ISOLATED AND MACHO IN THE HEAVY SUMMER HEAT

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HELLFIRE

BY JOHN PRESTON HOTOS BY

Inferno. The annual event of the Windy City Hellfire Club of Chicago, Held in a suburb (identity withheld) equidistant between Chicago and Mil-waukee . The premiere S&M event of the year. Anywhere.

That's the basic information.

1980 was the Ninth year for Inferno. Last year Drummer gave the eighth Inferno a great deal of publicity. The photographs of the bondage contests, the scenes of discipline in the dungeon, and the article that tried to communi- cate the intensity of it all combined to attract over 200 men to this year's event. attract over 200 men to this year's event. They came from New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston, They brought their attitude with them.

How could anything in Chicago be that heavy? None of the New Yorkers believed They didn't know how tightly censored those pieces had been. None of the Californians thought anyone could really have that much to teach them. They hadn't believed their eyes when they looked at those pictures.

The cocky coastal attitudes seemed to be justified as the event began. It-was funny that Inferno's held in an abandoned summer camp. In the evening light on Friday it didn't even seem to be as intense a weekend as a bike run. No big deal. Everyone relaxed. The New Yorkers and the San Franciscans got ready for the remarks they'd make to one another later. The jokes, the quips. They let down their guard.

The central event of Inferno's nighttime activities is the Dungeon. All the members of the Chicago-based club pool all their equipment - racks, suspension devices, yokes - there's enough for twelve men at a time to be in bondage, their bodies open and vulnerable to what-

ever is going to happen to them. At midnight , one acquaintance from New York decided to stroll over to the building. It might be interesting. I stood beside him in the doorway and watched his face blanche at the sight and sounds of twelve men, being whipped, tortured, pierced, stretched on a tension rack, hanging from the ceiling. "Oh, my God," the words came softly from his throat.

It only takes one night to erase atti- tude from Inferno.

By Saturday afternoon the fact of Inferno is in place. It is happening. It does exist. It is heavier than anything your mind could have prepared you for.

It becomes commonplace in Inferno to watch naked slaves running across the yard on errands for their masters. You begin to assume the existence of real welts and bruises on naked backs. There is absolutely nothing strange about the Master from Pennsylvania who leads his two slaves around on leashes — two slaves who will never say a single word to another person, nor wear a single piece of clothing for the whole weekend. But the intensity of Inferno is so incredibly great that lines that might have existed to define the territories of fantasy and reality are not just erased - they are obliterated. To own a slave in Inferno is not a fantasy, it's expected. To whip your lover to the point where he can't even scream but is broken to animalistic sobbing is accepted as an act of love.

One thing you can't do at Inferno is let down your guard. You must be ready for anything at any time. You must never think you can know what's going to happen. You never will be able to anticipate it all.

On Saturday afternoon there was a slave contest. It seemed as though it was going to be one of those campy show-You just things that go on at bike runs. assumed that everyone would have to bite their tongues to keep from laughing . Maybe the master of ceremonies would be in drag? That kind of thing.

And so, dozens of men gathered around the roped off arena and watched. There was no drag. Three masters in leather stood at corners of the field and waited for the contestants. The first three nude entered. Little laughs and asides were heard from the crowd. Until the judging began. The contestants approached each judge naked, scared, and totally willing. Eventually twelve men went through the paces. The paces meant crawling from one judge to another on their bellies, receiving an easy-sounding five strokes of a belt, but times three with these men doing the delivering meant all twelve left the arena with marks that they'd keep for long after the weekend.

There is nothing that happens at Inferno that isn't heavy. Nothing,

What is fantasy and what is reality? You can't remember the difference after the weekend gets going in full swing. You don't blink an eye when you see chained nude bodies digging latrines. It makes total sense when the loudspeakers announce that all toilets are off limits - if you piss, you have to piss in or on one of the latrine diggers. When you're at Inferno you don't think twice about the workshops the Hellfire Club puts on. What do you want to know about? How to use electrical devices? Catheters? Enema devices? It all sounds perfectly normal. And you find nothing strange about finding yourself sitting in the audience and getting good, sound, sober advice on all these topics.

Inferno is an event unlike any other held in this country. In some ways it is the tip of the iceberg of the real S&M network . The one time and place where that network shows itself and lets those of us who want to experience it make contact. When last year's events were written up in Drummer there were those who said the articles were too dramatic, they made the weekend sound so intense that people would be frightened to attend. Good. No one, No One, should go to Inferno without an already existent commitment to S&M. It is no playground. It is no testing ground. It isn't a place to experiment. You do not come to Inferno unless you know you belong there.

What happens to you when you go to Inferno? The event is so intense that you are disoriented for days, perhaps weeks after. I am not making that up. When I returned to New York I went out to the "leather" bars. There is a real reentry problem. After Inferno you want the same heightened action. Vanilla sex is intolerable. It took me two weeks to find someone to have sex with. I was desperate . When it was done the man looked up at me and claimed it was the heaviest

scene he had ever been in. I told him it had been so light it was something less than masturbation.

Another friend from New York came back from the weekend. He's been around. He had had a certain reputation in S&M circles here. He returned with his tits pierced. Within a month he had five tattoos on previously unmarked skin. He was supposed to have been heavy before Inferno. Now he goes around the bars in the meat packing district with a whip on his right side, trying to find men who can meet his previously unexperienced needs.

You must go to Inferno to challenge yourself. To be able to go into areas you never thought existed. To find out how much you really are into this scene.

Another New Yorker's return to the city: He manages one of the premiere leather bars here. He immediately called a meeting of his staff and distributed copies of Larry Townsend's Leatherman's Handbook. "S&M is not just fist-fucking." There's another reason to attend Inferno. The Hellfire Club is one of the very, very few places where a network of gay men honestly into S&M can meet. But Inferno is held only once a year. Every year more and more people join the Club as Members (Chicago-residents) or Associates (men from outside Illinois). Every Inferno involves more and more Members and Associates. As some of us stood around watching men filling out applications and trying to get the necessary approving signatures it became apparent to us that soon the weekend would close down; it would become private and might sink into the underworld where most really heavy S&M takes place. It won't happen this year, but the next?

You must approach the Hellfire Club and Inferno as an opportunity. And one that needs to be grasped now, before it disappears.

For information on next year's Inferno , you can write: Windy City Hellfire Club, Box 5426, Chicago, IL 60680. It'll be held on Labor Day weekend 1981. Warning: To attend Inferno you must be sponsored by a Hellfire Club Member or Associate. It will call for an interview which the Club can arrange in most large cities.

MUSCLE MACHINE by GRE

The first "All-Nations Bodybuilding Championships" had turned Moscow's Bolshoi Theatre into a gilded animal pit. The standing room only crowd was a seething mass of muscle fanatics caught up in the gladiator display of hum

"What the fuck do you mean the judges want a second posedown? It's fucking obvious who the fucking winner is!" Clint angrily paced backstage, bathed in sweat, complaining to anyone who would listen. After going through a d

warmups and prejudging, warmups and judging, warmups and a posedown with Sergei, he was ready to pick up his trophy and go home.

The static-charged air crackled anew when the Russian fans rted shouting, "Ser-gei! Ser-gei! Ser-gei!" at the top of their started shouting, "Ser-gei! Ser-gei! Ser-gei!" at the top of their lungs. The other half of the audience, spectators from around the world, were not to be outdone and began yelling, "Magnum ! Mag-num! Mag-num!" The whole place was going nuts!

Doug rushed up to Clint and punched the side of his arm. "Have you seen the audience? It's a fucking madhouse out

"What the hell is going on with those fucking judges?" roared Clint. "Did you hear that they've called for another posedown?'

"Yeah, I heard," nodded Doug. He put his arm around Clint's waist and whispered as low as he could, "There's rumors that the eastern-block judges want their boy, Sergei, to win so badly that they're screwing up the scoring and trying to intimidate the other judges."

Clint slammed his fist into a near-by wall, "Those damn fucking assholes!

Doug put his hand around the back of Clint's neck and brought their heads together. "You've got Sergei beat! Everyone can see that. If they want another posedown, you give it to them. And then you wipe that Russian's fucking ass so bad he won't know which end is up!"

A sudden roar burst from the crowd and a cry of "Sergei!" rocked the theatre. "He's out there now," should Doug. "Get him, Clint! Go out there and wipe his ass!"

"That fucking bastard!" Squaring his shoulders and throw- ing out his chest, Clint walked out onstage with fire in his eyes. "Mag-num! Mag-num! Mag-num!"

Clint mounted the large platform and scowled. "I'm going to wipe your fucking ass, pisshead!"

Sergei's grim, determined expression faltered for a second before he regained his control. "Suck my cock!"

The contest stage manager ran up to the two men, looking very nervous at having anything to do with the feuding titans. "An optional routine posedown, gentlemen. I'll stop you after one minute." Bolting like a frightened rabbit, he left Clint and Sergei glaring at each other on the platform. From the side, barely heard above the din of the audience, he yelled, "Begin!"

Wham! Front double biceps. Clint hit his first pose before Sergei even had time to draw his breath. His massive arms bunched into peaked cannonballs and glinted like 24-karat gold under the posing lights.

Sergei hit his first pose, a front lat spread, just as Clint moved into his second. With smooth, sure precision, Clint brought his hands behind his head and hunkered down into an abdominal crunch. Every ridge popped into view and turned their admiration. Security guards in front of the stage had to hold back a large group ready to crown him the winner right then and there.

Sergei tried to rally and hit the audience with a most-muscular pose. Striated muscles, immense veins, and deep cuts blew up all over his body but, still, there was something mis- sing. Something a champ can't buy off a shelf or build up in a gym. Call it class, call is charisma, call it anything you want. The audience was beginning to sense that Sergei didn't have enough of it to be number one.

Clint was coming on like gang-busters, like a steamroller, and nothing could stop him! He had it all over Sergei. For every two poses Sergei hauled out, Clint snapped out three. But, whereas Sergei was pushing to keep up with the pace, Clint just eased from one pose to the next in a fluid, control- led rhythm.

Pull-together … Boom! Standing side chest. Pull-together … Boom! Back lat spread.

Pull-together … Boom! Front thighs and calves, "Mag-num! Mag-num! Mag-num!"

Clint looked over at Sergei and couldn't help smiling when he saw the blond stud was having trouble. He knew then that he had the whole theatre in the palm of his hand. Every person there was for him, wanted him, would do anything he asked. This'll teach those goddamn judges to fuck around with me, he thought.

Damnit, if Clint wasn't getting a hard-on! He couldn't help it, the whole contest was just too much of a fucking turn-on ! Shit, if this posedown didn't end pretty damn quick the judges would have a new hunk of his body to examine. As it was, his light blue posing trunks were so drenched with sweat that they were practically transparent, nothing was being left to the audience's imagination. His cock and balls were visible right to the back row of the Bolshoi Theatre and, what with the television cameras, to everyone watching around the world. But who gave a fucking damn? Certainly not the audience , they loved it! "Mag-num! Mag-num! Mag-num!"

Clint just finished his most-muscular pose, his straining cock about to pop out and display his most erect pose, when the stage manager ran on shouting, "That's it, gentlemen! That's all! Relax!"

"That's easy for you to say," muttered Clint. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned his back on the audience and fumbled with his trunks, trying to find a way to keep his cock covered. He saw Doug cracking up backstage and motioned, "What the hell am I going to do?

Between attacks of side-splitting laughter, Doug dropped his hand to his crotch and used a rapid back and forth motion to suggest jacking off.

Clint laughed and shook his head. "Very funny, asshole!" A voice on the p.a. system boomed out over the din of the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have made their decision. The winner of the first All-Nations Bodybuilding Championships is Clint Magnum, from the United States."

Pulling his trunks up as best he could, Clint turned to face the deafening approval of the crowd. He basked in their adulation for a few moments then walked over to where his stunned opponent was glumly standing. "I have lost," was all Sergei could get out before he choked and the tears started blinding him.

Clint put his arms around the musclestud and gave him a hug. "You're damn fucking right," he whispered. "You're good, Sergei, but I'm better. Tonight, after the party, you get your ass to my hotel room and I'll show you how much better."

The new world champ patted the runner-up on the butt before turning back to the waiting crowd, flashing his big white California smile, and going through a few of his favorite poses.

"Fuck! AH! Damn! AH! Shit! AH!"

Damnit if Doug wasn't using a sledgehammer to drive a spike up Clint's hot bunghole! At least, that's what it felt like to Clint, who was pressed flat on his back, legs up, while Doug pulverized his chute with that popcan-sized meat of his.

"Shit, man, I'm going to have to report you to the police." Without missing a stroke, Doug asked, "What the hell for?" "Assault with a deadly weapon. That cock of yours feels like cast iron!

"Must be from all those protein pills!" chuckled Doug, "Six inches of solid steel!"

"Yeah, six inches across!" exclaimed Clint, "It feels like you're ripping my ass to shreds! But, don't stop. Don't stop! Just shut up, keep fucking, and let me enjoy myself!" He gripped Doug's grinding fuckpole tighter with his sphincter to get the message across and ran his hands quickly over Doug's corded arms and breastplate chest to feel the muscles flexing under the slick, polished skin. This was high temperature, steamy, man-fucking at its all-time best. Superhuman fucking. Fat-meat-pounding-in-and-out-a-steaming-bunghole kind of fucking. Bodybuilder fucking.

"Ahhh, shit, Clint! I'm coming! I can't hold it no more! I'm coming!"

'Come, you fucker! Come!"

Doug froze for a moment, like he was on a platform doing a pose, and then he fucked like he hadn't seen a decent piece of ass in years. He screwed so fast and furious it was a wonder he wasn't getting prick-burn.

Clint felt his insides go sticky from Doug's spunk just as his own cock erupted in a shower of its own, splashing cum over his abs and chest. In a frenzy, he spread the cum like it was sun tan oil, all the while moaning and thrashing around, trying to keep from going insane. That meat of Doug's was driving him fucking bananas! It was chewing his bunghole and

smashing through his insides so brutally that it felt like it must be a new army secret weapon. As fuck sessions go, this one rated a definite "10" in Clint's books.

Spent, Doug slowly pulled out of Clint's frayed ass and flopped down beside the heavyweight. "I'll tell you one thing, Clint," he said, after a long time getting his breath back.

"A good fuck is worth two hours in the gym any day!" "No shit," replied Clint, as if he didn't already know. He closed his eyes and sighed. Nothing like a man's spunk in your guts to remind you how great it is to be alive. Especially when that spunk is from a stud like Doug.

There was a light tap at the door. "Who the fuck is that? Can't get a minute's peace here for anything," growled Doug.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Clint went to find out.

"Let's just hope it ain't CBS, come to do an interview." "Oh, I dunno," smirked Doug, "the folks back home might be interested to find out what a bodybuilder pumps when he ain't pumping iron.

Clint chuckled and opened the door. On the other side, looking larger than life, stood Sergei. He beckoned him in and quickly went through the intros. "Doug, you've met Sergei. Sergei, this is Doug.

Sergei nodded and looked quizically at Clint. He hadn't been expecting two men in the room.

"Doug's a good friend of mine. We do everything together," explained Clint, tossing his towel aside and giving his nuts a tug. "Hey, that was a damn fine show you put on out there, Sergei," commended Doug, in his best folksy, down-home voice.

Sergei's deep, murky eyes locked onto Clint's. "But not good enough. I did not win."

Clint didn't flinch a hair. "No, you didn't. You didn't stand a chance.'

The people of the Soviet Union have invested much time and money in my development. I disappointed them when I did not win. They expected me to win.

Shit, he sounds like a fucking robot, thought Clint. That got him pissed off and he spit out, "Screw that crap. You didn't want to win for them. You wanted to win because you wanted to fuck me,'

Sergei's blood pressure rose ten points. So did his big Russian meat. It was so hard now that his jock was having a tough time containing it. "Why did you tell me to win if you knew I didn't have a chance?"

"Because once I saw you were hungry for my dick, I was afraid of you going soft on that platform. I wanted you in your best condition so I could whip your ass and stomp your balls for the whole world to see. And, fuck if I didn't."

Sergei's face got redder. "Why do you treat me like shit? You think I not good enough? I fuck you and I show you how good I am. I want to fuck you. I will fuck you.

"Nobody fucks me unless I want them to. And, buddy-boy , I wouldn't let you near my ass with a ten-foot rubber dildo. Shithead, you are just a big piece of ugly meat to me. I hate ugly meat. I wouldn't let a piece of ugly meat fuck me." A tight smile etched the corners of Clint's mouth and his eyes narrowed. "But, you're in luck because I know just what to do with ugly meat. It's got to be trained, worked on. Worked on real good. Worked on so I can stomach it. Worked on so I won't throw up every time I look at it. That's going to take time. In your case, maybe a long time. So, if you're ever going to reach the point where I'm going to be able to stomach you, we're going to have to start your training pretty damn quick. Right now, in fact. So, strip.

Drawing himself to his full height, the Russian's eyes snapped on Doug for a second. Cold, dangerous eyes. Then click - back on Clint. Slowly, not once breaking eye contact, Sergei stripped. He was mad, a powderkeg, and could barely contain his anger. But something, either fear or desire, was making him do as Clint ordered.

"Let's get the ol' circulation going, Sergei, I want a hundred sit-ups and a hundred push-ups. Now, move it."

For a second, Clint thought Sergei was going to slug him. But he didn't. He got down on the floor and did as he was told without a whimper. Damn, he was a giant of a man, even by bodybuilding standards.

Clint looked over to Doug and smirked when he saw that Doug was glued to Sergei's every move, getting hot and bothered , watching all those muscles in motion. When Sergei hooked his feet under the bed to do his sit-ups, Doug edged over to get a good look at the erect cock between those huge, bronzed thighs. A cock like a fucking howitzer. A long-barrelled howitzer just waiting for the word "Fire!"

When he had finished with the joke some people call exercises , Sergei stood in the middle of the room uneasily waiting for his next order with nothing more than a slight pump to show for his time. Hell, push-ups are kid's stuff to a man in

Sergei's condition.

Like he was a Drill Instructor on some raw recruit's tail, Clint stepped up and leaned in close, real close. "You know the biggest thing I noticed about your posing, Sergei? There was a definite lack of concentration on that platform. Hell, you were more interested in my fucking cock than you were in your own routine. That's wrong, buddy-boy. You can't win contests without concentrating, so, we're going to work on your concentration,

Before Sergei could protect himself, Clint's left hand thrust out lightning-fast and grabbed his dangling nutsac. Sergei winced and stifled a grunt then, like a gunfighter caught in mid-draw by someone faster, cautiously moved his hands away from his crotch, indicating he wasn't about to try anything heroic so long as there was a chance he could lose his balls.

For a long while the two men remained motionless, eyes locked, not saying a word, as Clint mashed the heavy balls in his vice-like grip. They both knew who was boss but, just to make damn sure there'd be no further doubts, Clint applied even more pressure.

Sergei remained absolutely rigid, every muscle in his body tensed and unyielding as he fought to master the pain at his crotch. His mouth quivered, his brow furrowed, sweat poured off his face like rain, but he was damned if he was going to weaken before Clint Magnum! "Holy shit," whistled Doug. "Maybe he is a machine. Maybe his balls are made of steel."

Pissed, Clint applied still more pressure to the nutsac. Sergei just about moaned, but caught himself again and clamped his mouth shut. "That's right, Sergei, don't you go soft on me. I want you hard. I want that whole body of yours at its peak

when I finally decide to make use of it because, if it ain't at its peak, I don't want it.

For all his tough words, though, Clint was getting a little worried. What he was doing to those balls would have had most men writhing on the floor in agony. At the very least, screaming and hollering a whole hell of a lot. But not Sergei. Sergei was definitely a breed apart.

Clint sensed that Sergei wanted - needed - to be dominated by a mean fucking sonofabitch. Someone who would go to any lengths to put him in his place, someone to look up to. He was hoping that Clint would be the man to do it and was giving him his chance. But, Clint also sensed that if he didn't break Sergei's inner control and master him soon, the Muscle Machine would turn on him, saying, "Fuck this shit, you ain't man enough for me." And, by the look of that cum-dripping horsedick, if Sergei turned, he was going to do a lot of damage before he left.

Clint gave the balls another hard twist. Again, Sergei grunted but didn't cry out or double over. "I want to see your posing routine, Shithead. I want to see every muscle and striation you got, you hear me? And you're going to act like my hand was no where near your balls. It's not going to bother you one bit.'

Without a word, Sergei nodded and started his routine. Real easy, to keep from wrenching his balls any more than they were already. Because of the clamp on his nuts, he concentrated that much harder on each pose, not going on to a new one until every possible muscle had been contracted. Slowed down like that, his routine became fucking mind-boggling. Talk about big muscles under tight control pulling together to present a dynamic, slow-motion bodybuilding ballet

Doug sat stunned, watching the moving mass of bone, flesh and muscle like he was seeing a bodybuilder for the first time. All he could say over and over again was, "Holy shit. Holy shit, Holy shit,

Coming to the end of his routine, Sergei gave a mighty heave to force air to the bottom of his oxygen-starved lungs. His sweat-drenched body was pumped big as a house and glowed red from the blood surging through his veins. If he was exhausted - and he should have been - he was doing a damn fine job of hiding it. Hell, maybe he was mechanical!

Somewhere along the line, though, Sergei must have de- cided enough was enough, there would be no more games. Bringing his hand up, he spit a mouthful of juice into it then spread it along the length of his shaft until it glistened sleek and glossy. "I - am - going - to - fuck - you - Clint -

Magnum.

Clint quickly glanced at Sergei's dick. Shit, the thing looked mean! He was beginning to feel mighty stupid standing there, holding onto Sergei's balls, thinking he could control him like that. It would be like trying to control a tank with a dog leash.

A shudder ran through the Muscle Machine. Whatever he did, he'd still have to be careful unless he wanted to rip his balls off. Fire burned in his eyes as, slowly, he contracted into a double biceps pose. A beaut, too. "What the fuck is he up to?" murmured Doug. Wham! Sergei's forearms swung round and slammed into either side of Clint's head, almost knocking him senseless. Wham! On the second blow, Clint released Sergei's balls and stumbled back, arms flailing, trying to keep the lights on in his head.

For a second, Sergei's attack faltered. The fresh blood flooding his balls had knocked him for a loop, making him dizzy and unsure of himself. Nothing like oxygen-starved balls on a rush to slow a guy down. But then his head cleared and, with surprising speed, he scooped Clint up and wrapped him in a bone-crushing bear hug. Clint was writhing and turning fourteen shades of red but there was no way he could escape,

"Fucking animal!" screamed Doug, jumping off the bed to go to his friend's rescue.

"Get back!"

Too late, Sergei threw Clint against a wall like he was a sack of flour and, before Doug knew it, had the lightweight body- builder in a pro-wrestler's hold known as "the sleeper."

Doug struggled for a while but the lack of oxygen to the brain was putting him under fast. Groggy, just about un- conscious, he slumped forward. In one quick move, Sergei spun Doug's 154 pounds around so they were face to face, then picked him up under the butt like he was a little child, spread Doug's ass-cheeks wide open, and dropped him onto his erect cock!

Doug's eyes popped open in shocked surprise as his bunghole valiantly stretched to accommodate the torturous battering ram. His body stiffened as more and more of Sergei's cock entered and beat a path to his guts, forcing an agonizing groan from his lips as his only defense against the on-rush of pain.

The falling weight of his own body made Doug take the cock in one continuous movement, right up to the bull balls, with no time to experiment or ease up on the pain. Then, before Doug was ready for more, Sergei started bouncing him up and down on the fuckpole like a jumping jack. Not slow and easy, etiher. Sergei was mean, fast and cruel. His dick was going to mess Doug up real bad.

Clint recovered enough to know it would be fucking stupid to try and physically break Sergei away from Doug, He'd have to try another way. "Sergei!" No response. "I'm - talking - to -you - Sergei."

With his cock rammed up to the balls in Doug's ass, Sergei stopped his assault and faced Clint.

I'm through dicking around with you, shithead. What's the matter, you can't fuck the heavyweight champ, so you thought you'd fuck the lightweight champ instead?"

Sergei angrily yanked Doug off his fat cock and threw him whimpering on the bed. Spitting more saliva on his cock, he

"Shit, the things I get into," groaned Clint. "Okay, Muscle Machine, time to pull your plug. The question is, how?"

Sergei's voice droned on louder as he closed in, arms outstretched , like some reincarnated Frankenstein monster, "I - am - going - to …

Whump! Clint's knee caught Sergei full in the balls. The blond musclestud stopped dead in his tracks, bug-eyed, his face going from red to white, his mouth moving silently. "You felt that one, huh? You want another?"

Whump! Doubling over, Sergei cupped his crotch and gave a low, suffering moan. "I guess you are human," snorted Clint. To prove his point, he grabbed Sergei's large tits and mauled them. Mauled them something fierce.

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Unlike the last time, Sergei thrashed about and threw his head around to try and shake off the pain. He sank to his knees like his legs had suddenly turned to rubber, whimpering and blubbering, pleading and begging Clint to let go and stop hurting him. Then the tears started.

Shit, this is fucking disgusting, thought Clint. He had to admit, though, that it was also one hell of a turn-on. One hell of a fucking turn-on!

Sergei was getting off on the trip, too. He found his cock and started beating it and, with his other hand, tugged and mashed his balls. Rough, no quarter given. He was primed and

"Aghhhhhhh!" Sergei's howitzer cock opened fire with a barrage of cum, hitting Clint hard on the leg and splashing a gooey mess over the carpet. Buckets of it. He must have been saving the stuff for weeks.

The blond musclestud's body went limp and started falling forward, shaking and quivering as it collapsed, finally ending up in a heap at Clint's feet, chest and face pressed into the sticky mess on the carpet, ass stuck high in the air. "Now for the icing on the cake," grinned Clint. Getting on his knees behind Sergei's ass, he spit a good gob in the crack, hitting the bunghole dead on, then lubed his dick with more of the same.

His cock slipped into Sergei's waiting hole like the two had been made for each other, a perfect fit. But there was no time for congratulations. Clint's balls wanted action, action right fucking now, and Clint was glad to oblige. In no time, he had a smooth, fast rhythm going, his balls slapping hard against Sergei's butt, and the pressure reaching the danger level in his shaft.

Sergei kept rolling his head and grinding his hips all during the assault, proving he was just as deadly on the receiving end as on the delivery. "Don't stop! Don't stop!" he kept pleading.

"AH!" Clint's cock-plunger detonated the nitro in his balls, rocking his whole body with a gut-wrenching explosion going right off the Richter scale. He was coming so hard, he had to wrap his arms around Sergei's waist and hang on for dear life just to keep from shaking off and thrashing around on the floor by himself.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!" Molten cum blasted out of Clint's dick with the force of a flamethrower, scorching his pisshole and clogging Sergei's hole with searing, creamy spunk. Never-ending rivers of it! At the same time, grenades kept blowing his balls to smitherines, bruising the dangling nutsac black and taking his sore dick with him. For a while, as his cock and balls slowly returned to their normal size and the fire in his groin went down to simmer, all he could mumble was, "Where am I? Who am I? What happened?" In front soft, satisfied sigh and rolled lazily onto his side, a large, contented grin plastered on his face. Hell, he was so happy, that, if

Long minutes passed before there was any kind of move- ment in the room. Finally, moaning low, Doug eased up on one elbow and felt his butt. The way his asshole was throbbing , he knew it'd be a long time before he casually jumped

Clint sluggishly patted Sergei's ass and smiled. Thankfully, some feeling was returning to his body. Not much, but enough to make it look like he was in some sort of control. "Oh, he's alright now. I told you all he needed was an overhaul. A tune-up and a good lube job does wonders for any man. Right,

Sergei?" "Yes, Sir."

"So, when do I give you another overhaul?"

Sergei's eyes lit up and an eager edge sharpened his voice. "Soon, please, Sir!"

"And when are you going to fuck me in the ass?"

Sergei hung his head and grinned shyly. "I think I must wait until I win the All-Nations Bodybuilding Championships .

Carefully studying Sergei's limp bull cock, the heavy balls and muscular body, Clint rubbed his chin and sighed, "If I can wait that long, stud. If I can wait that long."

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"I see my work as theatrical props that are nothing until the viewer responds and completes the picture by adding his experience or fantasies."

He signs his work west in all lower case, it has been drawings: intens, studied, specific, ready — writing, it comes to erotica with a traditional artistic background and foundation. Images built on rock: hard, solid, endu men who wear (might have worn) them

When he took the plunge, when he soaked his canvases in SOM oil, things changed and art took on a new meaning. Struting, conscious but mysterious figures graced the posters of favorite watering places both the artist's and the mens' favorites). Other men, who had seen the work but were not the work themselves, and other men who could have been the work had the artist and the men crossed paths, began taking the posters home, hanging them up. It had happened to other artists - west comes from a tradition of SOM michaelangelos like Arnett and Rudolph and Rex. Men who missed out on the posters asked for prints, photographs, midnight meetings , anything connected - made the artist sit down, pause for a space in an already filled agenda, and the first litho was born. Then posters and prints turned up in

This year: a calendar, note cards (not for the kind of notes you pass in school - notes for men who have already graduated), and a journey into another area, west is working in full-size fiberglass figures wearing leather. This is no overnight sensation , but a long term moulding and bending, a serious application of leather on life-size figures. Don't expect to see them before 1981.

"A suggestive piece becomes too explicit if the viewer is not forced to complete the scenerio. I am producing the foreplay.'

Foreplay: the striking of the match that sparks sexual madness. The uniform seen in transit. The leather-clad ass that appears in the invitation of a shadow. The flash of chrome, west is a master at foreplay - and you have to know he's going to be good at orgasm, too.

"I think it's time we got away from treating our fantasies as novelties, limiting ourselves to com- munication through cartoons."

No punch-line last panels here, west, lower case letters only, takes the stuff of cartoons and gives them back to the men in the night. But he plays with them a little beforehand.

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I was still a little overwhelmed at my father's attitude when the pieces began to be unearthed and the full picture of my activities fell into perspective. I didn't know how much he understood or suspected regarding my S&M activities, but it had been his decision to send me back to Uncle Bert … back to London, where my mother's younger brother was a member of the most exclusive elite leather club in the world. Dad's parting remark about "doing something well if you must do it" was also a mystifying enigma. Whereas Mother knew what Bert was up to - at least part of it - I was sure my father did not. But my mother also knew that Bert had never gotten himself into trouble as a result of his activities. She may have been accepting the inevitable, hoping for the best and all, when she supported my father's decision. I didn't know. As the ship continued to plunge and buck its way toward Iceland, I began really not to care. I was too cold … too cold, and too bored.

At the time of my departure from New York, all the air-lines had been grounded by a strike. The first ship leaving for England had been this Swedish tramp steamer, so here I was! Shit! Here I'd be for another couple of weeks. The old scow had scheduled stops at Reykjavik, Galway and Brest before it would finally dock at Southhampton. We were hardly past Nova Scotia when I made up my mind to get off at Galway and take the train or whatever the hell you took to travel overland from Ireland to London. Even the prospect of being with Bert again … even the anticipation of finally making a scene with him … even this was not enough to warm my body against the chill Atlantic.

On an impulse, I decided to go below, all the way down to the engine room. That would surely be one place where the clammy cold would dissipate. I left my cabin and crossed the deck to the proper hatch. I could feel waves of heat rising along the companionway as I descended, and with the rising temperature came the noise … the pumping throb of massive pistons, the steady, high-pitched whine of turbines, and above all else the thundering echoes as tons of water crashed against the hull. I pictured myself inside a gigantic drum, a hollow pile of mouldering iron that rose and fell like a helpless toy in some youngster's bathtub.

As I neared the engine room the metal stairs literally became a ladder (all stairs are called "ladders" on a ship, I'd discovered). The air about me was moist with steam instead of the ocean's icy chill, but mingled with the water vapors was smoke - smelly smoke with the typical rotten-egg scent of burning sulpher. It brought visions of hell and Dante, except that the warmth was welcome and I had to concentrate on keeping my balance instead of worrying about the classical comparisons.

A pair of bare-chested stokers were working at the far end of the room, shoveling coal into the red, glowing maw of a furnace. Black dust clung to their sweating torsoes: one, the older man had hard muscle-over-fat that made his body resemble some wrestler you might see on late-night TV. The other was young and well-built, unkempt black hair falling across his face as he bent to his task. Neither had noticed me, and I moved quietly toward one of the wooden captain's chairs that stood about a scarred, grime-encrusted table. I shoved away a couple of cold, half-filled tin coffee mugs and an overflowing metal ashtray. Dirty, noisy, smelly as the place might be, I was warm for the first time in several days.

I watched the men as they worked, feeling a surge of arousal as the muscles flexed along the younger man's back and sides. His arms were magnificent … like a weightlifter's, but with more natural symmetry that marked their being the result of genuine labor instead of a programmed development course in a gym. He had probably been slender in his teens; now twenty-five or so, his labors had bulked a heavy layer of solid flesh upon his entire body. As I observed his smooth, unbroken motions my gaze began to blur and my thoughts drifted through the haze of my own mental detachment. I thought again of Bert, of his dark elegance . . . black curly hair, brown eyes. I'd always thought he resembled an Italian actor rather than my preconceptions of an English gentleman. I wondered what he'd look like stripped to the waist, laboring like that stevedore. Bert must have been ten years older than the man I was watching - no workingman, certainly, but his body was also hard and trim.

! thought of the things he'd told me during the short time we were together … the letters he'd written later when I was in Bavaria … and after that, when the Old Man had ordered me back to school. Can't order me around anymore, though, can he? Turned twenty-one two days ago. I'm my own master . . Was I a master? Not with Bert, I thought, and after that abortive affair I'd had with his houseman, Jim … not much of a master then, either. Bert had been testing me, and I failed. That's why he sent me off to Germany to really learn what it's all about … in the castle with Alfred and Kurt … the old dungeon … Come a long way in the interim … lots of experience … tried it every way it could be done … top, bottom and sideways. Will it be enough for Bert? Will he consider me experienced enough that … "You're Wayne Hoffsteder, aren't you?" said a sharp, deep voice behind me.

I jumped, startled; returned to the present through the expanded time and space of mental wanderings. I spun about to face the second mate. He was standing there grinning at me, hands on his narrow hips, legs spread against the rolling motion of the deck. He wore a thin white shirt and an old-fashioned black bow tie with dangling ends … no jacket, just the fitted, black uniform pants that clung to his thighs and outlined his lower body. His tailored shirt, I noted, did the same for his arms and chest. His mouth twisted slightly as I stared up at him. He was Swedish, of course, as blond as I was … taller by three or four inches … must have been in his late twenties, I thought … long narrow facial features … hair already thinning … probably be bald by time he's thirty-five, but right now …

I'd noticed him before, the first day in fact. He was a remarkably attractive guy, and unlike so many of his country- men he had relatively short legs with a long, well-tapered torso. "Passengers aren't supposed to be here, you know," he added at length. I realized he hadn't intended his tone to be accusatory, but he had been forced to shout against the thunderous roar of engines and pounding oceans swells, "It's the only warm spot on the ship," I told him. My eyes traveled across the front of his body. He must have been scheduled to work down here all day, where he knew he'd be warm. He wasn't wearing an undershirt; the white cloth adhered to his skin in several places where the heat had made him sweat. I couldn't resist letting my gaze fall against his crotch, where a nice rise of masculine potential made me wonder if he'd neglected to wear shorts, as well. He was observing my every gesture, and I wrenched my gaze away, glanced back into his knowing grin — thin lips drawn tightly against white, even teeth. The skin of his face was a ruddy bronze from exposure to sun and wind. He laughed, finally, made a jerking motion with his head. "Come on," he said. "I'll show you a place that's just as warm and a lot more comfortable." Only he'd said "varm" and his sing-song made me think of the castle again, of the Swedish kid we'd strung up in the dungeon, the exquisite thrill

"Here," said the mate. He'd dogged open a watertight door and stood holding it for me. He glanced over his shoulder at the pair of stokers as I started to move past him. Furtively? Making sure they hadn't seen us together? I wondered, started through the oval doorway just as the deck rose and made my knees buckle. The motion threw me against him and he steadied me, warm fingers closing about my arm as I eased forward into the darkness of the passage. "Straight ahead," he told me. He pulled the metal door closed behind us and spun the wheel to seal it in place. Immediately, the engine noises dropped to a muffled throb, and I couldn't hear the turbine whine at all.

I moved down the corridor, stooping automatically because the ceiling was lined with ribs of steel supports. I wouldn't have hit them, of course; I was too short, though they might have knocked the billed cap off my companion's head.

He directed me into a small compartment off the passage, a storage room that reeked of machine oil and a mixture of spicy smells I could not identify. Several heavy drums were stacked against one bulkhead, bound in place by heavy steel chains. To one side of these, nestled between the stacks of maintenance cargo, was a cluster of ratty furniture and a desk . . several upholstered chairs with the stuffing coming out along the arms and backs … a double-deck cot bolted to the floor in the corner. "It's my … den," said the mate, grinning again as I turned to face him. "You might call it my workroom." Again, the "w" became a "v," and his accent made me smile.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Pettersen," he told me. "Greg Pettersen."

Well, Greg, I thought, it looks like a little thaw in our ice of boredom.

THERE WASN'T ANY AIRLINE STRIKE IN IRELAND. Despite the fun and games with Greg, I disembarked as I'd originally planned when the ship docked at Galway. Greg had been fine to help pass a few otherwise wretched hours on the steamer; but he wasn't S&M … didn't even want to play at it. I took the first express train I could get to Dublin, and made straight for the airport. I then had a four hour wait before my plane left for London. I'd sent a wire to Bert as soon as I bought my ticket, so when the aircraft set down at Heathbrow

I was sure he'd be waiting for me. He wasn't.

I stood around outside the customs office for about half an hour, expecting either Bert or Jim would show up. When it began to appear otherwise, I went to a phone booth and called my uncle's number: no answer. This puzzled me, because I knew the household routine well enough to be sure someone should be there. It was barely three in the afternoon … a Thursday. Bert might be in his office, but Jim would surely be at home. I tried to remember if Thursday was the maid's day off, but as best as I could recall she took Wednesdays. In any event, the cook should have been there. I had the operator place the call again … still no answer.

Slowly, I made my way through the terminal, still hoping I'd encounter my uncle or his manservant. I started to take a taxi, then remembered I didn't have any English money. There's some kind of law against natives accepting foreign currency, and it took another fifteen minutes to get some British pounds. Then it occured to me I might have missed whoever had come to meet me. I walked all the way back to customs, telling myself that one reason for there being no one home to answer the phone was Jim's being on the way to meet me. It was quarter to five when I finally gave up and took the cab. That put us into the evening rush-hour traffic, so it was getting dark when we reached Bert's home.

I paid the driver, and struggled up the front steps with my bags. No lights showed in the windows. Bert's home was a very fashionable residence, a gray stone townhouse, set a few yards back from the street. It was separated from the sidewalk by a black wrought-iron fence. The place had been remodeled sometime in the thirties, at which point a ramp had been built down one side, leading to a basement parking area. I still had my key to the inner garage entrance, but had never carried a latchkey for the front door. I rang the bell, knowing as I did no one was going to answer. The buzzer echoed through the house … twice; and still no one responded.

I jackassed my pair of suitcases down the steps, back onto the sidewalk, and dragged them along the ramp into the darkness of the parking area. I couldn't be sure, but as I reached the upper end of the incline I thought I detected someone at one of the front windows … just the most subtle motion of the drape. But the stone outcropping about the deep-set window severed the view before I'd actually turned toward the opening. Foolish, I told myself. If anybody were home, he'd have answered the door.

Bert's Jaguar sportscar was parked in its usual place, and beside it was a dusty Austin sedan. He hadn't owned that second car when I'd been there the year before, but I still didn't think to question it. I was already fumbling the chain from my pocket, noting to myself that I still carried a set of keys to my own little car … wondering if I'd ever see it again, when the thought struck me: If both Bert and Jim are out, what's the car doing here? Both cars? More puzzled than apprehensive , I opened the inner door, flicked on the light, shoved my bags inside, and started up the stairs to the main floor.

The door at the upper end opened onto the main corridor , just in front of the servants' quarters, but behind the wide staircase that led to the second level. As my fingers closed on the knob, I felt the first stir of concern. Something's wrong! But it was a vague, illogical impression. I stepped through into the darkness of the hall and groped my way toward the front, trying to remember where the light switch was. I couldn't find it on the first pass, and had started to backtrack, feeling along the wall, when I noticed a crack of light under the door to the kitchen and unused maids' rooms.

Just then my fingers touched the switch. I turned the lights on and I called: "Jim? Bert? Anybody home?"

There was an immediate bump and a scraping sound from the rear of the house. A door closed somewhere in back, and a couple of heartbeats later the panel leading to the service area was thrown open. I jumped - momentarily startled by the unexpected appearance of a complete stranger! But he must have been as surprised as I was; even if it had been he at the window a few moments before, he must have thought I had no way to get in … had been unable to see me when I turned down the ramp.

"Who . . are you?" he asked, getting the words out about two seconds before I asked the same question.

"I'm Wayne Hoffsteder," I said. "Mr. Forham's nephew." I had said "Mr. Forham" instead of "Bert," unconsciously acknowledging the man as something other than a friend of my uncle's. He was dressed in a dark-colored suit - very well dressed, actually - a big guy … handsome in a rugged, unpolished way. But I had detected the cockney in just the three words he'd spoken, and I had responded to this, as well as to his close-cropped, dark blond hair … definitely not the style I'd come to expect on any of Bert's cronies. The man was probably in his early twenties, and I remembered hearing people talk about "skinheads" the last time I'd been in London. This guy seemed to meet all the criteria. "What are you doing in my uncle's house?" I added at length

1 … I'm Charles - Charlie," he replied uneasily. "I'm

… lookin' after the place in your Uncle Bertie's absence. I … just came in the back way." "What about Jim?"

"Jim? Oh, Jim! 'E's with your Uncle Bertie in Bavaria." Charles paused then, seeming to hold himself in readiness for some argument. At least, that was how I assessed his behavior in retrospect. At the moment I was confused, but I didn't really doubt him. I ascribed his uncertainty to the fact that he was probably as startled by my unexpected appearance as I had been by his. Besides, his almost comic opera cockney made me want to laugh. I accepted his explanation at face value; as yet there was no reason to doubt him. Besides, he was a big groovy number, and that lent an additional element of credibility to his assertions. He was exactly the type my uncle would have found attractive. So did I; already a few earthy thoughts were passing through my mind. "Did my uncle leave any message … instructions for me?" l asked.

"Only to expect you and make you comfortable when you got 'ere," he replied quickly. He forced a smile, extended a massive, work-calloused hand. "Just call me 'Charlie'," he added brightly.

The huge paw absorbed mine, bringing a further flush of interest to my face and loins as I continued my mental evaluation of his sexual potential. "Am I supposed to use the same room?" I asked. "The same …?"

"The same room I had last time I was here."

"Oh, yes … sure," said Charlie. He looked about quickly. "Your baggage …?"

"I left it at the foot of the stairs," I said. I still wasn't sure if Charlie was supposed to be a servant, who would fetch my bags, or if I should go down with him and help carry the heavy pair of suitcases. He solved the problem by telling me to "go on up." He'd bring my things.

Because I had been awake for close to twenty hours, I took a quick shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and flopped across the bed to rest. I only meant to relax for a few minutes, especially as I'd now had time to formulate a number of questions. If Bert were in Bavaria, he was probably staying with Alfred, the old man who worked as caretaker of

the castle. But, as a tourist attraction, the old place would now be closed for the winter. I couldn't imagine why Bert should have gone there at this particular time of year. I couldn't phone him, because the nearest instrument was in the village, a good three miles down the mountain from Alfred's cottage. I could send a wire, though, and I was trying to figure out a witty phrasing for my message when I fell asleep.

It must have been about seven o'clock.

Fog had completely obliterated the windows when I came to. I had no idea what time it was. My watch was on the chiffonier across the room, and the bedside clock wasn't working. Though I was still groggy with sleep, I realized something had awakened me. The slamming of a door? I wasn't sure. I listened for a moment, and at first the house seemed completely still. Then I heard a deep rumbling murmur of voices … several men speaking together. The sound seemed to come from the front hall. I struggled to make my muscles respond, managed a sitting position as loud, clumping footsteps reverberated through the lower hall and started up the stairs. Strange, I thought, the house never echoed like this before … too many paintings on the walls … furniture … Furniture! It dawned on me right then. There had been two tables and a couple of antique chairs in the lower hall the last time I was here. They had been gone when I passed through on the way to my room!

Whatever doubts might have formed in my mind never had a chance to germinate. The heavy footfalls reached the upper landing and moved directly to my threshold. Without bothering to knock Charlie opened the door. Behind him were two other men, both young, both skinheads like himself, except they were dressed in jeans and workshirts. "Pretty Boy's awake," said one of them. His tone was derisive and the expressions on the trio of faces made me shudder. Charlie's previously respectful demeanor was gone. In its place was a sneering poise that left no room for further doubt. He and his

"Let's tyke 'im downstairs and teach 'im some manners, Charlie suggested. He started toward me, the other two directly behind him. I was scared, but I also felt a bolt of indig- nant rage. "What'sa matter? Couldn't you handle me by yourself?" I asked. I slid off the bed and stood facing them, half crouched, wondering how I was going to get out of there … feeling trapped and helpless, though starting to see things through a red curtain of anger. Charlie lunged at me, but I managed to sidestep him. I might actually have squirmed away had one of his companions not leaped forward and grabbed me.

I struck out at them, my bare feet connecting several times as I was borne to the floor by their combined weight. I was on my back, one arm held immobile against the rug, while the other hammered at whatever came in range. But it was a losing battle from the start. A fist slammed against the side of my head; another impacted against my solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me. About that point, a knee wedged itself into my groin, grinding my balls against the underside of my body. Oh, did that smart! I was dazed from the blow to my skull, writhing in agony and momentarily unable to breathe. When they dragged me to my feet I wouldn't have been able to stand if two of them hadn't been holding me up. I had just managed to fill my lungs with air when Charlie slammed his fist into my gut again, making me double over. The towel had long since fallen off me, and I hung between the pair of skinheads, naked and powerless to make any further resistance

Without a word of explanation, they started force-walking me toward the door. They were laughing and talking together in their Limehouse slang, discussing me as if I were an animal incapable of understanding them. Frightened and confused as I was, a fresh wave of horror coursed my veins as a sudden thought penetrated the pain and chaotic sense of panic. Bert! What of Bert! "Bert … Mr. Forham … " I muttered.

They laughed again and Charlie clapped his hand against my naked butt. "'E's next, eh boys?"

They hustled me down the staircase and along the hall to the servants' quarters. The entrance to Bert's blackroom — always secured and locked under normal circumstances stood open. When they dragged me to the door, I tried to wrench free; it was my final opportunity to put up a struggle, and it was very short-lived. Charlie's companions had hold of either arm, and they never let go until they succeeded in pitching me into the room with a force that landed me on my knees. Before I could get up they were on me again this time spinning me about, throwing me down on my back atop Bert's black, leather-covered rack. My wrists were yanked down, held against the table legs and quickly strapped in place. My feet were seized a moment later and chained to the pair of padded two-by-fours that jutted out at the lower end. The rack had been built to provide maximum access to the M; I could feel my ass poking out through the opening, which gave me the sensation of being about to fall through. Unconsciously , I tried to shift my weight as the skinheads began to wrap an extra set of leather bands about my lower thighs, securing them more firmly to the pair of struts. The table (or rack) was solid from my waist up, and extended several inches above my head.

When I was finally strapped down so tightly that I could move nothing but my head, the skinheads stepped back … at which point I realized I was not the only prisoner. The sole light in the room was a red globe in the ceiling. By now my eyes had grown accustomed to it, and I was able to make out a second, naked form, suspended from a collection of chains in one of the back corners. Black leather straps had been set around his wrists, lifting his arms high above his head. He appeared to be unconscious, his chin resting on his chest. I could not see his face, but I was sure it had to be Jim … hard, muscular little body … longish black hair.

Maybe it was the first stirrings of adulthood; I'm not really sure, but the sight of Jim in his present predicament made me momentarily forget my own. "What have you done to him?" I shouted. My fellow captive hadn't moved, and I was afraid he might be dead. The skinheads only chuckled and muttered among themselves. But my voice must have penetrated some inner recess in Jim's consciousness. He stirred and seemed to shudder, groaning softly as he lifted his head. He looked awful! A big splotch of dried blood covered most of his chin, and his right eye was swollen shut. As I continued to stare at him, I could see that his body was a patchwork of bruises and lacerations. He tried to say something, but his puffy lips refused to form the words. "You mother-fuckin' sons'a bitches!" I shouted. I threw myself back and forth, rocking the rack as I yanked and tugged to rip my wrists free of the leather restraints. I was so out of it, I didn't even see Charlie approach me. The first I realized he was there was when a sharp, painful blow landed against my belly. I dropped back against the padded surface, and the bastard hit me again. He was using a riding crop, a me, snapping the crop against my belly, up to my chest, across the upper thighs. A couple of times the little loop of leather at the tip struck my balls, and try as I would not to give him the satisfaction, I couldn't help screaming at him, crying out in pain and rage … finally begging him to stop. I was bleeding before he had finished, and my stomach was so sore, each stroke was like a searing cut from a blade. In my disordered mental state, I thought back to the time in boarding school when we'd given a guy a pink-belly. One kid had worked on his midsection with the bristles of a hairbrush, while half a dozen of us held him down. But this went far beyond any childhood hazing. Charlie's pair of fellow skin-heads lounged in the doorway, smoking cigarettes and watching in silence while their buddy worked me over.

When Charlie had finally satisfied himself, he turned away, jerked his head in my direction and asked the others if they wanted to take over. "We got other things ter do," said one. Charlie turned back to me, then, standing in the opening at the foot of the rack. My feet were held in place to either side of him. He'd taken a short butt of cigarette from one of his friends, and now drew on it, making the tip glow brightly in the semi-darkness. With no warning, he nonchalantly ground it out against my skin, pressing the red-hot ember into the upper surface of my leg, just to the left of my groin. I must have been numbed by his previous abuse, b second for the pain to register. When it did, I couldn't hold back the scream of anguish. Almost convulsively, I bucked against the restraints, hurled myself back and forth, hysteria commanding my frenzied, futile efforts to break free.

Charlie sneered at me, left the stub of cigarette clinging

against my skin. He grabbed my balls and gave them a vicious twist. "Next time, you get it here!" he snarled. "Come on," he said to the others. They trooped out, slamming the door shut behind them.

After that I heard an occasional thump or grating sound as heavy pieces of furniture were shoved about. The bastards were ramsacking the house; that much was obvious. I twisted my head around, trying to see if Jim was conscious or not. At first he didn't seem to be, but when I called to him he slowly lifted his face. "I'm sorry," he managed to say. The words were slurred, his speech thickened by branes.

"How long have they … they had you like that?" I asked. "I dunno," he mumbled, "… days … dunno … ever since Bert left."

"Who are they?"

Jim shook his head, gazing at me with his one good eye. "Can you get loose?" he asked helplessly. "Not hardly," I answered. I made as if to pull again on my bonds, but never completed the motion. It was useless. The full horror of my - of our - situation was gradually displacing the paralysis of shock and surprise — logical cognition moving in to replace the receding fingers of pain. "I don't understand what's happened … or why." The muscles of my neck and upper back began to tremble from the effort of twisting about to see Jim. I let my head return to a more natural position, staring at the black-painted ceiling. "I mean, are they just burglars, or what?" "I don't know," Jim rasped. His voice seemed clearer for a moment, but whatever effort the production had cost must have been too much. He immediately lapsed back into his former muttered slur. "I took Bert … to the airport … in the morning … two days … three … Tuesday. I came back and they were here." "What about the servants?"

"Never saw 'em … dunno … musta sent 'em off … maid's holiday, anyway … "

The whole situation seemed so hopeless … so impossible ! I tried to think, but fear was building to a point where I wasn't being rational. I kept imagining the farfetched pos-sibilities of rescue … police coming to check the doors or some neighbor guessing that something was wrong and calling them. "Does … I mean, is anyone apt to come by? Did you have a date or anything?" I asked. "No. My fault," Jim answered. His voice seemed to be coming out of a well, and I stretched around to look at him again. There was a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth; pain seemed to grip his body in spasms that made his belly curve in upon itself. "Charlie …" he gasped; "… brought him here … month ago … brought him for Bert …" His head dropped back onto his chest. He was rest- ing … or unconscious. I couldn't tell which. I wondered how long he'd been strung up the way he was … whether he'd been given any food or water since Tuesday. Tuesday … two days, almost three … How long can a man go without water? There was a loud crash from the front of the house, which startled me and impelled me into a renewed struggle to free myself.

After a while I tried to question Jim further, but he didn't answer me. I was sure he must be badly hurt, and I'd convinced myself he was surely going to die if he was forced to stay as he was much longer. It must have been three or four hours that I was left there, unable to evoke a response from Jim, bound naked on the rack … unable to communicate with anyone. My thoughts ran the full gamut . . fear, anger, despair … finally a more ordered decision to bide my time and wait. What else could I do? The skinheads were apparently ramsacking the house in a completely methodical manner . I wondered if they were carting off the larger pieces of furniture … if they might be using a truck which would attract attention … possibly bring the authorities to investi- gate?

There had been a long period of silence, everything so still I wondered if the intruders could have left. Then a door banged someplace, probably in the subterranean parking area, because I also thought I heard an engine starting up. For several minutes there was nothing more, until the door of the blackroom was opened. I looked across the length of my body, where small patches of blood had dried into crusty scabs, black-looking in the deep red glow from the ceiling light,

Charlie stood in the doorway, grinning at me. He'd taken off his tie and jacket, unbuttoned his shirt to the waist, exposing the deep blond pelt on his chest.

"The boys won't be back for a while," he said in a soft, taunting tone. "Thought I'd pass the time down 'ere." He lumbered forward, stopping by my feet. The rough surface of his hands felt surprisingly warm against my toes. He stroked them for several minutes, then absently let his hand work

Charlie snorted, a cross between a laugh and the sound you might make blowing your nose. "Do you want him to die?" I demanded. "How long have you had him there, without even water?" The skinhead brushed past me and lifted Jim's head, folded back an eyelid. He grunted, maybe muttered a few words. I couldn't understand them, if he did. But he worked the winch and lowered Jim's body to the floor. He was hunkered down below the level of the rack, so I couldn't see what he was doing. But I could hear him work the snaps as he secured his prisoner into a different position. "Get him some water," I insisted.

Charlie stood up slowly, keeping his back to me. I heard Jim groan, this followed by the clink of metal. "Water," of / the / pick [×3+] hear the splash of his piss, the gagging sputter as it flooded

Jim's mouth and nostrils.

"You bastard!" yelled. "You fuckin', lousy—" Charlie turned on me, backhanded me hard across the face. "You'd do better ter start worryin' about yerself!" he grumbled. He turned back to finish relieving himself. He'd struck me hard enough to make me see flashing lights and colors. I may even have been out for a few seconds, because the next I knew he'd peeled off his shirt and was starting to undo his buckle. From his previous joshing with his friends, I had assumed none of them really dug the scene. At least, they'd been making fun of Jim and Bert for their S&M prac- tices, and one of the others had said something about "leav- ing the fairies in their own cage." But Jim had brought Charlie into the house … as a trick … hustler, maybe. Whatever Charlie's story, he apparently played enough to allay any doubts when he'd been here before; and now he was getting ready to make some use of me! I was still trying to make some sense out of everything, when Charlie moved out of view. He stood behind, or above, me, doing something to the rack. My feet suddenly fell as he worked the lever to lower that end. I was now strapped to a surface which canted upward at a forty-tive degree angle. never knew if Charlie meant for the suspense to build within me as it did, but I was twisting against my bonds, trying to see what was going on behind me before he gave me any clue. I was only able to catch an occasional glimpse of flesh at the edge of my vision … blurred and indistinct, barely visible in the deep red glow from the ceiling. All of a sudden, sharp pain forced me to bolt upward from the surface, arching my body to pull my ass away from some source of burning misery. At first I wasn't sure what he'd done - only that he'd applied something to one cheek of my ass. It was stinging me, now, as the initial pain subsided. Gingerly, I set- tled back when I could no longer maintain the high-arched posture. Almost immediately, it happened again … and again. I was crying, screaming as I had before, shouting for him to stop. My terror grew even worse as it began to dawn on me that he was driving pins through the skin of my buttocks … weaving them in and out, making a pattern like a seamstress basting a hem.

I have no idea what I said, and I can't remember exactly how long Charlie kept it up. I had worked myself into such a frenzied panic. I'd lost all sense of logic or reason. On top of blind, unreasoning fear, the pain was overwhelming everything else. Sobbing, formless protests bubbled from my lips with no volitional control.

He stopped as suddenly as he'd started, and I could sense rather than see him rising to his feet. Another moment, and his great calloused palm grasped my chin, pulled my head back as he shoved an inhaler into one nostril. I recognized the smell of amyl nitric and tried to turn my face away. I couldn't. Searing fumes penetrated my nasal passages and seeped up-

(Continued on page 84)

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(continued from page 31) ward into my brain. I felt a rush of warmth through my entire body before he let go his hold.

He moved around in front of me after that, leaving the pins in my flesh so each convulsive movement reminded me of his total mastery. He was holding a metal box in one hand … more pins … more pain! I started to scream at him again, but he made no response to acknowledge my hysteria. Instead, he calmly fastened his thumb and forefinger onto one nipple, twisted it as he moved to straddle my lower body. Even through those additional waves of pain, I was aware of his cock touching my own, prodding my underbelly with a force that proclaimed my tormentor's enjoyment of what he did.

Enjoying it … son of a bitch! Pretending he hates queers when his friends are around … digs a heavy scene … wonder what Bert did to him … mother-fuc place, because he unexpectedly shoved the inhaler into my place, because ne direxpectedly shower die limitate into my nostril again, while his other hand never slackened its hold on my nipple. In spite of myself, I felt my senses reeling, Pain started to drift and merge with a fl amyl this heavily before, never realized you could trip out to this extent. Eventually my mind ceased to function and I lost contact with any reality.

Charlie's actions are easy enough to reconstruct, though I cannot pretend to remember them exactly. I knew he held me down by the pressure of his groin, and his hard, hairy body kept tipping forward, shoving me back against the padded leather. My only clear recollection is of his huge, shadowy form, the heat of him radiating against me, into me … solid cock prodding my belly, inhaler shoved deep into one nostril while his calloused thumb depressed the other. At some time, though I don't know when, he set two of his pins through either teat. I never felt it. In fact I must have been so completely out as to take some distorted pleasure from his treatment of me. I vaguely remember my cock rising rigidly above my groin and Charlie binding it with strips of rawhide. He wound the thongs around and around, down the length of my sac until the balls were stretched and contracted. I couldn't even recall a sensation of pain.

At some point he turned me over, bound me belly-down upon the rack which had been returned to a horizontal posi- tion. He must also have taken the pins from my ass; at least, they were gone when I finally returned to a reasonable homeostasis . He used a strap on me, or a whip; I can't remember which. I know the strokes were falling hard and fast as my mind rose periodically through the murky confusion of pain and amyl. He continued to poke the inhaler into my nose … may even have shoved some pills down my throat. I can't be sure, but I later had a bitter taste in my mouth and the residual effects were worse than they should have been from amyl by itself.

I know I was flying high above some dark gray clouds, while the sun was burning down across my back and buttocks . The heated rays were striking me with a powerful force, making me glow with a sense of warmth and stinging light. The feeling built and ebbed, centered here and there as Charlie varied the area of concentration. He fucked me after this. I recall the exquisite, stabbing pain and the sharp, unre- lenting possession that continued through my muttered pleas and protestations. I don't remember when he finished, though there are patches of illuminated memory and spotty mental pictures … the dark heat and the pressure of his groin as he battered his body into mine. There was a sensation of helples submission, of deep-thrust strokes an he rammed his strength inside me.

My next certain awareness, as I emerged from the web of confused impressions, was tempered with half-realized discomfort and shadowy specters of fear. Jim's voice was begging me to come awake … the sound rising from some nebulous depths, through fog that existed only in my own distorted

To Be Continued

Stockholm, the capital of Sweden - the legendary land of blond hunk and the legendary land of blond hunk and extraordinary pornography, has 6 bars, 2 restaurants, 5 bathhouses, 2 porn cinemas, a gay hotel, 8 outdoor cruising areas, 3 stellar gay bookstores, 5 gay organizations (ranging from li tion and subjucation, Swedes are alleged to be the best.

Stockholm is a small city in a small country. You can travel across the city in no time at all, and go from one end of the country to the other in a matter of hours by car. But its location in the Scandinavian complex of countries make it a natural 'heart of the action.' Rivaled only by Amsterdam, Stockholm is one of the big four leather cities in Western Europe.

Except for the fact that a different language is spoken, Stockholm is a very easy city for Americans. In fact, enough English is spoken here to negate the necessity of learning very much Swedish. Other languages are common in most European capitals, so you'll hear a variety of tongues.

Unless you stay with a friend, check out the Karivist Hotel at 23 Engelbrekts- gatan. It is a gay owned and operated hotel / pension where leather is definitely welcome, and is close to one of the major parks in Stockholm, Humlegarden - which you'll also want to walk through on a quiet evening around midnight.

There are no real gay ghettos like in

the states in Stockholm, although three streets that run alongside each other are extraordinary cruising areas, given the fact that they are filled with bookstores and gay cinemas. The streets are Klara Norra Kyrko, Gatan, and Gamla Brogatan. Everyone knows where they are.

Stockholm and the immediate area has a number of nude beaches, most notably a number of nude beaches, most notably the beach at Brunnsviken, Langolmsparken, and Svardsjo Beach. All are easy to get to, although the last requires a 30 minute walk after you get off the train.

The best guides to Stoc

get his ass beat. But they're learning from American visitors, and from visiting our leather capitals. Given how rapidly things change, by the time you read this it will be customary to grab hot leather studs off the plane when they arrive and ask questions later.

S&M in Sweden is as hot as S&M here. There is still the same unequal ratio of tops to bottoms, but European leather-men tend to be more versatile. It may be the right night that turns a usually passive boot-licker into a tough whip- cracking taskmaster.

There are no laws against homosexuality in Sweden, and the country has a political left and progressive structure. The police are police, but hassles are limited to gross public displays of misconduct . Since prostitution is legal in

Sweden, the police take a different view of victimless crimes. Drug use, however, is very much a no-no, so don't make the mistake Billy Hayes did in Turkey. You might get offered cheap drugs anywhere. Forget any fantasies about bringing them into the states and making it into the big time as an uptown dealer. It doesn't happen that way, except in the movies.

Tourists enjoy some special benefits traveling in Sweden including transportation passes that are good on all city lines for three days for a nominal charge; American-style lunches and dinners in restaurants that use Swedish dishes in a manner understandable and common to western tastes; and any number of other things. A letter or trip to a Swedish tourist office or agency can answer a lot of questions. tion about their club, including informa- tion about their club house in Stockholm and its hours; answer your questions about leather life in the city, and steer you in the right direction when you visit their city. Their mailing address is: SLM Stockholm, Box 9239, S-102, 73 Stockholm, Sweden,

Another organization, the RFSL, is the host for the annual Gay Pride Week held in Stockholm in August of every year. The organization can provide you with information about what events and activities are planned for the coming year (but contact them no earlier than May) and keep you up to date on new gay clubs and accommodations. RFSL, Box 15148, S-10465 Stockholm, Sweden. You'll also see the publications by

Revolt Press in all the gay bookstores in Stockholm. In Europe, Revolt is the big name in leather and S&M. Their two pub- lications, Mr. S&M and Toy dominate the leather scene. Sweden has no laws on pornography, but getting copies back in the States can sometimes be a problem. If you see some of the hot, serious, hard-on action they publish, however, you'll probably try.

Leather in Stockholm is like leather anywhere. Men get suited out in super shiny black boots, chaps, vests and jackets – and they mean it. The big difference is that sex with Europeans does differ. Swedes are just getting to the point where they can walk up to a hot dude and outright ask him if he wants to

MEMBERS ONLY:

A GUIDE TO SPECIFIC ORGANIZATIONS

Alvin Toffler, in his culture-exploding book, Future Shock, futurized that some down yoon there would be a newspaper for every neighborhood, a television program for every special interest group, and an organization for an an organization for anything. What con- stitutes anything, for Toffler, is very literal. His example was a daily news- paper for transvestites. Had he waited a few years to write his prophetic book, he might have included magazines for drug users, or a newsletter for black men who sexually prefer white men (and vice versa), or a roster of piss drinkers and shit eaters. The present, Toffler's future, has become even more specific than was

It's no false claim that aavs have been at the vanguard of sexual crystalization. Sexually the most attuned of the species, gays have explored and formulated specific sexuality to a fine art. So what will be discussed and reviewed here is a cross section of specific sexuality and sexually specific organizations. Some are old. some are new; some have grown out of others; some publish newsletters; some others, some publish newsteeles, some are very closed — and others are easy to join. Rather than fragmenting a sub-cultural group (as do polítics and religion), the specific organizations involved only the state of the tot cater to a fraction of the total person, the sexuality. Also, only eight organiza- tions will be included in the first part, for variety; and no value judgements or endorsements are intended.

THE RACE BARRIER

BWMT (Black and White Men Together) was formed in San Francisco and is already a national organization with chapters in every major American city. It is mainly a support group for interracial couples and black gay men, with work being done in political, media, and busi- ness areas. BWMT is not a pure sexual contact organization, but are included here because of their unique position in the gay community to bring black and white men together. Their city-chapters publish individual newsletters and hold local meetings. The San Francisco (home) chapter publishes an 18-page monthly newsletter with about 6 pages of personal ads. Again, contact is the primary focus of this organization, although it is intended solely for gay men.

YOUNGER THAN SPRINGTIME

The Holiday Bulletin is another old- timer, in existence since 1971. It is geared towards men over 40 and those who would prefer to meet men over that age. The Bulletin is correspondence-orienta- ted, and publishes irregularily. Each Bulletin contains 100 coded ads, and a forwarding fee is charged. The organization also publishes guidebooks to cruising, a tract on age experiences, and a how-to book on 'expert French lessons.' The Bulletin holds no meetings.

S&M THEN AND NOW

One of the oldest groups publishing a newsletter is SMADS (S&M ads) in New York. Marshall Loeb started the limited-circulation newsletter eight years ago, when personal advertising contact was limited to a smattering in the old Advo- cate and fewer brave ads in Screw. Since Loeb was himself into S&M, and a great believer in making contact through clas- sified advertising, he launched his specific newsletter as a monthly and began advertising it in the two available outlets. It was, during that time, the most upfront collection of sexuality available. Every specific sexual desire, from basic S&M to scat and water sports, heavy bondage to scat and water sports, heavy bondage to shaving and piercing appeared in its pages. Along with drawings, some chat, and a coded remailing service. All the ads in SMADS are coded, and a remailing fee is charged. Currentl correspondence orientated.

BOOTS AND / OR SOCKS The Foot Fraternity is much younger. Organized by an extraordinarily hand-

some man who was tired of the limited access available to people with a sexual proclivity that was centered around footwear, the Foot Fraternity has already grown to include over 200 world-wide members. And that since January of this year. While the foundation for the Foot Fraternity rests on shoes and foot gear, its members include men interested in specific clothing and a variety of related objects. The organization also publishes a newsletter, usually 32 pages, on a bi-monthly schedule, with coded and non-coded ads, reader's letters, fiction infrastructure. tion, information articles, and true ex- periences. "I knew how difficult it was for people interested in footwear to meet each other, including myself, so I started the group," says organizer Art.

The Foot Fraternity has a membership fee that includes the newsletter. An annual gathering is planned for the near future.

WET TISSUE

Probably the fastest growing specific organization has to be The Toilet, started in late 1978 with 15 members and now publishing a roster of over 300 after a year and a half. The bulk of the members are from the West Coast, and The Toilet, unlike some of the other organizations, already faced the fact that some of its members would be coming from organizations that catered to their specific desires in part or whole. The thing that seems to make The Toilet work well is that almost all of the members list their phone numbers in the member's roster. A good deal of immediate contact is available , since even the time spent sending a letter is reduced.

The Toilet caters mainly to water sports and scat orientated men; however, as is true with all the organizations mentioned , there is some spill-over into other specific areas: jock straps, some S&M, verbal abuse, public humiliation, etc. The Toilet organizer, John Hole, says the membership listings are updated daily, and each new roster sent to members is 100% accurate. That's because a new member receives a main roster of members and an update sheet is sent out routinely. The member keeps his basic roster up to date.

The Toilet also provides remail service and address listing. The current roster, representing the current membership, runs about 16 pages of very small type. The Toilet has a basic membership fee and updating dues, it is strictly a clearinghouse , and holds no meetings or conventions

INTERNATIONAL STUD

Interchain is an international contact organization with offices in New York, Switzerland and Holland, Membership includes a club T-Shirt and very person- alized contact service. The organization caters to S&M and related interests and publishes four rosters a year. Care is taken that members are made aware of each other when international interests/ contacts are desirable. Hosting arrangements (mutually) are encouraged. Information about specific member countries is available. Bulletin ads are coded for identity and sexual specifics, therefore illegible without a decoder, which is only available to members. The organization has almost 1000 worldwide members. Translation service is available to members.

BARTERING

The Slave Trader concerns itself only with S&M orientated activities. Membership includes a listing in their newsletter, and remailing service (there is a fee for answering ads charged to non-members). All ads are coded, the newsletter runs about 10 pages, with some photos. Another strictly correspondence club with no meetings or gatherings. Membership is national, a few foreign listings. lbs., 8" uncut, experienced Master or slave with cabin in the mountains for outdoor scenes. Have had excellent training in both roles. Am gentle but firm, respect limits. Not into excessive pain or force. Prefer the experi perienced.

ARIZONA STUD TRAVELS for hot scenes, 6', blk / brn, bearder veut, hung, w / m, 30's, 165, topmen to mete out heavy punishment, meatotomy an C / B / T as well as other servitrips, including deep FF a of your individual desires prac practitioner will eventually Reply with phone, pleas Dig hot, sweaty man activ used beer, raunchy coc

STROKE TOGET California j / o buddies of hot men into hot We're state-wide and tails: H.H.C., Marc, Hollywood, CA 90038.

SAN FRANCISCO, goo cut stud. Seeks dom uniformed law man, leatherman SS or Gestapo head trips, discipline, s mad doctor C&B. Witche few other outrageous fathat we will talk about. No one who doesn't know head is. Please, Sir.

NORWALK S loot 18-30 who is willing to serve and on take what I dish out. I am 23, 5'6", 125 lbs.

OUR CROWD

We couldn't resist including ourselves. The Leather Fraternity is the brother organization of which Drummer was originally its member publication. Currently the Leather Fraternity has over 500 active members. Members automatically receive Drummer subscriptions with their membership, and a compli- mentary ad listing, either coded or non-of / the / control [×3+] tations to all Drummer events. Added member-only benefits include a discount card for all purchases at The Studstore in San Francisco, and special invitations to selected events throughout the country hosted by other organizations and businesses . Membership is yearly. Forwarding service is provided for members, fee charged to non-members.

SOURCES:

The Leather Fraternity / The Drummer Club, 1500 Folsom, San Francisco, CA 94103.

Interchain, Box 410, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011. (USA Office). Slave Trader, Box 253, Naperville, IL 60540.

Holiday Bulletin, Box 1208, Minneapolis, MN 55440.

The Toilet (Write to: John Hole, 433 Douglas Street, San Francisco, CA 94114).

Black & White Men Together (Write to: BWMT, 279 Collingwood, San Fran- cisco, CA 94114). SMADS, Box 712, Old Chelsea Station, New York, NY 10013.

Foot Fraternity, Box 3385, San Francisco, CA 94119.

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DIALOGUE BY ROBERT PAYNE

It seemed like a good idea at the time. DRUMMER has been packing houses from coast to coast with the DRUMMER been packing nouses from coast to coast with the DRUMMER parties. How about packing our own? Glorioski! What a neat idea. A DRUMMER Club of our very own! The prospect sounded more exciting than anything since the time we b

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Photo by DAVE SANDS

EACH STRIVING TO CREATE PERFECT

When the photographers came in to do their work for DRUMMER's articles and covers (a dedicated lot, those photographers), it slowed things down considerably. With those hunky, uncovered hulks running around all hot and hor

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The Bot-oce CO.-DOC

By Ron Harvie

The second he stood up he felt something happening between his legs.

He tried to blame how he'd been sitting, or how long, or how wrong his new underwear fit. He tried to concentrate on other things. Like the record the blond boy in the finger-smeared plexiblass booth had played over and over all night long, smiling out over the dance floor each time. Or like the pale coughdrop sun of 5 a.m. struggling up over two lumpy greystone buildings at the corner of the Damrak. Damrak. Nieuwendijk. Raadhuisstraat. Rokin. Kalverstraat. He recited the streets that ran off the Dam Square, and each word pumped more blood to his cock. He couldn’t the beer and the no-sleep and the chill blasts of dawn air had destroyed his self-control. He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was the worst thing he could do, but he felt his cock. Hard as a racquet-handle. He hunched shoulders forward and pulled sweater down and made fists in pockets, as if lumps of hand could conceal ridge of cock. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, staring. He mocked himself: at 5 a.m. in this cold what did he expect, the whole population of Amsterdam with kids and cameras out to see his stupid hard on? And of course he was alone in the windblown square - except for a beige lump asleep? dead? in the far corner, stretched on a bench. He felt guilty anyway. As usual.

He walked toward the War Memorial, a huge grey-white obelisky shape sticking straight into the air like …

He rubbed his cock again. At least it warmed his fingers. He stared blankly at a wooden box of plants on the base of the memorial. A few tired leaves stuck up at him through layers of cups cans butts bags christ-knows-what-else stuffed into the roots and branches of what looked like some incredible Dutch hybrid of Impatiens. He reached into the gunk and pulled out a filthy McDonalds bag. He pried it open, thinking the standard things about western civilization. He held it out gingerly like it was dead. Even more gingerly, he picked out the least disgusting things in the plant box and dropped them into the bag. Suddenly, he saw color! Flowers, red and orange flowers! He started scooping out the compressed crud by the handful and stuffing it into the McDonalds bag until it almost ripped from the weight. Then he pressed the exposed plant roots back into the semi-cleared earth. Looking at him then, you would have sworn he worked for the Amsterdam Parks Department, as he cleared and dug and packed and shook out the battered plants. Breathing hard, he finally stopped and shouted out to no one and everyone "Never had a thirty-thou a year v.p. shovel your shit for you did you, Amsterdam? So you owe me one and don't you forget it!" He stood there in the wan light licking his flaky lips. He felt his cock drop shift in his shorts - gardening had half-killed his hard on. He stared at his hands, smeared, earth- stained, a piece of something dangling off one fingernail. He felt like a dirty kid. Almost panicking, he searched for some-but where to clean his hands before someone saw them where? He called himself a fucking idiot. He slapped down hard on his thighs. Then looking at the handprints on his pants, he choked with frustration. He shook his ruined hands helplessly. And suddenly … they weren't his hands anymore, they were 14 year old Bryan Firth hands, one day, one very definite day, another June long ago, but this time on a small patch of green land, in front of a house, his house, his parents' house, 12 Bradford Road, and he, Bryboy, crouched on the lawn with a weeder in one dirty hand dandelion-root in the other, crouched watching not the weed but the figure across the street, the other boy, Čarl, seventeen, out polishing his car as usual, and as usual wearing only his faded yellow track shorts, working up a shine on his car and on his skin, his big solid brown skin, tanned like leather so early in the summer, moving, rippling, straining over the car hood, legs springing shoulders dancing forearms tautening, while his, Bryan's hands groped blindly for another dandelion to uproot, while his eyes drank the sweat of Carl's body and tried to swoop low enough to catch a flash of pale cock bouncing in the shadow of the yellow shorts … and then a car passed between Bryan and Carl's cock … his father's car, home early, and Bryan flicked down his head and jabbed the weeder into the grass miles from any dandelion and felt his face flush as his father called out 'Hi Bryboy' and then 'yeah, well as long as you're doing something useful I guess I shouldn't expect a smile too,' and he, Bryan, peered up and watched his father go to the street edge of the lawn, bend, pick up something and call to Carl 'Hey Carl, this yours?' and Carl, looking up, 'Yessir Mr. Firth, guess it is sir' and walking laughing to his curb, the lowering sun drawing perfect rectangle on his big chest and belly … and Carl rubbing one hand across his damp slabs of flesh, making his nipples peak and point into Bryan's eyes like accusing fingers, while he, Bryan, lost what his father and Carl were joking about because his ears rang and his head pounded and his cock stabbed into his stomach like he was leaning on a picket-fence, and he couldn't stand, he didn't dare, so he half crouched across the grass at the hose faucet, spun the handle, grabbed the hose and turned it on himself full tilt and then leapt up with a yelp at the icy water drilling into his body and stared rigid with fear at the two faces, his father's and Carl's, turned on him harder than the hose and laughing, laughing

He blinked and shook himself back to reality. Bryan Firth. Age 35. Place: Dam Square, Amsterdam. Time: June 6, 1977. He said all this out loud, trying to calm himself. As he spoke, he brought his muddy hands up in front of his face. His breath bounced back at him - it smelled like the bottom of a beer glass. He slammed his eyes shut, like canal-lock gates against walls of water. And then. He saw it. On the back of his eyelids.

The face of Banner Fenecat. Laughing, laughing.

Every so often in your life, there is an instant in time when you change forever. Usually, the change is only a notch, a degree, a soft clicking noise, like a single tumble-bolt falling into place in a six-digit bank vault

Bryan Firth stopped shivering. He rubbed his hands clean on the inside of his pant cuff. His teeth flashed into the crisp morning air. His eyes sparked and his hair shone. Under his sweater, chest and shoulders tingled with sudden strength. He sprang up the wide stone steps to the base of the obelisk. Behind it, like a shield, ranked a yard-high wall of marble, chiselled with a long inscription in Dutch. He set his back to the wall and faced out over the square, and while his left hand rubbed over his chest, squeezing his nipples through his sweater, in his pocket his right hand found his cock, flicked it up, stroked the long ridge of its underside. Two, three strokes and he was hard. But he kept on caressing his cock through the slippery material of his pocket. His sheathed fingers curled around the film of skin that miraculously held together the thrusting pipe of blood and muscle. He moved down gently, very gently, over the fuzz-covered balls huddled at the base of his cock. And all the time he was loving himself, he stared out over the city, the world, as if to say 'Bryan Firth Pleads Not Guilty.

He unzipped. His cock leapt into the morning, He cupped his balls and cradled them out over the zipper-teeth. He stared at himself. The brightness of his skin dazzled him more than the surprise flowers in the plant box. Breathless, he gripped his straining cock. His belly flattened with the shock of cold on hot. He pumped slowly, steadily, squeezing his balls against fabric and zipper on the down-str lets of lubricant at the tip of his cock on the upstroke. Six, eight strokes and he was drunk with his power and brilliance. He teetered on the brink of orgasm. He teased himself. Suddenly , out of a street on the far side of the square, spurted a car, a little white car, poking its nose forward like it was looking for something. Bryan's hand moved faster, tougher. He sucked great gulps of air. He surged up, forward on the balls of his feet. His knees locked and air hissed through him like wind over a glacier. And, just as everything shot out of his cock, smacking the stones with resounding manly splats, the black letters on the side of the little white car screamed at him: POLITIE

He stuffed his cock in his pants. Zipper stuck. He skittered around behind the monument out of sight. He leaned against the cool stone. Warm, dazed, smiling, he stretched his arms over head. He groaned with the ecstasy of total surrender, surrender to the now-beckoning face of Banner Fenecat. He opened his eyes halfway. Had the little white car arrived to take him away? No. Nothing. No one appeared. A blitz of pigeons swooped down out of nowhere on a breakfast hunt. That was all.

He staggered out in front of obelisk. Still grinning, he zipped himself up. Then he hopped, jumped, bounded down the stairs into the square and skipped across the paving stones, bowing to the pigeons and giggling. And all the way across the square, he only shivered once, just a small shiver. Due to the last errant gust of morning air and not the first whiff of refueled guilt …

He rooted around his wallet and found the card. Three months gunky at the edges, it said 'L. Banner Fenecat, Vice-President and Creative Director, Gaunt & Macaulay Advertising .' He belted his glass of young genever gin and signalled the waiter for another. He leaned back and felt the stuff warm the inside of his head.

Banner Fenecat. Just the name fascinated him. Maybe a snake would have fascinated him too, but the difference was with Banner he could barely restrain himself from grabbing the man every time he saw him. And he saw him often. In the Highwayman after work. In the Licorne at lunch. In the streets of the area downtown where they both worked. Trouble was, every time they met and spoke, a quickly bored Banner would move off while Bryan just smiled as casually as he could and silently yelled at himself for not saying this or that, for being bland when he should have been bizarre. Yes, Bryan had convinced himself, they should have been much easier together, a team even. After all, how many gay corporate vice-presidents are there rattling around these days?

By the half-light of early morning, Bryan would dream up elaborate plots and scenarios about how he and Banner would finally come together. Often violent, these misty dramas al- ways ended with two bodies crashing at each other like cymbals at the climax of some Russian symphony. Bryan would clutch his almost painfully hard cock, until, along with the dream, it subsided and he woke up. He would lurch to the bathroom and lean on the sink and through squinting eyes examine himself in the mirror. He was usually surprised to find he looked so good, and this would cheer him and steel his re- solve not to think about Banner anymore. Which he managed to do for a good two or three days.

Now he sat slugging Dutch gin and remembering specifically, one afternoon, sitting at the bar in the Highwayman, waiting for Stephanie, reading some trade-paper article on computerized group-insurance frauds, and, at one point, looking up and seeing a man, at a stool diagonally across the bar corner, about ten feet away, a man half turned away from him and talking to someone and smoking, Bryan had stiffened and felt his throat tighten. Whether it was the light bouncing off the bar mirror or the angle of sight or the martini inside him, Bryan couldn't decide which, whatever it was made him focus on one single thing … a hand: its thumb, straight, locked under a cheekbone, supporting a head like a gothic buttress; its first two fingers slanted up, pinching a filter at their tips; its other two fingers curled down out of sight; the full trapezoid of the back of the hand blazed at Bryan's captive eyes. The hand had the texture of pale suede, no tufts no coarse patches of hair, just a flawless chunk of leather-covered rock, its shadow-patterns carved by veins under the skin transfixing Bryan, curves and rolls and ripples carrying him over roller-coasters of knuckle and up the square, solid fingers to two perfect, cornerless rectangles of fingernail that shimmered like new-born ice on a pond in December. He tried to tear away, but his eyes were insatiable, hypnotized by the tiny explosions in the hand, the pulsing, the fleeting flexing shadows. By the time Stephanie arrived, Bryan actually felt dizzy and dragged her around the block to another bar. A week later, walking into the Highwayman again, smack into the middle of a roaring party, he spotted Stephanie in the crush. "What's all this?" "Oh, Banner Fenecat's just been made a vice-president of his agency — now he's exactly like you darling!" Stephanie winked broadly and charged off for more champagne. Crazed by the moment, Bryan took a deep breath, plunged forward, surfaced inches away from a big, laughing face and shouted "Congratulations! I was getting lonely!" and thrust out one of his business cards. "Bryan-wth-a-y-Firth, loudly. Then a hand, the hand, appeared inches from Bryan's face. It held the card Bryan still kept in his wallet. "One of these is probably worth two of yours on the street" his mouth curled like a cat's, "but champagne makes me crazy. Keep it." And he turned back into his crowd, missing Bryan's comeback "yeah, it does that to me too . .

Bryan guffawed at the memory of how he met Banner. A dozen Amsterdam cafe people shot him puzzled glances. He ordered a third gin. And he decided, again, things would be different when he got home. After all, he knew what the prob- lem with him and Banner was. Oh, at first, he had told himself he was purposely holding off, not wanting to get involved with Banner because he, Bryan, was already involved, married, having an affair, or whatever the word is, with Paul. And for a while, he actually believed it. But, one afternoon in the Highwayman, after Banner had strolled away from him one more time, the truth came to Bryan in a flash. He was afraid. Of not being able to satisfy Banner Coghill. Of being reassured and patted warmly after drooping in the clinch. Of not being asked for seconds. And that - being a one-nighter, the ultimate guilt-feeding indignity - was what Bryan was afraid of. "But no more" he promised the little glass of cleaning. "But no more" he promised the little glass of cleaning. fluid-gin in front of him. "L. Banner Fenecat, here's to us!

He gulped, coughed, got up and left.

Ш

"You look different. What is it, a facelift maybe?" Renee greeted him back to the office Monday morning.

"Nope. I simply discovered the elixir of eternal youth Dutch gin and canal water. It can make anyone beautiful. Even you.

"How come they didn't seize you at customs? You're an offensive weapon.'

She then informed him that she'd refused to commit him to any meetings all morning — "I need the time to retrain you, after all" — She had also arranged 3 weeks' worth of mail and memos into 3 piles on his desk. Labelled. A – Hot Stuff, B – Not Bad, C – Lies and Gossip. Bryan went for the C-pile right off. Then, at 10:30, his head still in Amsterdam, he buzzed Renee to place a call for him.

"Banner? Bryan Firth calling. How are you?"

Silence.

"Bryan-with-a-y! I'm wrecked. And where have you been hiding?" "Europe, You knew that."

"Sorry. Me. Slow. Monday."

"Well, anyway … the sex change operations went without a hitch . . " Bryan heard himself imitating Banner. He hoped the other hadn't noticed. "Sex change? From what to what?" "Thanks!" Bryan laughed, trying to change his voice back to normal. "Listen, the male population - all of it - of Am-sterdam asked me to give you a great big wet one. But I can't do that over the phone. So. How about lunch?"

'Today?" Banner paused ominously. "Well, uh, sure. Why not."

"All this enthusiasm must be a strain on your heart." Bryan said calmly, amazed at how nervous he didn't feel.

'What heart?"

"Oh spare me that shit. So. Table for two at the Licorne at one? Are we on?" "We're on."

Banner looked anything but 'wrecked.' Bryan drew a breath and waited for the nervous twitching to begin. But it held off. Banner had taken a corner table and positioned himself so he couldn't see the people at the bar. Bryan sat and started a conversation about nothing in particular. Talking, he looked across the table into the big, square face. Only the smallish eyes and the mouth that brought the phrase 'mean streak' to mind separated it from perfection. And those, he supposed, were the two particular features that created all the fascination . Apart from the unseen chest, ass, cock. And of course, the hands, the god-hands.

Suddenly, right then, Bryan felt the old familiar twinge. He dug his nails into himself to quell his nerves with pain. The waiter brought him a drink. Finally. But, instead of fortifying him, the martini seemed to sluice away the dregs of his crumbling resolution. He heard himself tell himself that this will never work, this is the wrong time and place for any- thing. His inner voice sounded like a trumpet calling up the army of rationalizations, the old tired army, once again to dig the trenches, the maze of truth-thwarting trenches. Suddenly, his eyes focussed on the hands. They played with a cigarette package on the table-top, tapped it, flipped it upright, spun it. The hands were bored. And Bryan knew if anything was ever going to happen, it had to be then, at that instant. Just as at some other precise instant, the universe was born. "I thought about you in Europe" he said loudly and Banner's expression flickered dimly. "In Amsterdam. Your

face appeared to me one morning when I was feeling particularly , uh … sexy.

The eyes across the table seemed to spark.

"It was 5 a.m. and I was in the Dam Square after being up all night. By myself. It was kind of … unusual, really.'

How unusual, asked the eyes and the thin, mocking mouth. Bryan felt like he'd just stepped into an underbrush full of open wolf traps. He started to shrug and laugh and change the subject. "But you haven't told me how I came to you in a vision," Banner smiled demandingly "or how sexy you were feel- ing …

And then Bryan heard himself telling the story of that morning, and it was as if he himself were hearing it for the first time too. His voice sounded distant, like a voice from a stage. It described everything. Bryan was shocked - he'd never talked like this to anyone before. When he hesitated before a certain word, Banner's eyes would force the word out. Easily. The restaurant, the people, the world ceased to exist. There was only Banner's eyes and the story of the morning , the cold, the monument, the flowers, the hard cock, the police car, the come splatting on the stone, and the face, the same face as the one across the table, appearing out of thin air.

He finished the story. Held his breath. Didn't dare move a muscle. At the edges of his mind, restaurant shapes and noises began to rematerialize. But there was no reaction from

Banner. Nothing. Nothing.

Then suddenly Banner's eyelids drooped, his shoulders shifted down and shuddered slightly, he expelled a gust of air. And his hand, his right hand, appeared from below the table, like a dove from a magician's top-hat. It was cupped, it held something precious. Bryan tilted forward to see.

"Ahh" sighed Banner, "another sufferer from the sex-as- risk syndrome." And he brought his hand to his mouth and swallowed its shimmering contents like an oyster from a shell. Then he wiped his shiny palm with a drink napkin.

Right then, seeing Bryan sitting at the table, you would have thought: now there's a cool, untroubled well-constructed vessel sailing serenely through life's waters, like, say, the Titanic on a certain April evening. But then you would have heard a voice, through lips that scarcely quivered, shearing the air like ice on metal: "Banner. Come home with me. Now. Or I'll kill you.'

And for once, with no wisecracks, Banner finished his drink and followed Bryan out of the restaurant.

IV

Like an Alpine avalanche sweeping all before it, Bryan shoved Banner into his apartment. Without a word, Banner headed straight for the living room. Bryan reached to drag him off to the bedroom but missed. And stopped. The half-empty apartment still shocked him, even though it had been weeks since Paul moved out all his furniture.

Bryan watched Banner examine the dark-stained floor with its one too-small Persian rug floating on it like grease on soup. The corduroy sofas huddled together in the corner, clutching their huge wine-stain colored cushions. The vertical blinds. The limp Greek wool drapes the color of very old money. The oak table that looked like it had survived, just barely, the Chicago fire.

"No. On the contrary." And he moved towards the far wall.

Damn it, Bryan lectured himself, by now we should be wrestling up a sweat in the bedroom. He stared at the figure across the room. And an utterly unthinkable thought tiptoed

He actually shook himself to clear his mind. He watched Banner find the two small black frames on the narrow wall by the windows. Bryan had always worried that they looked like that terrible cliche of homosexual decor - tasteful male nudes. But he left them there anyway, because he liked them, they turned him on.

They hung one above the other. Two black-and-white photos. The top one showed a college art class in session - a clutter of young faces gazing up at a figure in the foreground, a naked man on a plain stool, back to the camera. He leaned backward too, supported by locked arms and hands that clutched the stool-seat. One long, smooth leg shot out in front of him, and his head seemed to be turned directly at a boy student in the second row of easels. But what Bryan loved about the picture was the pattern of shadows on the model's flawless back and shoulders. And the way the little stool shaped his ass into two perfect handfuls of flesh. Those kids don't know what they're missing, he would think, smiling

The second photograph was, at first glance, simply the interior of a room. Closer up, it revealed a young man, naked, standing against the frame of open French doors, languidly gazing out at the daylight, his cock lying half hard on one slightly upraised thigh. The rest of the room was almost completely filled by a shiny grand piano, at which sat another man, dressed in suit and tie, playing. That boy is having a song written about him, Bryan would think, frowning.

Fascinated, Banner stared at the pictures. He even touched the glass on one of them. Then he turned and drilled into Bryan's eyes. Bryan blinked. The abrupt change of feeling in the air made things inside him change gear. "What did we call it in school?" Banner said, "shirts vs. skins?" His mouth curled into its long, strange smile. "Which do you want to be today?" "Can't you tell?"

"Just thought I'd make sure." And he whipped off his tie.

With a strange sense of calm strength - where had he felt it before? - Bryan tightened his own tie-knot, straightened his shirt cuffs, sat down on a sofa, crossed his legs, arranged the crease of his pants like he was about to be photographed, clapsed his hands over one knee, leaned back and watched through unblinking eyes.

Banner stood six feet away, back to the windows. Slices of sunlight, combined with the slow, flowing movement of body created some extraordinary atavistic ritual in front of

Bryan's eyes.

Banner took off his shirt. Lit from behind, the curves of his shoulders glowed and his chest, though turned away from the light, seemed fluorescent. Fine dark hair, like newly-sprouted grass on a rolling lawn, formed an arrow-shape pointing down at his belt buckle. The buckle chinked open and the pants slid down, charging the leghair with static. Shoes, socks, faint blue rectangle of shorts — all disappeared. And there was only Banner. The man's eyes never left Bryan's as he made a quarter-turn towards the light. The profile of ass, suddenly revealed, looked like a scoop of vanilla ice cream minus one great, smooth lick. The cock, now spotlit, was uncut. Pinks and peaches and pale tans blended over transparent skin like a watercolor sunrise. Red threads and blue ropes laced just under the skin. The great cock-head poked out, its surface glistening like the inside secret of some rare seashell. To stop himself from pouncing, Bryan gripped his knee till it hurt

Banner moved closer. His leg brushed Bryan's pant cuff. His cock quivered, his leg lifted, he cradled Bryan's knees, he separated Bryan's hands and pushed them down on the sofa. Then, leg muscles flexing, he lowered himself on to Bryan's wool-covered thigh. Resting there, his cock lengthened and thickened and bared its whole head. He arched and rubbed himself gently back and forth. The crease in Bryan's pants ran along the vulnerable skin behind the root of his cock. He slid up over Bryan's raised knee and slowly descended his shin, carefully keeping the razor-crease running along the center ridge of his cock. His balls bounced over the brass links on Bryan's shoe. He paused for a second before rolling his bright, white bulk on to the dark, earth-colored floor.

Bryan almost exploded. He shot up. His cock tried to rip through the pants Banner had made love to.

The man on the floor leaned on his elbows. His hands played over his own heaving belly. Then, one marvellous hand cupped and lifted his balls. He raised one leg and shifted his hips. He displayed his anus to Bryan.

Mesmerized, swallowing hard, Bryan moved his shiny black shoe towards the tiny pink target. He parted the hair with his toe and touched leather to softest flesh.

Banner groaned and shuddered. "Oh God, I knew this would happen …

Bryan slid his foot up over Banner's front. He flicked each of two stiff nipples with the hard edge of his sole. Pressing down and pulling back around the twitching, bursting cock, he dug his heel into the soft white inner thigh of the man on the floor.

Banner panted like a bellows.

Bryan threw off his jacket, tie, shirt. The sudden air on his flaming skin made him flinch. Belt and fly sprung open. Pants and shorts flew down. He bent to pull off a shoe. He brushed Banner's cock.

And Banner came. And Bryan watched and watched. With two fingers, he spread the brilliant liquid over pale belly till it was as shiny and cool as a rink. And his tongue went skating, spinning.

And then two hands reached up for Bryan, He stepped forward. The hands caressed his cock, He felt fire, Ice, His body writhed. His lungs groped for air, his head for space. And he gushed. Up, up, foaming through fingers, cascading over knuckles and sinews and veins and wrists, as Banner's hands tried to catch it, save it all.

Finally, there was no more. Bryan stood rigid, every hair on his body straight up. His cock thrashed wildly, trying to draw up more come, enough to cover Banner completely. Instead, he buckled and dropped panting to the floor between Banner's legs. He held Banner's thighs for support. And he watched, smiling dazedly, as Banner, smiling dazedly, blended both their comes together on his chest, swirling them in pale, soapy strokes over belly, shoulders, nipples.

Bryan whispered, his voice spurting like his cock, "I came in your hands, Banner, your hands!" "Next time" another voice whispered, "it's my turn to flatten you, Bryan-with-a-y …

He kept his promise. And so began a series of what they called Meetings. Together, instinctively, they dropped any pretense of normality. They did things to each other they'd never even admitted thinking of doing to anyone else. They drove each other to the brink of infinity, like kids nudging, daring each other closer, ever closer, to a cliff edge. And for a few hours a week, they were that far away from losing control , from madness. They both knew it, but it was exactly what they both had wanted all their lives. They thrived on each other. The world seemed to start spinning more smoothly for them.

And maybe faster too.

V

One particular Meeting, Bryan found Banner in an unusual mood. The man resisted stimulation, he sagged, he even suggested cutting the Meeting short. Bryan felt like he'd been winded. "No way" he growled bravely, "no put-offs. We agreed." He grabbed Banner's hair and pulled his f from some trick? What?"

'Death.' "What!"

"Guy at the agency heart-attacked this morning. Flat on the carpet, out like a light, awful noises, turned blue. Thirty-six . Shit! I watched them carry him out on a piece of canvas in a dead grey blanket. But you know what I saw in my head? Me. Dead on some bed. All alone. Nobody hollering. No flowers, no cards, no visitors, no windows in the room even. Nothing …

"Banner, come off it …" Bryan didn't want to hear any more.

"That's the way it's going to be for me. I know it Bryan-with -a-y. And I hate to tell you, but that's the way it's going to be for you too …

"Fuck you."

"Sorry, but it's true. See, there is a difference between us and the straights. A fatal difference, When we die — you and me Bryan-with-a-y, when we go we're gone completely. Like that, Forgotten. The world even whispers ' tries to wipe away all traces of the way we were. And we can't stop them. We don't leave anything behind to tell the truth. No kids. No grandchilcren. No one to carry the torches of our souls. Or our looks. Or our brains. Or our diseases." He snorted. "Even our names are dead and gone. All of us goes at once. Forever . . " Banner slumped bonelessly, staring with pale, distant eyes. "If I died tomorrow, the world would say so what' …" Dead silence.

Death? Banner? Bryan gulped some air. He didn't know what to say. Then finally his voice reverberated through the room like a muffled gong. "Banner, If you died tomorrow, the world would be sorry, very sorry. Because I'd make it sorry."

Meeting uninvited … "

Another day, another Meeting. Bryan, wide-eyed, white-faced, shaking. Banner pretending to be angry. "You said you didn't need booze or dope. You said / made you high enough …

"Need a drink … " "I noticed." Banner had to wrap Bryan's hand around the glass to keep it from spilling. "Christ! You're not kidding are you? You're shot, What the hell happened?"

Bryan downed the drink, whatever it was, in one swallow. "Was in a meeting, department heads, nothing special, usual shit, sitting there in the Mahogany Boardroom waiting to start. This guy started talking - Waller, the Personnel Director, one …

Bryan went on, oblivious "Never paid much attention to this guy before, wasn't even really listening this morning until I caught a word. 'Faggots.' Followed by a few choice adjectives . Then I paid attention. This guy was working himself up, all red-faced, veins popping out, over the fact that some gay couple moved into a house near him. Correction. Bought a house near him. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, The words. In that Boardroom. Incredible … "

'Swearing in church? Despicable!" Banner still laughed but his eyes were cold. "And nobody else seemed to be bothered. I looked around. Wall to wall executives, how many hundred thou a year total salaries? All sort of nodding, chuckling. God damn it Banner, they were agreeing with that maniac!" "Surprise, surprise!"

"Bland smiling killer faces. I wanted to scream …" "You want another drink?" asked Banner quietly.

"Let me finish. I looked down the table at Charlie McLean. The President. But he didn't do anything to change the subject . Just sat riffling papers. Even you, Charlie? I thought. And and Dinners (6:00 p.m. - 10:00 p.m.)

FULL HOTEL FACILITIES

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I wanted to stand up and shout. But of course I didn't. As usual, I held back.

Banner handed him a drink.

"But today, something was different, I was different, maybe . My stomach churned, I could see it moving under my shirt! God, for a few minutes I thought I'd be sick. Don't ask me what went on at the meeting - I didn't hear a world. All I know is it seemed interminable. Finally, they began getting up to leave. I walked up to Charlie McLean. I still wasn't sure whether I wanted to talk to him or belt him, but I said "Char- lie can I speak to you for a minute, please." He made me just stand there while he finished his conversation with whoever. Finally, he turned back to me with this innocent expression. And suddenly, instead of boiling over, I felt as calm as an iced-over lake. I said 'Charlie, I am a homosexual and I was offended by Waller's mouthing off this morning … but the thing that really hurts is everyone in the room agreeing with him. Banner, I couldn't believe it was me talking! I've never said anything like that in my life …'

'And what happened?"

"After a second, Charlie coughed. That's all. He coughed. And he turned away like he'd just heard a phone that he had to answer." He grabbed Banner. "Tell me Banner! Can they all be crazy! All of them!" "Let me put it this way. Yes." Banner poured two more drinks. And he said very seriously, "you're a brave man Bryan-with -a-y … and now, I'm going to decorate a certain chest for bravery.

And another day, another Meeting. On Banner's floor, as cluttered with furniture as Bryan's was sparse, sprawled a sixth of a ton of steaming male flesh. Bryan lolled on the wet raft of Banner's thigh, making kitten noises, breathing dense crotch air, gazing at Banner's lazy cock … a baby in a pink blanket on a fur rug, Bryan grinned to himself.

Banner heaved up his other leg. Stretched it straight. His toes just touched the TV. He curled them around one of the knobs - Banner could manipulate his feet in ways that sometimes made Bryan vaguely nauseous. He found the on-off and clicked it. The screen crackled. Pale pastel shapes tried to form behind the glass, but the deeper, purer amber light of late af- ternoon killed them, sucked them dry. Bryan started to lapse back into his semi-dreams, but a voice from the TV yanked him bolt upright. "… and I can say with all honesty that I'm anything but a fanatic. I think I'm a typical, reasonable man and parent. And I certainly have no intention of suggesting — like some do of course - that all homosexuals be locked up or shot. That's absurd, isn't it? Why, just recently, a couple of them bought a house on my own street, and while some of my neighbors have

"Who?"

"Waller! The personnel creep at the office. The one I told you about last week!"

"Well, well. Let's see. Nice make-up job. Very lifelike hair." "Shut up! I want to hear what's going on. Seems like an interview . .

A female voice said "So Mr. Waller, your sole concern is to change the hiring practices of the School Board?" "Exactly. I simply do not want a known homosexual teach- ing my child …" "Hell no! Kid might learn something!" "Shut up, Banner!"

"… and I'm sure all thinking parents agree with me on that." "The little bastard!" spat Bryan. "Where does he buy his suits? The toy department?" said

Banner.

Waller continued unctuously, "Homosexuality is not a civil right. It's a threat to my personal rights and my children's

"The slimy little fucker!"

"As Mrs. Waller remarked on her wedding night …"

… now I'm not going to quote the Bible on the subject - other people have done that. Let me just point out that homosexuality can't be a natural thing. Even cats and dogs don't do it, heh heh …

And he knows all about that, heh heh" said Banner.

"Turn that shit off!"

Bryan stood over the TV trembling. He glared down at Ban- ner. "Doesn't that get to you? At all? You can still sit there and joke about it after how many years of hearing it, of hear- ing them call you garbage?" "Just because I don't react the same way as you doesn't mean I don't care as much, Bryan. I just don't think we'll change anything sitting here yelling at a TV set.

Bryan exhaled. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just can't seem to take it any more. Clean, quiet law-abiding tax-paying citizen Firth sits up nights making Molotov cocktails … "

"My favorites …

"And you're the one who's changed me." "Ah, so it's all my fault?"

Bryan kneaded Banner's shoulders and neck. "Yeah. So watch it, citizen Fenecat.'

Silence. "First thing I'm going to do is get that bastard fired. I outrank him in the company, and McLean owes me one …

"Good idea, Bryan-with-a-y" Banner made his narrow smile, "make a martyr out of him. Then he'll get more TV exposure, more press . .

"Well at least you're thinking in the right direction. Trouble is, killing can be messy. And I believe it's illegal. And . it's also been known to create a martyr or two. No, killing's out …" "You're getting at something, aren't you? …" "You're getting at something, aren't you? …"

Banner shifted up to a chair, crossed his legs, arranged his balls, peaked his fingers under his chin. "First, let's assume that what speakers are a speaked his chin." that whatsisname Waller is right …

"What!"

"Right. That we are threats to him, to his lifestyle, to his ability to raise his children. That's evidently what he believes in his own psychotic way, and we're never going to talk him out of it, are we?"

'I guess not …''

"No. So, look at it this way: if the man says we're a threat, believes we're a threat, then? …

Bryan frowned.

"Then we mustn't disappoint him. We must be a threat."

"But I already suggested . .

"Getting him fired, which would in fact be doing him a favor. Or killing him, which would mean potential trouble for us, and would be much too quick punishment for him. No, what we have to do is … " "Ruin his life!" said Bryan. "Make him suffer for a good, long time …

Banner grinned and rubbed Bryan's cock. "Arrange it so, for the rest of his little life - however long that may be that his one and only concern is how to cope with the pain. Make it so the idea of sex in any form is the ultimate gut- wrenching horror. And, most important, we must arrange it so that other people, the straights that is, instead of giving him the sympathy they know intellectually he deserves, instead of that, they instinctively recoil. That's how we must punish him." Banner's eyes flashed.

"I can't figure what would accomplish all that" said Bryan

"but you obviously know some way …"

"Mmm. I have a small idea . "For God's sake, tell me!" Bryan made a fist around Banner's balls. "Tell me how we're going to punish Waller!"

VI

It had to be planned properly, of course. First, before they could decide when, they had to figure where. Bryan suggested the offices of Commonwealth Insurance. Banner laughed it off. Then he, Banner considered Waller's home, Bryan vetoed that. Said it would cause too much of a hassle for Waller's

"I know, but let's not give the hasslers any extra help."

A street snatch. European and Latin urban guerillas use the technique with apparent success. Must be, they decided, because it adds to the victim's disorientation - he's nowhere familiar and safe-looking when it happens, so he knows he's in for trouble, so his imagination goes crazy with fear. Yes, a street snatch it would be.

"Particularly since the bastard's probably staying late at the office these days. Those types always use company paper

and xeroxes and postage meters for their personal crusades," said Bryan.

"Right. Can you find out about that? If there's any par- ticular day he's been working late?"

'Well … there's a night security guard … cute kid … Looks like he's into muscle-building . .

"Why Bryan-with-a-y! Where the hell do you find time for all of us hunks!"

"Eat your heart out. Actually, we've only said hello and goodbye. Unfortunately. But I'm sure I can persuade him to show me his … sign-out book." Which he did. And the book said Mondays and Wednesdays, five weeks in a row already, between 8 and 9 p.m., a regular and conscientious J.M. Waller signed out of Commonwealth Insurance.

The next thing was necessary equipment. The green garbage bags, the diapers, rubber gloves, lubricant, nylon stocking masks were easy.

"The rope and gag are no problem either" said Banner. "Aha!" said Bryan, "You laughed when you saw my shelf of John D. MacDonald books. But good crime writers can teach you a lot. Like, pretty colored plastic electrician's tape is better than any rope. The captive can never work it loose, and it leaves no burns or welts. And, an ordinary face-cloth is the ideal-sized gag. And, a whispering voice cannot be identi-fied later

"Anything else, Sherlock?"

"Only a few other little physical tricks. But I've showed all those to you in the past few months. Didn't you notice?" Bryan leered.

Next, the glass. They found exactly the thing in a lab equip- ment store down on Craig Street.

The big problem was the car. They needed something <math>\frac{1}{2}</math> my <math>\frac{1}{2}</math> a small truck or one of those panelled vans kids roomy decorate into rolling playpens - and they'd have to borrow or rent it. Both alternatives sounded dangerously bare-faced.

"We could steal one …

"I think we're a little overage to survive the indignity of being picked up for joy-riding …" "Rent it under a phony name?"

"We'd need phony ID, licenses, stuff like that …"

"Hey!" Another John D. MacDonald trick popped into Bryan's mind. "My crime professor has a theory that the best alias is the name of your victim …"

"Very clever. I don't follow …" "Simple, my dear Coghill. I rifle his office and get some business cards, envelopes addressed to him, bills, check blanks, if we're really lucky maybe even a credit card or company ID. Then, I go down to the Motor Vehicles Bureau, say I'm Waller and I've lost my driver's license. They ask their computer if I'm legal. It says yes. They ask me for some ID and 2 bucks. they issue me a duplicate license. And we rent the van Bingo - you're just another pretty face." Swat. Wrestle.

VII

"Where the hell is the bastard? It's after 8:45."

"Maybe he's changed his pattern. Or maybe the kid with

God's sake!"

"OK OK, relax" Banner slid one hand over Bryan's crotch.

"lay off!

The hand retreated. Silence. "Chickening out, Bryan- with-a-y?"

'Fuck you! I'm just trying to concentrate, that's all. This is no time for messing around! We could get charged with kidnaping."

"For starters."

"Banner," Bryan snapped, "I love you but sometimes I want to break your teeth.

Silence.

"We don't tell each other that. I wonder why."

"What?

"I wonder why that was the first time the word 'love' has been mentioned since we … got together?" "And that just made twice" said Bryan.

"And baby makes three. I love you." Banner looked straight ahead into the night, his face half lit by the lobby- glare of the Commonwealth Insurance Building. "We don't have to go through with this, you know. "Yes we do," Bryan said too loudly.

But not that night. Because Monday night, J.M. Waller did not show.

Wednesday meant another wait. But this time . .

They watched J.M. Waller sign out and exchange some little joke with the night guard.

"The fucking hypocrite" spat Bryan through his nylon mask.

The guard unlocked the big glass door. Waller was carrying a briefcase and a big brown envelope, very full. As soon as he reached the curb, he hailed a cab. One squealed to a stop instantly

"Shit! He's taking a cab home!"

"Maybe not home" said Banner, "Let's see …" He pulled off his mask. Bryan stared at him. "You're the one who reads the pulp novels aren't you?" Banner continued. "Do I have to actually say Follow That Cab?"

They followed. They knew Waller lived outside the city, so when the taxi did not take the way to the Parkway, they knew he wasn't headed straight home.

"This is even better" grinned Banner. "We'll grab him in a totally unknown spot. Complete disorientation! Wonderful!"

The cab sped up and the driver was a lane-dancer. Still not familiar with handling the van, Bryan lagged behind. He ran a light at Greene Avenue to avoid losing sight of the cab alto- gether. He hit 45 in a 20 zone. But he caught up, Just in time to spot the taxi make a sudden left. No signal. Bryan braked hard and the guy behind squealed and swerved and slid by an inch away yelling "fuckin' cocksuckin' asshole!" Banner blew him a kiss.

When Bryan finally made the left through the traffic, the cab had pulled away and Waller was walking back towards the corner and the entrance to a low, red-brick apartment

He never made it.

Banner leapt out, clapped Waller's mouth shut, twisted his arm up behind his back, threw the man into the dark van. Bryan jammed the gag into his mouth and rolled the orange

tape four times around his head.

They stripped off Waller's pants with hardly a struggle. Then, they both worked rolls of tape. They bound Waller's wrists to his ankles, figure-eighting the happy orange adhesive with the speed of master weavers. They slammed Waller's head to the floor. His knees bounced up and apart, automatically pulled by his wrists. Perfect, they nodded to each other. In a silence broken only by muffled grunts from Waller's sweaty face, they worked together like they'd been doing this all their lives. One of them thwacked open a green garbage bag. The other cut off Waller's underwear and dropped it in the bag. They stopped, looked at each other. Banner whispered "as predicted. Oh well, they say good things come in small packages.

Bryan spread three layers of diaper from the pale blue box with the cute baby on it under Waller's buttocks.

Banner snapped on a rubber glove, lubricated the fingers and shoved two of them up Waller's anus. He rotated his hand, trying to locate the prostate gland. Success. The man's penis began to bloat. "Amazing. Who says a man can't be raped!"

Bryan removed something from a small cardboard box and held it delicately up in the almost-darkness. Bluish street- light, leaking through the front window of the van, made the object look like a tiny icicle.

Just then, they both stopped. Waller had started shitting with fear. When the crud stopped flowing, the diapers were carefully gathered and stowed in the garbage bag. And a last-minute addition to the equipment - air freshener - was kissed on the cap by Banner.

Bryan looked down at Waller. The man sweated uncon- trollably. His eyes whirled and streamed tears of panic.

From behind the nylon mask, Bryan began to whisper at his captive's face. "Mr. Waller, what I'm holding is a hollow glass rod. 5 inches long, and very thin, see? In a minute, I'm going to insert it into your penis. That's why my friend is giving you that nice little erection. Which he can do, by the way, because your prostate is on our side. Now, when I insert the glass, you won't feel a thing. Until. You start going soft. At which time, I and my friend, with the sides of our hands, see? smash the glass into thousands of tiny slivers. And the slivers lodge into your flesh. Forever."

Now the man was trying to shit himself inside out, but only a trickle oozed out on to the clean diapers. Banner whispered too:

'Yes, Mr. Waller, forever. From tonight on, every movement , even just standing up, will be torture. And urinating will be so excruciating that you will want to die rather than piss. And no surgeon will be able to help you. No. The only two solutions to your dilemma will be suicide and … total amputation. So, Mr. Waller, from tonight on, you won't be a man any more. I hope you've been a good man up to now, have you, hmmm? Have you done unto others as you would have them do unto you? Oh Mr. Waller, no you haven't. Tsk tsk. And that's why you're here isn't it? Nod if you know why you're here."

Pause. Then, hesitantly, he nodded.

"Good." Bryan's whisper took over again. "Now nod again if you think there's any way you can convince me not to insert the glass rod.'

Pause, Twitch. A tiny nod.

"You do?"

Nod. Nod.

"Hmmm. Could it be you're going to make us a promise, Mr Waller? That you will stop your hate campaign against us, against homosexuals?"

Nod nod nod. "I'm sorry, Mr. Waller, but that's just not good enough."

The man ruined another layer of diaper.

"Now I'm going to insert the glass rod. I'd do it even if you promised to reverse your hateful crusade. Even if you promised to demand more time on TV to announce your sincere and god-inspired change of heart, and your love and respect for all homosexuals. Even if you promised all that, I'd still insert the glass rod. Wouldn't you, if you were me?"

Shake shake shake shake.

"No? You mean you'd believe the promises?"

Nod nod nod nod.

"I suppose that's because you'd know your … captive . . realized he was vulnerable every minute of every day, and he would be grabbed again the minute he broke any of his promises?"

Nod. Nod.

"Grabbed instantly if he back-slid for one second, if he just pretended to change his ways, if he showed only a new facade over the same old rotten wood, if he crossed his little fingers when he preached his new gospel of love and tolerance? Is that why you'd believe your captive, if you were me, Mr. Waller?"

Nod.

"Well, I don't believe you, Mr. Waller." Banner worked the prostate again. Bryan rubbed some lubricant on the rod, pinched open the duct at the top of Waller's penis, touched the glass to the skin.

The man was in spasms. Blue in the face. Liquid oozing from every possible opening. And his eyes had that glassy, unblinking stare of the about to die. He had snapped forever. "OK Mr. Waller." They looked at each other through nylon . They rearranged Waller's pants and blindfolded him. The man was limp, slimy — they touched him only with disgust.

They ripped off their masks. They stuffed everything into the garbage bag, including Waller's briefcase and envelope. They cut loose his hands and feet, perched him on the edge of the van, started the motor, and pushed him on to the sidewalk . He hit it like a bag of milk and lay there. The van sped away.

Silence.

"When did you decide?" said Banner.

"Right then, A proverb flashed to mind. Maybe it's John D. MacDonald again, or maybe Machiavelli, although I think it's my own … "I'll bite."

"The enemy's imagination is your greatest ally. Not bad, hmm?

'Hope you're right …"

"We'll see … Silence again.

'Anyway, Mr. Vice-President, I move we continue this Meeting somewhere more … intimate . .

"Mr. Vice-President, I second the motion. Where to?" And The Corporation held a rare all-night Meeting. 🎬