GETTING OFF

DON'T CALL IT GAY!

The single biggest complaint we hear from our hardest-core readers and fans is over the use of the word 'gay' to des- over the use of the word gay to the corribe any number of same-sex orientated sex acts or same-sex orientated persons. "Call it something else … all it anything else … but stop calling it gay and stop referring to

If you ask one of the vocal just what it is that is so objectionable in the word gay, you'll get as many answers as there are people to ask. Everybody hates that word for some reason or another, or so it would seem. On the surface, all the ob- jections sound valid. After all, we have an inherent right to be called by whatever name we wish. And across the board, we should respect other's wishes enough to call them by the title, handle, reference, or classification they have individually selected.

Some men want to be called leather-men. Some want to be called studs, as in: "He's really a stud!" Some men would like to be known or referred to as Tops, or Masters, or Bottoms, or Slaves. And that's fine, and it's valid, and it works - on a one-to-one basis.

But the difficulty comes when you (or we) have to refer to a whole class of men which are not all tops or bottoms or slaves or masters or leathermen. Some of our readers aren't even men. And, so we've been told, a small percentage of them aren't even gay.

Now the most obvious classifications start downward from a pyramid whose crown is: people. You can have Drummerpeople, Leatherpeople, Uniformpeo- ple, ad nauseum. The first would refer only to people who read Drummer, the second to people who read Drummer and wore leather or who wore leather but did not necessarily read Drummer, and the third would follow suit, except that some of the Uniformpeople might also be into leather (which could also happen in reverse with the second group), creating Uniformleatherpeople or Leatheruniform-people depending on which came first. You can see how complicated this new vocabulary is becoming, and we haven't even touched Fist Fucking, Sado-Maso- chism, Bondage, Shaving, Watersports – plus any possible combination of the above.

And even the concept of finding other names to call each other in the pages of Drummer doesn't begin to settle on a possible name to call those-people-who-have-sex -with-people-of-the-same-sex when referring to those people as a class outside the context of the magazine you are holding in your hands.

Perhaps us and them?

Of course, it would have to be understood that them was basically us once removed. Then, at least, we would have a form of journalistic elitism that would, along with confusing a lot of people, please those people who wish to be separated from the mass of gays by hook or crook.

And let's face it, that's what it's all about, isn't it - finding some way to make yet one more distinction between one group of men and another. Cross cultural discrimination.

Personally, I like words like faggot and cocksucker and queer. There is a sense of power in a gay man using any one of those words that is lacking in the word 'gay.' No matter how you pronounce it, gay doesn't have the political, social, or sexual defiance of faggot, cocksucker or queer hurled right back into the face of mainstream social consciousness. But those three words deeply offend gays — who unfortunately have not learned the lesson of the Black power movement.

The lesson? Take a word of oppression and use it as your own paean of

Why does there need to even exist a word or name for the people we are talking about? It's simple. Even to ourselves we often want and need to make a distinction between the men who love other men and the rest of the cosmos. It's important to be able to make a cultural distinction, lest we become overrun by the mass and absorbed into the organism of society. If there's anything we don't want to be known as, it's 'just one of the folk.' Nothing could or should be further from the truth. We're anything but 'one of the folks'. We're in a much different place about ourselves, our lives, and how we're going to lead them. Let us never be mistaken for heterosexuals. But back to homosexuals, a word untolerable for its clinical application and misuse. Homosexual means simply man sex. It has only been convoluted to mean cocksucker, faggot and queer. And gay - that great offensive three-letter-word .

Any suggestions that make sense? Any suggestions what simple tag can be applied and used for any number of men into any number of sexual activities - that is soundly based on some principal of language?

Gay is indeed a metaphor, like mari-con , samsexemulo, poustes, poufs and the infinite variety of real and slang expressions used to describe men who love men

and it may not be the best possible word. It will just have to do until a better one comes along.

MALECALL

DRUMMER SUMMER

As a long time reader of your magazine and somewhat into S&M, leather, etc., I was sorry I had to be out of town almost throughout June and miss all the wonderful activities under your magazine's auspices for your fifth anniversary .

Fortunately for me, Mister Marcus' column in B.A.R. brought me up to date on all your events. I even went to the Headquarters the week before the Art Show closed. I am livid for having missed the Mr. South of Market contest too - but business is business and I was subjected to the heat of Dallas, Arkansas and other southwestern bergs while you and all of South of Market were having tun

Anyway, congratulations on your fifth year.

S. Armamino San Francisco, CA

SHAVED AGAIN!

I realize that this is written from a biased viewpoint, but feel that I should make a point - for body-shaving!

I have been shaving guys' bodies for years, some of whom I have conned into letting me put them into spreadeagle bondage and then taking it off against their wishes! Almost invariably these (formerly) hairy guys look into the mir- ror when I've finished with them and really "get off") on their new look! I've also discovered that the most body hair are the ones who want it taken off to a greater percentage than the less hairy guys.

Who needs body hair anyway? When a guy with shaved pubes, etc. screws a guy with a shaved ass the sensation of having the two bare skins rubbing together is fantastic! You can't know until you've tried it!

It's a known fact that bodybuilders shave, especially before an exhibition in older to better show their development. I've noticed that circus performers who work stripped to the waist are also- almost invariably shaved. Why shouldn't all men do the same — especially gay guys who probably get more body ex- posure than straights?

I've realized during the past few years that more and more gay guys are either shaving themselves or having their buddies do it for them. Maybe there is a growing realization that they look sexier

As to shaved heads - especially the guy with a good round head who is going bald - can look fantastic if he keeps his head shaved rather than trying to grow it long on the remaining fringe around the of it on. It seems to add to the image. our pages soon.)

Give it a try you balding guys, you might be surprised at how much better you make out!

Keep those shaving articles and letters coming, DRUMMER. You're on the right track!

Master-Shaver Ross, Upper Darby, PA

AND AGAIN!

The photos of the ass-shaving at The Handball Express in DRUMMER No. 37 were interesting, although my ass never needs shaving - don't have any hair there. But if you do, the ass should be shaved regularly. Who wants a lot of hair in the mouth while rimming?

The main point of this is that assholes don't show up well in photographs. I use red vegetable dye all around my asshole to show it off for the photoman. In color this looks real good; in black and white it looks too much like blood. Of course you've got to spread your cheeks wide open with your hand while the camera zooms in on your hungry asshole. And believe it, the use of red vegetable dye greatly stimulates the cocks out there in … oh, lowa. For black and white, you can use a Hershey bar to line the asshole.

Just a free tip from a still-working sex artist!

Greg San Francisco, CA

BOOTS OR ELSE

1 What particularly liked about DRUMMER No. 38 was the rubber boots (almost hip), all the leather and high boots in "I Was Window Shopping in boots in Chicago."

What I'd like to see more of in the future: High boots, Leather breeches, Bikes, Tattoos, Piercings, and Domino's artwork.

Biker Shavertown, PA

DRUMMER BOUND? am an avid reader of your magazine and have been for two years now, and have all your back issues. But I have a problem – storing them.

I have noticed that some of the other gay magazines offer binders or cases for storing that particular magazine on a bookshelf. My suggestion is why don't you do the same. I enjoy DRUMMER and would like to be able to keep them neat and be able to maintain them for the years to come.

Keep up the good work!

Chico Kansas City, MO

(Editor's Note: We are looking into

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-525 N. Laurel, LA 90048 -

A conversation between Sam Hardison and Cal Selfridge of the Robert Samuel Gallery; Lou Weingarden of Stompers Gallery; and John Preston on erotic photography, photographers, exhibitions, pornography and the trends for the future.

JOHN: Robert Samuel began with a mix of painting, drawing and photography. But Stompers didn't include photo- graphy until this past year. LOU: And now about a third of our work is photography. SAM: We had about half our work. Now we've decided to open a second gallery in October that will be devoted exclusively to photography. When we first opened Robert Samuel Gallery we wondered if there'd be enough work for one gallery. Now … a couple of months ago we were planning our next season and we discovered that we can't do all that deserves doing even if we alternated photography and paintings and drawings .

CAL: Actually, we had to make the decision to open a strictly photographic gallery, Robert Samuel Photography. SAM: It was a consideration. It's harder to find extremely good painters than extremely good photographers. There's an enormous amount of work dealing with the figure - male and female - going on in photography. The surprising thing is that there are an awful lot of people — men and women, straight and gay — dealing with male nudes. I think a lot of it has to do with the growing acceptance of male sexuality in movies, ad campaigns … LOU: And because it hasn't been wrung dry by tradition. There are only a couple ony of tradition! There are only a couple of periods in history where male nudes have been exploited as subject matter for painting whereas female nudes are more traditionally acceptable. Artists in recent decades have con

SAM: Photographers changed that. The painters wouldn't have changed it this quickly — it's the photographers who're doing it. There was an article by John Perrault in a recent Soho Weekly News where he made a statement …

CAL: … "There is no true gay art" …

ART AT THE RAZOR'S EDGE E R O T I C PHOT GRAPHY

SAM: Of course, he doesn't acknowledge photography as an art form, he's talking about painters.

CAL: He was saying that gay art was being pushed as a result of our coming out as a subculture. He said he didn't consider anything subcultural to be valid. LOU: That's preposterous. Art flows into the mainstream from subcultures … subcultures, sexual subcultures

JOHN: There was another article in the Soho by Bob Pierce. He wrote about the Tom of Finland show at Robert Samuel. As I recall, he was coming from a totally different point of view by saying that gay art was losing its impact as it became less subcultural — as more techniques are brought to bare, less content is being paid attention to.

CAL: I suppose the more something is accepted by the society at large, it does lose some impact. For us, for instance, our customers are no longer just gay men. The male nude is losing some of its drama. Now we have many more women coming into the gallery. LOU: What it really means is that someone like Bob Pierce must now confront someone like Tom of Finland less as a secret iconography of a small society and apply general terms of criticism to him. Tom stands up. Perhaps there are others of that school who are more questionable.

JOHN: Gay men have been using male nude photography as pornography for years. I wonder how much of the "art" photography of the male nude we're seeing today is an evolution out of Colt and Target as opposed to a broadening of content matter by a photographer like Mapplethorpe, who after all made his name originally with still lifes. For instance, Philip Beard: Here is a heavily sexual photographer whose work is fairly well accepted as "good" work. Is his product the subject matter of Colt and Target risen up to another level because of his technique or is he a photographer who today has been able to change the content?

CAL: That's a very difficult question to answer. A lot of the better photographers we see in the gallery are successful photographers who are allowing their once secret male nude work to surface. At the same time people like Mapple-thorpe may have been influenced by

LOU: … or Tom of Finland. SAM: When we were growing up and coming out we grew into an acceptance of physical objects whether in dirty magazines or whatever. I grew up in Tennessee, Mapplethorpe grew up in Brooklyn, and someone else grew up in California. We were all looking at the

same images. But who knows how we each saw those images. What did we each do with them? I don't think we can know. There are literally hundreds of photographers being represented by gal- leries in New York alone. The very difficult question is when do they become fine art products. I don't think we can answer that very clearly about the New York photographers. I can't define it. There are though, photographers who because of their printing technique or their styling or whatever become very much their own person with a camera.

LOU: Also, there's prejudice anyway against photography because the high priests of art are very wary of mechanical things. For instance, in music the electric piano is simply dismissed as an

SAM: And everyone owns a camera - whether it's a Brownie or a Nikon or whatever. So everyone can take a photo- graph. Kodak can develop it. Even the photographers we handle don't do all their own developing so that darkroom is not necessarily part of their product. Most do, and none use Kodak, don't misunderstand me, but not all - Arthur Tress doesn't do any of his own developing , for instance; he has someone else handle most of that.

JOHN: So one problem with how photography is preceived as an art form is that it's too accessible?

LOU: Well, every child draws in kindergarten too.

JOHN: And is more aware of his or her limitations.

LOU: Only if the teacher tells them.

CAL: The camera hasn't been taken seriously. When it became so accessible people didn't think it would be an art form that would be enduring. Since everyone could do it, there was no validity in many people's minds. It's clearer to people what makes a child's drawing different from a Rembrandt than what makes snapshots different from fine art photography.

LOU: What we haven't mentioned so far are the journalistic roots of photography . It is an attempt to capture

CAL: . . To capture a moment … LOU: … a moment, just a moment. The greatest photographs are those that capture in that moment enough kinetic energy of some sort to project the action of the photography forward in time, or perhaps even backward in time. In that sense it's more like sketching than painting. You have to work quickly, you can't contemplate, you have to capture enough of the energy of the entire scene in that moment, and that moment is all you get on a page. I have a problem with photographs that are extremely "set up." That brings up a whole other question - sur-

realism. Surrealism in photography. When you get into bizarre subject matter the question arises: Bizarre to whom? What passes as surrealism on 57th Street may be an everyday occurrance south of 14th Street. Are Philip Beard's photographs a surrealistic fantasy? Absolutely not. Those images are living every night in the Mineshaft.

SAM: If surrealism has ever been placed in an art form Joel Peter Witkin, who lives in Albuquerque, is doing it. His photographs are the essence of what surrealism is about, what so many people have been trying to capture. He changes his images in the developing process to produce numerous different photographs from the same negative.

LOU: For some photographers the dark- room is the camera. "Camera Obscura" in fact means "dark room." That's the root of the word camera. You can't separate them, but you cannot insist that the photographers use the darkroom themselves, either, there's too much variation among successful photographers. JOHN: Are gay men disproportionately impacting photography?

SAM: We can go back as far as Baron von Gloeden in the late 1800's. Or to F. Holland Day. George Platt Lyons — there's no one individual that doesn't include at least one of his male nudes. Of the photography we see it's amazing how much of the good work is being produced by gay men. CAL: Most of it in black and white.

LOU: To be honest, I have a prejudice against color photography. LOU: I like Philip Beard's because he usually pares it down to two colors.

SAM: They're almost like tints. LOU: Philip was my first photographic show, though.

SAM: You and I are convinced that photography is art. I don't see how anyone could deny it. It's an art product, a visual image, look at it, deal with it, relate to it. And it's obvious that some of the photographers are great and that their work is art. Avedon, for instance, captured something in his famous photographs using the technique he had developed through fashion work. There is no question about that since there is a fashion aura to these photographs, but he took these basics to a totally different degree.

Irving Penn is another one. He is a brilliant photographer - a fine arts photographer who also made it on a com- mercial level. If you were a photographer back in the 30's and 40's how were you going to make a living if you didn't do commercial work? You couldn't be a fine arts photographer.

LOU: What's also interesting is the general level of quality in the commercial work itself for which Avedon will perhaps be better remembered than for what he considers to be his art photography SAM: It's extraordinary quality. If you

Untitled, 1979, Joel-Peter Witkin

really look at the work and at what he did, I think Irving Penn's probably one of my favorites in this context too.

JOHN: I'm very aware that the people who are going to read this are going to be gay men. They are probably most aware of the commercial gay male nude photographers. As a point of reference, where does a Colt magazine fit into this? Should they be getting off on it as photography? LOU: You're asking for a quality judg- ment on the work of Jim French and

Lou Thomas?

JOHN: I think it's a very good point of reference. Here's a body of work these readers are going to be aware of.

LOU: Well, I'll commit myself to this: I think Jim French's drawings are finer than his photographs. That's because he spent so much time on them.

SAM: You know I saw some of Jim French's photographs — it must have been fifteen years ago - where I saw him seriously experimenting with some very interesting concepts of photography. I don't know what happened to it. Probably it wasn't commercially acceptable. It didn't go over. But I haven't seen anything in the Colt magazines that I would consider high art photography. I suspect he probably has dealt with it and that he has played with it. I also believe he was very aware of the fact that he was doing photographs for commercial sale. For instance, Mapplethorpe is in a particularly good situation where Jim French could never have been when he started doing this because Jim French had to sell magazines that were going to make money. Robert Mapplethorpe was never in that position, he grew out of an art product, he was doing collage pieces, he was doing drawings, he was doing painting and sculpture. He entered into photography at just the right moment where he could do a photograph that would never have gone over on a very commercial level. Maybe today. He's considering doing a book now of his homoerotic pieces that would be like a magazine. It might go over today, because we've looked at so much now, but he didn't have to gear his work towards commercial considerations so it's rather difficult to make a judgment on Jim French, I don't think it's fair. LOU: I do know that Lou Thomas of

Target does have a body of art photo- graphs that aren't shown.

SAM: I bet Jim French does also. Some of the early experimental work I referred to seemed to relate to George

Platt Lyons. LOU: Those guys — Lou Thomas and Jim French - did do us all a service. They let us all know back then that someone was doing this.

SAM: It was very important. Because of the position that George Platt Lyons was in, his males were never allowed to circulate far. That's one reason there are so

few of them around. A few of his friends were the only people to possess the prints.

LOU: Some were artists - Paul Cadmus, Jered French - who drew from them.

SAM: Right. They worked together with him. They weren't done for the public. Back then you couldn't let them out. I don't know if Jim French and George Platt Lyons knew one another. It'd be interesting to know. George Platt Lyons made his fame as a fashion photographer and a celebrity photographer. Male nudes were totally out of sight. Had they surfaced, it could have cost him his success.

LOU: Steve Masters, a homoerotic artist of the same generation, killed himself when it became clear his erotic art was going to surface. But we're in a whole different period now with very publicly identified gay photographers. It's not just a question of their social acceptance of being out, but also of new techniques that they're using. Andrew Epstein is one who's totally given over to mechanical process art. He controls it more carefully than a lot of people, I'd like to just introduce color xeroxing into this conversation, if photography is a child, color xeroxing's a baby. Andrew has produced the most controlled color xeroxing I've seen. He knows the machine better than anyone I've known. The iconography is specific and subjective and always erotic but at times more explicit than at other times. What's amazing about the set of his work we have at Stompers is the technical accomplishment. Maybe Sam will disagree with me, but I think it belongs more in a category of photography rather than traditional painting since it has this tremendous mechanical imposition the artist is limited by the machine.

SAM: I think Andrew's work goes more towards painting. There are photographs you can translate into xerox. These though were taken from paintings and then translated into xerox. Most xerox that I have seen have been taken from photographic images. The problem is the control - a person can put an image through a xerox machine and get 12 different images from the same setting. That I don't accept. That's too much submitting to chance. Photography's a very controlled technique. Photography is as complex and as controlled as great painting. There are no accidents. LOU: That's why I consider Andrew a pioneer. He's exerting that kind of con- trol in color xeroxing. SAM: It's an interesting field, but I don't relate it to photography that much because most of the people doing things that well are doing exactly what Andrew's doing. They're taking art product, not photographic product and even though it's photographing the art pro- duct, still it's the art product that has the basic essence. I have a hard time, I guess,

LOU: I have a terribly hard time with it. SAM: I've never seen any I've even liked. But I don't want to be misunderstood about the control of photography. Some photographers will go through rolls of film for one print. Arthur Tress does more photographs than anyone I've ever known, for instance. He shoots all the time. On the other hand, when he does a session, Mapplethorpe does a very limited number of photographs. Lynn Davis does a few and I mean 20, 30, 40 frames, from which she will choose one or two prints.

JOHN: Do you put a value judgment on that?

LOU: No, it's just a different way of working.

SAM: Right. Avedon, for instance, does a massive number of photographs each session.

LOU: People who've worked in fashion ous portrait photographs were done at the end of a session when he had literally tired out his models so they began to expose themselves.

LOU: What you're saying is that the photographs which are more real in a sense are those which capture a real situation, real expression rather than being posed.

Untitled, 1979, Philip Beard

JOHN: There's one statement underlying this whole conversation - the judgment you're going to make will be on the final product, not on the way the product was achieved.

LOU: Absolutely. SAM: A lot of it has to do with the photographer and the model being able to relax with one another. How that happens is irrelevent.

LOU: To portraitize correctly you have to capture the moment out of a sequence of facial gestures which is the typical one. When you abstract a moment it's probable you won't get the typical one.

JOHN: It's not just a matter of securing an image as a photographer, it's a question of discovering this person.

LOU: Philip Beard took a series of photographs as a fashion assignment for Stompers, the boot store. Some of the gems of the shooting were out takes of the models who were lovers and who started playing at the end of the session. He took some very beautiful pictures. Again – everyone was relaxed, he knew their timing. If you can spend some time with the person, learn the speed of their reflexes, and what might be more related or less related you can choose what you want to photograph. SAM: Robert Mapplethorpe has taken an amazing series of photographs of Patti Smith over the years. There is such an intensity, there is such a rapport between the two of them …

LOU: … Well he loves her. That's im- portant.

SAM: He's only 35 years old. He's already one of the great photographers around and knows where he's going to go. JOHN: What makes good photography good erotic photography?

LOU: Erotic art would be very boring if it wasn't for kink. You can only draw people sucking and fucking so much, then you have to introduce graphically interesting items into the picture. SAM: What's pornographic and what's erotic?

LOU: Michaelangelo had a commission to do a John the Baptist. For his model he used the most notorious hustler in the city of Florence. He sculpted him recognizably. No church in Florence would put the statue inside its walls.

So the Romans bought it, Is it a dirty statue? It certainly must have turned Michaelangelo on. The extent to which artists have admitted to me that they masturbate while working lends me to think that all art is erotic in some way. Georgia O'Keefe's flowers, for instance, are erotic as hell.

SAM: What separates the good photographers is their reaching deep inside themselves and bringing their insides out. As soon as you do that there must be a certain amount of sexuality. Part of every good photograph is a part of the photographer or it doesn't work, it be- comes a decoration. LOU: Yet, I consider the decoration of time and space to be the ultimate to which a human being can aspire. Art seems to me to be the erotic attitude of producing a comingling of artistic material , yourself and the world. Unless it has some baser, propagandistic purpose. fear. LOU: Right. But still you have to love

Untitled, no date, George Platt Lyons

the world a lot to want to combine with it to create a work of art - to combine one's psyche with the materials of the universe to create something that is living. That seems to me to be an erotic process. SAM: But love has an opposite side - hate. It's just as intense.

LOU: Real hate is erotic also. What I'm concerned with is impassivity. You cannot create a work of art in which you have no stake.

JOHN: The final question – what is the state of photographic art?

SAM: We have too many "well trained" artists who've gone through art school, college, and they've studied and become brilliant technicians.

LOU: … and there you have a spiritual miscarriage.

SAM: It's all over the place. Walk through

LOU: Though, in the work I'm seeing nowadays at Stompers, the level of artistic quality is rising. SAM: It's just a matter of how many people take photography seriously. There's such an incredible movement going on. It's primarily in this country; it is surfacing in Europe and elsewhere, but still this is one of the few art movements this country has ever produced. We did produce Pop Art and abstract we find produce rop Art and abstract expressionism photography is very much an American statement. The 80's are going to be the time it's solidified and cleaned out a little bit, it's very con- fusing right now. Photograph

B 3 G o

0

RINK

Relentlessly photographing in San Francisco for over eleven years, Rink has been invited to record some of the leather community's most inspirational events — including DRUMMER's Mr. South of Market Contest, The Red Hanky Parties given by The Handball Express, openings at Robert Opel's FeyWay Gallery, and

5 symbiosis that counters the hostility of highly-visible public hysteria as witnessed by films like 'Cruising,' 'Windows,' and the 'Gay Power' CBS special.

ROBERT PRUZAN

O B J E T S RECHERCHÉS

Freelance photographer living in San Francisco; contributing photographer for The Advocate, Drummer, The Alternate; author of In Pursuit of Images; awarded photographer in various international competitions; featured photo

EFREN RAMIREZ

CRAWFORD BARTON

DOLLS

There are some beautiful ones There are dolls that can't be bought or sold There are dolls that can be bought For very high prices - Precious dolls There are dolls, faceless and bodiless That are sold over and over Every day There are beautiful dolls, young and tender With wonderful lifelike bodies That are free of charge On a one-time basis There are star-crossed dolls That are inseparable There are beautiful dolls to look at But not to touch There are dolls to talk to;

But not to fondle Yes but there are dolls to play with Yes God to smother with kisses But not to possess And there are dolls to be abused And there are dolls to be had only through Diligence and truth And there are a few dolls who If selected carefully And examined for defects In all their little plastic parts Will remain Faithful and durable And if cared for properly And loved Will retain their shine and their youth For quite some time to come

WITH SPECIAL GUEST STARS

PM

Se holess

SAND GRAHA

Graduate, School of the Art Institute of Chicago; Documentarian, Gay Freedom Day Parades; Exhibits: Drummer Hard Corps Erotic PhotoShow 1980, Alternate Magazine Top 10 Gay Photographers 1979, North Beach Photo Exhibition 1 Photo Archives.

"Being a photographic documentarian, principal [×21+]

I find S&M intriguing, and so I recently documented a real session in which I have tried to project some of the fine tuning between the pain and the p

ARTHUR · TRESS

There's a mythology of New York that our times must take into account, and that some madmen do account for at the risk of being misunderstood and misinterpreted. Now mythology implies something imaginary, a deliberate fiction, a supposedly pure creation. But New York's mythology is solid, real, realistic; it's in stone, steel, and scrap, in the sumptuous and the starved, in broken

down and fascinating machinery. It's everything except picturesque. To find New York picturesque is to refuse to look at or to love this city, which is mad enough to be vertical and audacious enough to make a hole in the sky, causing dizziness in all who pass through or live there. Tress's photos are forceful, flagrant, and in flagrante delicto because they are not to be read as exploits or as a

spectacle, but as statements, the grip and mark of someone who won't return to somewhere else, and who gets lost inside, inside the city, inside that city. I know Arthur Tress. I don't know him at all. He's inside, Inside the photo he hasn't taken yet. I know his address by heart — Riverside Drive. It's right near the docks,

the abandoned docks, where there are no more departures. I think he'll go to the very end of his life with a few rolls of film, unused, inside his head.

— Yves Navarre Translated by George Stambolian From: Facing Up by Arthur Tress, St. Martin's Press, 1980, $13.95.

MUSCLE

MACHINE by GREG NERO

inches, and 20-inch calves. Each muscle fit flawlessly into place like pieces in an expensive Swiss watch. Symmetry, flow, size, density, deep cuts, and just the right amount of vascularity - he had it all.

"Get that fucker up! Come on! Come on, damnit! Only a

He knew how to show it off, too, in a smooth posing rou-<br>tine that was dynamic, hard-bitting, and downright sensual.<br>With Clint, posing wasn't just flexing a bunch of muscle and<br>hoping for the best. It was art.

help me!" "Hell, no! I'm telling you to get it up, Clint, and I ain't

about to lift a finger to help."

Clint Magnum, winner of every major bodybuilding title in the free world was up Shit Creek without a paddle. He was straining every muscle he had trying to finish the rep but it was like his arms had locked, refusing to move the bar any

Of course, it didn't hurt having a deep, rich, Southern California tan and a square-jawed All-American face, either. Black hair and moustache, dark brown eyes, and sparkling white teeth completed the picture. One look and it was easy to see why Clint Magnum was number one both in and out of the gym.

higher.

He must have been nuts. What had made him pull such a stupid stunt in the first place? He had just finished a gruelling two hour workout when, egged on by about a dozen other<br>bodybuilders, he agreed to show off with an extra set on the bench press. Three hundred and fifty pounds on the bar. Forget that he had already given his arms, chest and shoulders a painful going-over. Forget that he had every guy there beat. No, he had to show off. He had to psych-out the competition. Now the whole damn thing was going to backfire! "Shit, Doug, help me!"

Smiling, Clint opened his eyes and glanced about the reeking, dungeon-like gym. He, and 200 other champion bodybuilders from around the globe, had gathered in Moscow for<br>the first "All-Nations Bodybuilding Championships" to find out, once and for all, who was the best in the world. To Clint,

it was a foregone conclusion.

The Russians had finally decided to let their best bodybuilders compete internationally, so now everyone was scrambling over each other and panting like starved lions to see how they'd rate. So far, though, no one could make even rough comparison between east and west, because no one had seen the Russian champs in the flesh. They trained in another gym, supposedly to give more space to the foreign athletes but, more likely, so as not to tip their hand. They hadn't even appeared at the regulation weigh-ins, they just sent in an official with their bodyweights. That caused a big uproar but there wasn't a whole hell of a lot the western officials could do.

Now the whole damn thing was going to backfire! "Shit, Doug, help me!"

"No way, man. Come on, Mr. Fucking Universe! Last rep, you can do it!"

Clint ground his teeth against the fatigue settling, like concrete, in his arms. "Man, when I catch up with you, I'm

going to nail your balls to the wall!" "First, you gotta finish that rep. Then, you can do any-<br>thing you want to my balls." "You goddamn motherfucking cocksucker!" Clint got so

angry that, from nowhere, fresh reserves of energy exploded and the weight slowly lurched up to its stand.

angry that, from nowhere, fresh reserves of energy exploded and the weight slowly lurched up to its stand.

Leaping to his feet, Clint whirled around to confront his training partner. "You goddamn facefucker! What's the idea of standing over me like you're pissing in some urinal and not helping when I need it?"

Their leading contender was a guy called Sergei Romanoff.<br>He was nicknamed the "Muscle Machine" by the western physique reporters because it was rumored that, while still a boy, he had been hand-picked for the job of becoming the Soviet's top heavyweight and had then been "built" from the ground up. He was always surrounded by trainers and doctors, who constantly measured his progress and recommended the<br>next course of action, leaving nothing to chance and sparing no expense. All Sergei Romanoff had to do was eat, sleep,

Doug scratched his bare chest and smiled. "I did help you. You got mad enough to put the bar back up, didn't you? I knew you could do it by yourself. What more do you want? A blow job at the same time?"

The other bodybuilders started laughing and going back to<br>their workouts. They'd all had the same sort of experience with their own partners, so they knew what was coming.

and pump iron. All for the glory of the state. "Damn, but you look good, Clint." Doug Holt studied his friend with a long-practiced, critical eye. He was 42 years old<br>and had been training since he was 13, so he knew what to<br>look for. At 5'6", the best lightweight in America packed on 154 dense pounds of sharp, defined muscle. Who would believe a guy that tall could have a 47-inch chest, 28-inch waist, 18-inch arms, 25-inch thighs, and 16-inch calves? But he did. Doug had busted his ass to put together such an awesome display of muscle that people took one look and believed.

Clint glared at his friend a while longer and then burst<br>out laughing himself. Shit, he could never stay mad at Doug for long. Playfully wrapping his arm around Doug's neck, he gave him a pat on the ass. "A blow job might have done the trick, too. How about if we try it tonight?"

Doug returned the pat, letting his hand linger on the firm, rounded butt. "You bet. First, let's see if those presses did

your pecs any good. Take off your top."

Clint stepped back and whipped off the white U.C.L.A. t-shirt. Feeling smart-ass, he asked, "You want the shorts off, too Doug?"

Finishing his inspection, Doug idly scratched an armpit and pronounced, "Ain't nobody going to beat you, Clint.

That's for sure."

too, Doug?" "Shut up and stand still, will ya? Shit, you look good,

"We ain't seen the Russian yet."

"Hell, Clint, no one's seen the Russian! But, I'll tell you one thing. When it comes to bodybuilding, Russian science just can't compete against good ol' American know-how."

Clint laughed, but tried to remain humble a while longer.

Good enough to eat?"

"Will you shut the fuck up?"

Clint finally stood still and relaxed, letting his body line itself up. With a click of a mental switch, he shut out every distraction around him and concentrated totally on his

"What about some of these other guys? They might provide a

little competition.'

physique. At 6'2", 240 pounds, Clint was the best heavyweight-class bodybuilder in the free world. He didn't go in for measurements , preferring to judge his development by how he looked in the mirror, but it was still hard to argue with a 57-inch chest, a 32-inch waist, 22-inch arms, thighs taped at 28-

Waving his hand in contempt, Doug sneered, "What fucking competition? Couchard, from France, is big but his legs don't have cuts. Kasmar, the Czech, left his delts at home. Obasan-jo , from Nigeria, poses like a robot. And the Cuban, Santiago, doesn't have enough density. Shit, there ain't nobody that

comes close to what you got."

Doug's soft tit.

'Except the Russian,' reminded Clint.

"Ah, fuck the Russian."

Suddenly, the clanging weights and endless chatter fell silent. Sergei Romanoff, followed by two trainers, had entered and was making his way around the gym.

"Well, speak of the fucking devil," whispered Doug. "Come to check out the competition for himself." "I don't think so. He's a smart customer, I'll bet he's de-

cided it's time to psych us all out.'

Doug looked around at all the stunned, gloomy faces and

expanse of bare skin came into view.

said, "He seems to be doing a pretty good job."

Clint chuckled and poked his friend in the ribs, "He'll have to do a hell of a lot more than just walk around in a sweat suit to psych me out."

Like a shark coldly gliding through a school of terrified fish, Sergei walked slowly about the hushed gym casually in-<br>specting its occupants. His face was a blank and didn't betray any sign of emotion. Even his eyes had a dull, impenetrable glaze to them.

'Holy shit."

glaze to them.

Clint watched the blond Russian hulk make his rounds, guessing him to be about an inch taller and ten pounds heavier than himself. Leaning over, he whispered in Doug's ear, 'Sergei sure is a good-looking stud. Wonder what he's like in bed.

Doug sighed. "Clint, you're going to be posing against him,

not screwing his ass.

Clint smirked and squeezed Doug's bicep. "Who says I

can't do both?

A few minutes later Sergei passed beside the bench press. He barely gave Doug a second glance but, when he saw Clint, he stopped dead in his tracks. The dull glaze disappeared, replaced by more than casual interest as he checked Clint over. His gaze slid off Clint's helmet-sized delts, over the curves of the bulging pecs, down the solid r board abs, noted the cuts in the tree-trunk thighs, and the flare of the large, diamond-shaped calves. On their way back up, Sergei's eyes lingered long at Clint's heavy crotch, studied the tiny puckered nipples, and noted Clint's arm draped casually over Doug's right shoulder and the fingers idly playing with

the title.'

himself, then hurried out.

Sergei looked at the 350 pounds on the bar and then back at Clint. A faint smile creased his lips as, silently, he asked if<br>he could use the bench. When Clint and Doug moved back, he snapped out something in Russian and the two trainers loaded another fifty pounds.

With the timing of a carnival showman, making sure he had everyone's attention, Sergei unzipped his sweatsuit jacket and<br>dramatically pulled it off. An audible groan sank through the crowd. Even Doug, who'd seen contest-winning bodybuilders all his life, couldn't help uttering a low, "Holy shit," as the

Sergei's upper body was one solid mass of contorted, densely packed, rippled muscle. His back and shoulders were broad and thick, his ham-sized arms must have measured at least 23-inches. He had the large rib-cage needed to support the curved slabs of thrusting pectorals while, just below them, a wasp waist was covered in front by three perfect abdominal ridges.

"I heard you the first time," Clint murmured, starting to<br>feel his own blood pressure rise. He had to hand it to the Russians, Sergei was one hunk of muscle.

Romanoff lay on the bench and slid under the bar. Pushing up the weight, he took a deep breath and slowly lowered it to his large, quarter-sized nipples. After a short pause, his arms

can just come in here, pump some iron, and walk away with

Sergei repeated the movement seven more times before racking the weight and standing up. Sweat trickled off his shoulders and chest, running into the waistband of his pants<br>but, other than that, there was no sign that he had been exerting himself. Slipping on his jacket, he gave Clint a curt nod of the head and walked through the room of stunned bodybuilders .

The Russian was just about out the door when Clint called out, "Sergei!"

Sergei stopped and turned. His eyes met Clint's and locked. In a loud, clear voice oozing with charm, Clint said, "Stud, you can suck my cock anytime.

Sergei's smug grin vanished and his eyes dropped to Clint's crotch. He opened his mouth as if to say something, caught

No sooner had Sergei left when all hell broke loose. Shouts, catcalls, and whistles filled the air; well-wishers surrounded Clint wanting to slap his back and pat him on the ass; guys went back to pumping iron with a vengeance until the room

All the while the ruckus was going on around him, Clint kept watching the door. In his mind he still had a perfect<br>image of Sergei standing in front of it. Clear as a bell. "You're not bad, Sergei, but there's room for improvement. Seems to me the Muscle Machine could use some bodywork, a tune-up , and a good, heavy-duty lube job. Not to worry, though, because I know just the mechanic to do it."

Snapping out of his dream, Clint put an arm around Doug's shoulder and burst out laughing. "What d'ya say we grab some lunch, huh? I'm hungrier than a bear!"

After a light meal and a nap in his room at the Rossiya Hotel, Clint slipped on his jockstrap, shorts, t-shirt, and jogging shoes and went for an afternoon run. Clipping along, he crossed the south end of Red Square, sped past the towering walls of the Kremlin and followed the granite-covered embankment of the Moskva River until he came to the bridge at Zubovsky Boulevard, which he crossed to get to Gorky Park. It was purely by chance that, right in the middle of the 300- acre park, Clint discovered a small clearing surrounded by tall, leafy birch trees. Thinking himself alone, he decided it was the perfect spot to grab some undisturbed rest.

He was glad for the chance of a time-out. His heart was racing, he was covered in sweat, and he had a raging hard-on. logging always gave him an electrified boner, he could never figure out why. Maybe it was all the bouncing around his nuts went through. Shit, were they hurting! They were tingling so bad, he had to reach into his jock to re-arrange the battered<br>balls and give them some relief. "Ah, that's better," he sighed, pulling his hand out and taking a good whiff of the crotch

sweat drying on his fingertips.

It wasn't until he was pulling off his t-shirt that Clint noticed he was not the only one in the clearing. From the far side he was being watched by a husky blond stud stretched out on a towel. A damn good-looking stud at that.

A second, longer look and Clint had to rub his eyes to make<br>sure they weren't playing tricks on him. They weren't, the<br>stud was Sergei Romanoff. Not only that, but the only thing he had on to do his tanning was his usual grim expression. There wasn't a bathing suit in sight.

"Sergei Romanoff alone, and buck naked, in the middle of a park! Well, I'll be fucked," Clint whistled, strolling on over.

dry.

Sergei was standing by the time Clint got to him. He made no move to cover himself, letting his arms rest easily at his sides, his big uncut meat hanging down heavy over his bull nuts

Clint nodded in admiration. "Sergei Romanoff, I presume. I'd recognize that cock anywhere." "Is big cock," replied Sergei, not too sure what Clint was driving at but deciding to play along anyway. "Is big and strong like r

cutting through the shit and going to the heart of the matter, thought Clint.

Sergei tried to play it cool again, like in the gym, but his eyes kept giving him away by slipping down Clint's chest to<br>the jogging shorts with the big, bulging crotch.<br>A hard edge crept into Clint's low voice. "I said get the

thing up and let's have a look."

Sweat beaded on Sergei's upper lip. "I will win the body-<br>building championships. I am better than you."

Sweat beaded on Sergei's upper lip. "I will win the body-<br>building championships. I am better than you."

Clint's words came slow and measured, "In a fucking pig's ass, Sergei." There was another tense pause and then Clint's voice dropped to a barely audible growl, "Get that fucking cock of your bard Now." cock of yours hard. Now.

in your spare time.'

In panic, not knowing what else to do, Sergei took a deep<br>breath and hit a front double biceps pose. He held it for a moment then crabbed to his most-muscular. Maybe he thought he could dazzle Clint and regain the upper hand, if he ever had

it. Whatever he was thinking, it was sheer desperation. "Cut the shit," snapped Clint. "Save it for the judges. I'm

not impressed.'

Sergei relaxed, straightening to his full 6'3" height. There

was a trapped, tortured look in his cobalt-blue eyes.

Clint stepped closer and leisurely ran his fingertips over Sergei's pecs, barely touching the baby-soft skin covering the gym-toughened muscles, until he found the nipples. Tightly grasping the hard, thimble-sized tits, he started twisting them slowly in opposite directions. "You remember one thing, Shithead. I don't like repeating myself."

Sergei stared into Clint's eyes. Sweat was running in rivers off his face, a vein pulsed at his right temple, and his teeth were tightly clenched against the waves of pain searing his tits and radiating through his chest. Incredibly, though, he didn't

flinch or utter a sound. Not a groan.

Clint looked down and saw, to his satisfaction, that Sergei's cock was rousing itself like some prehistoric beast stirring from its lair. It lengthened, thickened, and didn't stop growing until there was a wrist-thick, 9-inch shaft topped with a pulsing red<br>knobhead aimed right at Clint's gut. It was a mean-looking<br>motherfucker. A monster. The kind of prick that sets a man to drooling.

Clint let go of the hot nipples. "Not bad, Sergei. Not bad. But it looks like I got you beat in the dick department, too." "I cannot tell. Take down your shorts."

"If you want to see my cock, you take down my shorts."

Sergei's troubled mind considered Clint's condition for a long time. Just when it started looking like he might say, "Fuck it," he hesitantly nodded and dropped to one knee. Taking a quick look around, he grasped the shorts and pulled them down over Clint's massive thighs. A deep breath, another look, and Clint's sweaty jock followed. Something – probably<br>the Russian equivalent of "Holy shit!" – caught in the back of

his throat.

Free of its cloth prison, Clint's erect member bloated itself still further, becoming bigger and harder under the hot afternoon sun until it looked like it was going to burst out of its skin. The circumsized column was about the same thickness as Sergei's but it was at least an inch and a half longer. Ten and a half inches of Grade-A, Prime-Cut meat. Ten and a half

inches of All-Man. "How's that for one of America's great natural resources?" smirked Clint. He wrapped a hand around the pole and started beating off, slow and easy-like, feeling the pressure build as the skin pulled tight across the cockhead and the two large<br>nuts banged against each other in their sac. Shit, he was hot! First the jogging and then the Russian musclestud had raised Clint's spunk to the boiling point.

Clint looked down and saw desire written across Sergei's eyes. The kind of desire when a man forgets who he is and what he's doing. "Take it," he growled. "Take it and suck it

Licking his lips, Sergei leaned in and placed his mouth over Clint's cockhead. Then, like a lunatic, he swallowed as much of the shaft as he could and began pumping the meat into his face again and again and again. Damnit, blow job expert!

He pulled and tugged Clint's cock with the insides of his cheeks. He tickled the pisshole with the tip of his tongue and drove Clint wild by lapping the underside of the shaft with the flat of his tongue. For a change of pace, he would suck one ball at a time into his mouth and give it a good wash and chew.

Bam! [×3+]

Feeling like he'd just stepped off a four-day roller-coaster ride, Clint had to take a couple of deep breaths to clear his<br>head and pull himself together. "Now I know what you do

Sergei got to his feet, his great muscular body covered in a sheen of sweat glinting bronze in the sunlight, his stiff horse-dick dripping buckets of pre-cum. Licking the last of Clint's creamy spunk from his lips, he asked, "You suck me now?"

"Anything."

for.

you shave me.'

"Because of the fringe benefits."

went.

shut up.

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Get one thing, Muscle Machine, I ain't no Hollywood and Vine hustler who'll suck any dick held out for him. I ain't going to give you any favors. When I blow you — if I ever blow you — it'll be beca

Clint might as well have slapped Sergei hard across the face, he looked so stunned. "Earned it? How … How can I earn it? I don't know what to do. I will do anything." "Anything?"

"All you have to do is win the bodybuilding champion-<br>ships." Clint saw the surprise. "You heard me. You beat me<br>on that posing platform and I'll suck your dick all day, if you want, or let you fuck my ass to your heart's content. But only if you win."

Knowing he had Sergei right where he wanted him, Clint figured it was time to leave and let him stew a while Quickly dressing, he gave Sergei's butt a pat and said, "Too bad points aren't given for asses, stud. Yours ranks right up there, in my books. Well, gotta go. You remember what I told you. No win, no cock."

Pleased with himself, Clint sprinted smugly back to his hotel, leaving Sergei standing in the clearing with a limp dick in his hand looking like he didn't know what the fuck it was

"Hey, man, you just about cut my nipple off!" "Quit squirming around, then." Clint flicked his wrist and a gob of hair-filled shaving cream flew through the air and landed on the slatwood floor with a loudschlop! Gently pinching Doug's small, hardened nipple, he laughed, "See? Still there.'

"Yeah, no thanks to you. I don't know why I always let

"Now what are you doing?" asked Doug, wincing at the

extra pull Clint was giving his nipple.

"Just trying to lift your pec up, so I can get at the under-<br>side easier," replied Clint, his face poker-solemn. "Mighty big

pec you got there for a guy only five-foot six-inches tall." "Shit, Clint, quit fucking around!" snickered Doug, as he carefully watched the glistening straight razor slide down his left pectoral, cutting a wide swath of brown chest hair as it

By sheer luck, Clint and Doug had the whole downtown<br>Moscow gym to themselves. The sauna room, with its sweat-wringing dry heat, was just the thing to help Clint shave<br>Doug's body in prep for the next day's contest. It made a<br>guy's skin pliable and his body hair soft. So, there they were, naked and horny as hell, Clint sitting on a towel on the lowest

bench and Doug standing in front of him. "Quit laughing. How can I shave your abs if your stomach keeps bouncing around. Shit, it's hard enough just trying to

get to the bottom of each ridge." "How's this?" asked Doug, folding his arms over the top

of his head. The ridges pulled taut and smoothed out.

A few more long, steady strokes and Doug's armpits, chest and abs were completely hairless. He gently slid his hands over the smooth, paper-thin skin, reading the muscles underneath like a blind person reads Braille. He li

Looking up, he saw Clint filling his cupped hand with more shaving cream. "Hey, you've already done my legs. What's that for?" He knew damn well what it was for.

"Doug-boy, it's all got to go. Can't have any crotch hairs climbing over the top of your trunks." "Do I have to?" The look in Clint's eyes told Doug to

"Sit down, lean back, and spread your legs." Once Doug had done as ordered, Clint got down on one knee between<br>the muscular, defined legs and quickly spread the warm<br>lather over Doug's crotch, working it deep into the thick<br>patch of hair around the cock and balls.

The more Clint's hand brushed against it, the more Doug's soft, stubby cock gorged itself. Fully erect, his circumsized prick was an average six inches in length, but its popcan-thickness and sandpaper-roughness gave it a dangerous pile-driver reputation. A lot of guys in the gym didn't like getting fucked by Doug, complaining that it felt more like a treetrunk going up their ass instead of a man's cock.

standing up and grabbing his red, angry-looking 10½-inch fuckpole. He rubbed his hand over the pisshole and drew gobs of pre-cum down the length of his shaft, mixing it with the sweat already covering it.

Using quick, short strokes of the blade, Clint attacked Doug's wiry crotch hair. Schlop! Doug gritted his teeth and tried not to wince as the shiny steel blade hacked at the foliage around his manhood. Schlop! More and more of Doug's tangled brown strands lay on the floor. Shit, was all that his? Where was it all coming from? It hadn't been that long ago since his last shave.

Pressing the knob of his cock into Doug's offered butt-hole , Clint grabbed either side of the shorter man's waist and

Clint grabbed Doug's nutsac and yanked it this way and that as he sliced every hair from its surface. Doug tried counting the nails in the ceiling to keep from looking down and finding out what Clint was doing between his legs. He was scared shitless of what he might, or might not, find down there. His balls weren't as big as Clint's, but they were all he ad. "Hey, Clint. Take it easy, huh?"

Cli

then, accompanied by a deep, gutteral grunt, savagely buried his meat right up to the balls in one massive thrust.

"Ah, shiiiiiiit," groaned Doug, rolling his head around to counteract the pain scorching his backside. "Fu

Using long, slow strokes Clint pounded his prick in and out of the hot tunnel, feeling his cock's skin pulled tight with each inward plunge and the pressure in his balls increasing each time they got mashed against Doug's ass.

Every muscle in Doug's body tensed in a numbing contraction against the torture. He had to bite his lower lip to keep from screaming and shut his eyes to hold them in their sockets. Just when he thought he was going to pass out, Clint released his grip and announced he was finished.

Butt-fucking was like exercising any other body part to Clint. You find the right training partner, increase the resistance , use a lot of reps, and keep pumping until the part being

worked on gives. And, shit, Clint was always giving.

Each stroke fanned the fire in Clint's balls and steamed his cock. The invisible hand grabbed his nutsac and started tugging, so he knew it wouldn't be long. "It won't be … Ah, all … Oh, fuck, I'm coming," he gaspe

Slowly, Doug opened his eyes and looked down at his crotch. It was completely bare, not a hair in sight! His cock stuck up tall and straight without the usual undergrowth hiding its base, reminding him of a grain silo sitting in the middle of endless Nebraska flatlands. Shit, it looked strange!

energy cum rocketing out his cock, to bury itself deep in Doug's belly. Bam! Wad number two felt like it was taking<br>his nuts with it as it scorched a path up Clint's shaft and blasted out with the force of a small A-bomb. Bam! The third gob of hot gism seared the tender pisshole on its exit and slammed into Doug's already cum-filled gut with the impact of a speeding 18-wheeler hitting a brick wall.

Kind of spooky, too. Unreal.

Doug carefully ran a hand around his cock and balls. Soft.

Smooth. Spooky. Yup, definitely spooky.

"Get up. Bend over and put your hands on the bench.

Part your legs.'

Doug did as he was told, trying to psych himself up for what was to come. He barely felt the sharp blade as it made quick work of the hair covering his cheeks, that was the easy part, but he couldn't help flinching when his ass was pulled apart and the razor went right to the bottom of his crack. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh."

With his own cock still smoking, Clint reached around and grabbed Doug's meat so it wouldn't feel left out. He needn't have worried. Doug was primed like a loaded pistol and, in less than five seconds, shuddered and shot his rocks all over<br>the wood-lined sauna. Shit, there was going to be one hell of<br>a clean-up job for someone by the time they got out of there!

When he was finished, Clint tenderly ran a hand over the now-truly naked ass wiping off the last bits of cream. Smooth as a billiard ball it was now. Slick. Sweat ran down the crack and tickled the bare, puckered rosebud with not one hair to

Moaning as the hot air hit his tender, shaved butt-hole when Clint eased his cock out of it, Doug turned and held the<br>heavyweight tightly against him for a long time, comforted by Clint's immense size and strength, and the shared intensity of their fucking. There they stood, pressed together for support , breathing in rhythm, barely able to move. Not wanting to move.

get in its way.

The sheen covering the pink bunghole was all the lube Clint needed to slide his middle finger in no problem right up to the knuckle. He explored as much of the orifice as he could with his finger and, when the sphincter loosened some more,

Idly running his hand over Doug's back, Clint openly admired the man's ball-busting gym work. "Dammit, Doug, I hope I look half as good as you do when I'm 42."

soon had two fingers probing around.

"Oh, Clint, fuck me. Hurry and fuck me. I want that big cock of yours up my ass. My ass is so hot. You gotta fill

Doug gave a tired smile. "It's not hard, Clint. Just clean living, pumping a lot of iron, and plenty of solid fucking.

my ass." "When I'm good and ready." Suddenly Clint's hands were pulling Doug's ass-cheeks wide apart and his big, pointed tongue was wet-tickling the rosebud. Doug squirmed like a dog in heat all the while Clint lapped, slurped and sucked his anus, scooping and cleaning for all he was worth, rimming that hole like it was the sweetest thing on earth.

Hmmmmmmm, sounds easy enough, might give it a try Say. It's about time we hit the showers, don't you think?'I figure if we stay in here much longer we're going to look like a couple of prunes. Can't let that happen, we got a contest

coming up, y'know." "No shit," replied Doug. Pushing them apart to look Clint in the eye, he added, "And no playing drop the soap in the showers, either. I want some control over my fucking glutes

And the fucking smell! Shit, with his nose stuck into the crack, Clint was drawing great whiffs of Doug's man-smell low into his lungs, sending off rockets in his brain, and proving that the real stuff is ten times better

tomorrow."

"Hey, Scout's honor."

TO BE CONTINUED

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Not that I didn't have it coming. I work part time on a small town police force in the suburbs, and moonlight in the county area on weekends as sort of a rent-a-cop. There is very little going on. The only traffic is mostl obesn't bother anyone but me since there isn't much of anyone around once you get off the main road. But I just didn't dig their trip and I hadn't been too subtle about it. The past few weeks a bike clud had been coming ou mind these guys were of the same stripe and they weren't even cops. Fuck 'em!

So this particular Saturday morning I had just gotten out of my patrol car and was walking up the end of the gravel road, wishing for a cold ca

when I saw two bikes parked along the side of the road. Where there were bikes, there had to be bikers and I was in just the right mood for the sons of bitches. However, I didn't have to look for them, they found me. One of the apes was in black leather pants with a harness arrangement over his bare chest a maked as the day he was born, except for some biking boots. God only knows what they were doing before I came along but I didn't have time to ask, or even think about it. They headed for me and before I could ask them what a ravine to where an old park building was being rebuilt. The job had been almost abandoned for lack of funds, but the scaffolding was still there and now, so was I.

"What the hell you bastards up to?" I demanded. "Don't a hell of a lot of trouble, messing around like this?"

No reply, "Knock it off," I said as the Leather Number starts unbuttoning my uniform. He pays no attention, finishes unbuttoning and yanks by shirt open. R-ri-p-p and suddenly my undershirt is in shreds. Off comes my shirt and the remains of my undershirt, then my belt is snapped open and so are my pants. They yank believe me that is no protection.

Finally one of the two says, from behind me, "Look at that asshole." I don't know if he means me or something else, but a hand rubs against my bare cheek and snaps my jock.

One thing I had to admit, so far they hadn't really hurt me, just humiliated the shit out of me and made me feel like a fool. The head man took the jockstrap out of my mouth. It was question and answer time.

"Want a nice

His hand ran over my outstretched body and stopped on the crack of my ass.

"Nobody ever used this for you, officer?"

"No, Sir." I could play the game too.

"Too bad." He said to his boy, "Get down there and get it wet fo ing out like a flagpole. Suddenly Mr. Leather, who now is down to no codpiece, no trunks and nothing but a ring at the end of his harness around his cock, gets under me and lifts me up on his shoulders. shoulders. "Raise up those wrists," he barks. "Yesisr," hte other says and up go my arms on the poles. Just as suddenly he kneels down and down I go with him, that is everything but my wrists. I put my bare feet on what is

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(Continued from page 46) "Please, Sir," I say respectfully. It is easy to be respectful when somebody has you by the balls.

"Please what, officer?" He pulls my balls down want feels like another foot or two. I yell. He whacks my prick hard with the back of his hand. Man, that smarts

"What do you say, boy?" "Thank you Sir," whispers a voice behind me. "Thank you, Sir," I repeat.

"You enjoying yourself, boy?" The answer has to be "Yes, Sir," whether I am or not. I answer just that. Mr. Leather gets conversational. "What would you do to get down, boy?" "Anything!" Wrong answer. I get a burning smack across my bare ass. "What was that?"

"Anything you want, Sir." And that isn't too far from wrong. I am stretched to the splitting point. My arms are getting numb and my feet are so tender from the jagged concrete that they seem on fire. lagged concrete that they seem on the My legs are starting to shake from the stretching and the weight. "Anything you say," hurridly, "Sir." "You look like a good cocksucker to me," I almost shit. I'd rather die. I said nothing.

Whack! Nothing. Another bigger whack. Followed by a half dozen great bit ones. I screamed, "Sir, yes Sir. Whatever you say, Sir.' "Say it."

"I am a good cocksucker, Sir."

"What do you guys do to the bikers that you haul to the station house?"

He had a point there. So I made up a lurid, if brief statement, punctuated with 'Sirs'. Then it dawned on me that what I had claimed the cops did to bikers, these guys might decide to do to me.

Mr. Leather ran a propriatary hand up my right leg. He stopped at where it met my left leg and took my ball sac in his hand. He bounced my balls thoughtfully for a brief time. I tensed, here comes the stretching act again. But his hand ran on up through my pubic hair (still there, thank God) up my belly and to my chest. He took my right nipple between his thumb and finger and squeezed. I inhaled sharply. He twisted it and I arched my aching back. He twisted it and I moaned, "Please, Sir." There went my fucking cock again, straight out. Fear, be damned!

"Whose tit is this, asshole?" "Mn-mi — — YOURS, Sir!" He turned it loose and grabbed my balls. "Whose are these, boy?" I was faster this time. "Yours, Sir." He slapped my big, stiff prick again and growled. "You call this my slave has a bigger one than this." He hit it again and it bounced up at attention just as fast. "I'm sorry, Sir." On top of everything I had to piss. Even with a roaring hard-on. I wouldn't dare, particularly with my captors standing right in the line of fire.

Or so I thought. hand traveled between my His outstretched legs and ran up the crack of my ass. "Anybody ever use this the way it was intended."

I knew exactly what he was talking about. What did he want me to say? I tried the truth. "No, Sir. Nobody. Never. Sir.'

"That's a shame." Maybe we can correct that." Oh God! They woudln't! The hell they wouldn't!

We then went through a lot of verbal abuse. The big boy was taking his time. I was fully expecting at the very least to be raped and for the most, worse. He merely made me make humiliating statements about myself, about police in general, but myself in particular. He made me humble myself and with the help of the belt he took from my own uniform pants, he had me shoulting various derogatory state- ments concerning my lineage, my sex habits, my stature as a man and some more sex habits. It is amazing what the hot sting of a leather belt across one's posterior can produce in the way of attitude. It was almost psychologically cathartic. I screamed out self-abuse by the ton. I humbled myself and verbally worshipped him. The slave stood to one side, eyes downcast, merely listen- ing to the direction the inquisition was taking.

I was beginning to notice, perhaps mostly to keep my mind off my pain and the need to pee, that my mentor, and for that matter, his slave, were rather good physical specimens. Even if I hadn't been rendered helpless I probably would have had quite a job ahead of me trying to subdue either one of them. The slave was very solidly built. I was amazed that he was so subservient. Maybe that was his trip. Or maybe had had been through nights and days of what I was going through. With the constant harranging I was becoming brainwashed for the moment. Who knows, maybe permanently. I begged, I pleaded, I humiliated myself, saying what they demanded I say. lost all sense of manhood, of worth and became a pitiable, pleading piece of flesh stretched out bareassed in the open air for whoever wanted to use me.

Finally when they tired of the game, they simply turned around, gathered up my uniform and boots. The slave unpinned my special officer's badge and handed it to Leather man. He then knelt down in front of me for his master to stand on his bared back. Mr. Leather pushed the pin on the back of the badge right through my left tit, accompanied by my scream. I looked down and watched a small trickle of blood run down my chest.

That is the way they left me. It took at least an hour to get one of my hands free and quite a while after that to work the other loose, stretched as I was between the two points. I hot-wired the car and drove back down the hill mother- naked. I guess I could have filed a complaint , but what would I charge these persons unknown with? I guess I had been violated, but hardly raped. Nothing had gone up my ass or in my mouth and I certainly hadn't ejaculated. In fact, I stopped the car on a little side road and got out, thought over the past few hours, leaned up against a tree and beat off with the fresh summer air on my nude body. I kept muttering "Yes, Sir" and "Thank you Sir" until I shot. I looked down at the huge glob of semen on the ground a foot or two away. I simply stood there, hoping no one would come along to see my shame.

Or maybe hoping someone would.

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DRUMMER'S BOOK

THE WALL WENT ON FOREVER

The heavy gate slams shut, bret walks out into the street, he is back in federal city, the wall is behind him now, the night warm, quiet, he looks at his watch, then hurries toward the underground.

The foregoing is one chapter of The Fourth Wall (N.A. Diaman; Persona Press, $4.95) in its entirety, a hotchpotch of experimental literary styles that are visually demanding to no purpose. Virtually nothing in this novel works.

Bret is a pseudo-existential hero- focus, not quite interesting enough to be a human being, set in an improbable future. The reader gets tired of raising obvious questions that are never an- swered and identifying dilemmas that are never recognized, much less resolved. What kind of holocaust, drugging, invasion, or genetic manipulation could have killed off, in a single generation, all initiative, literacy, curiosity and aggression and left physically intact a people content with a 1950's attitude in a push-button world dominated by ubiquitous wall-sized tv screens?

There is a dearth of imagination in the core homosexual relationship as well. It is a transient series of good-morning/ good-night gestures (the opening and closing of the book) which lack involvement and commitment and offer no particular contrast to the uncaring abstinence of Bret's parents (who take a disinterested center stage every other chapter or so). There is no suggestion of a gay consciousness at work - so why bring it in at all?

Lacking an imaginative setting and a main character who ignores conscious choices and options even when con- fronted with a gigantic national hoax, the reader is left with no outlet for imagination or options, either, except to ignore this novel out of kindness to its author and go back to Ed Dean is Queer or on to a more successful experiment.

- P. Kimmel

BAD PROSE DOESN'T DIE EITHER

You think it's clear what is a good book and what isn't? You just assume that a brilliant novelist like Edmund White makes scads of money? And you think bad writers get their just deserves when it comes to who makes a buck? How wrong you are. White has recently begun to reap the benefits of good sales from his novels, especially after the well publicized release of his States of Well publicized release of nis states or Desire which will be brought out in paperback by Bantam soon. But bad writers, and I mean really bad writers, don't necessarily do badly. Wallace Hamilton's Kevin (St. Martin's Pres projection of a chicken queen about a lawyer-type living in a small city who gains the approval of a needy adolescent's parents to drag the kid off to New York where they live happily, monogamously ever after. The first surprise about this book is that St. Martin's published it. The second is that NAL bought the paperback rights for a not inconsider- able amount of money. Groan. But, as Edmund White himself says as often as he can find a podium, gay readers deserve a full spectrum of gay themed books. We deserve gay detective novels, gay gothics, gay everything. Why not? It's a disservice to all concerned to limit the appeal of the gay volume. And, subject matter alone is no reason to confern a book. Buth Tule st demn a book. Ruth Turk writes one of those Dear Abby like advice columns. She's taken the same subject matter as Wallace Hamilton and turned her book, More Than Just Friends, into one of the most enjoyable paperback original books yet.

More Than Just Friends (Bantam, $2.50) is a wonderfully nothing book. Again, we have a successful older man who this time lives in the suburbs and who falls in love with a teenager. Evil characters are evil, good characters are good. And good overcomes evil. The outcome is much more realistic than Hamilton's book - the boy leaves the older man and goes his own way to learn and make his own mistakes, though even he ends with a happy ending at least hinted at. His main role has been to bring the older man out, get him out of the sub- urbs and into Manhattan. Once there, once he deals with his closet mentality, the older man can go his own way also, and once he's done the mandatory public coming out he can and does find a lover, the acceptance of his favorite daughter and a fabulously happy ending.

More Than Just Friends is romantic, happy, ridiculous, inconsequential, and just a lot of fun to read on an airplane or at the beach.

The Cowboy Catalog by Sandra Kauff-man (Clarkson N. Potter, $22.50 cloth; $10.95 paperback) is one of the big format catalog books that are so much in vogue. It's an amazing resource for those of you into cowboy lore or gear, with plenty of addresses for mail order shopping and even recipes for real western food. It's all a question of how authentic you want to get.

Do you care about religion? Why? Well, if you do, if you want to understand all the pros and cons of religious arguments about homosexuality, Homo-Batchelor , Jr. (Pilgrim Press, $10.95) is by far the best, most readable and most authoritative collection of religious viewpoints yet assembled. Yawn.

- John Preston

770 m IT'S TIME AGAIN FOR THE

DRUMMER ANNUAL and boy, is this one timely! DRUMMER MARCHES ON is all military. As long as our country's young hunks are registering for the draft, DRUM-MER felt the least it could do is to give them a guide to go by. Military discipline, adven- ture, punishment and combat are examined in the hottest fiction, art and photography you have come to expect from DRUMMER. This issue has a special fiction section on S&M Soldiering, More Movie (Maritime) Mayhem, and uniforms up the ass. It is going to press immediately and has a limited press run, so get your order in now.

Marches DRUMMER'S HOTTEST ANNUAL IN FIVE YEARS.

Mister BBNS

RIETSTREET 252 AT I

MR. BENSON IS GOING TO PRESS FINALLY and in his original version! In our new 5½"x8½" format with illustrations by Brick, MR. BENSON is destined to be a best seller. Perfect-bound with Chromecoat cover, it is a must additio long last and is yours for a mere 5.95.

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ER views the Flicks

BONES IN THE SKY

Vengeance Is Mine, the first new film by Japanese director Shohei Imamura in a decade, manages to explore the personality of a psychotic killer and the breakdown of Japanese society in a fast, clean, almost effortless manner. The brilliance of Imamura's art lies in the complexity of this film - reaching as it does for multi-leveled conclusions with icy determina- tion on all fronts. Based on a true incident , Vengeance Is Mine follows a series of Japanese films being seen in America (In The Realm of The Senses, Empire of Passion, etc.) that are both critical successes and popular with mainstream audiences . American audiences will respond to the talents of a well-versed director in this film, and miss the underlying social implications.

A little background: Japan is, for all intents and purposes, still an isolationist country. It has resisted, sometimes successfully , invasion, influence and dissent. All of its fronts have come under attack in some form or another, from creeping christianity, to foreign trade and influence , to invasion, to the devastating defeat of WW2. Each time, Japan has withdrawn into itself and reinstituted a national policy of order, culture, indepen- dance from the outside.

The biggest crunch has come in the last half-dozen decades, and currently, the biggest threat is the generation of almost completely Westernized Japanese exercising political muscle and defying the tradition order.

The Japanese see anti-social behavior like that of the killer Enokizu in this film, as a rare and almost uncomprehendable attitude. Things unacceptable are often blamed on an imaginary alien influence. And the outside influences have been broad - but typified as Western. Coupled with this particuarly devastating aspect of non-Japanese behavior is religious beliefs. So, the director, to insure that Japanese audiences would have no difficulty with his intention, paints the villian, Enokizu, as follows: a rebellious son of a converted Christian Japanese fisherman who has been displaced by the Imperial Japanese Navy into the role of shopkeeper - itself lower on the social ladder than here in the West.

Enokizu embodies all that Japan sees as disrupting: a Western attitude about individuality, psychotic, Christian, a criminal, and a killer. This is entertain- ment as propoganda.

But, because it is based on a true incident , the character and the film are more palatable than one might assume from the heavy-handed polemic of the message.

When the film opens, we are almost at the end of the tale; Enokizu has been arrested and is beginning to confess. The story of the last 83 days and incidents from the killer's childhood are mixed and reshuffled to fill out a character study that is mesmerizing and whole. The narrative line criss-crosses itself with slash- ing accuracy.

To reconstruct the life of Enokizu, we are told the following: As a child he watched his stern and powerful father subjugated to the will of the Emperor's Imperial Navy, his fishing boats conscripted, and his family displaced. When he tries to take his father's side, attacking the Navy officer with a fury perhaps only believable in a child - he is betrayed by his father, punished for his actions. We are told that this act, the betrayal, sets the course for the rest of his life. Western audiences might find the point a bit simplistic - but to a Japanese viewer, the betrayal ranks with the rest of the galaxy of untouchables: honor, pride, respect.

Enokizu becomes a rebel, a teenage outlaw (we are told). He defies his father and defies traditional Japanese convention. After WW2, when he is a young man, he becomes a translator for the military allies. Twice in the film the character slips an English phrase into his dialogue.

He rejects the arranged marriage part-selects his own wife, a Buddahist, ner. and forces her to convert to Christianity. He continues a life filled with petty crimes until he is arrested and convicted of fraud and sent to prison.

During his incarceration his wife leaves the family - taking her two children off to a spa resort where she works and lives. The father, already devastated by his son's actions, pleads with her to return - to reunite what is left of their shamed family. She does, but her motivation is a sexual desire for the father. It is an almost unspeakable yet completely understood aspect of intimate behavior. The father, caught in the throes of his Christianity, spends the rest of his life fighting his own desires.

When Enokizu is released from prison, he is westernized (with the attitude of the West represented by psychosis, re- bellion and deception). He doesn't dress, act or think Japanese. He accuses his father of seducing his wife, and spurs family, wife and convention. His parting insult to them both is merely that he would have enjoyed watching them copulate.

Enokizu is, by this point, lost. He has no recourse but crime (Japan offers, as far as the director is concerned, no alternatives to the system). His rampage begins with the murder of a municipal worker and his companion in one of the most adventurous cinematic undertakings . He deceives, cheats, lies and slaugh- ters his way into a box - the inescapable conclusion that his own self-destruction is his goal.

The new cinema from Japan is highly accessible to Western audiences. Since the Realm of the Senses trial in 1978, cinema and film expression has been opened up to themes and visuality heretofore denied. Ironically, this is a great part of the threat to Japanese attitude the country fears. And Vengeance Is Mine manages to illustrate that threat with a masterfulness that garnered it an award as Japan's best film in 1979 - yet widens the gap of alienation through its explicitness and the almost cult-heroism of its central figure.

Imamura's style is so clean and slick that American audiences will have a hard time seeing this as anything more than a sexually-explicit, action-packed crime drama. But the film, like the finest Japanese flower arrangement, is structured by much, much more than meets the un- trained eye.

- John W. Rowberry

AGE 万人

The man on the bike with the silver spurs passed again. Three times now, each at a slower speed. This time so slow it seemed like slow motion, like some slowed-down film. Like in a dream … photos by Yank

By Terrance Sagan

My eyes followed him the first time he streamed past where I stood on the corner, waiting. For what? For him? The second time, my head moved along with my eyes. And while he didn't look back, stared straight ahead, he saw me standing near the curb, eyes wide, lips slightly parted like in sleep, black leather jacket covering a rapidly beating chest, cap at half-mast, eyes shaded. He saw without turning from his straight- line sight, like a cyclist in a dream sees with eyes cleverly concealed in the back of his head.

The third time all time slowed to a astop. Inside, a ticking, a time-bomb that would go off (with any luck) soon. Me. Hungry, horny, anxious, willing me. And he rode past, never looking back, real slow and graceful like only a man on a motorcycle can be grac forward.

Suddenly I was aware I didn't need to move. If I waited, if I assumed this posture of willingness, he would come up to me (maybe not here, maybe somewhere else - sometime later) with a contract demanding my signature, making a mutual agreement that he would give me what I wanted, needed, craved. All I had to do was sign on the silver studded line.

Find out what it is you need, where you can get it, what it will require, and how you can keep your integrity intact. That's what S&M is all about. That's what happens when boys come to me and expect me to take care of them. It's a contract, and I give them what they want if they sign if they sign.

If I had found an address, a ticket, a map that would lead me there, I would have gone, willingly, unquestioningly to the garage. If I had stumbled on it, in a half-numb stupor, half-awake from a night of too much fantasy and too little reality, too many pages of too-well-known porn magazines sticking to the finger of my hands, and my balls aching, and my cock straining like a horse at the gate, I would have found the door, pounded it open with a furious, burning desire and crawled across the floor beg- ging, begging, begging.

But as it was, the man on the motor-cycle wearing the leather jacket, the studded belt, and the silver spurs brought me there - without a word, without a question. I belonged.

You never know until - and then you know for sure. You can think and wonder and wish and hope, but when and where tells you yes, and you know. And I knew that this was the place, and the time, and these were the men and I was the person. I belonged here, with them, then.

What did he look like?

Which one?

The man on the motorcycle.

Like death … and life, and power, and a man. No posing, no symbols, no clues. A man in jeans and a leather jacket and a cap and a studded belt. Tall. Silent. He never looked at me, yet he saw me with eyes that ripped off my clothes and made me willing and excited and hard. He stripped off my identity as quickly as he stripped off the facade of

the man on the corner waiting to be noticed. The clothes fell from my body and sweat streamed from my pores, washed me, and I was naked for the very first time. first time.

Describe the other man (men).

There was one other man … there were two of them. All three circled me as I stood there, naked and trembling—You should tremble. The fear and excitement and anticipation and anxiety should make even unstall in some wor should make every muscle in your worth- less body jump and contract and tremble. You should tremble so badly your knees knock together. You don't know what they (he) will do to you — you only know you'll let them (him). You should bite your lip with dread and ex

I bit my lip, I was excited and terri-fied . No one spoke. No one said "strip" because I was already naked, standing naked on a bare concrete floor in an abandoned garage somewhere in a part of town I had never been. The men stood and looked at me with cattle-buyers eyes and I was a thin, worthless young calf. I kept my hands at my sides. My cock alternately rose to its hardest bone cracking fury and fell to a small dropping mass. Then the passion and excitement would return as one would walk close and stare at me with eyes I couldn't see, and my cock would stretch out and rise and thump against my stomach. Then a sneer, or a stillness, the fear of disapproval would make it fall, quickly, silently back down into my crotch. I waited. Worried. Wondered.

One of the men walked right up to me with a dank, wet jockstrap in his hand and held it up to my face. He grabbed my jaw with his other hand and forced it open, then shoved the jockstrap, soaked with some stranger's piss, into my mouth, then drew his hand back and slapped me across the face, bringing tears to my wide- open, unblinking eyes. Which one did that?

Another walked up to me with a short stiff riding crop and flicked it across my chest, aiming for one tit then the other, worrying the nipples, making them jump forward, stiff, red, pained. Then he ran the end of the crop over the surface of my lips, flicked it once against my cheek, and stepped back.

What did the third man do?

There were only two, both tall, powerful , muscular men in black leather. One only wore a jacket and a jockstrap. Perhaps the jockstrap in my mouth belonged to the other one. Maybe the piss that was running down my throat was his, already cold from exposure to the cold, dark garage.

I was taken over to the motorcycle and stretched over it, my hands tied with leather straps to the handlebars, my crotch shoved down against the seat, my toes trailing on the concrete. One of them put the key in the ignition, slammed his foot down on the pedal, and the engine caught. The heat of the machine rose up to meet my naked torso.

One of them (which one?) slapped the riding crop across my ass, first one cheek then the other. Each blow harder than the last, alternating cheeks, till the pain was mixed with a red hot wetness and I knew the blood was running down the

Was it a dream?

No, I could feel every slap of leather point against broken skin. The motor was running. One of them (which one?) began to finger my asshole, carefully avoiding the rain of blows. A gloved finger dug its way inside. Then a second finger. A hand reached around and made sure the jockstrap was secure in my mouth, that I couldn't scream, that if I screamed there wouldn't be any sound, then I felt two hands pulling the cheeks of my ass apart, both hands wearing leather gloves.

The beating had stopped — or did I

Did it stop?

Yes, the beating had stopped, but the pain was constant. I felt the hands pulling my ass further and further apart, then a fist, no gloves, a doubled-up fist pressed against my half-open asshole. It didn't push, but just m wasn't careful.

Did it happen? I – I don't know.

Start over, tell the truth this time.

I had met him in the hallway. He was hot, the hottest man I had ever seen. His cock was so big, so obviously big, that I ust stared at it when he walked up to me. He was hot but mean looking, and he just walked up to me and stared. I didn't know what to say, or if I should say anything. He looked me right in the eyes, except that I kept looking at his dick, and said, "You want it?"

My throat was dry. I just nodded my head. head, "What will you do to get it?" I looked up then. My heart pounded. This hot man with a dick like a horse was asking me if I wanted it, what I'd do to get it and I said, "Anything, Sir." He just stood there for a minut thought he might laugh. "Let's see if you really mean it."

When we got downstairs, he walked over to a bike parked at the curb and got

ON YOUR BELLY.

on. I got on behind him. He didn't wait to see if I was seated correctly, or holding on, or anything. He started the motor and drove away. I grabbed on to his jacket and closed my eyes, because I didn't know his name, or what he wanted, or where we were going.

He drove to a house in a residential neighborhood and stopped in front of a garage door. "Get off."

He opened the door and drove the bike in the garage, turning it around to face me.

"Come in here and pull down the door.

When I turned around, he was sitting on the bike seat with his hands on his thighs. "Crawl."

I sank to my knees and hands, walking like a dog toward him.

'On your belly.'

I dropped down flat, inching my way toward him. "Beg."

I moaned out, "Please, Sir, let me suck your cock, let me lick your boots, let me drink your piss, let me suck your cock, let me lick your ass, let me …" I stopped when I got to his feet. I stopped and waited.

"That ain't good enough. You can't give me anything I can't get in some toilet in the subway. You gotta do better than that. crawled backward until I was almost to the garage door. I raised my head, "Sir I am not worthy. I am a worthless piece of shit, a toilet, an object for your pleasure or displeasure. I am not worthy of eating the dirt from your boots, of licking the oil from your garage floor … Stop! It wasn't like that! Stop lying, stop making it up as you go along, tell the truth!

I was in a bar and a man passed me a card. It read: If you're man enough to serve three Masters, call this number. This is no joke.

I called the number, I was told when and where to report. I was told what to wear. I was told that if I was one minute late or one minute early, that I would be rejected. The address was a garage.

I waited around the corner until it was time. I hurried to the street number and the door opened. I walked inside. There were three men, each standing in the garage waiting for me. The door closed, and although I didn't look back, I realized there was a fourth man behind me

His voice said, "Strip." I did, shucking my clothes and dropping them in a pile on the floor beside me. One of the men in front of me unzipped his jeans. I walked up to him and knelt. He took out a half-hard , uncut, smelly cock and stuck the end of it in my mouth. I started to work my tongue under his foreskin, but a bolt of piss shot into my mouth and I started swallowing it as fast as I could. I heard another zipper coming down, and heard another man walking toward me in heavy boots. I kept drinking the warm, strong piss - then the second man began pissing over my shoulder, down the front of my chest.

Are you sure this is the truth? No. I don't know. I can't explain.

There is always the hesitation, the moment when a decision can't seem to moment when a decision can't seem to take shape. There is the instant where a demand, a request, a desire fuse into some bastardized fantasy. If the need's strong, even if the will is weak, the need will win. The need will sibilities.

If the need is strong enough, anything is possible; any circumstance can become any situation. Any form can take any shape. Any reality can assume the space of any fantasy. Any fantasy can live. If the need is strong enoug

Are you finished? Do you want to start again?

No. Yes. Tell me how it began —

The man on the bike with the silver belt passed by three times before he stop-belt passed by three times before he stop- ped. Each time he circled the block he passed slower. Each time he circled, I- saw more and more details: like how his black tee-shirt fit over the mold of his pecs, how his thick

STOP.

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Dear Larry -

I really like to wear leather; I like the feel of it, and I think it makes me look reer of it, and i finish it makes me look very sexy. My problem is that I'm just not into any kind of S&M or FF activi- ty, and a lot of guys seem to think I am because of my leathers. I also dig the more butch, "macho" nu you suggest some way to avoid the em- barassing incidents which I am sure you can imagine having resulted from this stiuation?

Phil in Jersey

Dear Phil -

One of the suggested handkerchief codes for your situation is white (for virginity?). However, I think this is sometimes more of a challenge than a discouragement in a determined hunter. The most sensible remedy is simply to tell your prospective partner that you're not into … whatever you're not into, I know that this can present a time problem , since cruising techniques are seldom refined to a point where one enters into this kind of discussion immediately after the introductions. You are, after all, hanging out the signals and doing it in an area where your prospective partners have a right to expect you to follow through. At the risk of being unkind, I would suggest that you get your leather- clad ass out of our bars until you're ready to use it appropriately.

Dear Larry -

Because of my size and appearance, I'm always expected to be topman when I get into a scene. I'll admit that I'm afraid to display the "M" signals, because I don't want everyone to know how I really feel (keys, handkerchief, etc.). I really do want to be mastered, though, and I don't know how to do this. I'm getting to a point where I'm not really a very good top, either, because I keep thinking how much I'd like to be where my partner is. What can I do?

A Closet M

Dear Closet -

Since I have gradually re-evaluated my earlier estimated ration (3 m's for ev-ten , I'm sure your problem is not unusual … in fact, it's probably among the most common. On the one hand, you are like the hero who commits his medal- winning act because he's more afraid of the derision he will receive by failing to do it than he is of the potential con- sequences of his actions. On the other hand, your dilemma also results from the fact that you have the odds against you in seeking a top, both because the bot- toms greatly outnumber them, and because the other M's are pretending the same way you are. Until you have the guts to "wear it on the right" (or on whichever side is appropriate to your area), you are going to be forced to rely on verbal expressions of interest (much on verbal expressions of interest (interest like Phil in the letter above). If even this is difficult or impossible for you, how about expressing your interest in a "switch around": i.e., "I do it to you, and you do it to all …

Dear Larry -

One of my big fantasies is about having someone shave my pubes, and there have been a couple of times when it would have happened if I hadn't objected . I go to a gym, and I also live with another guy (not a lover, exactly), and I don't want to have to explain what happened to me. It's getting harder to resist the temptation, so I know eventually it is going to happen. Can you tell me how long it will be before I can appear in public, so to speak?

Hairy in LA

Dear Hairy -

Most guys will grow it back in "pre- sentable" profusion within four to six sentable" profusion within four to six weeks. If you rub the area with vaseline or some other lubricant you can encourage the growth. Too bad you have to be so concerned, however; a true M should be proud of his scars. Of course, a lot of people are shaved for a variety of reasons some simply by choice (and their own hand). On the other hand, if you're afraid they'll think you had the crabs…?

Dear Larry -

I notice from some of your writings pecially opera. Lately, I've found a lot of other leather guys are too? Any idea why?

Curious in SF

Dear Curious -

Although I hate to admit it, many of us have lived long enough to develop a more refined taste in a lot of areas food, drink and sex, as well as music. I've also found that most leather people tend to be fairly well educated, which means they have been exposed to classi- cal music and learned to like it. If you've never fucked (or been fucked, as the case may be) in time to The Ride of the Walkuries, you haven't lived! (You see, it's okay to be tacky as long as you know you're being tacky.)

Alligators maul from one direction … crocodiles zero in from another!

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LESBIAN SAILORS

One of the witnesses in the Norton Sound case, in which eight women are being tried for homosexuality by the military, testified that she observed one of the defendants giving another of the de- fendants a kiss "of a sexual nature" while lying in the dark on a bed at a motel in California last fall. She also claims she got so embarrassed that she spent the night in the closet.

A remarkable witness, Petty Officer Second Class Joyce Arnold seems able to (1) see in the dark (2) determine which kisses are sexual and which are not - no mean feat, not being the kissee or the kissor, and (3) has an acute ability to sleep in the fetal position in a closet.

MAO COCK

Dung, Hung and Dong is not a Chinese law firm specializing in shit-smearing, but a general, a minister and a premier. Without causing an international incident, we'd like to report that Dong is really Hung, Dung is Lo, and Wong is Wang (who subsequently started a computer firm in Nor were not available for comment.

MAN BITES MAN

After examining injury reports from hospitals in New York City, Dr. John S. Marr, an assistant health commissioner, and two medical colleagues came up with some little-known news: more people were bitten by other people in 1977 than were bitten by rodents. They said people biters had sent 892 victims to hospitals for treatment , while rodents had injured 229

There is no visible letup in the trend. "That's been true for the last three years that we've been collecting that information," Dr. Marr says. In 1978 there was a slight drop in reported human bites, to 763, but last year (1979) the total zoomed to 973 - while rodent bites were only 233.

The bites were on every part of the body, with no obvious place appearing as the preferred mouthful

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HULK GETS RAPED (ALMOST)

In the October issue of Hulk Magazine, the Hulk goes on a mad rampage after his alter ego, Dr. Bruce Banner, is threatened with rape in a YMCA shower.

In a story titled A Very Personal Hell, character Banner arrives in New York and is accosted by two men in the shower of the YMCA. One is a Black, who comments about the soft white texture of Banner's skin, and the other is a blonde psuedo-jock type. Banner reacts with the "Gee … what do you guys want" mentality of a Mormon. The new stereotype of gays created for this comic book is threatening, vicious, and physically dangerous . As if gay men raped non-gay men in YMCA showers every day!

Im Shooter, the author of this Hulk episode, is a boy-wonder in the comic field who uses the comic as a vehicle for his own reactionary sexual values. He is not unique among his peers. Another young artist working for Marvel Comics, in a recent interview, singled out an artist he refused to let ink his drawings because "all his men are queer."

Reader comments may be directed to: Marvel Comics 575 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10022

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As part of their continuing search for the bizzare in life, Club International magazine hosted this feature spread in their "Best of" issue No. 5 on 'Long Dong Silver,' a resident of New London, CT with an unmeasur- able cock. Swearing that the photos are authentic, and they looked real enough to us, editor Roger Cook is willing to state that this is the longest cock in America and probably the world. Anyone who wishes to challange th lange this can do so by writing Roger

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