THE DUKE IS DEAD

Okay, so it's been a couple months; so I've been grief-stricken and couldn't straighten out my thoughts, much less commit them to paper. So this is my first Getting Off column and I wanted to set a certain tone.

'Straighten out,' now that's a phrase the Duke would have used.

"Let's straighten out those injuns 'fore they go and rape any more of our wo- menfolk,"

Or, "I'll straighten you out, boy, if it kills us both."

How do you eulogize such a man? How do you rhapsodize a legend that became the prototype of the WW2 hero yet never served a day of his life in the Armed Forces? How do you cannonize the symbol of American purity and justice and honesty - who willingly testi-fied for Joe McCarthy against his fellow actors during the House on Un-American Activities witchhunt? How do you write the epithet for an actor who made his reputation on the screen engaged in the wholesale slaughter of the American Indian during the great heyday of Hollywood mythmaking movies; then boasted that he was nothing if not proud of his career spent killing heathens? Dust to dust? Why bother?

The Duke represented and will represent for some time to come a particular image of the American male that at least 10 million other American men think to be the height of admirable masculine sensibility. He was Mohammed for all the non-thinking, spread-assed, conservative, up-tight, dickless heterosexual men who couldn't reach even the boot straps of the hero he portrayed; but how found in him a vicarious personification of their own shallow nerosis.

If he opened doors for ladies it was because, in his applie-pie heart, he didn't believe a woman capable of opening a door. If he was the friend to dogs and small children, it was because dogs are dumb animals worthy of pity and small children need rigid role models to grow up straightened-out,

He was God-fearing, patriotic, funda- mental; and he makes them seem like nefarious qualities. While he lived, not one breath of scandal was ever uttered about the Duke. Now, months after his final round-up, or shoot-out, or whatever it is you want to call it; not one breath

He was truly a god.

Ironic that the Duke was killed by cancer , the satan of the twentieth-century. Ironic, when a friend described his leave-taking as, "A twentieth-century cancer that finally consumed itself."

The Duke is dead, and that's the tone.

John W. Rowberry

MALECALL / Dear Sir:

TIT COLORS

Tits! Wonderful tits, wonderful Anniversary Issue! I have often felt cheated that there is no hankie color for guys who are into tits. Except for purple, which is for piercing. But I am into tits without the piercing.

Thank you. Keep us, I mean it, coming!

Los Angeles, CA

Editor's Note: Drummer has officially decreed that pink is now the regulation tits hankie color! If there's a black clamp attached, it means the person is into nipple toys. Right pocket is tit bottom, left pocket is tit top. You read it here first!

GRUNTS AND GROANS

Thanks for the Anniversary Issue, Needless to say, you're getting better all the time!

The article about wrestling was a big thrill and got me itchy all over. But so did the cover of that issue!

By the way, couldn't you connect your covers with the inside somehow? Automatically, when you see a man on the cover you want to see more of him inside.

And how about another article on Men in Uniform?

H. Bock Munich, Germany

POW!

Thanks for the story on Noddles Romanoff and the great boxing pictures in Drummer number 29. Jack Fritscher's copy and the shots by Target and Spar- row will be enjoyed by all of us who are into boxing. And I'm sure that interest has been sparked in guys who had never considered boxing as a form of macho eroticism as well as a great sport,

S.W. 'Dick' C. Toronto, Canada

HOT DUMPS

Drummer is perhaps the best publication of this type to ever be published. I have been reading it since the first issue and, even then, thought it could not have been improved … but it has. Keep up the good work.

I have seen several stories dealing with WS, and am looking forward to stories and / or articles on scat.

Mike Phoenix, AZ

TWO FRATERNITIES?

I joined Drummer's Leather Fraternity at the same time I joined another organization called The Leather Fraternity in La Crescenta, California; thinking between the two I would probably get to meet every hot stud in the country. I was pleased with the promptness with which you guys initiated my membership , and have no complaints. But I have never heard from the La Crescenta group (although they have cashed my check) and was just wondering if you might know what's wrong.

Name and Address withheld by request

The other organization you wrote to is Ms. Jeanne Barney's own version of our Leather Fraternity. Why you have not heard from them, we simply can not know. Readers should be advised that Drummer's Leather Fraternity (the original and still the largest in the world) has no connection with any other group calling itself The Leather Fraternity, nor can we be responsible for letters, money, or materials sent to any but DRUMMER's address, DRUMMER's Leather Fraternity has DRUMMER's address on all its advertising matter; imitators do otherwise,

VAL MARTIN FAN

I just want to tell you I had the greatest pleasure to meet a fantastic man, Mr. Val Martin. He was here to promote his new movie, Born To Raise Hell. And I'm sure it was hell for the guys in the movie, but a hell of a lot of pleasure.

I got Drummer number 30 and I couldn't believe he was on the cover. I went out and bought 10 copies to give as presents to my friends. They all get off on him so much that we have been jerking off every day to his photographs. And we want to see more.

A.S. Pittsburgh, PA

Editor's Note: Val has been a friend of Drummer's since the magazine was first founded and we get him in our pages as often as we can. You might look for our new annual, DRUMMER RIDES AGAIN! for more photos of Val and his co-cover man, Bob.

ENGLISH LEATHER

I read and reread all my Drummers over and over again, they're much better than anything published in England. I also read Mr. S&M from Sweden, which is published in English, German and Swedish, but Drummer is still tops.

Why not ask your readers why leather is so closely connected with S&M now! I was into S&M years before leather was a cult, and pain was always an ingredient of sex for me. Always! I liked a good leather belt across my ass before being fucked but had never heard of leather-sex as a culture. Some of your older readers must have been in the same position .

Also, although reading some leather books you'd never believe it, a lot of macho men (meaning me) can grow vegetables and fruit and even … roses! And, understand how deep freezers work. And still thrash a friend til he begs, or bleeds.

G.C. England

Editor's Note; Drummer has it from very reliable sources that some of the heaviest-duty tops wielding a whip have great chocolate cake recipes … and someone else to do the baking.

S&M WRESTLING

Just read issue number 30. The wrestling article is great. I'm a wrestling freak and can't get enough. You have a terrific magazine but you don't have enough articles, drawings, etc. about wrestling. How about a serial in the style of "S&M Gym" using wrestling instead of body building? (Just think of all the interesting holds and pins that could be used in a story like that.) Wrestling is growing in popularity in the gay community and I hope Drummer devotes more space to it in the future.

Also I read M.S.'s letter (page 77, issue no. 30) suggesting "some comic strips a la Harry Chess but with photos of real people" and think that's a great sug- gestion.

Could you clarify in your magazine how Drummer is delivered if a guy sub- scribes to it? Does it come in "a plain brown envelope" or what? Sorry, but I don't live in San Francisco and can't be that open. Also, what about ordering from The Emporium section - how is that mailed out?

Thanks for a sensational magazine. Keep up your work. But remember - more of all kinds of articles, pictures, etc., on wrestling.

Frank Fremont, CA

Editor's Note: Drummer subscription copies arrive in a brown envelope with only the return address printed on its surface. The Leather Emporium tells us that their packages usually have a return address with their name in a shorter form; so postal carriers and clerks won't get too excited by the possibilities of what's inside and slow down delivery.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

Wanted to write and say how much I enjoy your hot magazine. Your fiction is especially hot. Why not have some more hot pictures using some tough looking hunks. Also how about a comprehensive article on S / M and gay films and where they are available?

One complaint! It's very disappointing to subscribe to Drummer and find the latest issue at the bookstore two weeks or sometimes more before you receive your copy in the mail! Can't something be done about that?

S.L. Chalmette, LA

We are very aware of your justified complaint since it's the one we hear most often from our frustrated subscribers, but DRUMMER is at the mercy of that dubious American institution, the United States Post Nasal System and the inscrutable handling of the third class mail. First class is expensive, but well worth it if you're in heat for our new sizzling issues just off the presses. <math>-Ed</math>.

BELTED READER

I am a slave-houseboy.

You cannot imagine how many dif- ferent "training" and "punishment" session ideas, Master Kim gets from your macho magazine. He makes plans from the contents of Drummer; I experience the contents of Drummer!

Master Kim keeps each issue locked up in a metal file drawer in his bedroom. As a result, Sir, he is not a soft or easy taskmaster.

If I am late for any reason, I know, Sir, that night, I will have to peel off my jeans and jockstrap, assume the position, and receive Master Kim's paddle in a special session. I will end up with a red hot ass.

If I have a dirty kitchen by Master's rating, I will have to scrub and clean the floor and shelves, bare ass. While I am working, Sir, he will use his wide, leather strap on my naked buns. Again, I will struggle with a burning rump.

I am not permitted to wear boots or any style of underwear, If I wear anything but a jockstrap under my jeans, Master will order me to be naked for the next week, no matter what an embarrassment it may be for me to endure.

If I spill a drink or food, Master Kim takes this action as a personal offense and will, Sir, demand an immediate and humble apology. After three such mishaps, I report for a punishment session that night. I must strip off my tee shirt and let my jeans slump down low on my hips; then Master Kim gives me a whipping with his riding crop because of my care- lessness, Parallel lines cut into my back and shoulders.

I notice, Sir, an increase in my "train- ing" and "punishment" sessions immedi- ately after Master Kim has read a new issue of Drummer. He wants a humble, obedient slave. If I fail to meet these expectations, his strap, paddle and / or whip creates that type of houseboy in a no nonsense approach. You can see, Sir, that your macho magazine is very ef- fective.

Master Kim is a very well-disciplined, young Oriental; he exacts specific rules. If behave badly or violate precepts, I will be punished and the form, manner and effectiveness of that, Sir, will come from ideas taken from Drummer. Master Kim will like this letter written to you because it is direct and tells it like it is.

Sir, you did an extensive job in journalism in your Anniversary Issue,

A humble slave, loe Long Beach, CA

A SLAVE FOREVER

I have become your slave! Around the time I expect a new issue of Drummer to appear, I am forced, with erect anticipation , to start haunting my favorite bookstore. I am trapped as surely as if I were bound and gagged.

You keep getting better and I get harder. Issues 29 and 30 were terrific. Mr. Benson can take me, shirtless and cuffed, out of a bar anytime. Carl's letter in issue 30 on initiations spoke to my deepest needs. Shaving, bondage and humiliation all in the name of good clean fun. How do I join?

I could go on and on, but I don't want to take up your valuable time, Sir.

One quick point, the picture of Hondo in Mailcall (Drummer 30) was cute, but the real macho dude on page 72 is hot. I'd trade a week with Hondo for 30 minutes chained to his bunk.

I await on my knees for your next issue.

Hans San Francisco, CA

PROVINCETOWN

It was with a grave sense of disappointment that I perused your recent peek at the Cape, which might as well have been titled, "Uncle Tom Visits P'town." If this resort has not yet caught up with the times, if caution is advisable, it would better serve your readers to state those facts more or less boldly.

The tone of the article, which glorifies a vacation spot on the basis of a code that enforces hiding and appears to condone that code is a turnoff, undermines the gains of the recent past and is a negation of what you appear to stand for, Its appearance was completely unworthy of your usually excellent publication.

Frederic San Francisco, CA

STANL!

STANLEY STELLAR

PHOTOS BY TERRY, S.F.

The cosmic sculptor that chiseled the planes of Gordon Grant's face, that pumped American Indian blood into the man's veins, that pounded flat then etched out the lines of his washboard stomach was a one-handed genius. The other hand, red hot with cosmic friction , pulled and pumped on a cockhead that shot out seed like the volcanos of Venus spew out sulphur. And if you don't know who Gordon Grant is by now, then your testicles haven't dropped

Gordon Grant is the man; Roger is a cardboard cut-out, a pin-up parody of who and what and why men get hard looking at men. Gordon Grant (two names, a whole person) is flesh and blood and steel, spit and sweat. Roger (one name, artifice) is a Madison Avenue concept of an abstraction of an absurdity.

When you see Gordon Grant walking down some legendary San Francisco street you see a stud in clothes that you want to entice home and strip and fondle and oil down and stroke and turn on. Because when you see him in the world, you know that under those clothes is the world.

But when you see him in his world, stripped down to well-worn trunks or a jockstrap; you are seeing the cosmic sculptor's finest work.

In the gym, Gordon Grant rules. If you're there, regardless of how big and bad and butch you might be elsewhere, he's going to do the dominating. He's going to tell you how to bend your knees and lift those pure chrome bars higher than you thought was possible even for him, much less for an underling.

He's going to grab you by the shou-ders , his reaching hands wrapping even over-worked deltoids, bending, moving, moulding muscles into what he wants them to do; moulding muscles right; demonstrating how a man's body moves under pressure.

Gordon Grant has documented, in countless films and photographs, the ways a man's body can move under different pressures. But like all good re- wards, those are lessons you would have to learn under less accessible circum-

Rich knows. When he walked into the Post Street Gym and saw Gordon Grant and all that steel, he knew. And getting there is always all the fun.

You sit like this, Grant might say. You bend like this; you feel the muscle move. The muscle grows when you push like this, And this.

And it moves, and yes, you feel the blood flow, fast, hot, back and forth

like wine rapidly poured between two glasses. Yes, you bend and lift; you feel muscles come out of closets, spring forward to catch and hold and push against chrome and steel. And yes, when it feels like you can't bend any again, post nature because the main has told you to do one more, yes, just one more, and the man stands ever you like a giant, waiting, and you know he's there so nothing will go wrong, yes, he'll catch you if something fa sweat is running into the sockets of your eyes and you push that one more time, yes, so that he can watch you do it and yes, you can do it. Do it for Big G. And it goes on like that for hours, like a great time with a great man in a great pushing, the blood pumping, the pours open and flowing, the hea the soap like a lover, the smooth scrape of a callous hand massaging deep into red

INVESTIGATION UNIT CASE NUMBER: F073 INVESTIGATING PERSONNEL: DI 8732 DATE: 20 JUNE 1979 SAN FRANCISCO

The facts, here transcribed are true. Only the name of the male victim has been changed,

Editor.

CHARGES: Kidnapping Rape

On Friday, 27 April, 1979, M left his friend, M.J.B., about 1600 hours in Lafayette Park. M proceeded down Franklin at about the intersection of Sacramento Street. A car slowed and stopped in a parallel position to M.

DESCRIPTION OF CAR:

Yellow, four door, American model. Unable to distinguish make or year, Interior was black or dark brown.

Person in the shotgun position in the front seat rolled down his window. M approached the vehicle thinking that they needed assistance, directions, etc.

DESCRIPTION OF PERSON IN FRONT PAS-SENGER SEAT:

Caucasian, in mid-thirties, short brown hair, trimmed but full beard, well built but not overly muscular. Wearing a blue-on-white striped shirt with sleeves rolled up.

As soon as M got close to the car and leaned over to speak to the man in the shotgun seat, M was grabbed from behind by a hand on the back of his neck forcing him into a bent-over position. He was then forced into the back seat on to the floor. A knee was placed on his back keeping him face down. M was then blindfolded and his hands were tied. Absolutely no one said anything to M.

As soon as M was positioned on the floor in the back of the car, the car was in motion. The vehicle made a few starts and stops indicating city traffic and then appeared to pick up speed and maintained "highway travel" for about one and a half hours. Once the speed was reduced, M remembers two stops and starts, a stop while someone got out of the car (to open a gate or door?) and the vehicle drove into a ground-level garage or enclosure.

M was removed from the vehicle and taken down a flight of wooden steps. The stairs had no bends or turns and went down quite a long way. A chain was attached to M's bound wrists (still behind him) and one chain was attached to each leg. These chains were somehow attached to the wall (felt like a brick wall, floor was like cement). The chains were long enough to permit M to either stand or lie down on the floor.

M asked, "What's the matter? What are you going to do?" Reply: "Shut up!"

M was left alone for what he estimates was one half hour. All further times noted are the best estimates M can make at this time.

All three persons came back. The chains were removed, but not the ropes binding his hands behind his back. The blindfold remained in place. M was taken up the stairs into a bathroom, forced to his knees. At this point, M was stripped of his clothes and they were removed from his presence. His hands were again tied behind his back. A collar with a chain leash was placed around his neck. M was forced to bend face down over the side of a bathrub and was held in position with a hand pulling on the chain leash. At this time the blindfold was removed , but M was not permitted to look to either side at any time.

A cream substance was put on M's head in the hair area. The cream made a warm impression. It was left on for about five minutes and then the three men began to pull out M’s hair with their hands ("It did not hurt"). The shower was then turned on. The water was turned to very warm and they pro- ceeded to shave the remaining hair with "a long razor."

When the shaving process was completed, M was again blindfolded; the collar was removed and M was taken to another room that had carpeting. M was then chained into an upright, spreadeagle position facing the wall. The chains permitted M to move his feet approximately two feet away from the wall. Very little arm movement could be achieved.

M's butt was then forced away from the wall and his head was pushed down. His ass was "greased" and at least one finger was inserted into his anus. Next M was assaulted with a penis. M could determine by feel that the pants were dropped down to about knee level on the assailant.

M was raped three times, indicating to him that all three persons were involved. The first and second assault terminated with semen being deposited in his anal cavity; the third assault

M was left in the position alone for about one hour. All three returned. M was taken out of the chains. His hands were again tied with rope behind his back and M was returned to the cellar and again bound with the chains in the same fashion as described previously. He was left for "a long time" (Ap-

All three men returned, took off only the chains, and M was taken again upstairs to the bathroom, forced into the tub in a face-up position and at least two, possibly all three men, relieved their urine on M, M was then stood up in the tub and a hose apparatus was used to wash him. No soap was used and without drying M, they returned him to the cellar and rechained him. M was left there for "many hours" and lay down during that period.

The three men were distinguishable by the way they handled M. M describes one as being very rough; the remaining two were equally strong but not so rough.

The rough one and one of the strong ones returned. They unchained M and took him back upstairs to a carpeted room. M was forced to the floor and into a kneeling, face-on-the-floor position and was held that way by hands. A belt was used to beat him and hands slapped him alternately. This beating continued for about twenty minutes with only minor breaks. M was then kept in the kneeling, bent-down position for about five minutes while the men stood around him. M thinks they were smoking a regular cigarette and not engaged in sexual play with each other or themselves.

The men then removed the ropes binding M's hands behind his back and forced M into a dog position (on his knees, both hands on the floor). One man stood in front of M with his feet on M's hands to prevent M's movement.

Cream was applied to M's ass, and beginning with one finger, and adding others, M was fist-fucked. Person was slow and careful and did not seem to really "want to hurt" M. M sensed that the person was using his right hand. Hand was turned back and forth inside and was removed after about five minutes. ("Lost track of time.")

M was lifted to his feet and his hands were again tied behind his back and M was returned to the cellar and rechained.

One of the strong men came down, put M on his knees, and stood in front of M. The man inserted an erect penis into M's mouth and forced M to fellate it. A deposit of semen was left in M's mouth. The man left immediately after climax, and M was left alone again for "a long time."

All three men returned. They stood M up facing the wall with the chains still in place. They started beating him with

the belt again. After about three minutes. M asked, "What do you want from me?" (M says he shouted) "I want to get out of here.'

M was hit one time very hard with the belt and told, "Shut up. You are going to get out when I say it." They left, again for a long time ("hours").

The rough one and one other came back. M was unchained and taken again to the bathroom. M was forced into the bathtub face up and one of the men got into the tub and crouched over M's chest area. The man deposited fresh solid feces on M's chest and face. Then M was raised up and washed with the hose.

The rough one then took M into a carpeted room and chained M into a spreadeagle position with M's back to the wall. Toys called tit clamps and a ball stretcher were attached. A weight was attached to the ball stretcher. M was left for "a long time."

All three men returned and removed the tit clamps and ball stretcher, M was unchained from the wall and his hands were again tied behind his back. M was taken to the bathroom and placed in the middle of the floor on his knees. A penis was put into M's mouth and "piss" started to flow. M did not expect the urine and it spilled out of his mouth.

"Drink it!" He was ordered and slapped.

They returned M to the cellar and chains and left him for "maybe half a day." During this time M urinated against the wall.

One of the strong ones came back and stood in front of M who was also standing. The man began to slap M with short, not really very hard slaps for about a minute. The man left and returned in about five minutes with food (spaghetti). M was forced to his knees and his head was pushed down to smell the food. The man left with the food, but came right back and again forced M down to let M know there was food in front of him. The man said, "Eat!" M ate a little, but was afraid "there might be something in it."

M said, "I'm not hungry." The food was removed and M was left for "a long time."

The rough man and one of the others came back. M was forced to his knees with his face away from the wall. His head was bent over to his left side and held steady. With one quick movement from a gun-type apparatus, M's right ear was pierced. M felt only one quick prick, not a second insertion. When M was released, M discovered a stud earring in place which indicates a more sophisticated apparatus than ordinarily available. Alcohol was used on the ear immediately after the piercing. M was then left alone for "maybe another half day."

The rough one returned alone and forced M to "suck his dick." The man deposited semen and then "pissed" in M's mouth. The man then left M alone for about two or three hours.

All three men returned, unchained M, and placed him face down in a spreadeagle fashion. They proceeded to dress M in his own clothes and then retied his hands behind his back and returned him to the chained position.

About two hours later, all three men rushed hurriedly down the stairs and unchained M. The rough one took M by the neck and kicked him and pushed him across the floor. M was then taken to the vehicle and placed again in the back seat on the floor.

The trip had no stops for a long time and then seemed to have stops every so often. M heard other cars. Then they drove again for half an hour without stopping on a winding road. The vehicle then stopped. They untied M's hands, opened the rear door, and pushed M out of the car with a foot. The vehicle drove away very fast.

M laid in the grass for a while before removing the blindfold . He found himself beside a curve in a road which seemed to be remote from houses.

After about five minutes of mental reorientation, M started to run, experiencing a lot of fear that the men would return. He ran until he couldn't run any more and then he walked, M estimates that he walked and ran for about two hours.

The first street he recognized was Collingwood coming from the 24th street area. M found his way to a friend's house on Collingwood, but no one was home. Then he went to 18th and Hartford, avoiding 18th and Castro still experiencing fear. He found a friend at home near 18th and Hartford. Time was about 2000-hours Tuesday night, 1 May, 1979. 🗆

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You must state you are over 21

The next time I woke up, Mr. Benson was standing beside me. He had one of his noncommittal looks on his face: not really warm, cestainly not cold, it was a look that kept you guessing and wondering what was going on inside was dressed in Jeans, a white t-shirt and heavy engineer boots. His freshly shaven face was covered by shadows from the over hanging light. "Get up, asshole!

I jumped off the sleeping bag and up onto my knees. Sleep kept my eyes from opening comfortably. I couldn't adjust to the sudden glare.

"Kiss my boots" Sleepiness or no, I knew that tone of voice. This wasn't a time to plead a headache. Mr. Benson was obviously going to start off right away this morning. My head went down and my tired lips grazed the rough leather of the

"The other one." I went over to the second heavy stomper and caressed it. I thought I was finished and started to sit up again.

Quickly, the long piece of leather in Mr. Benson's hand reached out and cut across my chest. "I didn't tell you to get I dove back down and tried to think about the sharp up, yet.' surface of the leather, not about the red line of pain streaked across my body. Finally, he told me to get up on my knees.

The waking up ritual was something I hadn't expected. My mind was foggy with sleep. Only that strip of pain joining my nipples made me know this wasn't a nightmare.

Mr. Benson held out the leather. It was a riding crop. I skin [×5+]

And now I understood the reasons for all this: after the initiation at the clubhouse last night, I was about to start my real training.

I never once saw Mr. Benson without that crop for the next month. I learned to anticipate its stinging touch. "Every morning you start in, right away. The first thing you do when you see your master is kiss his feet — bared, booted, whatever. And you stay there until your master gives you permission to get up. Do you understand?" The loop of the crop reached down and circled one of my sore tits. "Yes, sir."

"Go make me a cup of coffee, and then I'll tell you more. Hurry up." The loop flicked out at my nipple and made me bound right up off the floor and into the kitchen.

Mr. Benson was sitting, reading his newspaper, when I placed the cup of hot liquid beside him. "Go take a shower, but don't use my bathroom. Use the one in the maid's room off the kitchen. When you're finished, just stay there. Don't dry yourself off."

This whole thing was becoming ominous, Why was Mr. Benson being so hard and cold? And what was going to happen that I couldn't even dry myself off? I did go, of course, even as scared as I was. And under the warm flow of the shower I thought about my pledges to him. My promise to try to be a good slave. I was waking up finally and my awareness was making me remember by resolutions. I finished and stood waiting for Mr. Benson with the water dripping down my body.

I had begun to shiver by the time he came into the room. "Turn around." He wanted to see my brand. The scab had at least formed, and even though there were dull aching pains everytime I moved, I was very proud of it. Very proud to have Mr. Benson's mark on my body. The frightening crop made a circle around the mark, but, thankfully, never touched it.

"Every morning, when I'm here, or when you're alone, the next thing you do is shave your body. It is a task you should learn to do reverently. It is the ritual of preparing yourself for me …

He took a mirror down off the wall and put it on the seat of the toilet. "Lift up your leg and you'll be able to watch yourself.

He handed me a razor and a can of shaving cream and kept guard as I lathered my still damp body with suds. The slick feeling of the soap on my crotch filled up my cock. The skin around my ass had no hair on it after the night's having, and it slid against my lubricated hand. The whole action was erotic in a new sense for me. I took the razor and started to scrape the hard metal against the bristle of my crotch hair. Then, I pulled out the sack holding my balls and cut away the soap, leaving the skin pink with sensation. The hard part was to shave around the puckered hole with just the reflection in the mirror. Mr. Benson kept giving me words of encouragement and advice, and when I was finished, I think he and I were both proud of the extraordinarily nude result.

"That's good, boy, very good. It'll help you keep your mind in the right place at the start of each day. Now go clean up your sleeping area. We still have some things to talk about.'

I went and rolled up the bag and put it back in its closet. Mr. Benson was sitting in the chair in the living room, waiting for my return, the leather stick still in his hands. "Kneel."

Once more I found myself looking up at him, aware of the hot bulge in front of my face. "Boy," he said, reaching beside himself and pulling out a small cardboard package, "this is clothing designed for a slave." He held up the package, a jock-strap! "Do you know why?"

I was honest and shook my head, admitting that I didn't know what he meant. "There's no reason for me to put up with the inconvenience of a slave's cock and balls. Sometimes, they're alright to look at but most often they just get in the way. Now a jockstrap keeps all the extraneous matter tucked away, out of sight, but it still keeps the ass open, bare for a slap or a fuck. Whatever's best for the slave. You understand?"

I nodded in agreement. "Boy, I expect you to have a nice clean, white jockstrap on all the waking time you spend in this apartment. There are some extras in the maid's room. You make sure you have one on everyday after your shower. And you keep them clean."

He handed me the elastic pouch and straps, "Put it on," I stood and slipped on the tight cup. The pouch cupping my crotch, making me even more aware of it than I was when it was bare. The straps clinging to the cheeks of my ass and outlining the nude crack between my mounds. It felt very good, and it made me feel very vulnerable. "Turn around." I swiveled so my backside was to him. His hand came out and grabbed at one of my cheeks, "Your ass is one of the main reasons you're here, kid. Keep it clean and smooth and hard and you'll be around for a long time." The hand lightly went over the scab of the brand, the muscle under it was sore, as though it were bruised, and even this lightest of touches from Mr. Benson made me start with renewed pain. "That's going to come out looking really good, boy."

"Yes, sir." My response was surprisingly enthusiastic, even to me. I was getting turned on by this examination. My cock pressed out against the confining elastic of the jock. I was hoping this was all leading to sex. I was certainly ready for it. "Go into my closet and get out the shoe polish kit. It's on the floor, right by the doorway." D trieved the wooden box that was, of course, just where he said it would be. When I returned, he put out his foot. "Take care of my boots, boy." I got back down on my knees and took out the can marked black. I put the thick greasy polish over both his boots and then took out the heavy brush and started to work on the leather. He laid a boot on each one of my thighs. "A slave has to learn to take care of his master's things, boy. Everyday, you polish these boots, or whatever I have on. They should all shine. And each time you do it, you think about making your man look good." The loop of the crop came out and ran across the crown of my head, underlining all the feet inside them. Think about how much you want to lick the surface of the leather … how much you want to suck on the feet inside … think about them rubbing into your mouth and pressing against your balls … keep those boots in your mind, boy … you have to learn that every part of my body is to be taken care of, every part of my body is another chance for sex for you … I want you to get hard thinking about my toes … my fingers … every single part of my body."

The crop never stopped its caressing of my head, and my cock never stopped filling. I was raging with the pressure from my erection as I worked on the boots, swiping at the surface with movements that became as loving as Mr. Benson's words were. I took out the cloth in the kit to do the last shine of them, the gritty sole of the boots rubbed into my legs, the pounch of the jock lifted away from my surface by the engorged prick of mine.

Mr. Benson kept the crop rubbing against my forehead when I was finally finished. There was a smile on his face — he liked that erection. "Every day, boy."

Abruptly he stood. The crop slapped at my arm, "Come on, you're ready for the next lesson.'

I followed him into his bathroom. "Kneel." I got down and watched as he took out the beautiful prick that kept me in a state of desire. I was hoping the exposed cock was for me, but he aimed it at the toilet bowl and I could only watch as he wasted a gorgeous flow of piss down into the porcelain. He tucked his cock away. This really was torture!

'Boy, a slave should regard everything about his master's body as something beautiful. Something sexual. You like my piss, don't you?"

Did he ask the question or did the crop that was now playing with one of my tits? "Yes, sir, I like your piss." "Good. You'll get enough of it in the time to come. But right now I want you to concentrate on this toilet bowl. That's where I just pissed. It's where I shit. I spend time here, boy. A slave should think of a toilet bowl as his master's throne. Kiss the rim boy."

I bent over and put my lips on the black surface of the seat. "That's where your master's bare ass goes, boy. Get some more feeling into it. Lick it." My tongue darted out and covered the whole round surface with spit as the fearsome riding crop started making moves on my bare ass again. "I bet you can smell what your master's ass would be like if it was open there on that bowl, right now. I bet you can taste what his piss would be like if it was flowing out. Couldn't you, boy?

I growled agreement. My cock was betraying me again, bursting against the jock, my mind full of memories of smells and sensations from Mr. Benson's body.

He stopped the leather's motion on my ass and went to the iinen closet behind him. He brought back a spray can and a

Prices include shipping & handling VISA, MC & AMEX, give account number & expiration date NY residents add sales tax EATHER LOFT 313 Amsterdam Avenue (at 74th & 75th Street) NYC 10023 roll of paper towels. "You like my piss so much, boy, why don't you take a drink out of the bowl? Go ahead, just slurp it up with your mouth." I put my head inside the white container and smelt the slight remnants of Mr. Benson diluted in the water. His legs had come over to straddle me, the denim rubbed against my shoulders as I drank, becoming more and more aware of the acidy taste of Mr. Benson's piss that I could still find in the barely yellow water. My face was soaked when he finally told me to stop, the wetness in my hair flowed down over my eyes. He handed me the spray and the towel.

"Every morning, boy, you come in here and you clean out the bowl. Every single morning you make love to your master's throne. I want it shining whenever I come here. I want it glistening with the affection I expect you to show it."

It took me about five minutes to clean the outside surface, to get every bolt gleaming with reflections of light. The betraying prick in my jock strap pouch wouldn't calm down. My mind was taking in everything Mr. Benson had said. I found myself actually thinking of the white porcelain as a throne; the tiled bathroom had become a reception hall to me. It was all something that had to be spotless in order to meet the requirements of this exhalted personage, Mr. Benson.

"Inside too," I took the spray and went to the surface of the water basin. Only a month before I would have been skittish about putting my hands in someone else's urine. But now, now I was delighted to find a way to touch Mr. Benson's piss, and my hands went in and out of the pool with totally un- necessary gusto. "All right, boy. Those are the basics. The kiss, the shave, the boots and the throne. Those are things I expect every day, without fail. I never expect to have to remind you about them. Understand?' "Yes, sir."

"Now, I have work to do at my desk. I want quiet." The crop began underlining his words with taps on my shoulder again. "Absolute quiet.

And that became our ritual for the mornings. I learned those steps easily. Well, the learning was easy, and the execution wasn't any problem, but my prick was a real concern. The shaving every morning was the worst part. When I had to cover myself with warm, slippery foam, it was an immediate and painful erection. Once, only once, I tried to beat off. Mr. Benson caught me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The crop lashed out and whipped my ass. I was caught completely off guard. I hadn't expected him to come in. I started to stammer an excuse, but I couldn't do it quickly enough to stop the motion as the leather slashed out again, this time hitting my arm. "Don't you know better than that? What if I wanted you?" The crop cut into my side.

"I'm sorry, sir."

His eyes were alive with anger and fury, "You have to learn to live with needing me, boy. You can't be beating off every time you wake up. You only do that when I tell you. Understand?" The crop gave its most painful emphasis yet, right on my chest. "Oh yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." My eyes watered from the pain and the fear of his anger. Everything I was was invested in this man. My life had become his. There could be only fear in the idea of his being angry with me.

And, he got what he wanted, he always does. I was in a state of constant horniness with Mr. Benson. The small strip of clothing made me feel even more naked than if I had nothing on. My shaving ritual and the rituals of taking care of his boots and throne meant that I started the day with a dedication to him and his body.

I don't remember any time in those first few months that I didn't want him. I don't think my cock ever got to be really flaccid.

The morning rituals were wonderful. The afternoon rituals were easy. Mr. Benson worked at his desk or went out on business in the afternoon. I would quietly work in the kitchen or read in a corner of the room where I could get sunlight to warm my nakedness. Those were pleasant times. But, when Mr. Benson was finished with his work, then the horrors be- gan. "Boy, your body's in good shape, but I want it better." He had bought a set of weights and some exercise equipment. Before dinner, every night, he would take me into the re- furbished maid's room and sit at a chair and watch me work

out. There was a set of training exercises he had devised, and he had devised them in such a way that I could never, ever, have completed the required number.

"Your friend, here," he would say, running his hand on the length of the riding crop, "is going to help you with your work outs." The number of sit-ups, for instance, was always moved up, so I couldn't do the quota. The crop made up the difference. If I was three short, I would get three whacks with it: on my stomach for sit ups, on my ass for push ups, on my chest for pull ups. That first month my body was never without bruises, my muscles ached constantly.

But, even so, that wasn't the worst part. After the exercises , I would cook him a simple meal, usually steak or chops - and serve it to him. I quickly got to the point of trying to prolong that dinner for as much time as possible. Trying to avoid the evening ritual.

"Those are your biggest weaknesses, boy." The loop of the crop had reached out and circled each of my tits that first time he explained it to me. "There's no excuse for a slave to have a set of flat tits. It's just not right. A slave's tits should be the easiest way for a master to control his boy. They should be so sensitive that they can give the greatest pelasure, and create the most pain, with the least work. Your little round nipples just won't do, boy.'

Mr. Benson had devised a training experience for my tits, one that worked wonderfully for his purposes, and one that nearly broke me.

After dinner, every night, he would take me into the living room. He would bring out leather handcuffs and attach them to my wrists. "Now, boy, don't you start whimpering even before we begin." But I would. Even as I would reach out my wrists for him, I would start to cry a little. After the first night, I knew what was coming. He would attach another set of bands to my ankles and then take me to the wall of the apartment where there were barely noticeable hooks. They were spaced just so far away that when each of my limbs was attached to one of them, I was left spread out as far as possible .

Then Mr. Benson would go back and get clamps. "These are your friends, boy, they're going to make you a better slave, kiss them." And I would have to purse my lips and rub my mouth against the cold steel. I would watch as one of Mr. Benson's warm hands would go down and grab one of my breasts. Then he'd take one of the clamps, serrated with sharp teeth, and spring it onto the tit. I never could control the first gasp when that happened. When each tit had a clamp biting into it, Mr. Benson would go to sit in his chair and watch.

In the beginning, I tried to beg him to release me. It did no good. I should have known it wouldn't. But I cried out from the hot waves of pain that shot out of my nipples. He'd leave me there for an hour sometimes. My tits would bleed before they hardened up in scar tissue. Red rivelets would travel down my chest and over my stomach and stain my jockstrap, I would struggle uselessly against the restraints. The pain from those two little clamps, tearing into my body every night was worse than anything else Mr. Benson did to me. For weeks, the small circles of flesh was so tender that Mr.

Benson's slightest touch was more painful than the lashes of the riding crop.

He would watch me intently while I hung there. Every night I worked against the hooks and twisted my body, desperate to create any sensation I could that would take my mind off the metal eating into me. He loved that show. It was one of the times and one of the ways that I learned that Mr. Benson awas a true sadist, not just a power person trying to control someone. His own lust would take over. When the sweat from my arms was flowing down my sides, he would come over and smear it into my face, leaving me with the sour taste of myself. He would admire the tension of the muscles, running a hand over their surface. And worst of all was when he would lean down and take the metalclasped tits into his mouth.

There was no room for my body to move as I screamed in agony. My chest filled with sobs as his tongue ran over the small exposed surface between the clamp's jaws.

And it all turned him on. It turned him on something fierce. After each one of those sessions, Mr. Benson needed release. He would take me down off the hooks. "You look fucking good boy." His erection would bulge out into my groin. I would collapse into his arms, the tension and the strain of the strange position having taken all the energy from me. He would usually do it right there on the floor. His need would rule out any more time being spent on building up to something. His cock would need me then. Not in five minutes, but immediately.

He would release the clamps, creating a sharp sensation, and then would take the sore, bruised nipples in his mouth, his teeth recreating the ridges where the clamps had bitten into me, his tongue moving against the scabbed surface, his mouth licking in the drops of blood where the skin had broken. He' would usually just bring out his prick and lubricate it with only his spit. And he'd force his way quickly and painfully

"You're going to be a fucking good slave by the time I'm done with you, boy. You're going to learn to love it all. The boots . . , his litany would begin, "the tits, the ass, everything about me, every part of me."

He would shoot deep inside of me more quickly than at any other time. His lust over my submission, my pain and his power combined to force the fastest orgasims he would ever have with me.

Then something happened. I don't know how, or when or why. I guess my body just gave in. It had to. It couldn't take the punishment any more. It couldn't take the deep trauma of the waves of pain.

At first, when he had finished, I would have to take a long time to get up and go to my sleeping bag. I would hurt so badly that I had to hold even the soft surface of the bag away from my chest if I wanted to get any sleep.

But, one night, it changed. The tits had developed a new covering. They had grown, as he wanted them to, into red, bright points standing straight out from my body. And, suddenly , one night, there was no pain. My body just did not register pain. It was about half way into a session against the wall. I took a deep breath and felt the sensation against my nipples, I could look down and see the newly grown protrusions . And I was, for the first time, ready for him when he came over. The pain that had horrified me before had turned into my own lust. I don't think even Mr. Benson expected

my response when he took the nipple into his mouth that night. The warmth of his tongue rubbing against me took my breath away in a whole new way, "Oh, yes, sir, that feels wonderful, sir,"

And it did. My mind had created pleasure from pain.

Sex, that night, right there on the floor, was another new experience. I had become something, someone new through these exercises. Instead of tears and tight muscles, Mr. Benson had made a boy into an animal. My legs went up around his chest, inviting his invasion of my body. The sharp entry at my hole was met with a sudden thrust of my pelvis as my body arched to swallow his cock deep inside,

He pumped furiously at me in hunger and need and in pride. We both shot. I never had to touch my cock that night, came from just the pulling of the elastic material over my bursting prick.

We were both spent afterwards. Mr. Benson was beside me on the floor. "Boy, you just may turn out to be the best slave I ever had." He smiled at me, I guess my smile back was strange. I was preoccupied. I had made a transition that frightened me with its intensity. But, it had happened. I had to face it. Most of the things that had happened up to that point were things that I had suffered because of my need for Mr. Benson. This was different. I knew I had become a masochist .

From that point on, sensations were sensations to me - simply and purely sensations. I could cross the boundary between pain and pleasure. And I owed it all to Mr. Benson.

I had the training down really well, Mr. Benson must have agreed, because he decided to let me be seen in public.

"Brenden is my best friend, boy. He and I are used to spending our Sunday afternoons together. We've taken a break from that routine since we each had a slave to break in. But, it seems like the time is right for us to get back together again. He's coming over with his boy tomorrow.

"Now, I want you to understand something. I believe that a slave is like anything else I own. My friends are welcome to it. If Brenden or any other of the Topmen ever tell you to do

PUT A LITTLE TRASH IN YOUR LIFE, BUT MAKE IT JRE NOW SERVING LIQUOR perion something, you do it. Understand?" much respect as you do me. That means you greet Brenden just as you would your own master.

"The other thing you might as well know now is that it's also alright for you to play with your fellow slaves, If you and Brenden's boy want to get into any games while he's visiting, that's okay. We'll all get along better if the two of you are friends."

Mr. Benson had been smiling as he told me the last part, I couldn't understand the humor in that. Sex with another slave? How could that happen? And why was Mr. Benson so pleased by the idea? I began to wonder if he had something up his sleeve?

I jumped and ran when the doorbell finally sounded. Brendan and his slave! I had fantasized a lot about this meeting. I had assumed that the slave would also be a black man. Wrong! When I threw the door open, there was the handsome, ebony figure in his New York police uniform, and behind him was

Rocco. My friend the bartender!

My shock and surprise didn't keep me from falling down and kissing the sharply polished surface of Brenden's uniform boots. It also didn't keep me from watching Rocco as he undressed . I assumed it was the ritual for visiting another master's house and that the same would be expected of me. When he was fully naked (no jockstrap! He must have had different rules than I did!) he went over to Mr. Benson and fell to his hands and knees. When I saw those tattoos there was no doubt - this was Rocco, the one who had been tending bar the first night I had met Mr. Benson. Butch, stud Rocco was Brendan's slave!

Brendan put an admiring hand on the brand on my ass. The scab had come off by then and left a vivid mark. "Looks good,

Mr. Benson. You did a fine job." He patted my head next, "And got him trained as good as can be!" Mr. Benson nodded to Rocco's kneeling figure. "You haven't done badly yourself, Brendan." And the two Topmen smiled at one another, obviously very pleased with themselves.

"Okay, boys, up."

We stood as the two men met in the center of the room and shook hands, starting a conversation and ignoring our presence. Rocco, who was totally naked, was blushing and had hung his head. I couldn't imagine what was going on, but I wanted to find out. I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn't look up and just stood there avoiding me. Exasperated, I went to him, grabbed his arm and dragged him into the kitchen. When the swinging door had shut, I broke out with a loud whisper, "Rocco, we've got to be quiet, it's ok to be in here so long as we don't make any noise. So tell me, what happened? How did this happen to you? I didn't know you were a bot- tom? How long has this gone on?"

My questions came out rapid-fire. Rocco just stammered and finally said, "Jamie, I'm so embarassed. I never thought you'd go through with it. I didn't know you'd be here."

"Rocco, that's not important. But, yes, I went through with it. I've been here almost since that first night, but you…?"

"Can I have a beer?" I went to the fridge and got out two cans. Rocco went to sit at the kitchen table. I stopped him just in time. "We can't use furniture, even here. Come over to the pillows," Mr. Benson had let me put some oversized pillows on the floor for when I watched TV. Rocco followed me over. I couldn't wait for his story. "I met Brendan over a year ago. I'd been seeing him off and on till last month when I finally gave in." "Gave in to what?" My enthusiasm broke in.

"Jamie, well, he's a hard man. He believes in all this master and slave shit, especially between whites and blacks. He, well, he wanted me to be his slave. And when I used to resist, he would keep on leaving me. Everytime that happened and every time I went back to him - I had to go back, Jamie, he's the best man I've ever met - well, every time my punishment would get worse. I finally had to decide whether or not I wanted him. If I did, it meant following his rules and living life his way. Once when I left him, he wouldn't take me back until I agreed to let him whip me. Another time, he made me pierce my tits," Rocco cupped his left chest to show me the hole through the nipple. "And everytime I left, he refused to sleep with me and he would stop others. I have this thing for

black men, Jamie, and, well, Brendan would either follow me around in his police uniform and scare them all away, or he'd tell them I was a racist, or he'd tell them I was under investigation by the cops. Anything, but he made sure I never slept with another black man. He wanted me to be a slave, Jamie, and he finally broke me, I guess."

I was desperate to compare notes. "What's it like, Rocco?"

"It's hell, just hell. Sometimes he'll bring home that other y, Tom." I nodded to show him I knew who Tom was. "Well, they'll break into the house and they'll start this game thing they do. They take some time in history and make believe that they're living in that period. I have to figure out what it is and who I'm supposed to be. It's always something racial. Like, last week, they came in and they were making like we were in Africa and that I was a white slaver they had captured. They were supposed to be tribal chiefs. Brendan put on this real heavy, real primitive music. And they were wearing African clothes. They used my body to make up for all the African children that had ever been sold off to America.

"And, another time, Brendan brought by these four other cops. They were all black and all had dicks that could kill you. They made believe I was a dope pusher who was selling heroin in the ghetto and ruining the lives of black teenagers. They took their revenge by gang banging me. One after another , till each one had fucked me at least twice. I was bleed- ing for days." "He's always pulling things like that, Jamie, making me the scapegoat for all the things that happen to black children. Every night when we listen to the news, if there's anything on the tube that tells about a white person doing something to a black person, I get it - I get fucked, or he ties me up and goes to find people to work me over, or he'll take me to a back-room bar where I have to suck off every single black person there … "

My eyes were watering as I thought about Rocco's plight. The poor guy, trapped by love, forced to do all these perverted acts. I thought he was going to cry, too. But, I had mis- judged, those weren't tears, "Oh, Jamie," he said, turning to face me finally, "It's all wonderful." The look on Rocco's face was the glazed expression of a totally satisfied man. One who had found his own private key to happiness.

Rocco's tempo picked up as he cataloged all the things that he and Brendan had been doing. And then I told him about Mr. Benson. We talked about the strange feelings of satisfaction and security I had been experiencing. Rocco understood. "I know, Jamie, it's the same for me. I still work a couple nights a week - just nights that Brendan has to work himself, because we need more money than he makes. Besides, he has this black thing that the man should live off his love. So I give him my paycheck and just use my tips for subways and cigarettes and stuff. But, he makes all the decisions, and as hard as it is to keep up with his moods and his wild sex stuff, still, I feel better since I finally gave in and said I'd be a slave. I don't know about it as much as you seem to - I mean about being someone's slave - but it's the trip Brendan's on and if that's what he wants, I'll do it. It does make me feel secure though. And it feels good to have someone want you so much that you don't have to feel funny about wanting them a lot.'

"Then, Rocco, why did you warn me off? Why did you try to keep me from going home with Mr. Benson that first night?

Did you really think I couldn't handle it?

Rocco was quiet for a minute, he was trying to decide whether or not to tell me something. Finally he said, "Jamie, some men who go home with the Topmen … they never come back."

"What do you mean?"

I was shocked.

"They never find any bodies, but they never come back.

They just disappear.' couldn't understand that. I couldn't understand what could be happening to the men. How did Rocco know this? What Topmen were involved? What could be happening to the ones who disappeared?

"Brendan doesn't want to admit it. But, he knows it's true."

Before I could get out another question, Brendan's voice boomed out, "Boy!" And Rocco jumped up and ran from the kitchen.

First ecstatic vision: 15 years ago between trying to memorize the dicta in Marbury vs Madison and watching the police beat up Mario Savio on the steps of Sproul Hall. Somewhere in an alley near the East Bay Terminal, late

There was a tobacco store on Market Street on the fringes of the Tenderloin where you could buy their portraits. Lined against the wall, next to one another, SX7 glossy commemoratives sealed back to back in shiny glassine

The Litany David: Blond, dark eyes, biceps like softballs bulging.

Fray for me. Marco: Astride a chopper, black leather gloves gripping his handle with care for me. John: Hairy balls, construction helmet, uncircumcized floppy cock.

Salivate for me. Ahh hhh hhh men.

Taste of tears in my mouth. Salty like the air at Land's End where you can fuck in the daylight on sloping hills and watch the ships bearing the Greek Navy glide under the bridge. I went to live in L.A. Daze in the sun. Li

Them, in the Red Star Saloon, at the Barracks, Rituals, however sacred, without benefit of sacrament, are incomplete. I designed a poster to remind myself to return. Across the top I printed:

Travel. Engorged pricks, ejaculating cosmic seed, swirled along the sides, made firm by slicing strokes of my Rapidograph. In the center: a photograph, lovingly mounted, found in the Missal. Two of them sitting in a chair,

San Francisco. Along the bottom I drew sodden phallic heads. A sky full raining drops of nectar that fizzed into a rainbow. Open Up Your Golden Gate written in bold letters, conforming to the shape of an arc. 100 copies. P

I'm back, last year, to stay, Forever, They were waiting. In place Named for a dude who enjoyed a special relationship with animals. I opened a gallery. The relics, eventually, enskrined. Languishing in the February fog li

A Mural painted on the walls of a place where the faithful would congregate. In celebration.

I live with an artist who had impressed a winged Goliath, tongued to ejaculation, sitting on the face of a Merman on the walls o

(DRUMSTICKS

SECTION

2-11-51

By Frank O'Rourke

Freedom is a commodity which most people take for granted until they have lost it. Imprisonment for a gav person is a particularly hard life and may often be more hellsh than for others, because both prisoners and guards do everything to ostracize and make that person's life more difficult. There is in the human quantity a need to denigrate and demean someone else in order to raise one's own self esteem and gays become the butt of unnecessary cruelties. In that respect you might say my life was somewhat easier because of my two masters.

@ Olaf 1978

I arrived in San Francisco from Folsom late in the afternoon with one hundred dollars in my pocket. It was too late to go to the bank, so I checked into the "Y." I was assigned to a room that was almost as narrow as the cell I left that morning . The furnishings were sparse. After a light meal, I took a bus up Market Street to Castro since I knew it was too early to make the Folsom Street bars. The street between Market and 18th was crowded by young men arm in arm. There was no embarrassment or sense of defiance in their affection. They were natural and relaxed in their attitudes. This was their strength. Jerry had told me that the gays of San Francisco were a cohesive and strong political force in the city and I was able to grasp the elusive meaning of this, never felt such a keen sense of belonging. Various guys said, hello, and I could tell that the greetings were friendly while I sensed in most cases there was an underlying sexuality. It was great for my battered ego, but I was saving myself for

Folsom Street - and, yes, Jerry

As Jerry's image popped into my mind, I wondered if things could ever be the same again. Thinking of him got my cock hard, but I couldn't see myself as his slave, not after all my aggressive experiences since he left Folsom on parole.

There was no doubt in my mind that I was committed to the sado-masochistic ethos. As I looked at those euphemistically called "Castro clones" I knew that they weren't where my head was, but I still loved them all.

It grew darker, so I grabbed a cab and headed for Folsom Street. I grew nervous as the cab halted before an unobtrusive bar between Ninth and Eighth Streets. There were only a few bikes parked in a side alley which told me that I must be a little early.

I pushed the leather curtain aside and entered the bar. Just inside of the doorway, to the left, the bar ran along the alley- side of the building.

'Let me have a light," I directed the bartender.

"Yes, sir," he responded. Was that subservience or just politeness, I wondered. My eyes had not become fully accli- mated to the dim interior, so I couldn't be sure.

The tension eased from my stomach as I noted the half-filled room. The length of the bar was lined with men in full leather. A few wore biker's jackets and jeans, and a few just wore jeans and levi jackets. Some looked like Castro clones but the majority had an undeniable masculine aura which was far more attuned to my mood. Some of them eyed me speculatively , because there were no clues in my attire which would indicate whether I was a top or a bottom. This sort of went along with my mood, because tonight I was an observer, or, at the very most, a negotiable. I could swing one way or the other, depending on the dude.

I found a place against the wall and sipped at my bottle of beer while I took in the scene. Men prowled through the packed room, some of them merely showing off their leathers like a bunch of drag queens; others were obviously looking for that one individual with whom they would share the night and a world of fantasy.

Across the room, I spotted a dude in conversation with another and I knew it was Jerry. Pushing my way through the crowd, one guy growled at me as I shoved against him, but I glared and he fell sheepishly silent. Just as I neared Jerry, he turned and I saw that I had made a mistake. The man had a softer countenance that did not detract from his good looks. He saw the expectancy on my face and grinned. It was only then that I noted the keys hanging from his right side.

I moved upstairs to the upperlevel bar where I got another bottle of beer. I leaned against a post and watched the pool game in progress. Extracting a cigarette from the pack in my shirt pocket, I hunted for a light when a lighter flashed and moved under my cigarette. As I exhaled a lungfull of smoke, I looked and found the Jerry-look-a-like standing by my side.

"Hi," he said in a deep voice. "Thanks for the light," I responded, cautiously.

"I saw the look of interest and the flash of disappointment when I turned around downstairs, I didn't know what to make

There was a look of relief in the man's face. "Ah," he sighed. "At least I didn't turn you off."

I couldn't help but like this openness in what I considered a of promise. "Well, a good many guys have been eyeing you up and down. I think you might say the tops have written you off, because everyone is of the firm opinion that you're a master even though you don't show it.

I couldn't help laughing. If only he knew how I had spent the past years - a slave to two men. I guess I had been a good student and now the student was ready to become the teacher. I felt my cock growing inside of my tight levis, "Get me another beer," I directed. I started to pull out some bills to pay for the beers. "Let me buy them, sir."

As he walked away, I surveyed his small, tight ass. Well, I guess I won't sleep alone tonight. It's worth exploring. I felt my cock hardening down the side of my left leg. I couldn't help grinning to myself as I thought I might have to go back to the "Y" and cruise the shower room for some action, or jack off

I watched him return with a couple of beers. He passed under a ceiling light which gave me a good view of his form. The body was lean and he stood about five feet nine inches. His neatly trimmed blond hair gleamed. There was a certain aura of pristine masculinity and, yes, beauty about him. His blue eyes held a bit of uncertainty which I liked. He wasn't some asshole who thought he knew everything, "What's your name?" I accepted the drink,

"Mark, sir."

I had learned to appreciate from Chuck and Jerry the need for a subservient attitude to lay the groundwork for a mutually satisfying affair. Yes, I knew things were going to work out. I only hoped that he didn't have a lover or roommate, or we would end up at the "Y."

"Where do you live? Do you have a roommate?"

"In Sacramento, sir. I live with my folks.

Christ, I thought. Well, I'm not going to give this up. He's got my nuts aching. It'll just have to be the "Y." Fortunately, he had a car. I told him where we were headed when we got into the car.

When we got up to my room, I told him to strip. He quickly got his duds off and stood in front of me with his hands clasped behind him and his head bowed in the classical slave stance. His uncircumsized cock grew between his legs as I looked him over. The hair on his body could only be called peach fuzz. The nipples showed a prominence which hinted considerable use and abuse. In the narrow space between the bed and the wall I turned him around. His back was flawless and the waist tapered to what was the height of genetic excellence - the cheeks of his ass were two moulded melons; where the two halves met the dark chasm was fraught with promise. There was a faint sheen of perspiration glistening from the globular mounds and I knew that I could come from the mere sight.

The reader may well wonder how anybody can wax ecstatically about two masses of flesh, well you would understand me if you witnessed that ass which would have driven

Sandro Botticelli out of his mind.

My breath had become labored, but I took a grip on my lust by stripping my own clothing off. The preoccupation of undressing made me think more clearly. I decided not to just hump him right then and there. I grabbed a skimpy towel from the bed and wrapped it around my loins. Reaching around him, I grabbed him by the cock and balls and pulled him after me out into the hallway. When he understood what I was doing, I felt a hesitation which I quickly corrected by putting a bit of pressure on his nuts. He groaned and forgot everything

The hallway was empty which I had hoped would be the case. I led Mark into the shower room. I hung my towel on a hook outside of the shower and stepped into the large tiled area with its multiple heads. So we wouldn't call too much attention to ourselves, I pulled him into a corner and turned the shower on. I figured the casual dude who came in to take a leak wouldn't see us, but the curious ones might be into a little action themselves. After I had gotten good and wet, I

Soap and water, added to a caressing hand, are simple ingredients for a heightened sensuosity. Whether Mark had experience, or merely a dedication to his chore, he managed

not to reveal that he was reaching my inner most being drove him to greater efforts to at least evoke a groan from me. My cock was slippery from both the pre-come and his soapy hand. I directed him away from my cock because I had no intention of letting him bring me off by hand. My cock craved to explore the hot chamber of his wet naked ass

Unable to stand it any longer, I turned him away from me. "Grab a piece of that wall, asshole," I growled, my voice was hoarse to my ears. Mark bent over, his ass quivering in anticipation . I took a deep breath and knew that I would have to exercise a maximum of control to not dump my load before I got into his butt.

I found his hole with my thumb and eased it into his ass, testing it for tightness. I knew that he'd be able to take my cock without any trouble. Moving forward, I grabbed my rod, careful not to stroke the throbbing shaft. Centering the big cockhead, I pressed against the taut sphincter. I knew the tension was due to a combination of tension and anticipation. Once I had the head inside, I drove the long, broad shaft all the way to my crotch. Mark took a wheezing breath and started to wiggle his ass as I paused with the entire tool up his ass

Knowing that it was going to be a short ride, I planned to make it a wild and furious one. With one hand, I reached around and grasped Mark's cock and balls and began pulling and twisting the rock hard cock and his nut sack. With the other hand I slapped the cheek of his beautiful keester, every slap causing the muscles of his ass to grip harder on my cock. Switching hands, I started to jack him off while I pummeled his other cheek. "Work those muscles, motherfucker. Make your man know that you want all that hot come. Yeah! Yeah!" I felt my legs tense and the cheeks of my own ass starting pumping in expectation . The come was ready to find its way up through the shaft, but I held off, my toes clutching at the wet tile shower stall floor. I pulled my cock out to the ring and then I dropped Mark's cock and balls, grabbed his hips in a steel vise, my fingers eating into the flesh as I started the short course to glory. As my cock shot up his shit chute, the head ran into the furious eruption of the head. "A-r-r-rgh," I cried like an animal at its first mating. Mark had grabbed his own cock during this time and he followed quickly after me. His ass squeezed repeatedly at my fast depleting store of come. I leaned against the wall after I had pulled out of him.

Mark was still hot to trot. He knelt and started to suck the last drops of come from my shit-stained cock. After he had cleaned it off, I pushed his head away and told him to shower and come back to the room. Since I hadn't left him the towel, I lay back on the narrow bed with the door of the room ajar. A middle-aged, pot bellied guy walked by slowly and looked me over. I was just too relaxed to cover myself, but I must not have looked interested because he shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

A still wet Mark came into the room and closed the door behind him. He was hesitant about whether I would now send him away, or just what I had in mind. Spreading my legs, I directed, "Get between my legs and make me feel good. Use your mouth and help me unwind from that great fuck.

Without any hesitation Mark knelt between my legs and started to run his tongue through my pubic hair. As his tongue grasped my cockhead to suck it into his mouth, I jumped off of the bed.

"Go home," I said harshly.

He looked amazed at my curtness. "Get your fucking clothes on asshole and get the fuck out of my sight," Tears sprung to his eyes. "What's wrong? Didn't I do what you wanted?"

I didn't even answer, but I grabbed my levis and pulled them on. How could I tell him that I knew it would be very easy to become too involved with him. It was better to break it off right now after a great fuck. My mind was centered in finding Jerry. Maybe things wouldn't work out there, but I had to find out.

I heard him dress behind me. His hand was on the door when he asked, "Sir, could I give you my address and tele- phone number in case you want to use me again?

From someone else I would have taken the last part as a sarcastic remark, but I knew that he meant it as a respectful offer. "Yeah," I responded, reaching over to the desk for a ballpoint pen and a piece of "Y" stationery, Quickly, he scribbled the information and handed it to hand and gave him a deep kiss and pushed him away. "Take off, asshole." Three nights later, I met Jerry just as I was getting ready to leave a Folsom Street bar. He spotted me before I saw him. I found this bearded dude in full leathers blocking my exit through the front door.

"Hey, Jim, when did you get out of Foley?"

"Jerry, you son-of-a-bitch, I've been looking for you since they sprung me from the joint. How're you doing, buddy?" "Let me get you a drink and we can cut it up."

Pushing his way to the bar, Jerry got two bottles of brew. "Let's go over here in the corner where we can talk some shit

Jerry followed me to a waist high shelf where we parked and took a long draw of the beer. Turning to me, Jerry asked, You got a tail?

Grinning, because I was so damn glad to see Jerry, I said, "No, they didn't hang a tail on me. Instead of a parole, I got a discharge, so I don't have anyone I have to respond to.

"Man, you fall in a pile of shit and come up smelling like a rose." His face sobered as he asked, "I notice you carry your keys on the left, is that straight shit. Given up being a slave."

I had been sweating this question. I knew that my slave days were behind me. Even though I knew I loved Jerry, it wasn't the slave-master love, but the love of one top for another

Taking a deep breath which the casual observer could not distinguish as brought on my tension, I blurted out, "I'm sorry, Jerry, but that's all behind me. I figure I've done my apprenticeship . Shit, I'm not saying I won't play bottom again, but it!ll be on my terms and with another top. "You son-of-a-bitch." Jerry's face broke out with a pleased grin. "That's a real reliet, buddy." He continued in a more serious tone, "You know, nan, I loved you and I still d

"Well, I can't deny that I haven't jacked off many times since you left Folsom, dreaming about getting into that fine keester of yours.

"Oh, you have," he whooped. More quietly, he added, "You will, lover, you will."

"Where do you live," I asked.

"I've got me a house here on Folsom. I rent it and I've put a lot of money and work into it. I built a blackroom and I'm

"Hold it, man, you're trying to take me over." "Shit, no. Do what the fuck you want.

I could see that I was pissing my true love off and I decided I must give this one time. "OK, OK, I'll move my stuff in to-morrow. You sure you got enough room?"

"I've got what you might call a double-sized king-sized bed. Man, it's like a fucking arena." Laughing, he added,

"Yeah, I guess that's what it is, a fucking arena."

"That's great." "You got a job?"

"Not yet, but I'm looking. It's hard for an ex-con to get a job. I told interviewers that I got out of Folsom and, man, you should hear all the stories they try to give me.

"Your best bet is not to tell them. First, if they like your work, when they do find out, they made decide to keep a good man, rather than have to look for someone new. Second, if they fire you, well, fuck'em you don't need their shit." "Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm going to try it. How about you, you working?" you, you working?" "I'm working for a contractor and make pretty good money. There's other ex-cons in the crew and I suspect the boss did a little bit of time too." "Well, I guess I'd better hit it and get back to the "Y."

"Forget it, man, you're staying with me tonight. You can move your stuff tomorrow.

When we left the bar, Jerry stopped in front of a low-slung sports car. "Boy, you sure as shit are doing well for yourself." Grinning as he got into the driver's seat, "The car is in the name of my slave, but although he b privately signed the pink slip over to me, leaving the date open." "Won't he be a bit upset about me moving in?"

By the lighted street, I saw Jerry's face harden and he snarled, "The slave hasn't been born yet who tells me what I can and can't do." Smiling at a fleeting thought, he added,

"You'll get a chance to try him out tonight. He's got to go to work tomorrow, but he's going to be one come-filled mother-fucker tonight.

We stopped before a wooden, unattached two-story house. The building was dark. I could see all of the windows were heavily draped. "You sure he's home?"

Locking the car doors, Jerry broke out in a guffaw, "You can bet he's home. In fact, old buddy, he's someone you know." "No shit. Who is it?"

Letting me into the entry hall ahead of him, Jerry closed and locked the door behind us. "I'm not going to tell you. When you see him, we'll see if you remember him. Let's get a beer and get these duds off. He's down in the black room."

Being in close proximity to Jerry, caused my cock to start growing in my levis, but instead of being embarrassed, I felt kind of proud of my reaction. When Jerry stripped, I couldn't help looking at that great cock of his which had given me a good deal of both pleasure and torment. I wasn't sure that he was getting hard over me, or the prospect of seeing his slave, but he straightened me out quick. "You sure got my cock going, brother.

We kissed and swapped tongue while we clutched at each other's cock. "We've got plenty of time to work out these pieces of ment tongether." pieces of meat together.

I followed him into a deep basement and along a narrow passageway, passing through a heavy door, lined with cork, into a small entryway and into a brightly lit room which must have covered the whole width of the back of the house. Again, the walls were covered with heavy cork while the floor had a barely perceptible tilt with a drain along the wall, making it easier to wash down and for piss to drain into the concrete channel which ended at a wide-mouthed drain.

The center of the room immediately caught my eye. There was a crotch-high leather-covered table. I found my eyes captured by a naked form, lying spreadeagle on the table, his arms and legs held securely by leather cuffs to the four corners of the table. Besides a steel cockring around his cock and balls, he had on a full hood, the mouthpiece removed to insure proper breathing while Jerry was out. The base of the hood was covered by a wide, studded slave's collar. Obviously, the man had heard the door open and his cock had begun to harden. The body was lean and muscular, the skin was welted, indicating frequent and intense whippings. My cock was standing at full attention as I surveyed the slave. The entire body had been shaved and it was obvious to me that Jerry made him keep cleanly shaved.

Motioning to me to not say anything, Jerry and I moved next to the slave in our bare feet.

"Well, I'm back piss-face. It's too bad nobody burned the motherfucking building down before I got here, because you are one worthless piece of shit. You know that don't you? "Yes, sir," a muffled voice responded.

I still had no inkling who the dude was, but he sure was a sexy bastard. Knowing what I had in mind, Jerry lowered the headpiece which allowed a guy to have ready access to his mouth. Indicating that I was to come around the head of the table, he directed, or better offered, that hot cavity to me.

Not a bit shy, I shoved my raging hard-on into the dark orifice. An eager tongue hesitated for a fraction of a second as it swirled around my demanding cock. Yep, I thought, he knows it's not Jerry's meat. That sure as hell didn't deter me so I drove more and more into his mouth until I felt the head of my cock enter the throat. I started a slow, deep-thrusting drive. I glanced at the slave's cock and I could tell that he was turned on because he was dripping a steady stream of precum into his navel. Jerry and I started kissing, we were both getting pretty hot, Jerry played with my teats, kneading them more furiously which just made me all the hotter. Shoving a bottle of amyl under my nose, I knew it wouldn't be long before this slave got my urgent load. Running my thumb over Jerry's cockhead, I found that he was himself about ready to bust his own load. I started jerking on his cock, because I wanted him to come with me.

My face fucking and Jerking quickened in tempo as I felt myself ready to bust my load. I came in a long furious burst and Jerry came at the same time. He managed to growl, "Come, motherfucker!" Incredibly, the slave's cock started erupting like a volcano, the first burst splattering my pubic hair, while succeeding ropes of come saturated his chest and belly. I left my now shrinking cock in his mouth while he milked every drop.

After I pulled free, Jerry shoved his own cock into the slave's mouth in order to get the rest of the spunk that still lingered in Jerry's testicles. When Jerry shoved his half-hard cock into the hooded mouth, the slave's body twisted in a new burst of ecstasy and I could hear him moaning in bliss and his spent cock started to get hard again on its drying bed of come. Jerry knew that he was turning his slave on, so he jerked his cock free.

"Well, are you ready for the unveiling? I figure you don't know the asshole, but you'll remember him as soon as you see him.'

Reaching under the man's head, Jerry began loosening the leather lacing which kept the hood molded to the slave's head. When he removed the hood, I saw that the guy was still blindfolded . "It's an old hood and I discovered that the sneaky shit could see me through the nose piece, so I had to start using the blindfold. He didn't tell me about it, so I really put him through a well-deserved punishment session."

I peered closely at the masked countenance and was I surprised . It was Long, the Folsom prison guard who'd been bringing stuff into the joint for Jerry and the same bastard Jerry had made me service when I was Jerry's slave. "It's your mule," I exclaimed.

"The one and only. He's a sergeant at San Quentin now. Boy, if the prison officials knew what an ass-wiping, dick-licking , piss-drinking punk he is now, they'd probably put him

Removing the cuffs from his feet and wrists, he directed Long to sit on the edge of the table. It was only then that Jerry removed the mask and the slave quickly glanced at me before he lowered his eyes. I caught a glimmer of a grin on his lips.

"Well, sport," Jerry said, "you've got yourself two masters now. You belong to both of us and we can do what we want to with you. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. You're good to me, sir."

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Now I started to pay serious attention to his asshole. My heavily coated fingers started one by one into this promising grotto. I could see that his entire being was captivated in my slow movements. "Please, sir. I've never been fisted."

"I didn't ask for all that shit. I don't want your comments unless I ask for it." Very quickly, Jerry slapped the slave-

I fiell into mir ole very quickly, because I knew Jerry wouldn't have said what he did unless he meant it. "On your knees, turd." My fucking bladder had started to give me hell. "Just hold my cook in your mouth." Very quic gulped furiously, anxious not to lose a drop. As the last drop oozed out of my cockhead, Taylor; I later found out his first name was Don, began trying to suck it. I pushed him so hard that he fell head over heels on the cold concrete floor.

"The punk needs more training," I commented casually.

"Between us we'll whip this bastard into shape, you can believe it," Jerry agreed. Turning to the hunkered slave, "Get your ass over here, you need some more to drink."

While Jerry took his leak, I examined the room more closely. Heavy beams crisscrossed the ceiling which were supported by beams down the side of the walls. Chains and man- acles were bolted into the wall, allowing more facilities for other slaves. Riding crops, cat-o'-nine-tails, bull whips and cock whips of various sizes and textures were neatly arrayed along the walls. A giant X-beam commanded attention at the farther end of the room with straps for wrists and ankles to hold a guy spreadeagle, making his entire body available for discipline. A table held various types of tit clamps and weights. Opening a drawer under the table I found a broad assortment of dildoes, butt plugs, gags, spiked ball separators (spiked on the inside), ball stretchers and other interesting paraphernalia.

After Jerry finished pissing, he told the slave to stand, "Might as well get him into his pajamas." I could see the punk had a roaring hard-on, as Jerry got a pair of leather cuffs and attached them to his wrists, using a clip to hold them behind his back. "This'll keep his hands away from his cock during the night." He also reached for the spiked ball separators, "Do you want to put them on him?" "I sure do." Crouching in front of the slave, I tried an old medical trick for making a man lose his hard-on, I flicked very hard against the cockhead, but it had the reverse effect by making the cock harder, if that was possible. Twisting his cock and balls, I managed to put on the separators; not too gently,

I must admit. "Sometimes I strap a butt plug in him, but I figure that you

"Well, he's got to report for duty at Q at eight o'clock. I drop him off and go on to my job in Marin, so we usually get up about six or six-thirty." "Good. I'll get up early and move over. Don't do any shopping, I'll make it to the grocery store. Who does the cooking?" "Who do you think? I sure as hell don't."

"Great."

Before we left the black room, Jerry took Taylor over to the drain and held his cock while he took a piss.

Single-file, first Jerry, then I and finally Don left the basement and went to the second story to the large bedroom. Don slept between us that night and I was so fucking horny, I mounted Don's ass a couple of times during the night. I don't modified bons as a couple of times during the might plants think he even woke up, he just automatically spread his ages to let me in. I know Jerry screwed him once, because as I turned over in my sleep I felt the bed movin an obligation to his slave, as well as a slave's obligations to his master; and one of the obligations was to keep him plugged with hot cock.

There is nothing in the world like awakening in the morning , feeling a wet, warm mouth laving your armpits and working down your chest to your crotch. Who the hell likes to have to get out of a warm bed in order to relieve the pressure on your bladder. Don took my piss like a trouper and I topped it off with a load of cream. Jerry was already shitting, shaving and showering. Don hopped out of the sack to start our preakfast.

Later in the day I moved my things from the "Y." I was able to make it in one trip by cab. I went to a shop further down Folsom Street and bought a leather harness to wear during sessions. The straps accentuated my well-defined muscles and the cockring lent emphasis to my big cock and large pendulous balls. I looked at myself in the dressing room mirror and I could see the clerk was salivating, but I ignored him.

It was noontime when I got back from getting the groceries. I was feeling horny and wished that Don was at home so I could take him downstairs to the blackroom. This trend of thinking brought Mark to mind. I pulled out my wallet, just on the spur of the moment, and found his telephone number in Sacramento. I dailed the number and a hostile female voice barked into the phone, "Yeah. What do you want?"

"This is Intercontinental Air Freight Service in San Fran- cisco." Quickly, I glanced at the slip in my hand. "Is Mark Pelham there?"

The animosity died quickly in this woman's voice. "Er, what can Mark do for you, sir?" The "sir" didn't do anything for me and I could see why Mark spent a lot of time in San Francisco. What had started as a shuck became r job on our overseas freight transports and we find we can use him, immediately. When can he call me?" "Oh, my, I'm sure he!! be home in the next hour. I'll have him call you right away."

I gave her Jerry's phone number and emphasized that it was just another interview and that he might have to come to San Francisco that afternoon. I figured that if things worked out, we could get the phone disconnected and a new number placing the extension next to the bed. I dozed off and was quickly startled from a dozing sleep by the shrill bell. "Yeah,"

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"Is this Intercontinental Air Freight Service," the voice asked. Just hearing the punk caused my cock to start harden-

"O.K. You just listen to me. I want you to get into your car and come into San Francisco right away." I gave him the address and repeated it a couple of times so he would remember it. "When you get here you'll find the front door unlocked. Lock it behind you, strip naked, leave your clothes on the floor inside of the outside door. Head upstairs to the bedroom and I leave the rest to you for now." My voice hardened as I asked, "Can you make it?"

"I'm on my way, sir. Thank you for the opportunity, sir."

I knew that he meant every word of it.

After I hung up, I got off of the bed and went to the closet to get my new body harness. I laid the harness over my shoulders , then fitted the steel cockring over my balls and shoved my cock through the ring. Adjusting the straps across my chest and waist, I removed the strap which connected to the bottom of the cock ring and would have run up the crack of my ass. I was into getting my asshole eaten and I didn't want to inhibit Mark. Before I lay down on the cool sheets, I took the wide belt out of the loops of my levis and lay it by my side on the bed. I knew it would take Mark a couple of hours to get here.

I never heard him enter the house or the room. My first awareness of his presence was when I felt a hot mouth laving each one of my toes. I knew that my hardening cock would tell Markthat I was awake, but I chose to just lay there and enjoy his efforts to satisfy me.

He was in no big hurry, spending a good deal of time to get in between my toes. Slowly he worked up between my legs, licking with wet slurps until he neared his ultimate goal. Gently, he started flicking hiswet tongue over Tenderly, he sucked one of my big nuts into his mouth, running his tongue around the heavy cod. He switched from one to the other before he began his main meal on my juicy cock.

As he took the head of my cock into his mouth, sucking the seeping juice as if it was a fruit with delicious nectar, I said, "Hi, asshole.

Relunctantly releasing my cock, he responded, "Hello,

SIF.

"Come up here and lay beside me, I want to talk to you."

He moved up next to me and caressed my harnessed body as I wrapped an arm around him. I am very tactilely oriented and I enjoyed his hands roaming all over my body. To me, it heightened the talking. Later he would learn to do only what I told him to.

"Did you want to come down?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I was afraid you'd never call me." "When do you have to go back?"

"Whenever you say, sir.

"O.K. I want you to stay the weekend. I'm staying here with an old buddy and his slave. We share the slave, but," I paused, "I'll have to get my own slave."

Mark didn't respond. If he had, I would have had to doubt anything he said, because I would have felt that he was think- ing with his crotch rather than his head.

"Let's go downstairs."

I could see that Mark expected to have sex and wondered what we were going to do, but he followed me. I took him rapidly to the black room in the basement.

When Mark surveyed the work room with all of its equipment and paraphernalia, his cock jutted out in front of him. I realized that he probably had a lot of inhibitions and limits. but I would destroy those inhibitions unmercifully and raise nervous fingers I quickly cuffed his hands to the edge of the table. Attaching his ankles to cuffs, I attached them to ceiling chains and I raised his legs until I had ready access to his pink hole. I lowered the table section below his hips so I could get to his ass. I then walked around to the head and lowered the top section. His head dropped back and I rubbed my dripping cock all over his face. I slapped the sides of his face with my fleshy bludgeon. He moaned, licking his lips for my cock. I taunted his lips with the head, his tongue tried to get a grip on the head, but I wouldn't get close enough. Without any warning , I shoved my entire cock down his throat, causing him to gag and retch. He got control of his reflexes quickly and started to suck my cock as if it was the last piece of meat he would ever have.

Pulling out, I brought a full length portable mirror next to the table and I raised his head piece so he could look down the length of his body. From one of the drawers I extracted a can of Crisco, tossing the cover on the table top. I took a metal inhaler from the small fridge in the corner and hung it by a leather thong around my neck.

Now I started to pay serious attention to his asshole. My heavily coated fingers started one by one into this promising grotto. I could see that his entire being was captivated in my slow movements

'Please, sir. I've never been fisted."

"Just shut your fucking mouth, asshole. I'm not going to hurt you." Taking the inhaler out of its case, I shoved it into one nostril, pinching shut the other one. "Breathe deeply." He inhaled deeply a number of times. I left the inhaler lodged in the nostril while I returned to concentrate on his juicy hole. Twisting my fingers, I could feel the muscles loosen. I knew this was a combination of effort on Mark's part and the assistance of the amyl. I got all four fingers inside with my thumb crossed inside. It took a half an hour before I was able to force the thumb's base joint through the hole and I quickly made a fist inside.

"Oh, God," Mark sighed.

"You've got it all, babe." I twisted the fist in the hot, delicious ass. Every movement brought more moans from his lips. The tenor of the noise changed from resignation to growing bliss. Slowly, I began to fuck his ass with my fist and I felt his sphincter grip harder on my wrist until I thought he would snap my hand off.

I'd made a point with him and now I was anxious to re- place my hand with my cock. Inch by inch I eased the hand out, wiping the greasy hand over my swollen cock and wiping the residue on his chest and stomach. With one savage thrust I impaled him on my cock and began to drive hard and furi- ously into the still tight hole. Before long I shot my load. I didn't give Mark a chance to come himself. I could see that he wanted some relief, but I had no intention of letting him get his gun.

I lowered the head of the table flat and raised the foot until it was level. Releasing the legs from the chains, I reattached them to the edge of the table until his body was stretched out in a spreadeagle position. "You ever worn a hood?"

"No, sir.

I took a fur-padded leather eye mask and fitted it over his head. Then I went over and got a pair of light tit clamps and attached them to his chest. He graoned as I placed them on him, but he didn't ask me to remove them. Jerry and Don would be home in a half hour or so. Boy, would Jerry be surprised . I could pay him back for letting me use Don

As soon as Jerry and Don got home, I took Jerry down- stairs and he merely whistled when he saw Mark. Ignoring the slave, he turned to me, he asked, "Is he yours?" "For now. You want to try him out?"

Jerry approached the table. He ran his hand along the inside of each thigh. He grabbed the cock and balls and gave them a vicious twist which only evoked a sharp gasp from Mark and Jerry looked and nodded at me approvingly. Next, he felt the firm stomach. Removing the tit clamps brought two sharp intakes . I knew that taking the clamps off was more painful than placing them on. He squeezed the man's jaw and forced the mouth open. Looking into Mark's mouth for depth and size, he again looked at me and grinned. Shoving three fingers into Mark's mouth, he twisted them around and thrust them into his throat, causing him to gag.

Dropping the head, he unzippered his work pants and pulled out his hard hose and started to systematically fuck Mark's face while he twisted and pulled at his nipples. He didn't allow Mark a breather, he was like a fucking machine which would only run down after it had given up its energy.

That didn't take long. "Let's go eat," was Jerry's only comment as he stuffed his satiated cock back into his pants. We released Mark's bonds and removed the mask. He grinned at both of us in a questioning manner, probably wondering if it had been a test and hoping that he had passed it.

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Prison Punk / continued FROM PAGE 55

In the dining room two places were set. "Help Don," was all I said as Jerry and I lolled back in our chairs. Jerry got up and removed his clothing and sat naked as I was, "No sense you sitting there comfortably, while I sweat in these dirty clothes.'

I told Jerry about Mark and the plans I had. I was hoping that he might become my permanent slave. I asked him what he thought about it.

"Well, two slaves are damn sure better than one. It gives us a bit of variety and will fill our coffers.'

'How's that?"

"Well, Don, gives me every cent he earns on his job and your guy can do the same thing.

The two naked slaves came in with steaks and vegetables. A bottle of good red wine was placed between us.

Jerry didn't even stop his conversation; as if they hadn't entered the room. "A few nights a week, I have Don go out and hustle his ass for money, or else I make arrangements with guys who have a lot of bread. Your slave should bring us a lot of money. We can get him a job and I know dudes who'll pay a bundle to use him.

Yeah, I like that idea."

"Great. They're fairly inexpensive because the only time they get to wear their clothes is when they're out of the house. The nights they hustle for us, they wear their holiest and oldest levis and T-shirts. No shoes or socks or underwear.

Each slave returned with a bowl, placing the bowls on the floor and on all fours they slurged and licked the blended concoction from the bowl while their round browns winked at

After Jerry and I had enjoyed our steaks, we relaxed while Don in his slave collar and cockring brough us cigars and lighted them for us. Then both men crawled under the table, each man squatting between our legs and having their dessert. I was pretty sure that Don was swinging on my joint, but I wasn't about to lift the table cloth to see who it was. I sipped wine, puffed my cigar, chatted with Jerry desultorily, and enjoyed a great blow job.

When both men had brought us off and sucked every drop out, they came out from under the table and stood by the side of the table with their hands grasped behind their back and their heads bowed.

"Take that piece of shit with you," Jerry directed Don, "and clean him out good and come upstairs after you've taken care of vourself."

Jerry and I went up to the bedroom and started making frantic love. Boy, was I hot. I went down on Jerry's monstrous cock and he switched around on the bed and started sucking mine. The two slaves walked in as we were nearing a climax and stood watching their masters. After we lay back side by side on the bed, I ordered Mark to suck Don off. "For now, asshole, you're a slave's slave. You do what he tells you to, but Jerry and I are your masters."

That was a long weekend. By Sunday night Mark and Don's bodies were a mass of welts, come seeped from their bruised and used assholes. They had received enough pure protein to maintain them for a week. Jerry and I had spent cocks. We had brought Mark down as low, psychologically and physically, as we could. The two slaves had come many, many times, yet their cocks still managed to stay hard.

"Well, it's time for you to head home to Sacramento," I told Mark after our Sunday dinner.

"Please, sir, can't I stay and be yours and Jerry's slave, sir?"

"Are you sure?"

And that's how it turned out. Don is now a lieutenant at Q and Mark has a good position. We've bought the house on Fol-som Street from their day time and night time earnings - needless to say, the property is in mine and Jerry's names. Jerry and I treat both of them equally. Mark is no longer Don's slave because the punk lieutenant was getting ideas that he was as good as we were. It took a trip to the mountains during the first summer to rid him of that idea. He's happy to be back in the role as the piece of shit he really is.

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on all available data, possible tactics the opposition would put into play the next Sunday. Brute force is mechanized; brains are replaced with luck.

So, for the semi-hero of North Dallas Forty, Phillip Elliott (Nick Nolte), it's a no-win game, regardless how he plays. That he comes from the sandlot school of football dreamers only provides the con- flict.

Semi-hero instead of anti-hero; Nolte could have reminded the viewer of James Cann's Rollerball disaster; so similar is the issue of the individual being cloned into a corporate lever. Unlike Cann, Nolte brought some understanding to his characterization of the football player with "the greatest hands in the game." In fact, Nolte cleanly snatches the film out from under the debut of co-star Mac Davis, While Davis disspells the rumor that singers can't necessarily act, has a better body than Nolte and a visibly bigger dick - Nolte is still unquestionably one of the finest and most underrated actors working. In crowded locker-room scenes with more bare beef-on-the-hoof than a Chicago slaughter house, Nolte steals away the viewer's attention with only the slightest twist of his neck.

Semi-hero instead of hero because you would expect his character to have seen through the bullshit of the corporate "team-spirit" - long before he does. He never really does, and because he doesn't, he gets shafted in the end. Nolte plays the football jock as pure American idealist . Post Viet-Nam, at terms with his lack of aggression, compromised to going along with the program in order to get off the bench and on the field; you think he might buck the system and prove the computer wrong. What you don't know, and what Nolte's Phillip Elliott doesn't comprehend, is the absolute autonomy of the corporate evil. Semi-hero because he's doomed, the team is doomed, football is doomed to the whim of the computer programmer.

Everything you've ever imagined was corrupt about the corporations that own football teams is true, according to Dallas. But, on a purely visceral level, everything you've ever wanted to see in a lockerroom is what makes Dallas hot.

From the ridiculous to the self-righteous , the Dallas Bulls are stereotypes of American heterosexual masculinity. They grab ass, scratch their nuts, strut around with their pro-jock dicks bobbing between beefcake thighs, pop pills, smoke grass, engage in constant verbal humiliation of each other; occasionally letting a bruised hand caress another's body with a masked homosexuality thinly veiled. And, for the first time, the players talk about the motivations for their occupations . Far removed from the typical "fame, money, women" syndrome; these ball players are into pain as a primary source of pleasure. Regardless of the consequences , characters boast how their favorite moments are their most physically unendurable. Even Nolte, who sould have provided a devil's advocate for the sado-masochistic concept, glorifies his scarred and battered body parts as his contribution to football. And when a player acknowledges the damage that the constant stream of chemicals has done to him; it is shrugged off with the justification that the condition equals the reward .

They want to physically maim other men on the field and be physically destroyed themselves, like machine parts that finally wear out through constant, unprotective use. They push themselves until they are rejected levers. It becomes desirable, admirable, their goal.

The Marquis De Sade would have found their attitude completely consistent with human nature. In Justine, he postulated that the inherent human drive was man's propensity for destruction . That all other desires (food, sleep, sex) were deritives. He would have found the compliance of the Dallas Bulls to the corporate scheme the perfect metaphor.

John W. Rowberry

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BUT WAS IT KOSHER?

FALSE PRETENSES: The nursing staff at Mills Hosp, in San Mateo is still convulsed. Last Sat. night, in came an emergency patient who had sprained his ankle while disco dancing at a B'lingame nightspot. He was wearing gold lame pants that were so tight they had to be cut up the sides, revealing , among other things, a large salami Scotch-taped to his thigh.

HEAD SET

"Thank God It's Friday" had a hollow ring in certain parts of town last Friday, for THAT bakery in the Mission went out of business. THAT bakery made only one product - marijuana brownies, individually wrapped "to insure freshness and quality control" - which brought happiness to hundreds of office workers each Friday for the past two years. The routine was unvarying : at 1 p.m., the Brownie Ladies would fan out to hip biz establishments and take orders - $1.75 each, $1.50 each for a dozen. They'd return around 4 p.m. with the goodies which, in the words of a satisfied customer, "were absolutely dynamite brownies. Half of one was like smoking a joint of top grade Colombian" … In this city of wagging tongues, the secret of the Brownie Ladies and the Mission bakery never got to the law, but the owners decided not to push their pot luck. Fridays will never be the same.

Herb Caen S.F. Chronicle

HAIR

News and Photo Tip: When: Tuesday, June 26 -

10:30 a.m. Where: The Plaza Hotel (59th and Fifth Ave.) Barber Shop, Mezzanine.

Why: Actor John Schuck (of TV's "McMillan and Wife"), who has a head of hair many men would die for, will have it all shaved off to play the shiny-domed Daddy War- bucks in the SRO Broadway hit "Annie" for three weeks (starting July 3) while the role's originator, Reid Shelton, enjoys a well-de- served vacation. Garren of the Plaza will do the shaving, and Shelton himself will be there to offer Schuck, who will be making his Broadway stage debut, advice on the care of the Warbucks dome.

PEEL ME A BANANA, CHICITA

LONDON - Customs officers peeled a banana at London's Heath-row Airport yesterday and found it stuffed with marijuana.

They peeled the rest of the bunch carried by an arriving passenger and ended up with 25 pounds of marijuana, all neatly stitched in where the fruit should have been.

A woman from Nigeria will appear in a London court today on drug-smuggling charges.

Reuters

JOGGING LINKED TO S&M BY WORLD'S TOP HEART DOC

Pioneer heart transplanter Dr. Christian Barnard says that when it comes to recreational health risks, jogging is far and away more physically dangerous than out-and-out sexual masochism. Writing in the Rand Daily Mail, Dr. Barnard relates the basic motives for jogging to those leading to submission to sexual torture. Prolonged running gradually eases a person into a sort of ecstacy of pain, he says, drawing joggers "far away into some pain-filled garden of the mind," where they're undoubtedly "punishing themselves for their imagined lapses ."

Casually referring to the notorious S&M brothels of Johan-nesburg and Kimberly, where the ultraautocratic Boer elite likes to relax by being whipped silly by fetishistically decked-out dominators , Dr. Barnard pointed out that they are conspicuously safer and they are conspicuously safet and cleaner places to hang out than roadsides or city streets. "I see no difference between this form of recreation," says Dr. Barnard of jogging, "and that bought for a simple fee from the lad panties and a brace of whips.

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The LEATHER FRATERNITY does not sell merchandise, solicit or accept donations nor release the names of its members. We are also the original,

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

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

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

So dump your pics or greasy Polaroids and letters into an evenlope 'n' send the fuckers to: Tough Customers, c / o Drummer, 15 Harriett Street · San Francisco, California 94103

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

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The real bitch about a travelling job is the nights spent in hick towns. Mine has taken me to such exotic places as Sioux Falls, Des Moines and Boise. It's hard enough to find any kind of trick in those places, let alone the kind of man 1'm

I figured the week-long stay in Denver was going to be the same kind of dead- end for me sexually as those other burghs in the Mid-West. I left New York that Thursday with a sense of dread; it was as though I was leaving my cock in the city while I took a vacation from it. The worst part of this trip was that I was going to have to spend the weekend in Colorado - not just a few work days. What the hell was I going to do in Denver for a weekend ?

I thought about just packing it in and spending Saturday and Sunday sight-seeing in the mountains. But it turned out that I didn't leave my cock at home after all and by the time Friday night came it had a very insistent mind of its own. It wanted to go out, and no rational argument from me was going to stop it. I had been smart enough to pack a copy of Drummer in my suitcase - in the middle of some now dirty underwear, just where it belonged. I took it out and was pleasantly surprised to find a place called the

Triangle in the bar guide on the last pages. A leather bar in Denver?!

It took some figuring and fooling with a map of the city to discover that the Triangle was only a few blocks from my hotel. Fate was with me - and my cock was already grateful.

I walked over to Broadway, the address was 2036, and found the building I was looking for. It was no great shakes, but then what gay bar has invested money in architecture? I entered the discreetly marked door and found myself plunged into a sea of maleflesh. It was as if the Dock Strip had been unloaded right here at the base of the Rocky Mountains . The college kids in skimpy tee-shirts ; the pesudo-construction workers in levi jackets; the leather men sprinkled through the crowd. Now I was very sure I hadn't left my cock at home, it was jutting straight up agzinst my pants. It had found itself a home.

I pushed my way through the crowds, taking in the fine, welcome odors of men. Looking around so quickly at so many men that you'd have thought I had just come out or something. I was like a kid in a candy store.

I got hold of the cold can of Coors and stood against the bar trying to calm myself down a little and survey just how lucky I had been to look this place up.

Look, it wasn't the Mineshaft, I don't mean that, but it was a fine gay man's bar, decent music, okay looking men, the promise of a hot trick. I was very pleased with myself.

It took me about fifteen minutes to realize just what a gold mine I had found though. The bar was dark as most gay bars are. It took a while to figure out the room and the doorways leading from it. There was a set of stairs going downstairs that I had assumed led to a men's room. But, then I saw that the pisser was on this floor. I had so completely indoctrinated myself about what a boring place Denver was going to be that it took that long for me to realize that something was happening downstairs. That when some of those hot men I was staring at stared back and then disappeared down the stairwell, they weren't just being abrupt, they were inviting me to follow.

I cleared out my head and pushed my way to the entrance to the lower level. The tapes of music started to overlap halfway down. Then a harder beat from the new bar started to pound in my ears. My cock was still jutting up with anticipation . I entered what looked like a tunnel . It was even darker than the upstairs. There were men silently lining the walls. The whole place was drenched in a aura of sexuality.

I carefully, slowly walked through the lined men into the back room of the place, there was the other bar, a tall, muscular guy was tending it, clad only in chaps and jeans with a tee-shirt that said loud and clear where he was coming from: "YES SIR!" When I got closer I could see the collar looped around his neck, 'In Denver?' I thought,

In Denver, is right. I grabbed a new beer, giving the humpy bottom behind the bar a good, long, lean cruise and walked back through the packed room. Once again I was looking around, trying to feel my way. Then as I adjusted more to the darkness, I started to hear the familiar sounds of sucking and fucking coming from the figures lining the walls. A back room! A real, honest to god back room.

My cock and I were both standing at attention now. Hot damn. My glances at the crowd of men were more intense. 'Right here,' I thought I mearly said it out loud, 'Come and get it right here.

The men in this town were a little different than the ones I was used to in New York. Of course there were the omnipresent leathermen, but there were lots of men in Cowboy costumes. It occurred to me that here on the Plains those clothes weren't necessarily costumes.

They could be the real thing.

One tall, slim guy in front of me caught my eye just as I was working on the fantasy. He had on a Stetson hat and rugged, worn jeans. I could barely make out the cowboy boots on his feet. There was a tan colored vest covering his plaid shirt. My mind was playing on the range with his body. Thinking about the ass that for sure rode on saddles during the week. I was nearly drooling over him, waiting for him to turn and catch my eye when I felt a hand rest on my butt.

I stiffled an inclination to move away. 'Wiat,' I thought, 'let's see what it is.' The hand got more familiar with me while I stood there. It began to knead my ass now, one finger pressing insistently into my asshole through the cloth of my pants. I could feel the well-known presence of leather on the arms and legs of the figure as it moved in closer behind me. A hard cock pushed through his crotch against my mounds, his hands went to my waist and pulled me in further,

Just then, the Cowboy began to notice me. Jesus! If it rains it pours. His eyes locked into mine and that special acknowledgement of interest flowed between us. 'Which one?'

The cowboy didn't waste any time. He moved backwards and got into position to place a hand right on my crotch. The throbbing pole was all the cnouragement he needed to start playing with the whole length.

My own hand moved behind me and found the huge member of the leather man that was poking my body. I put my beer on the shelf and reached out in front of me to grasp hold of the Cow- boy's long lean dick, amazed at the size of its pulsing knob.

My mind was racing, 'Which one? What do I do?' Only an hour before I was bemoaning my fate to be stranded in Denver, and now I was standing here in a back room bar, each of my paws filled with ripe, manmeat,

The answer came almost spontane- ously. 'Why not both of them?' Right here? They hadn't noticed each other's actions yet. I could tell neither was aware that another man had been working on me. I almost laughed at that part of their cruising - being so cool and making believe that there was nothing special going on that they couldn't really see one another .

I used all my manual dexterity, and used both hands to open each of the button-fly jeans at once. Their hot flesh popped out of their openings at the same time, and I stood there stroking on two of the most beautiful poles I had ever felt. Carefully, and slowly, so they wouldn't get suspicious, I pulled each one by his cock until I had them in position and then I dove down and swallowed the two pricks at once, pushing the limits of my mouth's expansion to accommodate both of them. The sweat taste of two men inside my mouth sent me into orbits of sexual pleasure. I barely noticed the two of them stiffened their bodies as they realized what was going on. I lifted my eyes just in time to see them staring at one another: the cowboy and the leather-man , each of their cocks in the same mouth. They hesitated for a moment while I stared up. And then a small smile came across the leatherman's face as he reached over and dragged the cowboy into a tight, clutching embrace. I went back to work on their big tools, wondering when I could get another business trip to Denver,

Never assume there's no action when you leave New York or San Francisco. The Triangle Lounge, 2036 Broadway, Denver, is one of the hottest spots going in the U.S.

TOUGH TALES

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 73 late syrup and forcing the initiates to lick them clean.

Fucking and cocksucking do occur, but less frequently than jerking off, and often in the context of penalty or punishment , or of a demonstration of obedience or the true earnestness of their desire to belong to the group.

One relatively frequent form taken by the latter pretext is a "slave" situation. Initiates may be chosen for temporary slave duty by auction, or by lottery, or by some system of rotation, or for ac- cumulating demerits during the week. Sexual servicing is not always part of the slave's duties, but it seems to be fairly often. One feature of some varsity team hazing is that one varsity team member is put in charge of each initiate and "owns his ass" for the hazing period, which may be 4 or 5 weeks. His job is to keep the pressure on with daily hazing sessions, sometimes with the help of his buddies on the team, and cornholing their aspiring teammate or making him suck cock is an enjoyable and entertaining way of reminding him that he is lower than whale-shit until they pronounce him acceptable for admission to the varsity.

Incidentally, it is my observation that athletes go in for raunchier, more crudely physical hazing, including humiliating sex, than the average group, both in team hazing or fraternity hazing where the frat's membership is composed mostly of jocks. At a casual glance, it is just the apposite sort of behavior from what you would expect from supermacho straight studs, but on closer examination, it figures. Jocks are very much oriented to their bodies, testing them, stretching them to greater and greater limits, glorying in their maleness not only in terms of strength and skill but also the vigorous and prolonged exercise of their sexual powers. The athlete with his pre-occupation with his own male body and its functioning and hazing as an immersion in raw maleness were made for each other.

One jock frat I was told of starts its Hell Week with a strip-fight. The pledges are paired off, each dressed identically, and must tear each other's clothes off; the loser in each pair must then kneel and suck the winner's cock. To the victor …!

Your Montana correspondent's report that there was relatively little hazing at the U. of Reno was a little puzzling. Of course I could have been misinformed, or things could have changed, but I had an input reporting on the early '70s that indicated that hazing was common and accepted on the campus there, also visible , since the first order of business after the stripping of the pledges on day one of Hell Week was to shave them from head to toe. The hazing described was gross and brutal, and pledges who balked were pissed on and paddled till they got with the program, which included sexual servicing for borthers who got charged up by the sadistic games. I was a little skeptical of this report at the time, but in time as I got more similar material it seemed to fit the pattern that emerged.

Also, another chapter of the same frat recently made the news at the U. of Texas when a pledge lodged criminal charges against 3 brothers for sexual as- sault. This is a rare instance where a pledge did NOT get with the program - relatively few quit no matter how savage and gross the hazing, and even fewer complain publicly - but it seems to bear out that that frat's hazing customs include making the pledges serve as sex slaves during Hell Week.

I would like to endorse the suggestion of your Montana correspondent that Drummer's readers send in reports on hazing events that are staged openly on campus. Of even greater interest, however , is what goes on in the closed sessions where there are no outsiders to inhibit the grossness and cruelty with which members of all-male groups put their initiates through their paces, mocking their naked helplessness as they humiliate and torment them in 1,001 fiendish and obscene ways.

Washington, DC

(Drummer readers are encouraged to submit their own tough tales of actual sexual experiences, that provide a com- mon denominator, with the rest of our readers. Submissions should be sent to: Tough Tales, Alternate Publishing, 15 Harriett Street, San Francisco, CA 94103. We have a strange and wonderful gift for writers whose prose is published in Drummer.)

DRAWINGS BY MARTIN OF HOLLAND

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Series a): … S&M, Piss, F / F scenes etc. Series b): … Scat scenes (shit sex)

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WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO [×3+]

DRUMMER 79

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.

Arizona

Phoenix

Tucson

California

Alameda

Fresno

Garden Grove

Los Angleles / Hollywood

Out Cast

Los Angeles / Valley

Liberated Male

Palo Alto

San Bernardino

San Francisco

Colorado

Connecticut

New Milford

District of Columbia

Florida

Daytona Beach

Tampa

Georgia

Atlanta

Hawaii

Illinois

Calumet City

Iowa

Des Moines

Indiana

Indianapolis

Kansas

Maryland

Baltimore

Massachusetts

Boston

Provincetown

Springfield

Michigan

Detroit

den's Bar/ Bath Scen

WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO / WESTERN / LEATHER / MACHO / WESTE<u>rn / Leather / Macho</u>

THE QUARTERS

THE QUARTERS CONFINES Specialized training resulting in certified slaves.

Custody services and Advanced Training available. THE QUARTERS ACADEMY Uniforms as an attitude. Drills, maneuvers, bivouacs and security. THE QUARTERS ELITE Command and Support personnel.

As much or as little as you can take NOT A BUSINESS

THE QUARTERS

P.O. Box 3119, San Francisco, CA 94119 Official Business Only (415) 861-6275 Upon registration, information will be issued through U.S. Mail in plain envelope. CONFIDENTIAL

The only official facility is located in San Francisco. There are NO other authorized installations.

The British / American Symbol

The Best

THE BEST OF BRITAIN comes to America with a brand new store on the famous Leather Strip, offering a wide range of leather and casual clothing, accessories and a full leather repair service. Combining all the advantages of British craftsmanship with American know-how.

Come in and see us or send three dollars (refundable) for our dynamite catalog.

Special Introductory Offer: Best quality white cotton T-shirt printed with black logo as illustrated, seven dollars includes postage. Advise chest size.

SPECIAL ON BOOTS OF ALL STYLES IF YOU MENTION THIS DRUMMER AD.

227 SEVENTH STREET SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94103 (415) 863-7764

AUSTRALIA ADELAIDE

. . 431 Pulteney Pulteney 431 (Sauna Club) .

179 Edward St. 179 Club (baths) MELBOURNE

Chaps Saloon (Chevron Hotel) 519 St. Kilda Rd. SYDNEY 553 Victoria St. Spa-Guy (baths) .

Barracks Bar . . . Flinders St. . 12-14 Challis Ave. Potts Point Barrel Inn . . Kens Karate Club (baths) … Kensington King Steam (bath / sauna) … 127 King St. No. 80 (coffee shop below / game rooms upstairs) Little Oxford St. near Taylor Square The Roman Bath …

NEW ZEALAND AUCKLAND

Bistro Bar (Great Northern Motel) . Bottom of Queen St.

Empire Tavern , , Victoria St, West / Nelson St. Jeunesse Doree (sauna) . . 945 New North Rd.

Mt. Albert Victoria Spa (sauna) … 64 Victoria St. West CHRIST CHURCH

British Hotel Bar … Port Lyttleton Dorian Society (private) … Call 794-796 or 799-493

Passport Lounge (Cantabrian Hotel)

Manchester St.

Royal Oak Hotel Bars … Cuba Street Sud Sauna Baths … 116 Wakefield St.

ATTENTION DRUMMERMEN!

It's getting to be that time again for revising our 1980 Bar / Bath listings, so any reader sending in a new, up-to-date line-up of watering holes, tubs, hotels, action spots in their city or state will receive a FREE Drumbeats ad including a free fox number for a three-time run. Anyone with a current Drumbeats' ad will have their existing ads extended three issues.

The only kickers are:

(1) There must be at least THREE NEW listings under each city or state. Be sure to check out Drummer's Bar & Bath '79 scene to see what is current.

(2) The Drumbeats' ad will be given out on a first cum basis … so be the first in your area to get us that hot list. Ads awarded will be 25 words max including address or box number.

(3) Sorry, San Francisco is excluded in this offer.

We are especially eager to hear from you studs who have recently made the Drummer scenes in Scandanavia, Eur-ope , and / or the Far-East and want to pass on the good news,

Send it all to DRUMMER, 15 Harriett St., S.F., CA 94103 attn: Al Shapiro.

Please note our new address.

Bides Again:

AI TERNATE PUBLISHING

1730 Divisadero San Francisco, CA 94115

YOU BET I WANT THE NEW "DRUMMER RIDES AGAIN." Enclosed is six bucks and make it snappy!

I want to be last in my neighbor- П hood to have "BEST & WORST OF DRUMMER" @ $6 and / or "SON OF DRUMMER" @ 4.95.

NAME

CITY, STATE, ZIP

THE MACHO MAG'S THIR HAGOU

Robert Payne's do-it Yourself book!

THE CARE TRAINING OF THE MALE SLAVE II

ROBERT PAYNE'S big second edition of his best seller. Exploring the S & M relationship to its fullest with magnificent new art and photography to spare - as well as 64 pages filled with collectors' items, Beautifully illustrated by the who's who of artists and photographers on the subject, THE CARE & TRAINING OF THE MALE SLAVE II has the quality and excitement you have come to expect. A LIMITED EDITION for the adult man.

™CARE & TRAINING OF THE MALE SLAVE

The Leather Emporium

Please note our new address.

17 HARRIETT STREET - SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 94103

THE EROTIC ART OF

England's leading hard-on artist with the complete adventures of KING and DRUM. never-before-published Plus works by this exciting artist.

Contains 64 pages, including a fold-out centerfold poster in full color. Beautifully reproduced to satisfy the con-niseur and collector. Many pages suitable for framing.

This new version of "THE STORY OF 'Q' " has been re-written , re-edited and was two full years in the making. The illustrations by Olaf, took much of that time. At the book's center is a four-page foldout, presumably for framing . Graphically, it is a beautiful effort and stands muscular above head-and-shoulders most of its contemporary genre.

"THE STORY OF O" is 81 / 2"x11", 61 pages on heavy book stock.

FIRST THERE WAS The BES and the WORS

195

Our second Annual was printed for us by another publisher and while the reproduction was not up to our standards, the material was HOT and all new, A best seller that won't be around for much longer. An original Tom of Finland centerfold and more color than DRUMMER ever attempted before, Still at

1)KI Rides Ag

ALL NEW! ALL OUTRAGEOUS! The quality you have expected from DRUMMER with plenty of color and daring original material. Designed to sell for $10, we decided to keep the price down and the quality up. Exciting new original art, photography and fiction from the finest in their field. Nobody but DRUMMER even comes close!

Please note our new address. § ALTERNATE PUBLISHING 15 Harriett Street. San Francisco, Ca. 94103

17 HARRIETT STREET - SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 94103

Please rush me the following back issues of DRUMMER: (2) (3) @ $5 (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) $2.50 ea, (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) @ $2.95

Add 50c postage / handling per issue ordered. Best & Worst of DRUMMER $6 Son of DRUMMER $5

Care and Training of the Male Slave Vol. Two $9.95

☐ Erotic Art of Bill Ward $6

NAME .

ADDRESS - CITY, STATE, ZIP

I am over 21 years of age:

"Hardware purest, best!" MAGAZINE STAR

"All the same" myth shattered - Hardware hot seller!

«Hardware proven excellent quality!” THIS WEEK IN TEXAS

WORLD'S MOST POWERFUL AROMA

DEALER INQUIRIES INVITED! dealers call collect — (317) 352-1806 in Canada (204) 586-3156 available at retail outlets around the world. 24 hr. telephone orders accepted with your Mastercharge or Visa — (317) 635-2696

Payment Enclosed: Check Money Order Money orders and credit cards receive same day service. Charge my: Visa

Master Charge INSERT CARD NUMBER BELOW

INTERBANK EXP. DATE MUST ACCOMPANY M.C.

HARDWARE ($6.00 a bottle, 2 for $10.00) $ _ HARDWARE T-SHIRTS ($4.95 ea.) S _

I certify that I am over 21 NAME_ ADDRESS

__ STATE____ ZIP CITY_ the undisputed manufacturers of the World's Most Powerful Aroma…

HERE'S ONLY ONEWAY

A rock-hard leather experience

Send to: "One Way" Poster, 612 N. Hoover, Los Angeles, CA 90004 We honor Los Angeles Keys to the City coupons

RUSH® Recreates The World's Greatest Lovers

See details on Back Cover.

RUSH® Sensual Body Lubricant™ contains a unique new combination of laboratory tested antibacterial preservative ingredients which effectively resist product contamination by the specific bacteria which spread venereal disease.

Available at retail stores everywhere or telephone order with your VISA or MASTER CHARGE-Call (415) 621-4911

MAIL ORDER CUSTOMERS

PAC WEST MAIL ORDER P.O. BOX 3867 SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94119

I certify that I am over 21

D Δ

PHOTO BY EFREN RAMIREZ

"If it Fits, Print It"

The Hollywood Times

THE WEATHER

Cool at Catalina Balmy in Basin Sultry on Sunset

VOL. MCMLXXIX…No. 1

£11979

HOLLYWOOD, MONDAY, JUNE 1, 1922

40 Cents past Paradena

25 CENTS

HOT FLASH HITS HOLLYWOOD!

IN TENT INCENSE TOO INTENSE?

Rudy Rates RUSH a Rave

HOLLYWOOD, Monday, June 1- They're saying it was "heat prostration", but insiders know better! Production on Desert Song, Valentino's latest hysteri- cal heart-throb for Cinegram Studios, had to be suspended last week. According to a studio press agent, it was due to "adverse weather in the Mojave". Temperatures rose rapidly all right, but it was a different sort of sunstroke.

According to our confidential source, it seems that The Sheik arrived late one evening for a moonlight desert take. The Great Lover impatiently told the production crew to "Get a rush on". One prankish makeup man promptly uncorked a bottle of RUSH Liquid Incense*and spread it around the set. Rudy was supposed to begin the scene by giving some sultry starlets the air, but what came next was definitely not in the script!

The entire cast and crew put in for overnight overtime. The tent was in tatters , and even the pillows were plastered . It's too bad they never got around to putting film in the cameras!

What effect will this have on future production? No further comment was available from Cinegram. When cornered in the studio cafeteria, Rudy only smiled and said: "I'm glad I didn't come early. We'll have to get more RUSH for the next take."