trend.

TITS: 2000

Good sex is more than the finesse of fine ass. Good sex is more than Genital Gymnastics. Good sex is discovery of the geography of the male body's erotic po- tential. Some guys turn-on naturally wherever they're touched. Other guys, about the propriety of missionary sex, dismiss more adventurous sex as too kinky for them.

Their very giggles, as Freud diagnosed ticklishness, are a sign of sexual fear. Figure it out: humor more often than not deballs an erotic situation. Nothing, for instance, can empty a Back Room faster than two queens camping it up smack dab in the middle of all the other guys' heavy-duty manstough.

Some guys' manly sense of play leads them on their own into games beyond dick. Other guys, ripe for tutoring, have to be led down the very unprim, rosy path to Big Boy Secrets. That's a real male initiation rite of passage.

With the onset of the Eighties, homo-masculine men are moving from their First Coming Out (genital homosexuality) all the way to their Second Coming Out into total-body homosensuality.

And tits are the wave of the future.

MANLY CHESTS

"Blow in my ear and I'll follow you anywhere."

Twist a guy's tits and he'll follow you everywhere.

The mystique of the male chest is a natural history of masculinity's strength, bravery, endurance, and heart. A Man Called Horse popularized the Plains and absolutely male rituals more psychologically significant than any assistance. paddling by the Tejans fraternity at Texas A&M. The Amerindians, living by the code of what was natural, rather than what was normal, clue in us homo-sensualists , who much prefer to be natural rather than normal, that our chests belong to the Sun. (Perhaps, homomasculine men are more primal than their pussy-whipped heterocivilized brothers.)

As recently as this spring Amerindian compatriot of Marlon Brando, Russell Means, the hero of Wounded Knee, danced the Sun Vow Ritual as affirmative counterpoint to the deballing of the Nat- ive American Male. Bodybuilders, many of them homomuscular only, in their formal posing presentations, always in- clude a generous number of chest man- ifestations, and always to great applause. "Chest out! Stomach in!" Dialog de- livered daily by every Daddy and DI on this undisciplined planet.

Men have long been measured by their barrel-chests, recently by their defined slabs of vascular pecs, and lately by the gauge and tread of their nipples.

TIT TRIANGULATION

Titwork is sophisticated shit - once a man makes all the connections. Connections are what homosensuality s all about, An athlete knows the cause-and-effect connections of how his physical systems interrelate. A Camp Pendleton Grunt knows that if his USMC jock is too tight his dick gets hard, bent, and attention. Discovery of dick, with its upfront demands, is easy as reaching from your nose to your hose. A baby boy can do it.

So how does an adult ear become

Question: How can a man graduate any one of his body parts up erotically?

Answer: With a little help from his friends, his head, and his hands, he can be tutored - and tooted - into some sensual consciousness raising.

Tits, for those men who have yet to spark contact with those magical male dials, can be educated, if not absolutely wired, into geometry's strongest form: the triangle. Once the brain synapses the connection between a man's two tits and his one dick, the energy matrix on his torso lights up like Debbie Boone's bankbook .

BASIC TRAINING

Basic sex is to sophisticated homosen-suality what Army Basic Training is to the Sophisticated Training of a bodybuilder . This is no putdown of good old standbys like cocksucking and fucking. Homosensuality tends to savor all the stops along the way before getting to

the usual shooting match.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE YOUR ASSHOLE?

Consider asshole. Straight guys protect their butts the way women protect their tuna. Why? Straights, when not patting buns on athletic fields and courts, call each other, "Asshole!" All-Americans shout, "Up your ass!" To can way to say goodbye.

Myron / Myra Breckenridge drove straight into cowboy Rusty Godowsky's butt just like the Viet Cong fucked every American POW asshole in captivity. A military doctor, who happens to be gay, revealed recently that every POW coming home had VD up the ass. What better way to de-macho the downed Amelican Fryboy than to have some little gook prick shoot a load of diseased cum up his butt in bondage. Not too much publicity on that number simply because the media figure that those heroic POWs have enough adjustment simply returning to our runaway American culture. Apparently, TIME ain't gonna level with you about what's getting fucked the way DRUMMER will.

The homosensual point is that these POWs learned something through the use and abuse of their asses: either they hated it, or they hated themselves for liking it. What an ultimate and ironic Straight Macho betrayal: to have one of your own body parts tell your head that something you thought you could never relate to actually feels, well, not so bad, I guess, at all.

Many gay men, growing up with this straight-and-narrow attitude (and that's all it is: attitude) about male ass, have difficulty - even while listening to The Village People — learning the pleasure of getting plugged by a dick at the YMCA. What do they think the "A" stands for anyway?

Once, however, a man immigrates from the dark interior of America, he can more freely get plugged in the sweet, dark interior of himself. Consider this progressive Coming Out: first, using your progressive Conting Out. Inst, using your asshole as the Way In, as well as the Way Out, had to be gotten around. "Well, maybe I'll let you kiss it" becomes "tongue it" becomes "finger it" becomes "fuck it slow" becomes "f dildoes" becomes "douche it lightly" becomes "a four-quart enema" becomes "fist it" becomes "double fist it."

That's what happens to the simple joys of maidenhood!

Actually, that rising range is a man's REAL GRADUATION CEREMONY as he stakes out progressive ownership of the territory of his own body. Interesting , how the Terror of Penetration graduates up to an Absolute Appetite for Penetration!

TITS AND THE GREASY MECHANIC

Tits get hardons. That's the bottomline: three hardons are better than one.

Tits to the titillated are a hardon

difficult to live without once you've thrilled to the charge those two little fuckers can put out when played properly. Warning : once charged, they and you will need your tit fix. Nightly

Titsports are habit-forming.

Since the Mondo-American male knows more about his car than he does about his body, this analog may illustrate the value of teaching a pair of old cogs new tricks.

Tits are to the dick and body what the positive and negative terminals on a Sears DIEHARD Battery are to a hot car. The right tit and the left tit are the plus and minus battery terminals providing the current necessary to ignite the gas to cause the controlled explosion within the cylinder, thereby driving the piston downward, causing the heart of the engine, the crankshaft, to turn its torquing power to the transmission through the driveshaft to the axles, thus causing the car to lay rubber from a standing start.

A guy can learn a lot about sex from fucking with a mechanic! (Especially in greasy, sweaty faded blue Big Ben coveralls ; but that's another trip.)

MASTERS & JOHNSON

Tit response is one of the main differences between straights and gays. Gay men, generally not uptight about their bodies, and mouthier about exactly what they want, are willing to experiment more widely. The latest Masters and Johnson study codifies what we already know: homomasculine men dare to "go for it," dare to learn the physical con- nections worth learning, because they realize the multiple of pleasure they'll reap in return for their effort. You might as well grab all the gusto. You might as well take possession of your body, because, as A Chorus Line testifies, "tits and ass won't get you jobs — unless they're yours."

BODYBUILDER PECS

Tits assure Affirmative Action. Oh yeah!

Ever notice a bodybuilder at the tubs? Notice how he holds back? Far from being stuck on himself, he's not even waiting for another bodybuilder necessarily. Chances are he maintains his own space because he's tired of Genital Chauvinists coming up and humping his muscular thighs like Cocker Spaniels. To them, his physique is unique; they come fast and leave him: used, abused, and bored. They may think they're original, kneeling in adoration, sucking his dick. But Mr. Physique has seen it all before.

Betcha he'll wanna getcha if you try a little man-to-man resuscitation. Forget his dick for the time being. Cup your hand around one of his Big Pecs. After all, he majors in bench presses to pump his pecs.

Get inside his sensual focus, Bodybuilders , who know their art, are sophisticated sensually way beyond dickcentri-city . A man in heavy touch with working out his major body parts, carefully isolated for a week's split routine, knows something about sensuality that is sexuality plus. Arnold Schwarzenegger said in Pumping Iron that a good workout feels as good as coming and coming and coming.

Scratch a bodybuilder's pecs and ten- to-one you'll find a Tit Man. Begin to play "Chopsticks" to Chopin all over his chest. Either use thumb and forefinger of both hands, one pair to each nipple; or, if you've a handspan wider than an octave, you can with one hand play both his tits and use your other hand for further man-ipulation.

Very often, men who choose to express their masculinity through the medium of muscle are heavy duty sensualists . Too often, musclemen are sensually under-read.

TWO SINGULAR SENSATIONS

Man-to-man chest action, whether it's Tits-for-Two Mutuality, or whether its an S topping a Bottom's tits, ought to be an Olympic sport. You can, however, and should call "FOUL!" if, when you start rollerballing your partner's tits, his eyes go glassy, and his tongue lolls out, and he takes off to a passive galaxy Titwork is so hypnotically explosive it makes some guys hit bottom faster than the Hinden-burg

Ain't nothing worse than a sex partner who gets so laid back by your well orchestrated trip that he forgets you exist. You might as well be a dildo and he might as well call Dial-a-Clamp. Passivity of the partner too often comes with the territory of Titmania. Remind him that he also has hands and you also have tits and a fourhanded duet is often more fun than a piano solo.

Masters and Johnson ought to further their study: for the man who has done every S&M thing, and wants MORE, why is it that Eine Kleine Tit Musik dropkicks him into a capacity - if not a voracity, especially in a heavy S&M scene, to take more? Is it that mantits, tuned and torture -tested, triangulate to the testicles in a transcendent power grid?

TIT PAIN: A NEW DEFINITION

One very proper San Francisco man is so celebratorily into mutual tit play that he carries to the infamous South of the Slot whatever tit toys, beyond hands, that a man's mind can conjure. He is a Saint of Tit Torture. Clothes pins are child's play compared to his array of electrical alligator clamps, new surgical needles, and sterile X-acto blades whose neat little slices juice up so red and well under a pair of rubber snake-bite suction cups.

Some guys tentatively try one of his tit clamps on their finger and whine. They fail to realize the proper sophistication of this man's sensual titplay fore-play . He ain't no Chopper Charlie or Jack the Ripper. He can do to tits, and have done to his tits, manstough so severe that your head kicks out all the little protective tapes programmed into your head as a child about PAIN. Instead, his tit action teaches a man how to take possession of adult sensuality. He takes out the old protective tapes and puts in new ones to redefine the excrutiatingly exquisite pressure.

Suddenly, his partners realize that what they had once too easily, and much too quickly, defined as pain is really not pain, but is, in fact, simply heavy sensation . Pain is something different from heavy sensation. Heavy sensation causes no damage, no marks. Pain, as an S&M label in any scene, tits or not-tits, is confined to that upper level of heavy sensation where damage is done, where trauma happens to the body.

Nice guys don't cut off your nipples with the garden shears. That only happens in Liz Taylor movies scripted by Carson McCullers like Reflections In a

Golden Eye.

TIT MOVIE MAYHEM

Films sneak in a lot of tit shit. In Circle of Deception, Battle of Algiers, and State of Siege, men's nipples are tortured in bondage with electrical clamps attached to a "Double E 8" Field Telephone that the uniformed interrogaters crank up by the handle to send the shreiking voltage into the tied-up tits.

Film: State of Siege. Set: An austere room. CIA instructors have prepared a class in interrogation. Voiceover: "Torture can be a useful technique."

"Disciplined marine, army, and air force officers hurry down the hall toward the entrance to the room. The youngest, were it not for their distinctive uniforms, would look like noisy, carefree male students rushing to a class.

The vast room is flooded with a harsh white light. The officers take their places on benches arranged in a half-circle.

The hubbub ceases abruptly. The room falls silent. Four muscular, uniformed GUARDS bring in a blindfolded PRISONER. They lead him to the center of the semicircle, up to a sort of rack about two yards high. They go about stripping him as the room full of mili- tary personnel observes. Staff officers from the three branches of the armed forces take their seats on a large platform facing the benches.

The PRISONER is naked. His body is young, lean, and athletic. His tan indicates he is a relatively fresh capture. The GUARDS lift him up and set him on the middle pole of the rack. They bend him over backward so as to tie his wrists and ankles together. And they leave him like that, his arched naked body strained and swaying, supported only by the middle pole of the rack, which catches him in the backs of his knees.

A MAN in civilian clothes approaches the subject PRISONER. He is carrying a black plastic box, about two feet long, eight inches high. Three plastic-coated wires, each about two yards long, stick out of the top. At the ends of the wires are metal triangle clamps of different sizes and thickness.

The Man lays the box down by the rack. He presses down a red button; suddenly the silence is broken by a shrill, insistent buzz. Close-ups of the intent young military faces observing this lesson in interrogation by torture. Calmly, patiently, meticulously, the MAN proceeds with his demonstration. He applies the electrodes, one by one, to the most sensitive parts of the PRISONER'S body.

His ears. Gums. Nostrils. Nipples. Genitals. Anus.

Swept over by the electrical charges, the young PRISONER'S body vibrates, stretches, contracts. His wrenching, partially gagged screams heighten the intensity in the young military faces eagerly studying the interrogation techniques."

Odd, how straight men ignore their own nipples in the bedroom and head straight for another man's tits in the interrogation chamber!

In Walking Tall II, gigantic Buford Pusser is held down by muscular rednecks who slash the bejesus out of his chest and nipples with their hunting knives. Gore Vidal's Myra novel has the world's shortest chapter. It consists of Myron waking up, shouting two sentences: "My tits are gone! My tits are gone!"

OUR PECS BELONG TO THE SUN

Frederic Remington's Own West describes the Blackfoot Sundance Ritual in which A Boy Called Pony becomes A Man Called Horse: "Gaily attired onlookers watch with eager and sympathetic interest the tortured young braves who, endure from the claws skewered through their chests, dance wildly, lifted time to time from the dirt floor to the roof of the wickiup by hemp ropes attached to the skewers. Songs of admiration and encouragement accompany the violent beat- ing of the tomtom.

"The tortured young warrior is the epitome of the religion, the ambition and the heroic character of this Spartanlike

"The young aspirants, weakened by the previous fast, the peyote, and the ritual torture often fall faint and senseless to the ground; but they are pulled up by the bloody barbs through their chests, and they continue their sun dance until either their flesh tears loose or it is manifest that they can endure no more, in which case they are honorably cut loose … Each, after his release from torture, receives the attentions of his relatives, who have prepared a feast for him. In after-years, the Indian braves show the scars of their ordeal with all the pride that comes from their offering a boy's chest up to a piercing and bloody rite of passage into enduring manhood."

When a man's chest belongs to the Sun, he knows the vast difference between slavish masochism and manly

HARDWARE FOR A HARD LAY'S FRIGHT

Since the brain is the main sex organ, suggestion is a sex toy's best function. With tits, your best source beyond the convenience of bars and catalogs is cruising your favorite hardware store. Reaching into bins right next to the calloused-handed general contractor come in sweaty from the job to pick up a fitting he needs, you can come across everything you need to stage a tit scene.

Something can be said for the authenticity of real tools turned to real tit toys: clothes pins, for anybody but a beginner, are not worth bothering with, except for the fact that to have any really good scene, the principle is to start out slow and lead your partner into not only wanting more, but into begging for more.

Clothes pins are light enough to whet the appetite for some real play that leads up to scenes out of the Roman Martyrology where St. Agatha had her tits torn off with redhot pincers. (Ask any guy who grew up in a Catholic school where he got his S&M start!) Clothes pins' one drawback is their color: they remind some guys of mommy's wash. Easy antidote: daub them black with boot polish.

MAIL-ORDER TORTURE

Phillips and Fein, 166 West 21st Street, NYC 10011, produce, for those who prefer mail-order convenience, a brochure called Tit-Torture: Fantasy and Function (A Catalog for All Degrees). Their "tit clamp restraints have been created to provide the sensation of being secured directly by the nipples. When the subject is bound into various positions , the added discomfort produced by struggle, resistance, or movement of any kind, is a constant, active stimulation, no matter which end of the Alligators you're on." One virtue of tit clamps, whether used for heavy S&M or for sensual fun, is that each pair is like an extra pair of hands introduced to the scene.

TWO TO TANGLE

Pleasant man-to-man tit play can be arranged by connecting two pairs of Alligator clamps together and then, chest to chest with your partner, clamping his left tit to your right one and his right one to your left one, the four clamps connected by a foot of chain. You'll stay close to each other! He'll get a direct reading of your mutuality as you lean back, because the pressure on his tits is the same as the pull on yours. Not only are you and your buddy linked directly with tit-to-tit communication and energy, but your hands are also free toconjure magic faster

GUYS DO THIS TO EACH OTHER?

Phillips and Fein, besides wrist-to-ankle tit clamps, and tit-to-earlobe clamps, and magnetic tit clamps that add weight (as magnet after magnet is added), offer niceties such as the "Tit Whip," a seven-inch handle with 31 / 2 inch leather thongs designed for concentrated application; and the "Nipple Whip" with flat rubber straps having hard spikey rubber points that leave "satisfying and exciting," but temporary, marks. For the Tit Freak who has everything, including a variety of gold rings for his pierced nipples, Phillips and Fein offer a Tit-Clamp silk- screened teeshirt. Sort of like wearing your "heart" on your sleeve!

PIERCED TO THE QUICK, QUICK!

Doug Malloy, the piercing expert of LA's Gauntlet Enterprises, says, "Piercing of Gauntlet Enterprises, says, the nipples is not really new. The proud Roman Centurions, Caesar's bodyguard, wore nipple rings as a sign of their virility and courage, and as a uniform accessory for securing their short capes. The practice was also quite common in the Victorian era to enhance the size and shape of the nipples. Today the lure of piercing is primarily a sexual one. It provides a mechanical 'tit'-ilation achieved by no other means. For many, especially men into bondage and discipline, and S&M scenes, tit piercing is a tremendous psychological turn-on."

Malloy recommends: "Where possible, piercing should be professionally done as placement determines the nipple's development, shape, and esthetic effect. While difficult to obtain unless one knows a sympathetic doctor, anesthetics are available for the faint-of-heart. Healing normally takes six to eight weeks and

is quickest where a retainer with straight post is used." Malloy is a Master Piercer: nipples, navels, cock heads, and taints. (A taint is that stretch of skin between your balls and your asshole; it is called a taint because it t'ain't your balls and it t'ain't your ass.) But it can be effectively pierced and ringed. Malloy's informative and exciting catalog, "Body Piercing in Brief," is available from Gauntlet Enterprises, P.O. Box 3950, Beverly Hills, CA 90212. TIT BUDDIES: NYC FILTH Fucking, sucking, and fisting are alltime favorites on the Sexual Top Ten. Tit-work is next. The East Coast, longer than the West Coast, has enjoyed the pleasures of pecs. In SFO, when a man meets you he wants to shake your hand. A handshake is not so much an old American custom as it is taking the measure of a man. The Fist Cruisers care less about the size of your dick and more about the size of your glove. In NYC, the Manhattan Hello is "Tits and Pits": First you grab each others' nipples, and then one man or the other, or both, lifts an armpit for a quick sniffnlick. TIT PRINCIPLE Results are so underplayed and so hungry that to turn a man every which way including loose, all you have to go manfully to do is go manfully after his chest. It he follows you home, you can keep him. INTERNATIONAL WRESTLING In international Greco-Roman wrestling, "upper body techniques" score more points than a lot of diving for the legs. Globally in wrestling, Europeans easily JOE TIFFENBACK

outclass American wrestlers because of their greater skill in what ABC-TV's WIDE WORLD OF SPORTS officially calls "Upper Body Techniques." Why leave it to the sensual Europeans? Sexually and sensually, titsports are an "upper body technique" worth the learning.

TITS FOR DAZE

Mantit training falls into educative classes. Tit response can be learned: self-taught or, better, tutored. You can roll your own, or enjoy a buddy-rub. Too many guys go for the kill too fast. What good are wrecked tits? Slow squeezing in the Big City will lay down more tread faster than apelike brutalization unless you happen to be into Neanderthal sex, which is also fun when the mood strikes.

With use, tits can grow hard like a dick and bigger like a bicep. Their connec- tions are circulatory and musculatory. In fact, among homomasculine men, big nipples have become a true sign of sensual adulthood.

Big nipples on a firm chest are de- finite status symbols. Reach under a man's white cotton teeshirt. Run your hand up his furry, hard abdomen. Find the valley between the mounds of his pecs. Spread your hand like Van pecs. Spread your hand like Van Cliburn stretching for the Big Octave. (Why do you think Physique Pictorial has for years given its hot models' measurements "nipple-to-nipple"? That's info for Tit Freaks!) If the mantits y

MAN2MAN QUARTERLY Tits, Pits, Fists, HardZFind Fetish Trips, Your sensual ad free with 1 Your sub. $5 check: MAN2MAN OUARTERLY, 115 Haight, Suite 2, SF 94102. Must state over 21.

NIPPLE AND PEC FREAKS W / M, 6'3", 37, 51" chest, slab pecs, cone shaped tits that never get enough, wants to meet / hear from heavy chested, big titted guys into long tit workout sessions. Live your nipple fantasy. Chest pic

TIT TORTURE CORRESPONDENCE CLUB Guys who are turned on by tit tor- ture … exchange experiences, fantasies. Bob Hughes, Box 333, Lyndhurst, NJ 07071.

NIPPLE FREAK Wants to meet / correspond / exchange photos etc. with guys into their itis, Mine are big and always in need of hot workout. Into any kind of tit scene, hot to work over other guys nipples, and dirty talk, Box 20.

SAN FRANCISCO. Nipple action, w / m, 150 lbs., 32, seeks hot men with big tits for long tit work sessions, all scenes. Box 19.

ERECTION DEMOLITION Expert, 30, seeks work, heavy tit play my specialty. Dark haired and hairy guys my turn on, Box 28.

A. JAY'S PECS O'TOOLE

DRUMMER 18,

Across the oil- and sweat-stained mat from me stands the hunkiest, hairiest man I've seen in years; rubbing his sinewy tattooed biceps, scratching through the thick black hair on his massive chest; he adjusts his straining cock inside his tight leather jock and tightens the laces in his black leather wrestling boots; I tuck the taut laces of my hood / mask up under the taut aues of my nood / max up under the neck and secure the studded cockring around my hard cock; our strong hard bodies, soaked with oil, shine under the hot red lights, "All right, fuck-face!" he snarls, "let's rassle!"

There is something inside man - has always been something inside man - that draws him to wrestling as naturally as to breathing and eating. For earliest man, wrestling was a survival skill: the strongest and most agile outlived his predators and competitors. Despite Kub-rick's 2001 contentions, man's first weapon was his body; wrestling, his first defense. So perhaps wrestling appeals to our first and strongest instinct - survival.

Or, if you believe that man has a natural inclination toward violence, then wrestling can be seen as the most direct outlet for that inclination. Catching a man's head in a vise-like headlock, squeezing the shit out of him with a body-scissors, driving your fist into his exposed ribcage, wrenching his neck with a full nelson - there is the attraction of doing violence to another strong man's body.

But no matter to what we attribute wrestling's appeal, one thing is a near certainty: none of us has never wrestled. From the unstructured horse-play tussling with other guys on the playground to the must-do-for-a-grade wrestling in high school; from the strictly regulated intermural meets on college teams to roughhouse barroom challenges - each of us has wrestled at one time or another. And most of us enjoyed it. Some of us still do… we lock up collar-and-elbow, push- ing and pulling, straining for position, testing each other's strength; I duck under his right arm, drop to one knee, hoist him onto my shoulder, and flip him over in a perfect fireman's carry; he hits the mat with a thud but rolls out of the way before I can pounce on top of him; in one lightning-quick movement, he is up on one knee, facing me, ready to tie up again …

As a sport, there is nothing easier to enjoy than wrestling. It is the simplest of sports, requiring no special equipment - no expensive gear, no hoops and nets, no protective padding and helmets. All you need is an opponent and enough space to throw him around - an uncluttered living room, the wrestling room at the YMCA, outside on the grass or the beach. Unlike the complicated, often indiscernible goals and strategies in, say, some team sports, the sole object of wrestling is to whip your opponent's ass by pinfall or by submission. And the unique reward of such a one-on-one man-to-man sort of competition is the combined potential for either sole blame or total acclaim: if you lose, you cannot blame lackluster teammates; if you win, you don't have to share the plaudits, the spoils.

This one-on-one nature of wrestling may well be the sport's strongest appeal to all men, gay or not. The pitting of one's strength, skill, agility, and endurance directly against another man's is as immediate, as elemental, and as rugged as competition can get.

While the above all applies equally to any kind of wrestling, from the tightly structured amateur / scholastic style to any number of rougher freestyle kinds of grappling, it all seems particularly true of the latter - the rough-house / freestyle wrestling. Even amateur / scholastic wrestling tends, for some of us, to become too structured, too restrictive; it becomes a far too rigid, imposed system of plotted and rehearsed maneuvering. The rougher, more primitive kinds of grappling seem much more basic, much truer to the combative function of wrestling: they replace restrictions with risks, replace systems with spontaneity. This freeing oneself from all restrictions - a return to instincts , an acceptance of basic inclinations - can produce an intense sensation of cathartic release for the combatants.

This wonderfully sensual catharsis in wrestling, in the enjoyment of a good hard-fought match with an aggressive, determined opponent, is particularly attractive to the macho gay crowd who wrestle. In the membership directories of the large gay wrestling clubs in the country , a vast majority of the hundreds of club members identify their wrestling preferences as "freestyle" or "pro" or "rough-house no-holds-barred." This makes sense: a large part of being gay is the desire / need for unrestricted sensual contact with other men. And for many in the macho / leather / levi crowd, wrestling is a complete stripping - as it were - to the bone of their powers of sensuality.

. tying up with him and grinding our hard sweaty bodies into each other; he locks me in a bearhug, his large powerful arm crushing me tightly against his chest; the sweat runs down our chests, mingles with the slimy oil, and mats our thick coarse hair together; our hard cocks bang together and stab each other's groins; I grab a handful of hair, pull his head back, and pound my fist into his hard chest; when that fails to break his grip around my back, I drive my knee sharply into his low-hung balls . .

Let's face it headlocks and hard cocks are an inseparable pair. Even all those professed straight boys in their polyester jersey singlets are known to throw good hard rods in matches (I've wrestled them and I've felt them). The primary reason for the erotic (sometimes) character of wrestling: the actual, physical man's- body-to-man's- body contact of wrestling is more intense and more prolonged than in any other sport, Legs tangle. Hard chests grind together. Back muscles strain and flare, Biceps harden and grow, Groins pound into taut asses. The sweat literally pours. Clenching an arm around your opponent's head in a headlock, or locking him in a scissors with your groins clamped together, or smashing your fore- arm down across the flared muscles of your opponent's back - or indeed, feeling a forearm pounded into your own back, or feeling two strong hairy arms clenched around your waist - these are all intensely sensual experiences. Often they are wonderfully erotic. For some, they are absolutely orgasmic.

Further, wrestling of any style affords a special fantasy-fulfillment trip to many men in the leathersex crowd: a real fight for real dominance; a chance to conquer and, in the truest sense of the word, master another man. Wrestling for position , to determine topman and bottom for a scene, "winner fucks loser," or whatever, can concretely reify the Mas- ter / Slave roles, especially for two aggressive men who both tend toward top. A man who has just conquered a worthy challenger, who has just earned "the victor's spoils," more fully understands - and deserves! - the role of Master; a man who has just submitted in three out of five hard-fought falls comes better to understand the meaning of real submission to another man, to his Master. The eventual top / Master receives tangible reward for having just demonstrated his superiority to one who has admitted his shit-face inferiority, and the bottom/ slave more respectfully renders service to the man who has just earned the slave's service by whipping his ass. Wrestling for position thus adds another gruellingly sensual dimension to the mutual pleasures of S&M leathersex.

How much does wrestling's utility as a part of leathersex contribute to its rapid growth as the most popular, most widespread participatory sport among macho gay men? That's hard to say. But from the number of white terry cloth bandanas hooked through the left-side belt loops that I've seen in leather bars lately, I suspect that much of wrestling's recent upsurge in popularity can be traced to this (Incidentally, big the use. white terry cloth on the right side means he wants to wrestle just for the sport of it; on the left, he wants to fight for position - wants to be challenged to a mat-fight for top / bottom.) And that's good news - always on the lookout for new opponents!

The wrestling clubs for gays across the country - in Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles - generally adhere truthfully and strictly to the policy that they are sports-only organizations : i.e., that their function is to provide wrestlers who happen to be gay with the opportunity to correspond, meet, and wrestle with other grapplers for the enjoyment of the sport as sport. (As President of the Windy City Wrestling Club, I have often and loudly declared my refusal to play yenta to the gay community of Chicago; gay wrestlers need sports clubs, not lonely-hearts clubs.) On the other hand, these clubs' policy toward sex is one of, basically, hands-off . That is, if there is sex among the men who meet via the club, that is the individuals' business, certainly no concern of the club. After all, the gay com- munity suffers from too many people trying to look in on what goes on in our beds without our prying into each others

So, if you're into it – that is, if you're MAN enough for it! - write to us for an application and information regarding club activities. Write to: Hank Trout, President; WINDY CITY WRESTLING CLUB; c / o Steamworks Ltd.; 3131 North Lincoln Avenue; Chicago, IL 60657.

"Now, come on, you piece of shit! Let's rassle!"

Hank Trout, President WINDY CITY WRESTLING CLUB, Chicago

MEN UNDER STRESS MEDITATIONS ON

Manhattan. One Arthur Tress photograph is worth a thousand words; but meditations on Tress, like Meditations on the Way of the Cross, expose access to the secret world of masculinity at once dominant and submissive, esthetic and sexual, urban and urbane, Tress' recent exhibition at New York's Robert Samuel Gallery hung as an insight into the night-time fantasy of Male Apocalypse Now. Tress is a man of distinction, a real big splendor, good to look at when so inclined. Eigh

CODE 1: GIFTS OF NATURE

NYC. Subway under Sixth and Houston. Far above, horns honk. Plaster dust grinds into reluctant knees. Toes bend, hurt, slide back, thru grit. Manyoice: soft, celebratory, commanding from outside frame of reference. "WORSHI ward. Thick scent of manbucket rises to lowering face. Wet hands palm flat on crumbling floor. Screech-wheeling train roars past. Lost in the maze. Manhattan Minotaur. Love among the ruins. Total Genuflection. This room always cubicled with dark men: tiled, wet; slam of black horseshoe seats against stained porcelain; streams of steaming tunnel dumps. Humid drips from fur-gray ceiling. Stalactite. All men gone now. But one: MANIMAL. Demolition. Terminal. LETTING GO. Finally free. Worship a man's essence. Eat and drink. For this is his Body, His worn leather boot, rich with woolsock sweat, remains planted firmly forever,

ARTHUR TRESS

BY JACK FRITSCHER

CODE 2: BLACK BOY

Delicious Black Boy. Chocolate-flavored Treat. Damn yummy. Satisfy tummy. Dark Midnight Special spreadin' everlovin' light from the Great Grinding Triangle buttressed, butt-Tressed, and footshod. Kinky. Hardhanded Tool Joc

CODE 3: SEBASTIANE

Burnt-out, bound-up, slime-caked man, twisted, bent, pit-filth running wet, entrapped, snared, slings, arrows, outrageous fortune soldiers, beautiful matured man's face furrowed, mercenary warriors, heavy-booted executione

CODE 4: CONFESSION DE KAFKA CACA

Top Man, tough, needs topping: severe. A muscular, hairy hustler. Expansive dick. Expensive fists. Big feet. Will pay masculine men, 30 to 45. Need man to get my attention and hold my interest. Now. Former Paratrooper. Arm If you get the pic, you get mine.

Mr. Benson kicked me awake the next morning. Not really hard or vicious, but enough so I knew it was a kick and not a nudge. My eyes opened to his wonderful balls hanging down over my face. Those beautiful nuts pressed toward my mouth like a double bucket ready to drop down a well.

Mr. Benson was not — repeat not — in a romantic mood. "Get up, asshole, I'm going to shower. You make breakfast: egg, up; bacon, crisp; coffee, black, I eat in the dining room." Off he strode as I stretched against the dow feel of my confining sleeping bag. My yawn helped me dis- cover the tender spots on my ass where his belt had left the best of black and blue marks. Still, I felt good this morning! What I really wanted was to curl up in the sleeping bag and play with my piss hard, but Mr. Benson's steaming shower reminded me that the kick in my side and the growled orders meant that last night's roles weren't forgott

I jumped up and jaynaked headed into his enormous living room. I crossed islands of carpet towards the dining area. The kitchen was behind the door at the head of the bulky dark-

wood table. I pushed against the spring hinge into the midst of gleaming white and stainless steel.

A five minute hide-and-seek for utensils started the bacon frying, the toast, and coffee.

Now, five years later, I know it was a damn good thing I got that breakfast together fast. Mr. Benson's never been one to enjoy waiting, and his definition of a good mood in the morning means he's not actively glowering. I was too far from the bathroom to have heard the water turn off. I jumped when his voice boomed from the table, "Coffee!"

No explanation needed or offered. I found a mug and poured out the first cup that had dripped down into the pot. I pushed back through the door and found my new man wrapped in a heavy flannel bathrobe, already a few pages into the Sunday Times. put the coffee down beside him. His thick hair was wet and matted from the shower. His moustache looked more full than I had remembered against his smooth shaven skin. His clean fresh mansmell was one of the best highs I ever sniffed. Hardon!

Last night flashed before me: a real man who took what he wanted the way he wanted it, but who also showed pride and affection. My obvious hardon drove me back into the kitchen.

Five minutes later, I carried his breakfast through the door. He barely nodded, I placed it in front of him and left him silverware and refilled his cup. He only gave me less than grudging notice as he plowed through the sports page. I was foolish enough in those days to expect more. Now I appreciate what I do get when I get it.

When I came back to the table a third time, now carrying my own breakfast plate, I pulled out the chair to his right and began to sit when Mr. Benson said: "What th' hell are you doing?” “Sir?” I almost shit.

"Don't dare plant your slave's ass in my home! On the floor, asswipe, remember your place! You eat on the floor!'

He pointed to the corner to his right. I took the plate and crawled over to the floor. Mr. Benson plays no games, no roles. Mr. Benson is totally Mr. Benson. I was not to use the furniture. His arm and pointing finger didn't relax until I had taken my assigned place. No games. I was getting clear on that!

My humiliation almost erased my appetite. I crouched with my plate on my lap and buried myself in a whole new series of emotions. Just a few minutes ago I had been happy to be cooking for my new man, proud of the body he had appreciated so much the night before, cocky of the muscles that had taken so much of his abuse, and anticipating an afternoon lounging around the house, hopefully having sex again.

Now I felt like shit.

The odor of body sweat almost tied in a sleeping bag all night, the pain of the welts covered with his cum and the stub- ble of a day's growth of beard joined with the shame of eating naked on the floor. Shit. Why didn't I leave right then. I was pissed at the motherfucker.

I know why I didn't leave. I have to confess, I know. I stayed because when the feelings were so intense, Mr. Benson parted his robe. He reached down and laxily scratched his crotch. His hand pulled away. His balls nestled back down on the chair. His cock drooped over them, hanging over the edge of the seat.

That was the main attraction: that masculine package of crotch with dark maned hair, protected by heavy hairy thighs. Taste, Touch, Smell, Five year's worth, Whenever I wonder why I've put up with this hardassed bastard, I rerun memories of Mr. Benson's cock and balls.

I wolfed down my breakfast. What the hell! He wants me on the floor, I'll stay on the floor. I bussed my plate to the kitchen and cleared his place so he could spread out his papers. His coffee cup was empty. I decided if I was into this, I might as well do it to it; so I filled his cup for him.

He hardly grunted.

Standing over the sink, I realized for the first time just how enormous the apartment was. My whole flat would have fit into the large living room. And I thought, really for the first time, how wealthy he must be. Who was he?

After I had dried the last plate, I was at a loss. Shower? Dress? I tried to anticipate: what does a slave do without orders? That's what I was now, a slave. He had brought me to the pitch of saying the word myself last night; he had accepted me. So what now? What was this going to mean, being a man's slave, in a country that had taken away a man's right to be a slave. Fuck Abe Lincoln!

Finally I came to an inevitable conclusion: I obviously wasn't going to sit up at the table and read the paper; I hardly presumed to use his bathroom to take a shower; I wasn't supposed to dress. So, I went back into the dining room, haunched down in my corner, and damned my luck when I saw his robe had been pulled shut. I pulled my sleeping bag around my bruises and dozed, fully aware, like a puppy always aware of his master's feet.

Mr. Benson must have found that acceptable; when I opened my eyes, he was finishing the last section. Mr. Benson loves his Sunday Times, and I know now that takes at least an hour. When he had finished the last page, he pushed back his chair, threw his arms up and stretched. Only his spine touched the back of the chair and the tips of his toes pointed on the floor. This time when his robe pulled open, his whole hairy torso woke me to an instant hardon.

When manimal yawn was full stretched, he collapsed back into the seat. Scratching his balls, he smiled: "Come here, boy."

I jumped up beside him. He pulled my neck down, "Suck my pex.

I was amazed at his sudden acknowledgement that I existed . I've come to expect his sudden sexual energy. I bent over and took his heavy pec in my mouth and sucked smoothly. One hand held steady on my neck. The other pumped his own cock while he purred into my ear, "Nice, boy … that's right … suck on daddy's tit … use your tongue, boy …

Did he mind when I reached up and took his muscle in my hand, pushed his heavy flesh up into my face and rubbed his thick hair against my skin? His pointed dark red nipple hardened against my rubbing tongue. I was almost, but not quite, forgetting his stiff rod being fisted only two feet from my mouth. "Suck, man! Make Mr. Benson feel real good. Work for him, man. Make him cum, yeah. Make him shoot off his load in your slave belly while you suck his chest, man … " His hand held harder against my neck. His abs tensed and began to heave, tight definition on his muscular belly. "Work it, asshole …" His voice commanded: "Suck me!" His fist was flying. A wad of cum shot out and slammed against my head, and another, and a third landed on his belly and sponged my cock. Then more poured out of his cock, down over his dark hair.

I stood, still bent over him, softly nibbling his pec. When

My tongue cruised down the trail of body hair, sucking up the meat and cum, licking up the clear salty run off that had spurted foamy white only seconds ago. I knelt in complete adoration to close in on his softening cock and suck on his tight hair, cleaning it small strands at a time. I'd suck on clumps and tongue them up straight from his body where they'd stand with my wetness. Once again, I longed for his cock. I knew not to take it without permission.

Finally, he stood. "Good boy." He patted my head. "Go shower. I left a towel out for you, and a razor. Be quick. I have words for you.

I jumped up. My hardon bobbed up and down. No use to cover it. Only 24 hours ago I would have been embarrassed by a hardon, squeamish about how my body was used or exposed , but Mr. Benson already made me forget that fagshit! It was matural I should be naked, natural my body should be used this way by a man obviously superior to me. I bought the whole nine yards: Mr. Benson was my superior!

I thought about that under the warm shower. Everything in my background denied the idea that any one man was better than any other. But, I wondered about myself now; my bland middle class background obviously sucked when placed in the context of this man's lifestyle. Funny how superiority will tell even through leather and jeans. There was something obviously worshipful about Mr. Benson - more than the money. And, I realized for tthe first time, there was something obviously lacking in me.

The truth was in another time and another place, I would have in fact, in bondage, in torture, been this man's slave.

That thought came while I shaved. I fantasized about Mr. Benson the sheik and me the Arab boy whose life depended on my master's whim. My cock shot straight up against the cold porcelain sink.

I wiped the last shaving cream from my face. I had a vision of Mr. Benson the Norseman and me the English peasant he'd just kidnapped to take back to Vikingland for God only knew what nightmarish existence.

I was beating off by the time Mr. Benson had become a Turkish potentate and I was a captured yeoman from the cur-saders' armies, standing in front of him while he decided whether or not to deball me into a eunuch. I shot straight in the air when he decided, no, that he had harder ways to use

There I was, living in the east quarter of the twentieth century , debating the issue of slavery, naively touching issues and ideas that had toppled empires and torn apart countries. And I was arguing the losing side. The world sure was fucked. Still 15.

But, I know now, there was something very serious about what was going on through my mind. I was seriously wondering about who I was in relationship to this man. There was nothing that had happened that led me to believe for a second that this was a potential "boyfriend" or a potential "lover" in any Christopher / Castro / Folsom sense that I had experienced. The differences were all in his favor. The only things I had going for me were a body he found attractive and a willingness to do something to make him happy. If I needed fantasies to justify the degradation and humiliation he would demand, then let it be. I was deciding that Mr. Benson was the man I wanted to love. If class and money and age were going to separate us, I would use my sexuality and a willingness to be powerless to overcome them. I would be a slave in order to love this man. Everything that had been programmed into me was, compared to Mr. Benson, just so much shit.

The real decision was made when I walked clean and refreshed into the main room and saw him. He couldn't have heard my bare feet and he didn't look up as I stood mesmerized in the doorway looking at a vision of manhood I thought was the most perfect I had ever imagined.

The marble fireplace burned real logs. Fire and heat and Mr. Benson dominated the room. Mr. Benson sat to the left in a brown leather chair with one leg casually thrown over an arm. He was reading a small, old looking bound book; the Brandenburg Concerti played on the stereo. He looked perfectly dressed in the thermal shirt and old faded jeans he had changed into, but he was perfect. The room, the setting, the fire joining one reading lamp against a grey New York winter afternoon sky, the clothes, and the posture that was no pose all had in common: perfect masculinity. Here was a man worthy of being my master.

I was torn between wanting to take all this in and wanting to demonstrate my emotions. The need to act took over. went over to him and knelt on the floor, spreading my willingness to sacrifice before him. I reached my head over and lightly kissed his bare foot once, then again and again till I finally took the biggest toe into my mouth and lovingly sucked on it. Just like that; spread out, feeling the whole front side of my body on top of the rough wool, my head resting on its side on the floor sucking on the only part of my man's

I stared at his feet. They were large. The skin on the bottom was rough. Calloused. The top was perfect. Proportioned. I was so close I could trace the thick veins that matched the muscle vascularity of his cock. I traced the delicate lines of smaller blood vessels. I watched the throbbing of the artery just above his heel. I could count the hairs that grew thick over the top of his foot. Mr. Benson's foot! My master's foot!

After a few minutes, he pulled his toe away and rubbed the tips of all five toes back and forth across the slit of my open mouth, running the toe nails against my teeth.

Then, slowly, he changed the pattern and brought the soles of his feet up and grated the worn skin against my lips. Each swing he would press down harder, forcing my mouth further open until my jaws were pried apart, my neck against the floor. He forced me to turn over on my back by subtly manipulating my head. My arms were spread over my head, my legs were angled open beneath my hard cock pulsating on my belly.

Mr. Benson's next words shocked me. He's kept me on my guard all these years, made me fear for changes in mood; he's thrown me with the unexpected. But I never suspected that this would come from him then: "You better go home now."

My eyes must have shown my bewilderment, but he added nothing more.

"Have I done something wrong, sir?"

"No, you haven't done anything wrong. I'm just not sure about you. And I'm not convinced you know about yourself. You see, boy, I'm not into playing a lot of games with some little disco doll who thinks he might be into S&M. If I'm going to bother investing a lot of time in one person, I want to know he's going to be worth my time; it's not enough that the one

Benson off. He looked thoughtfully for a brief while and then finally responded, "I want you to go. Go home. Think. When you are very sure, call me. But know when you do call me — if you call me - that I'm going to put you through a test that will be your own version of hell. Know that if you call me, I'll expect unquestioning service from you. I'll expect you to be a slave. Not a trick. Not a lover. Not a person. Just a piece of ass wipe. My personal servant. No games. No breaks. No headaches . My pleasure. My timing. My rules.

I lay stock still, my cock so rigid from his words I thought I'd shoot right then and there. But Mr. Benson turned back to his book. I was no disco doll. I obeyed. I dressed. When I came back to him, he handed me a piece of paper. I took it and, determined to keep myself together, silently followed him to the elevator door and waited for the cage to arrive.

The operator was not the same man as the night before and he was mercifully silent on the way down. I needed quiet to sort out my thoughts about the glorious man I had just left. Was the one night all he had to offer? No, the control he had exerted this morning had shown more. Was he just being kind and letting me down easy by sending me home? No, he wouldn't have left the option of returning if I had failed the "audition." I had to treat him with trust. I knew that even five years ago, that to deal with Mr. Benson was to deal with trust and respect or need five. trust and respect or none of it would work.

Call when sure, he had said. OK, I should have stopped at the first pay phone. The secrets Ma Bell knows! But I knew he wanted me to think and decide. All right, I'd do that. Especially about the threat of a test. The ad-lib belt marks on my ass showed me that a planned test by Mr. Benson would be nothing to take lightly. Was I really ready for that: was he worth anything? And was he really so special that it was worth never looking again for another man?

Just in time to answer my question, I walked right into the oncoming figure of Larry. I was so deep in thought I never had a chance to lessen my pace even a slight bit. Larry, the omni- present flannel-shirt-levi stud in every bar in New York. Hulking , tall Larry, now as always, in full uniform: construction boots, letter jacket, flannel shirt, and button-fly jeans with two buttons open to show a gleaming white jockstrap. The light brown moustache completed the image of every male impersonator on Christopher Street. But hot, at least hot enough for a slave. Larry. Whom I'd wanted everytime I'd seen him; who had always smiled, but never responded to me sexually.

Look where the fuck you're going!"

"Sorry, Larry.

"Hey guy, almost didn't recognize you." He smiled and slapped my shoulder. Small talk. I tried to focus on him instead of Mr. Benson. Finally, it dawned on me that after a year of cruising him in the bars, Larry was now interested in me. A Godsend! A fucking Godsend! Here was Here was, at least, irony! Would I turn on to Larry as I had to Mr. Benson?

I perked up, flashed my teeth back at his, slouching to show ass, nonchalantly opening my jacket to show bare skin under the brown leather. He liked that. A lot. The let's-fuck invitation to his apartment followed fast.

A good test. Good because Larry pretty soon had my attention . Good because I found myself impressed by this bar-god . Maybe Mr. Benson was right, if I could change over so quickly, maybe I wasn't really ready. I think about the encounter of five years ago often. What if it had been different? I was only 25 then. What if I hadn't ende son?

But those are idle thoughts. I did end up with Mr. Benson. And I know now that Larry was a big part of the decision. He had my attention. But he couldn't hold my interest.

Mr. Benson lived at One Fifth Avenue; Larry lived in Chelsea. Back then, with my former gay values, they somehow balanced one another. Mr. Benson's independent lifestyle versus Larry's life as king of the gay ghetto. I couldn't long keep them on a par. As soon as I walked in apartment. I knew he'd have been better off with the Architectural Digest faggotry. His furniture was supposed to look imported - from France, not Korea. The carpet was Korvettes; the prints were cliched repros of Gauguin, Utrillo, and Rembrandt. Poor Gaugain. Poor Utrillo! Poor Rembrandt! Poor Larry! Poor me! A man usually fucks in the same style as he lives.

Larry lit the obligatory joint, I sat on his couch, Larry chattered more than he conversed. He compounded his sin of interior decor: he liked all his shit. This, I was beginning to see was why I wasn't gay anymore! Gay was disco, Gay was interior decor! I was leaving gayness. I was into, purety, at least beginning to understand man-to-man relations.

I longed for Larry to start, I guess Mr. Benson had already taught me to let the topman begin. But when he started to light the second joint, I sensed his basic insecurity. My hand reached his crotch and popped the buttons to expose the whole of his oft-glimpsed jockstrap.

I cupped the mound and got hard thinking about burying my face in it, almost breathing my lifebreath through the sweaty web of his Bike. "In the bedroom," he said.

I followed him through the door. Never judge a bed by its cover, out this was a Bloomie's window! I tossed myself on the bed trying to keep hard with thoughts of that wonderful jock in my mouth when Larry began to strip. Undress? Himself? "You too."

I shrugged. I had only my jacket, jeans, socks, and embar- rassing Adidas left after last night. I stripped quickly. Larry stood clad only in his jockstrap. He blew up his chest in pride and obviously waited for an appreciative remark. I wanted some nasty head cheese. Instead: quel frommage!

All the flannel and denim had costumed a pale hairless body. Firm but no muscle. No command bulk. He was like Superman in reverse. He was Clark Kent and I was just getting used to NOT being Lois Lane.

He came over and laid on top of me. His flesh was cool to my touch. He kissed me. His mouth felt strange on lips still tasting of the worship of Mr. Benson's tough calloused feet.

I tried. God knows I tried to get into the gay spirit of the whole gay ritual. We both wanted to be the bad little boys we never were. I ground my groin up to meet that jockstrap that now was his only redeeming virtue. But he missed badly. No offense to Larry. He wasn't Mr. Benson. "What can I do for you, sir?" I had jerked my mouth away from his to finally spit those words out. Maybe if I could get him into digging his own jockstrap I could pull this off. I hardened to the thought of the full pouch and of him pissing through it, the warm shower spraying out through the fabric and running down my eager face.

'Not 'sir.' " Larry pulled himself up.

"None of that role-playing shit. We're both men."

God! Today there's too many ways to be gay. You need a fucking computer just to figure out the hanky code.

I soon realized what he meant as his lips came down to rejoin mine in one of his blubbering kisses. My cock drooped: the uniform, the jockstrap, him grinding away on top of me, but I bet … I bet … I reached down to his macho ass and tentatively poked a finger into the hidden hole.

The loud "Aaaaa." was proof enough. No wonder The

Village People played on his reel-to-reel!

I didn't need the sudden gymnastics as Larry rolled our joined bodies over to force me on top. Nor did I need his legs jerking up in the air to come down and clasp my waist between his thighs. Then his mouth started.

"Just buddies, man. Real buddies. Be a buddy, man. Stick it in. Fuck your buddy, man…"

I pulled away as violently as if I were drowning in his insecurity. My cock bobbed out from his thighs' clutches.

"Sorry, man. I've got to go to the john."

The oldest line in gaydom allowed me to escape panting into the toilet in the hallway. Inside, I closed the door and sat on the bowl and tried to collect my thoughts about this idol turned bottom and about my reactions.

A world of flannel clones living in Chelsea walk-ups, Was that the alternative to Mr. Benson? I think the deciding factor was my glancing over to the sink and seeing a bar of soap sitting there proudly wearing a Bloomingdale's "B." No Larry was no substitute for Mr. Benson. I tested him, and the former me, a little more by opening the medicine chest. Cans of hairspray and Brut deodorant and Macho cologne, Predictable .

By now my cock had shriveled. I quickly went into the bedroom and put on my clothes. Larry watched me while he smoked a Marlboro.

"So you are into all that top / bottom shit." I suddenly realized that this was really the first time he could have seen

the marks on the back of my body. He had probably figured it out without their witness though, given how I'd been reacting. "Yeah, I guess so." I lied as I tied my sneakers. I had to go buy my boots at Stompers.

"Poor little fairy, doomed to look for a knight on a black charger for the rest of your life. Don't you know there are no real men in gay life?"

"No, I don't know that, Larry." I looked him rightin the

"There are only make believes. You take the hot, real thing, kid. And make yourself as happy as you can with that." "I'm not willing to do that, Larry. I believe there are some men able enough to be men. I'm only 25. I'm going to keep on trying to give and trying to find someone man enough to take.

"Pretty young fool. Go ahead. You are young. Go ahead and try. None of us are going to blame you for trying. But we will all tell you we told you so when you come back. Remem- dark man.'

I didn't respond. I left. Quickly. Down the stairs and onto 8th Avenue. I wasn't fleeing. I was leaving behind a sad figure who tried to hide his own failings in criticism of me. I was also leaving behind what I had, before Mr. Benson, been headed for.

It was cold on the Avenue. I missed my teeshirt as the wind off the river blew in my jacket. I walked thoughtfully home to my own Chelsea apartment only a few blocks from Larry's. Loud disco music blared some welcome through the doorway. I nearly collapsed in a sigh.

'Oh, shit.

My roommate was listening to The Village People. They were everywhere! Larry gave me a chenille bedspread to match Mr. Benson's leather sheet, and my own roommate, cloned out of the likes of Larry, met the challenge of the Brandenburg Concerti with The Village People! The Gay lifestyle is a conspiracy.

I opened the door and walked through a cloud of marijuana . Jimmy and a trick sat ripped to the tits in the sparse living room. Our resources had mercifully kept us from any pretensions of style. At least, borderline poverty was honestly comfortable.

Funny. I liked Jimmy a lot in those days. I wanted to tell him everything about the evening. The hot man, the hot sex, the fantasy, the reality. At first, he and his friend stared at me through glazed eyes. They perked up at mention of the penthouse . Their wide-eyed interest in money turned sour when I described the sweet, sweet piss-drinking climax to my evening with Mr. Benson.

"I wish we gay people would stop degrading ourselves so,"

Jimmy said.

"It wasn't degrading, Jimmy. I mean, it was him I was drinking. It was a communion. It was his sacred water, man.

His gift." "You're sick," the tricksie chimed in. "How could you?" "You're sick," the tricksie chimed in. "How could you?" "How'd it taste?" Jimmy owned up to a little more interest .

"I really don't want to hear about it," tricksie said. "Some things are best left to wharves and backrooms." "Though it was penthouse piss," Jimmy said. "The rich are always the most perverted. Look at Patty

Hearst, Fucked by a nigger. Married to a cop. They can't deal with their power," "Mr. Benson can!" I said.

"His first name?"

I took out the paper with the telephone number. "Aristotle Benson," I read.

They laughed. I was struck by how apt it was: Aristotle, teacher of young men.

"Well if you want to be Ari's Jackie, sweetheart … "

I gave up and went into my own room, barely keeping the departure civil. I laid on my unmade bed and thought. I looked around at the disheveled room. The centerfolds from Drummer were the only wall decorations. My Christopher Street drag, really no better than Larry's, was the only clothing visible. I thought about the one suit hanging in the closet for work tomorrow. At a forcrissakes insurance company

A picture of 'my family was on the bureau. Middleclass.

Middlewest. Middle-aged. Their life so different from mine were leading lives as alienated as my family's.

Mr. Benson: The only person to kindle intensity in me in years was Mr. Benson.

I felt trapped. Sunday. Shades of The Madness of Taby Bright! What can you do at this time on a Sunday? The Ramrod! New York's favorite weekend leather bar would be hot even this early.

I jumped into full costume. A little heavier this time.

Constructionboots. A black tee shirt. Less is more.

I grabbed a cab at the corner.

The Ramrod was as full of men as I had hoped. A veritable sea of black leather. Certainly here, I could find some men to match my Mr. Benson. I got a beer at the bar and looked around. Motorcycle cops and bodybuilders and fantasy men lounged through the room. Pick and choose!

Fuck Mr. Benson. I'd show him. He was right. I was still looking for Mr. Goodfuck.

My first mark was a man wearing more leather than the animal that had died for his skins. A heavy black moustache and a ring through his left ear projected such harshness and brute force that I no longer cared about Mr. Benson's natural command preserve. Here was something to kneel to. Man, I thought back then that I could have tasted his cock right there, standing there in the bar. I sucked down the beer, glared at his blunt face, saw a glance come my way from underneath the leather cap.

I went over beside him. Sweat. Welcome tension. My armpits ran as I thought about the loft I was sure he lived in. Chains suspended from exposed beams. I saw spotlights focused on my own flesh, naked and open to this he-man's fist. "Mary! What are you doing here! And in full drag!" 'Mary! What are you doing here! And in full drag!'

I was stunned when another full-dressed leather number came up to my prey and started to talk. Talk shop. And shop was the stock market. And then they talked about their children. Children? That had me thrown for a loop until I suddenly realized that their children were pedigreed dogs. I shoved through the crowd, desperate to leave before I found out that their children were poodles.

I went into the dark back. Not a real "Backroom," but a place where a group of hunky looking men could stand around and stare at one another and cruise the line shuffling slowly towards the urinals. I got my attitude together and hit the center of the room. I spread my legs and watched the piss line. Started to check their crotches. I hardened thinking about their golden shower flowing out into the bowls. Thinking about licking. Drinking. Fuck. Mr. Benson and his over- whelming self-assurance. No, I looked at the one in a black undershirt slouched against the wall as he waited his turn.

The Ramrod was no place to drink piss. But the basket on that number! I glared at his middle. I was so intent on mid-section that I was shocked when I did look up and saw him staring back at me. Hot, man. Here's one I could get it on with real good. I opened my mouth to show interest when suddenly it dawned on me. I had to stop for a minute and think. It couldn't be, but it was. There on his right side hung a set of heavy keys, and in the back right pocket a bright yellow hankerchief. Another bottom.

By now I was dejected. Weren't there any tops left in New

York City? could try one more beer. See what else came in. I could, and I could end up doing that for every night this year. I was not going to meet another Mr. Benson on Sunday afternoon at the Ramrod. I never have figured out why he had been in the other bar in the first place. Why I had happened to run into him that one night. But it dawned on me that it would be many nights before I ever met him in a bar again. If I ever even met the likes of him in a bar again.

I sadly put down my bottle and wove my way through the crowd. Decisions had been made. It was time I put it on the line. My own inclinations that afternoon had been right. I would call Mr. Benson and tell him that now I knew that the only way for me to live, by night and by day, was as his one and only slave: tits, tongue, testicles, and toilet.

Whatever. I was ready.

Men need to worship other men. Mr. Benson was to be my master.

RUMSTICK

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tive custody."

. I had never fucked a man before and although I loved getting cock and some of Jerry's customers had sucked me off, I wasn't sure that I could handle the more aggressive role.

My thoughts were interrupted by Jerry's gruff voice. "One thing, asshole, you don't give up any head or ass to these two. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dudes pay for that."

One afternoon I was standing by the handball court, watching a game in play when Bob came up to me. "Jim, Jerry wants you over in his office right away."

I walked across the yard with Bob. I sighed in resignation, because I knew that Jerry and Bob were going to screw me or Jerry had a customer waiting.

Jerry must have been watching through a crack in the door because the solid wooden door swung open just as we arrived.

The door to Jerry's office was closed.

After closing the door, Jerry turned to me. "Jack's in the office waiting for you. We aren't going in with you because the dude may act kind of skittish with me and Bob watching. Leave the office door open so we can hear and if it gets too hairy we'll be right in.'

I wanted to protest that I wasn't ready, but I knew that it wouldn't do me any good.

"Just put yourself in my place. Be firm with the mother-fucker , don’t let him bamboozle you. If you screw up, I’ll make you live to regret it. Now get your ass in there.”

With a sigh of resignation, I opened the office door and stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me. I found Jack sitting at the desk, smoking a cigarette, obviously very nervous . The front door made a slamming sound as if Bob and Jerry had left.

Jack was a weightlifter. In fact he refused various jobs so he could spend most of his time working out. His hair was cut in an outmoded crew cut. His features were clean and although he was a bit shorter than I he outweighed me by ten or more pounds - all muscle.

Taking a deep mental sigh, I spoke for the first time.

"Douse that cigarette asshole and get on your feet,

Anger flared in Jack's eyes and I thought, Oh, shit, I've done it now, but I refused to stop, probably because I knew that Bob and Jerry were just outside the door. "You hard of hearing, motherfucker, kill the butt and get on your feet." Jack most have realized that the slamming door was just a ploy and my master and his buddy were lurking just outside of the door. He shook his shoulders in resignation, put out the cigarette and got to his feet.

"Now, strip off buck naked."

Unhesitantly, Jack began to remove his clothing, his narcissism coming into play. As I searched the cabinet for things to use, I saw him looking at me to see what reaction his body was evoking from me. The shoes and socks went first, followed by the shirt. The removal of the latter brought into view a finely chiseled, highly developed chest and arms. The chest was completely hairless which only accentuated the muscle development . Like a fucking strip teaser, he slowly opened his belt and unbuttoned his fly. I could see that he was wearing boxer shorts underneath. The pants fell from his narrow waist and hips to the floor. I found some leather cuffs that we had used in the cell the night before with a variety of chains and a bottle of amyl. I knew that before I was through this dude was going to need the amyl.

As I stood, I realized that I had a raging hard on. I didn't say anything about the fact that he had made no effort to drop his shorts.

I strapped the cuffs to his wrist, but not without a bit of lip from Jack. "What the fuck's this for?"

"Don't argue, just let me do my thing." After I had buckled them on, I swung them behind him and quickly fastened them together with a small chain. Standing at his side, I wrapped and buckled a slave collar around his thick neck, making sure that the collar's metal ring was centered behind him. Strictly on a guess basis, I grabbed another chain and stood behind Jack. Pretending to adjust the cuffs and moving his arms up and down to see if he was all right, I quietly clipped one end of the chain to the slave collar with one hand while I continued to flex his elbows. Bringing his arms way up his back, I clipped the other end of the chain. Now, I had him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing," Jack asked as he whirled around. I was ready for him and I knew that even though he was tied up his legs could be dangerous, so as he turned I kneed him in the groin which caused him to scream and fall to the floor with his legs drawn up.

"We are going to do this easy or hard. It's all up to you." I let him lie there as I got undressed. As I dropped my levis, his moaning had stopped. I reached over to Jack's pants and removed a wide leather belt, doubling it I slammed it against his upturned ass. "You've guessed by now that Bob and Jerry are outside. Do you want to make it a four way, or do you want to settle for me?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't hit me anymore, man."

"Yeah, what?

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"When you talk to me, punk, you call me 'sir' or 'master.' and helped him up. Behind the books on a shelf, I found a gut slitter, a knife of about eight inches in length with a sharp point and a sharper edge.

When Jack spotted the knife, he started copping aces and deuces. "Please, sir, please, master. I'll do anything you say." A nervous sweat broke out on his face while his handsome countenance was contorted with real fear.

Grabbing the eleastic band of his undershorts with one hand, I cut the band with the knife in my right hand. Then, I ripped the shorts from his body. He stood naked in front of me with his cock and balls shrunken in real fear of what might be coming next.

Laying the knife on a shelf by my side within easy reach, I ran my hands over his naked body. Moistening my finger tips with my tongue I rubbed them over his tits, trying to tease them to a point. As the point emerged slowly within the surrounding corona. As they came to a point, I tweaked them with my finger tips, pulling and twisting them while Jack tried to pull away from me as he winced in pain. I rubbed the palm of my hand over his washboard stomach. The skin was so thin I could feel nothing but the hard muscles under. the surface. I ran my fingers through the lush vegetation of his pubic hair. I grabbed his cock in my hand and stroked it gently. Within a few moments it grew harder in my teasing gentle hand. A groan of ecstasy came from Jack's lips, "Oh, suck it." I grabbed his balls, twisting and squeezing them, which caused Jack to scream out in pain.

"You're here to give me pleasure, asshole," I said as I twisted his balls, lending emphasis to my words.

Leaning against the shelf where I had laid the belt and knife, I forced Jack to his knees in front of me. My cock was erect and demanding attention. Pre-cum was forming on the head and I was determined that none of it would be wasted. "Stick out your tongue and lick the come from my cock-head."

Jack made no move to comply with my command, so I grabbed the belt and laid it across his back. Still he refused to obey me, so I shoved his head to the floor, placing my foot on the slave collar to hold him in position. His white hairless ass offered itself to my belt and I guess I took out my frustration and anger because I began to beat it hard. Crisscross patterns of red and blue were beginning to appear. Jack pleaded and screamed at me; his curses turned to "Master" … this and . . that, but I paid no attention to him because I 'Master" was enjoying the beating. In fact I felt myself being carried away by it, so I stopped.

Pulling Jack back to his knees, I saw the tears coursing down his cheeks. I think if he had been free at that moment he would have gladly killed me. Yet, I could see in his eyes a strange light that made me wonder if I might not have touched a dark recess of his mind of which he was not even aware. Surprisingly, his cock was hard and this sort of lent confirma- tion to my supposition.

"Now, are you ready to act right?" "Yes, sir." His tongue flicked out and caught some of the pre-cum that was drooling from my cock. I slapped him in the

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· Cock · Shit and Stars • Cunt • Spit Pea with Tits and Ass face, pushing him away from my cock. "You suck when I tell you. You only do what I tell you and you don't give me any shit when I tell you to do something. "Yes, sir."

"You ever sucked a cock before?" "Fuck no," he retorted, only incidentally remembering to add "sir."

"Well, you're about to. If I feel your fucking teeth, I'm really going to beat your ass and if you try to bite me I slit your throat from ear to ear. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Now, run your tongue all over the head, get it good and wet. Open your mouth and start sucking on the shaft. As you come up off of the shaft put all the pressure you can on it without letting me feel your teeth." Christ, he's good, I thought, as the hot mouth took more and more of my cock. Could he be lying about never having sucked a cock. I laid the belt on the shelf and grabbed his head in my two hands beginning to fuck his face. I pulled his head against my groin and felt my cock enter his throat which caused him to choke; I brought it out and drove it in again, holding it down in his throat. I knew that he was starving for air so I released him and fucked his mouth furiously. As my balls began to boil, I decided to try out his asshole. I pulled free from his satisfying mouth and jerked him to his feet. I was in a state of frenzy. I shoved him over to the edge of the desk, grabbing the belt and amyl. Furiously, I shoved him over the edge.

"Please, sir, don't beat me again." I didn't even bother to respond. I reached into one of the side drawers and found a small jar of vaseline and scooped out a handful and greased my throbbing cock. I knew if I massaged it very long it would burst in my hand, so I grabbed the chain between his wrists to keep him in position and felt for his asshole. It was then that Jack realized what was going to happen. “No. No.” His voice grew in panic. “Ain’t no one going to fuck me. I'll suck you off, but not my ass."

Without any thought! grabbed the belt and started whipping an already red ass. I laid each stroke on harder and harder until Jack begged me to stop that he'd do anything I wanted.

Without a pause I dropped the belt, positioned my cock and began pushing it into the tight hole. The head finally broke through the sphincter. "Take it out. Please take it out. It's tearing me up. I can't take it."

"Shut your fucking mouth and take it like a man. If you relax your muscles it'll start getting good to you." "Please, sir, I can't take it." Sobs were erupting from his lips as I felt the shaft work its way into the tight hole. Finally, I had it all in, my groin came into contact with the still hot cheeks of his ass and I laid across his body savoring the thrill of having my cock all the way up his ass and the sensuous warmth of the hole and the cheeks of his ass. I unscrewed the bottle of amyl and shoved it under his nose. "Take a deep whiff. It'll make it more enjoyable for you." Jack sniffed hard at the bottle until I removed it from his nose and transferred it to mine. I took several long pulls at the bottle and recapped it. I began to take long strokes and I could feel that the muscles were beginning to lose their tension. Man, I thought, my first asshole. It's great! I built up the tempo as I felt my cockhead begin to swell in preparation to busting my nuts. I grabbed his hips in my hands and drove harder and more furiously, only evoking a grunt each time I drove the shaft into the hot hole. My legs shook and the muscles in my ass quivered as I felt my load begin its ultimate goal of filling Jack's ass. Burst after burst filled his ass and I could swear at the end Jack reciprocated by meeting my last drive. I fell over his body as I tried to catch my breath as my cock grew softer in his asshole. I pulled out and stood back from my victim. Using his tattered shorts, I wiped off my greasy, shit stained cock. I got quickly dressed while Jack slowly eased himself up from the desk. I removed his restraints and merely told him to get dressed. He never said a word, or even looked at me. I was too spent to try to have an after-sex conversation. Now that he was free, I wanted him out of there as quickly as possible. He dressed, shoving the torn shorts into his back pocket, and left the room.

I went out of the office to find Bob and Jerry and it was only then that I discovered that they must indeed have left and gone to the yard when I heard the door slam before Jack and I got started.

THE BEST LITTLE BROTHEL IN SAN FRANCISCO

THE BROTHEL AIN'T THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA where "you can check in, but you can never leave." Checkout time at the Brothel is anytime you want to check out the broth-of-a-boy in the suite next door. The Brothel is, in fact, a bit of Old San Francisco with a bite of the New.

Some guys check in to remember. Hardly any check in to forget. The Brothel caters to the best of guests. What the fuck holiday is at an Inn that advertises the "mompop" security of the "best surprise is no surprise at all"? The Brothel is pleasantly surprising . And surprise is where you find your art in SFO!

HOT-AND-COLD RUNNING VICTORIANA

The Brothel is an attitude. In the best sense of the word. You can and probably will use your room as much for those quiet nights when you need real rest as for those nights when you want to swing from the Victorian chandeliers. Attitude, about tattoos and legs muscled-up on roller skates, has taught Brothel entrepreneurs Bobby and Conrad about the hot mix of turning the shell of an old apartment building into a truly professional hostelry.

They've got the bead on BUTCH

ELEGANCE.

Why should queens have all the aMENities? The Brothel has very much the feel of a gentlemen's residence club - and every gentleman is an adventurer.

NEARER, MIGOD, TO THE CITY

The completely renovated Brothel is located three blocks from Polkstrasse, but enjoys its own quiet Pacific Heights neighborhood. A quarter on a MUNI bus, or a mondo cheapo taxi ride, can putt you off to the nightlife of Folsom or to the afternoon Castronaughtiness - complete (?) these days, in the street, with the very bubble-machines we used to jibe Lawrence Welk for.

Meanwhile, back at 1500 Sutter, you can be taken in the gym, sweat it out in the new steam room, or graze in the intimate new coffee shop. A complete travel agency on the premises manfully handles your itinerary for both local and Grand Tours. In short, the whole joint is presentable. Your mother could pick you up in the lobby with nary a blush. So could men as butch as your ma!

JAY, illustrator / car- Α. toonist … creator of "HARRY CHESS", the world's first gay cartoon strip, now appearing in DRUM-MER , announces the publication of "RAW MEAT". This limited edition portfolio of six solo drawings is beautifully detailed and printed on 8-1 / 2 x 11" quality stock. Very suitable for framing. If you are into big guys with big pecs, big nipples, and big equipment — this hot set of drawings is for you! A definite must for collectors, connoisseurs and erotic fantasizeurs!

$9.00 for the set. Price includes First Class postage and handling. Send check or money order to:

Powerhouse Productions BOX 11007 DEPT. D San Francisco, Ca. 94101 (allow 2-3 weeks for delivery.)

These drawings are intended for adults. All orders must have your signature stating you are over 21 years of age.

TONY PLEWIK

YOUR BROTHEL HOSTS: BOBBY AND CONRAD

A GUY LIKE YOU IN A NICE PLACE LIKE THIS

In the upstairs halls, business suits brush elbows with well-cured leather. Every man is one man by day and another by night. Gentlemen never tell. They just do it. That's the adventure! it. That's the adventure!

Brothel prices fit the budget of travelers wanting clean, quiet, and responsibly staffed accommodations. There is no Disco Muzak pir ad into the halls. The rooms are furnished like, well, rooms. many hungry Europeans shopping for choice cuts of American prime meat. In choice cuts of American prime meat. In how many languages can you say yes!

The Brothel is — how would Isherwood say it? — "divine decadence."

In fact, while the Brothel isn't a sex / bath, in many ways you could come out h brochure with rates, write or call: The Brothel, 1500 Sutter, San Francisco, CA 94109;415 / 775-6969.

- Jack Fritscher

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☐ Start me on DRUMMER. Here is my $30 (add $10 for first class or Canada) for 12 issues.

☐ Send me the following back issues at $3 each (includes postage) 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 at $3.50 (incl. postage) 22, 23, 24, 25, 26

☐ Send ALTERNATE at $15 for 12 issues. Name .

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AFTERMIDNIGHT, Michael Grum-ley , Scribner's, $8.95.

After Midnight, the hard lines of society blur; the artist finds privacy and guiet, the economic needs of a family force people into moonlighting, the hustlers and the prostitutes hit the streets, the topsy-turvey world of Las Vegas continues its inverted cycle.

Michael Grumley, author of Hard Corps, continues his look at the dark side of America with this new volume of interviews and vignettes. It's a fine work of an author who has a proven ability to see into all aspects of life that deviate from the Protestant ethic. This isn't jerk off material, but you'll enjoy the writing and the realistic portrayal of the hard, masculine world of the night people.

SLAVE TRADE, Herbert Dold, Arbor House, $8.95.

The title and plot of Slave Trade are enough to make you run for the bedroom in anticipation of one of the hottest j / o sessions of your life. Sorry. It's a good book, but not for that reason.

Sid Kasdan is a broken down, unlicensed private eye whose wife has just left him. Living in their Bernal Heights section of San Francisco in a house that enslaves him in memories and is the witness to his inability to cope, Sid is suddenly given an assignment that will pay more money than he ever dared hope. But the assignment has its problems : Sid is to transport young Haitian boys to American and European buyers.

The boys have been trained in a special school in Port-au-Prince; they have jumped at this chance to escape the brutal poverty of Haiti. They know where they're going and why. "Slaves" yes: but willing ones. A little too willing for Sid. In a fit of desperation over his own plight and his own guilt, he goes back to Las Vegas where he had dropped off one of the most attractive of the boys and kidnaps him into "freedom." The young man has no illusions though: "Does a friend lead me … without telling me what he wants from my risk? Ah, you take risk, too. But for some reason it pleases you. I come along like your slave, Meester Kasdan, I just come along with you because you please to trade me for something else you want.'

This novel is a philosophical look at the give and take of freedom, and the kinds of slavery that a materialistic society places on men who would try to he free.

THE MAN EVERYBODY WAS AF-RAID OF, and SKINFLICKS. Joseph Hansen, Rineholt Suspense Novels, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, $7.95 each.

Someday, I hope, American gay men are going to wake up and go out to buy a book that doesn't have a thing to do with disco dancing or Fire Island. They're going to go out and try to find a book by an author who understands what happens in their day to day life - not in the Pines or in SoHo lofts. When they do, they're going to find David Brandstetter waiting for them.

Brandstetter is the hero of Joseph Hansen's five detective novels. He's a private eye who worked for an insurance company as a claims investigator until his father died, and his employer wasn't willing to have a faggot on the payroll . It had been okay while the old man was alive, he just happened to have owned the company, though.

Brandstetter is a man in the tradition of California private eyes; the London Times says he's the only spiritual descendent of Dashiel Hammet worth the name. Always on the look out to do right and to get laid, Brandstetter deals daily with the double sets of values that America tries to get away with: the religious fanatic who likes pictures of little, little girls; the up-holder of law and order who just happens to have a very lucrative smuggling operation on the side. Brandstetter can't stand double dealing, and he lets no one get away with it: not even himself.

The Man Everybody Was Afraid Of is the current title available in this series. David has to come to the rescue of a gay activist who's charged with the murder of a Chief Davis like character. Of course he does. And, of course, he gets laid very tastefully.

Skinflicks is coming out August/ September. Look for it. Dave gets a chance to deal with religious nuts - and to get laid, tastefully. Anita Bryant may not have been one of the characters, but she obviously provided the inspiration for this book which lays bare the hypocrisy of the right wing church establishment.

These are fine detective novels, They're also fine, fine books. There's excitement , adventure, intrigue and some of the best and most sensitive descriptions of gay life - its problems and its victories - that have been written to date. Give yourself over to a couple nights with David Brandstetter; you'll enjoy his masculine company.

John Preston

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Robert Payne's do-it Yourself

ROBERT PAYNE's big second edi- tion of his best seller. Exploring the S & M relationship to its fullest with magnificent new art and photography to spare-sixty-four pages filled with collector's items. Beautifully illustrated by the who's who of artists and photographers on the subject. THÉ CARE & TRAINING OF THE MALE SLAVE II has the quality and excitement you have come to expect. A LIMITED EDITION for the adult male. 8½" x 11" with 4 color cover.

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Postbus 435 6040 AK Roermond

The RURALS MC and INTERCHAIN would like to thank everyone who has made our trip to America such a wonderful success and which has given us a lasting memory,

Thanks to our New York friends: OSSI Guest House, Mineshaft, Artie, Stan, Frank, Nino and all our Interchain brothers in the United States: Thanks to our San Francisco friends: all the motorcycle clubs, the Federal Hotel and Alexis: Thanks to our Los Angeles friends: all the Southern California clubs, Pat Savino and the Coral Sands Motel, all the bars in Hollywood, West Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley; And our very special thanks to Marc and Bill of Boots, without whom none of this would have happened. On behalf of all of our members, WILLIAM, LEO and DENNIS

INTERCHAIN

TOUGH SHIT!

HOW RELAXED CAN STRAIGHTS GET?

Simi Valley in LA is the bedroom community housing for most of the LAPD cops and their blonde beehived wives who all sell a little real estate on the side.

Now Simi Valley has a new house for sale since a Navy officer and his wife may have been the first Americans to slowly cook to death in an overheated hot tub.

Obviously, missionary sex leads to harder stuff like missionary stew.

Medical sources said there had been no previous reports of such deaths in hot tubs that are spreading like Three-Mile Island across the nation.

The science editor of the American Medical Association News, Frank Chapel, said he had never heard of deaths caused by hot tubs before. Chapel usually hears quickly about unusual, offbeat, and mondo sicko causes of death.

The steamy Simi Valley couple had simmered in their crock pot hot tub in water over 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Both, the modest will be comforted, were wearing bathing suits. One hopes they were of stretch material as it took the next-door neighbors over a day to find out if the couple had become soup yet.

The deputy coroner said that the couple apparently relaxed in the spa, fell asleep, passed into comas, and died of hyperpyrexia similar to the cause of death in persons who suffer sunstroke and who are then used as balloon floats in the Macy's Parade.

The woman involved was not the Simi Valley lady who last year put her freshly bathed poodle to dry - just for a couple of minutes - in the microwave.

The poodle exploded.

Simi Valley is a strange part of LA. They do things differently there. room stepped back from the death chair and a black hooded executioner threw the switch, that sent the first jolt of electricity at 10:12 a.m.

The first surge singed the skin on his right calf, sending smoke into the death chamber. He clenched his left fist, then his hands began to curl and blacken. Spenkelink received two more jolts of electricity.

State Rep. Andy Johnson of Jacksonville, one of 12 official witnesses who watched the execution along with reporters through a tion along with reporters through a glass window, said: "There is no need for it. It is un-Christian. It is barbaric. We saw a man sizzled today, and if you leaned forward and looked close you could see that he sizzled and the man didn't die instantly.

He had been condemned for killing a fellow drifter with a criminal record, Joseph Syzman- kiewicz, in a Tallahassee motel room in 1973. Spenkelink, a fugitive from a California prison at the time, had picked up his victim as a hitchhiker and claimed he killed him after Syzmankiewicz forced him at gunpoint to submit to a homosexual act, robbed him, and forced him to play Russian Roulette.

INSIDE SAN QUENTIN

"Ain't nobody gets rehabilitated here" is inmates' motto at the California high-security prison. Documentary about life behind its bars, as seen by inmates, guards and warden, was filmed during one of the prison's more violent periods, when three murders a week was the average. June 25th at 9:30, Chan- nel 9 / KOED / S.F.

ELECTRIC LEATHER BONDAGE EXECUTION

STARKE, FLA. - Convicted murderer, John Spenkelink was put to death in Florida's oak electric chair clenching his left fist as 2,250 volts of electricity shot through his body. Spenkelink, 30, whose death warrant was signed by Florida Gov. Bob Graham, was executed in a drab beige death chamber measuring about 12 by 20 feet, at the Florida State Prison.

The execution, which was to have begun promptly at 10 a.m., was inexplicably delayed until 10:11, when the venetian blinds separating official and media witnesses from the electric chair were opened, showing Spenkelink al- ready strapped in the huge death chair.

He was wearing a white gown rolled up at the sleeves and blue pants. A towel was placed under his chin.

A leather harness was placed around his head, over his chin, arms and chest. His legs and ankles were secured to the chair with wide leather straps.

He was fastened so securely in the head harness that he could not open his mouth and stared impassively at the 32 persons who witnessed the execution on the other side of the glass partition.

About a minute after the blinds were drawn so that the 32 could witness execution, a black hood was lowered over Spenkelink's face. Several attendants inside the death

BLOODY MARYS AT ELEPHANT WALK

SAN FRANCISCO - In a long night of looting, burning and chants for vengeance, more than five thousand demonstrators, many of them gay, rampaged through Civic Center and nearby neighborhoods kn a violent protest of the manslaughter verdict against excop Dan White who killed SF Mayor Moscone and gay SF Supervisor Harvey Milk.

It began as a quiet march of shocked and grieved gays from Castro and Market Street at about 7 p.m. But the mood quickly be-came disorganized and chaotic as demonstrators arrived at City Hall and night fell.

For four hours, Civic Center Plaza was a virtual battlefield, lit by the eerie, smoky fires of trash barrels. Waves of police, dressed in riot gear and swinging batons, tried again and again to drive demonstrators away from the be- seiged City Hall and out of the plaza where four burning cop cars went up in outraged flames

They finally succeeded shortly after midnight, driving bands of demonstrators back to the Castro where the police made very bloody Marys at the Elephant Walk.

Cops can twirl batons on patrons under a table faster than the most flaming queen can twirl a college marching band up his butt.

Guess whose mad as hell and not

LETTERS

Continued from page 7

CANADIAN CAPERS

I am not writing to tell you about the political status of the group I represent but to tell you of the reception Drummer has received up here. Vancouver, on the whole, is a very sexually conservative town. Fist fucking is viewed with a distant horror and water sports is water skiing and other innocent pasttimes. (Actually, all this is far from being without disadvantage; the worst that can happen here is not being tied up and branded, but having the partner fall asleep!)

I had thought that when the issues of Drummer started arriving the cries of "pervert" and "deviate" from my gay peers on campus would become much

Quite the reverse happened. Even the most conservative gays have labelled Drummer as "interesting" or "different " rather than some other less neutral words. "S&M Gym" seems to be everyone's favourite. Having a subscription to Drummer has created a lot of interest off campus as well. Canada has heavy censorship of magazines. British Columbia has an even more puritanical government, Vancouver's mayor and city council want all "pornography" (including such tame items as Playboy) out of the city. As a result, Drummer is not available here. Neither is any publication that shows either of the two great Canadian no-nos: an erect penis or two men in direct contact. If one goes to a porno movie here one quickly learns that straights make love by lying on top of each other and gays don't exist. The only way to obtain Drummer is by first class mail, which offer exchange costs $50 p.a., outside the range of most people.

I trust that Drummer shall continue to be of the same calibre and that I won't be disappointed in the Alternate.

I would send you a picture of myself but I'm not sure that a Japanese motorcycle that sounds like a sewing machine (but out-accelerates any German or American machine) is macho enough.

D.O. University of B.C. Vancouver, B.C.

INITIATIONS - ALIVE & WELL

Every year - thousands of young studs undergo initiations - into fraterni-ties , athletic clubs, neighborhood gangs, and even Volunteer Fireman houses. Since the members are sworn to silence - there are few pictures and no stories in the school year book or student newspaper - but many of the ceremonies are like a Rex booklet.

A few years ago, I was an associate instructor at a small Junior College in Montana. As student advisor I had a first hand look at the annual A Club initiation

If any of the students were gay - it was well hidden - most were cowboy and ranch hand types, just out of the local high-schools - main interests are

Drinking - Fucking - and Hunting. The 22 pledges were the top athletes on campus - if they became members, they could wear the A Club sweater and in that small town - that sweater was the key to a fabulous sex life with the local girls.

There is a decided method in the Initiation procedure - it was to make all these vigorous studs agree to anything that was ordered.

After weeks of washing cars - shining boots and other chores - no one would drop out of Hell Week for then all the previous work would be wasted, and the quitter would be a laughing stock.

On the 1st night of Hell Week - the pledges were taken two at a time - naked and blindfolded - into the gym - where they had to convince the student jury that they really wanted to join the Club

to prove their obedience – each pledge was ordered to shave off half – only half of his beard and mustache - and so they did to the great amusement of the jury

Afterwards, they were all told to assume the position - and given a really vigorous paddling - every face was beet red, with most eyes running tears - all the young rumps were really glowing.

No pledge was allowed to miss any classes during the week - but every night they had to report to the gym, where a nightly lottery was held - each pledge becoming the slave for that evening to one of the Club members - some were given exercises to do till they dropped - some pledges were literally paddled black and blue, as the A members laughed and mimicked their tears - spray-painting the balls and dicks was routine.

One night - Tobasco Sauce was sprayed on balls and up assholes - it feels cooling for about 30 minutes - then the hot pepper in the sauce gets to work and the howls and curses could be heard so far away - that to prevent any outsiders coming in to investigate - the loudest groaners were gagged. Saturday was Hell Day - the 6 team captains were ordered to report early for "special treatment" — the other pledges were to report that afternoon with their paddles tied around their necks, a green nail polish on their fingernails and toenails.

All through this Hell Week many pledges threatened to quit - all complained when every night the 4 guys with the biggest dicks were brutally paddled on their burning butts by the same Club members - But no one quit - all stayed on - and most figured that the worst was over - only one night left.

Stripped of everything, except the paddle hanging around their necks their wrists tied behind their backs with boot laces - the pledges were ordered to sing the school fight song as they faced the gym wall.

When they were given the order to "about face" - I wish that I had a camera to record the looks of Total Shock and

For standing in front of them were the 6 Team Captains - shaved totally hairless from head to toe - with the school colors - green & gold - painted in stripes on their shaved heads and each ball also a different school color.

The captains were grinning at the other pledges - who - after the first shock - were howling with laughter - but many were also trying to pull off their wrist bonds - when it looked like one football player might succeed - a pair of handcuffs were snapped on his wrists - after that - the pledges could only wait for whatever was to come - but most were obviously panicky - as a few had pony tail hair - but all had well styled hair, with long side-burns - all spent a lot of time in front of a mirror with a blow dryer and brush, before leaving for a date - even the Cowboys had longish hair - no one had a crew cut.

Then the paddles were removed from their necks and each pledge was made to push a tomato with his nose down a long corridor - as his ass was given a blister- ing final paddling.

When all were in the locker room - they were told to stand in what looked like a boxing ring, lined with a lumpy blue rug - this was their final test -

In front of the ring were 6 cakes of ice - behind each ice block was one of the hairless team captains - with a bat- tery powered hair clipper.

The 16 pledges standing in the ring were told that the last man to leave the ring would keep his hair - that the first 8 men to leave the ring would be forced to sit on the ice as their heads were shaved bald - also all their pubic hair would be clipped clean - that the next 4 pledges to leave the ring would be given Mohawk haircuts as they sat on the ice, but only their balls would then be shaved - they could keep the rest of their pubic hair, and the next 3 to leave would keep all their pubic hair, but be given any type of haircut that the barbers would decide - the school letters being a favorite design

the survivor would keep all his hair.

As the confused pledges heard this warning - the current in the Electric

Carpet was turned on.

Once again - only a camera could show the surprised expressions on the faces of the pledges - they yelled and cursed as they danced on the electric rug in a few minutes - 3 of them either jumped out or were pushed out of the small ring.

The current was shut off so all could enjoy the sight of the 3, one of whom was the football player with the handcuffed wrists, being dragged to the ice blocks - as the laughing barbers turned the 3 heads into hairless melons - it took 5 men to hold the football player as his balls and dick were shaved.

And so it went - till only 1 guy was left - he was on the Swim team - and never wore shoes at home - his soles were as tough as leather.

As the pledges were being shaved - their bonds were cut off - and beer was poured over their shaved heads and down their throats - as now they were A CLUB MEMBERS they had passed the Initiation - and were now welcomed as equals by the senior club members.

A few nights later, at a banquet, the new members received their Sweaters and all apparently felt that it was worth it.

About a week later - the Swimmer who had kept his hair, went out for a drinking party with friends who had lost theirs - and when he woke up the next morning with a super hangover - his hair was piled on the desk for Montana cowboys believe in equality.

Within a few weeks - the hair was growing back fast on the shaved heads - the new A Sweater men were fucking some new girls - the hunting season opened up - and not much at all was said

I went on to another school to teach - but I hear that the A Club is still active -

This is only one small school - but these scenes are repeated thousands of times in colleges and highschools - but

Last year, I was at the Univ. of Nevada in Reno - and was assured by a student leader that there was no hazing or initiations of any sort at the school - I mentioned that some schools still had such customs, especially with the sports teams to which the student said that of course the college Baseball Team still had its initiation - his roommate was on the team - and a few weeks before had returned with his head shaved baby-ass smooth - and he and his shorn teammates then had to run down a hill near the Sorority Houses, wearing only sneakers - as his team-mates blew their car horns, so that the girls would get a good view - And so it goes at nearly every school - but unless you probe into it no one will admit that initiations still exist.

Suggestion:

Let your readers write in as to what schools still have initiations and hazings including the time of year, and if they can be seen - some have them quite openly - on the main campus.

Others are in secret - or at least not advertised.

One of the Southwest colleges had and may be still has a Paddle Club - where the public can go for meals - but where any new member can be publicly paddled by an older member. Often, when a pledge would bring in his parents or girlfriend, he would be asked to assume the position and before the eyes of his guests - be paddled - if any of your readers knows where this club is - please print it.

This letter is far too long - but it's all true - and the subject of initiations is a genuine Turn-On for anyone who reads your excellent magazine.

Carl Great Falls, Montana

SUGGESTION BOX:

I have been reading your magazine for several months now and would like to give you my reactions and suggestions.

First of all, I agree completely with Hans of SF that handcuffs would add much to many of your photos and articles. They are such an integral part of the S's wardrobe and such a way of life for the M. How about more photos using them?

Could you publish your requirements for manuscripts for your fiction sections? I would like to try writing, either fictional or true accounts, but need some specifics.

Your photos, models and fictional sections are generally good. I have only one complaint. So many of your photos including bondage are just not realistic. It looks like the M could get free without difficulty. Mine don't - why do yours look so unconquered?

Are you allowed to show 14-20 year-olds in bondage, even if they are clothed? Are you allowed to show people in bondage being involved in REAL sex, or is that a no-no too?

How about some comic strips a la Harry Chess but with photos of real people?

Love the drawings in No. 27 pages 33 and 35. But why must they always be drawings?

I'll continue to buy your mag, but would like to see some of the above suggestions adopted or explained. Meanwhile , I let my M finish his job and then chain him to bed for the night.

M.S. Lebanon, PA

WHAT A PAYNE

I read "Obedience School," the excerpt from Robert Payne's Care and Training of the Male Slave II. I would very much like to buy the book. Could you tell me the publisher and address where I may purchase it. Also, please notify me of your next issue of Drummer and how I may subscribe to it.

I think Robert Payne is a great writer and would like to buy his book. Thank you.

LM. Ohio

PRISON PEN-PAL

I'm writing you in request for Pen Pals. Please allow me to explain myself and the situation I'm in. I was sentenced to prison Aug. 26, 1971. During my stay in prison, I have only received about 25 letters and no visits at all. I can only say from my incarcertaion, a person never knows loneliness until they have experienced it. Loneliness is very unbearable when you do not have any communica- tion with the outside world. I would appreciate a letter from anyone who will write. It would certainly bring sunshine and happiness into my lonely life. Let me thank you for taking your most precious valuable time to read my letter. Any reconsideration from this matter will be highly appreciated.

Age 37, 61 / 2 ft. tall, 170 lbs. Race - Black. Nice build, solid muscular, hair: black, long afro, eyes: light brown, thick moustache - neat. Twins / Gemini. I have many interests.

Joseph Lee Lewis No. 133018 C.C.I. 15802 State Route 104 P.O. Box 5500 Chilicothe, Ohio 45601

TWO SQUIDS TO GO … HOLD THE MAYO!

I've been readiing and enjoying your magazine for quite a while and get off on it. Here's something I discovered which may be fun for others:

When making a dish with squid take a large body (removing inners, spine, etc.) and stick your cock into the resulting sheath after warming it in warm water. You'll develop all sorts of techniques and it feels like a slimeo come-filled asshole - even looks and sounds like it when your stiff cock starts to wear away the membranes on the inside.

For an extra hot session, put several drops of Tabasco into the sheath. The possibilities are left to others - duos are my next project.

Afterwards you throw the squid into your cooking pot and serve it to your next stud for dinner.

Ripe plums (large kind), papyas and mangos are good lubricants and make great rimming.

Keep it up.

C.B. New York

UP YOURS, TIGER

I have for the first time read your magazine issue number 26. I have found that issue a very interesting and enjoy- able experience. You cater to the style that I like.

I train circus animals for performing and travel the U.S. each year.

I intend to purchase Drummer repeatedly . Keep up the great mag.

.M.C. Miami

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Above: Trooper Style Left:

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Address

City_

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BY JOHN PRESTON

JOCKSTRAP TANLINES, OILED TORSOS, WATERSPORTS, AND MILES OF DUNE ACTION. ALL FOR THE GRATIFICATION OF THE HOT DRUMMERMAN.

Faced with a decision about where to go on vacation, most men into leather and heavy sex limit ourselves to cities: Who wouldn't want to spend their time in San Francisco or New York? The other option seems to be to plan your trip around an understanding that you'll probably have to leave your leather at home.

No more, Macho Man! Provincetown is more than happy to welcome you and your life style for your summer relaxa- tion and enjoyment,

Provincetown isn't always cheap, what resort is? But, it certainly is reasonable. To get there, you have to have a car and drive to the end of Cape Cod - add three hours to your estimate of a drive to Boston. Or you can fly. Provincetown-Boston Airline provides convenient service between the two cities. If you can fly, do, parking is very difficult in P-town. There is a special connecting fare between most cities; make sure you request it from your travel agent. For schedules and information, the Provincetown-Boston Airline number is 617 / 487-0240. Almost every guesthouse will meet your plane if you tell them your arrival time. Otherwise, the pilot will order you a cab during your flight over. (P-B Airline flies modern Cessnas or ancient DC-3's.)

You can get to P-town by bus from Boston, New York or Providence. You can get schedule information by calling

617 / 487-9007.

There is also a boat - a pretty, but hardly convenient way to get there. It'll be loaded with straight tourists, but if that's your pleasure; the Provincetown Cruise Ship leaves Boston's Long Wharf at 9:30 am; it arrives in Provincetown at 1 pm. The return departs P-town at 3:15 and arrives at 6:45. Call 617 / 487-1741 for information.

The Provincetown Business Guild, an organization of businesses which deal most with the gay tourists, has a brochure available for the asking. Write them at Box 421, Provincetown, MA 02657 or call 617 / 487-2313.

Almost any of the businesses in P- town welcome the leather trade, With surprisingly open arms. But, there are, of course, those places we know about that are even more willing to identify themselves with the special needs of the Drummer reader:

GUESTHOUSES

The usual arrangement for a stay in P-town is to rent a room in a guesthouse.

ee

These hot satin shorts by J. Packer Enterprises are now available for only $10.00! Red, white, navy or green in small, medium or large.

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1738 Polk St., San Francisco, California 94109 (415) 885-5773 3989 17th St., San Francisco, California 94114 (415) 626-8041

Mail orders: add 10% for postage and handling. California residents add applicable to All major credit cards accepted: give account number and expiration date.

MaLEB $1.50

32 pages of male-to-male personal ads - with the ads up front and dynamite interviews, fantasy fiction, and erotic art in the back! A 40-word ad is $5. Dirty talk is encouraged - direct addresses only, no codes. You can run your photo and phone at a $1 additional charge for each. We're 25,000 strong in bookstores coast-to-coast. Send us your ad, or send $2 for the current issue, mailed 1st class in a plain brown wrapper. Do it!

MALEBOX / 54 West Randolph / Suite 606 C 2 / Chicago IL 60601

Suite 35 presents ames Coleman FINE ART LITHOGRAPHS

A limited edition of 750 signed and numbered unframed lithographs by this internationally exhibited artist is now available. Each lithograph is 18 by 23 inches and is printed on quality paper that reproduces the original pen and ink rendering.

(LITHO #2764)

Domino, America's newest and hottest artists now accepting private commissions. Now, you can have your very private, macho fantasies realized in all their erotic detail! For further information write:

DOMINO STUDIOS BOX 442 EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ 07073

Send $2.50 for this new fully illustrated catalog. The purchase price will be refunded on your first order.

768 Clementina San Francisco, CA. 94103 415 552-1540

RUMMER SHOPPER THE DRUM

HOURS: 3 pm - 2 am Monday view Friday 12:00 pm - 2 am Savumlay & Sunday AFTERHOURS: Friday, Savumlay, & Holidays iversity

… the right to be different … to live your own way … to follow a "different drummer …" These rights are what the annual Gay Freedom Day Parade and Celebration are all about.

When we march in support of others' rights to adopt different modes of speech, dress, sexuality, and self-expression, we are sup- porting our own right to be different.

When we celebrate the home we have found in this city, we also celebrate the tremendous value we derive in our lives from the diversity that IS San Francisco.

This year marks the 10th anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion, the beginning of the end of second-class citizenship for gay men and women everywhere.

We will march to support gay men and women here, and throughout the world, who look to this event, more than any other, as evidence that our numbers are plentiful and that our movement is strong.

We will march to remind local politicians, in this election year, that votes are not to be won at our expense, and that harassment of any part of our community will be met with the resistance of our entire community.

We will all be there, celebrating the joy and full self-expression we experience in our sexuality … celebrating our cultural contributions … celebrating with music, color, sun, and dancing in the streets.

Join us.

The 1979 Gay Freedom Day Parade & Celebration Sunday, June 24, 1979 films paperbacks magazines toys OKS

G&A Books 251 West 42nd Street New York City (North side between 7th & 8th Avenues)

250 Book Center 250 West 42nd Street New York City (South side between 7th & 8th Avenues)

"One of the few New York porn stores you can be seen entering without horrible embarrassment.'

—The Village Voice

"New York's only semi-respectable x-rated bookshop."

—Time Magazine

WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO [×3+]

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 …

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. GANDEN GROVE IRON SPUR … 11086 Garden Grove Blvd.

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

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

Academy Restaurant . 6236 Santa Monica Blvd. Basic Plumbing (private club) . . 725 N. Fairfax Blue Parrot … 8851 Santa Monica Corral Club (private) … 3744 Cahuenga Blvd. Detour … 1089 Manzanita Nr. Sunset Jct. Eagle … 7864 Santa Monica Blvd. 8709 Club Baths (private) … 8709 W. 3rd St. Eleven-Seventy Club . . 1170 No. Western Ave. FALCON'S LAIR … 742 No. Highland Hyperion Baths … . 2114 Hyperion The 1800 Club … 1800 Hyperion, Silverlake Jocks Trap … 5459 Hollywood Blvd. The Los Angeles Tool Co. (private)

7610 Santa Monica Blvd. Manhandler … 2692 So. La Cienega

Wannandier 2694 So. La Cjenega Melrose Baths 7269 Melrose Ave. Mear Rack 462 Silver Saddle Spa (baths) . . 4356 Sunset Blvd. SPIKE BAR … 7746 Santa Monica Blvd. Stud … 4216 Melrose Ave. 2006 Bar … 2006 N. Figueroa St. Wranglers

LOS ANGELES / VALLEY

12319 Ventura Blvd., Studio City Boots Black Knight . Black Knight … 10932 Burbank Blvd. Drive Shaft 13751 Victory Blvd., N.Hollywood Drive Shatt 13 / 51 Victory Blvd., N.Hollywood Glens Turkish Baths 4652 Lankershim Bl., N.H. Hayloft … 11818 Ventura Blvd., Studio City Mag … 12 / 36 Magnolia Blvd., N. Hollywood Roman Hollday Baths … 11435 Victory Blvd. The Signal 10522 Burbank Blvd., N.Hollywood

THE SPIKE

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

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After World War II the British Royal Navy carefully stored thousands of stoker tank shirts. With their recent release-first in Europe-they quickly became a sensational collector's fashion find. Now we have them for immediate delivery in America. It's a rugged look with jeans, shorts or casual suits. In 100% cotton rope yarn…each with the original British Piece mark attached. One size fits all. Just $10.

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PLEASE SEND CATALOG

2532

NAME

ADDRESS

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THERE'S ONLY ONE WAY

A rock-hard leather experience

Men's Bar / Bath Scene '7

WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO [×3+]

Men's Bar / Bath Scene "

WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO [×3+]

Catalog $2 (specify age & interest)

THE CELLAR Dept. T 256 S. Robertson Blvd. Beverly Hills, California 90211

BI-SEX CIUR.

Bi girls, Bi couples, Bi guys near YOU. Names / addresses, photos & phone numbers.

CALL TOLL FREE : 1-800-325-8842

LOCKER ROOM BOOKSTORE

Open 24 hours for your convenience 7 days a week

Best Seller Books and Mags

Films / Betamax video cassettes

Sex Aides

Leather / Bondage Dept.

44 Hot Movies in arcade section

1038 Polk St./San Francisco 474-5156

OHIO CINCINNATI

OREGON PORTLAND

PENNSYLVANIA PHILADELPHIA

PUERTO RICO SAN JUAN

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

TEXAS AMARILLO

VIRGINIA

WASHINGTON SEATTLE

WISCONSIN GREEN BAY

CANADA MONTREAL

Continental Montreal (baths)

Monarch Cafe … 164 St. Catherine St. E.

TORONTO

Barn …

Check Playpen So./or Shaggy Horse

SWEDEN STOCKHOLM

SLM Stockholm (private bikers' club)

It’s Hot

Francisco

(415) 392-3582

Photo by Guy Corry

TRADE IN YOUR BANDANNA FOR A MANDANNA

IF THE COLOR DOESN'T TELL HIM, THE DESIGN WILL

SOFT CORPS PRESENTS THIS UNIQUE, COLORFUL DESIGN MIXES FUNCTIONAL THAT INTENSITY WITH GOOD OLD FUN. LET HIM READ THE GAMES YOU'D LIKE TO PLAY.

LET THIS WINNING DESIGN BECOME A STAPLE IN YOUR WARDROBE.

LET HIM PULL THIS ONE OUT OF YOUR PANTS

LEATHER EMPORIUM / 1730 DIVISADERO SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94115

ENCLOSED FIND $ IN U.S. CASH, CHECK OR MONEY ORDER FOR THE FOLLOWING ITEMS:

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Signature

PACIFIC WESTERN DISTRIBUTING CORP. 145 MISSION STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CA. 94105

Dear Friends.

For years, the sensual population has had to put up with improvising with lubricant products intended primarily for other purposes. Vaseline is for chapped lips; baby oil is for babies; K-Y is for doctors; and Crisco is for cooking!

For the past three years PWD has been utilizing the world's finest laboratory facilities to develop a totally new product, not an adaptation. At last, we have created the world's first specifically formulated Sensual Body Lubricant, @ laboratory blended with the finest lubricating ingredients and antibacterial preservatives.

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Try it! It's available at the more than 40,000 stores around the world where you have made RUSH the world's largest selling Liquid Incense. Or use the convenient mail order coupon below. Order one bottle of RUSH Liquid Incense and receive a FREE ½ ounce sample of RUSH Sensual Body Lubricant. available at retail stores everywhere or telephone order with your VISA or MASTER CHARGE—Call (415) 621-4911

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Consumer 1979 by Pacific Western Distribution Co.