"If a man does not keep pace with his companions. perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. Henry David Thoreau

MALECALL / DEAR SIR Your chance to talk back. 6

FUCKING OFF AT THE NEW DRUMMER OFFICES When the con- 8 struction crew found out that the building they were redoing was to be the new Drummer offices, they had a hard time keeping their minds (and their hands) on the job. And we had Jim Moss there to document all the "coffee breaks."

INTERROGATION BY THE HUN 20 Hold onto your balls, The Hun is back with a two-fisted, gut-wrenching new adventure (and a heart-stopping illustration to go with it) that'll remind you why everyone calls him Sir!

DRUMSTICKS Carlucci strikes again… 24

THE MARAUDER BY JARED SCOTT 25 A dark stormy night…a van…a mysterious stranger…a knife… lock the door and read at your own risk.

THE PERFECT MAN BY ROY F. WOOD 41 Something as mundane as doing your laundry can turn out to be the experience that changes your life, if you know what to look for amid the dirty socks, and if you're man enough.

45 YOU ASKED FOR IT! More of the outrageous requests from our readers (or) Fantasies Fulfilled.

The first look at the bold new Rex poster commissioned for the opening of the Studstore.

DRUMBEATS If you can't get your ass plowed (or find the perfect ass 53 to plow) in these pages, then you might as well hang it up, 'cause this is the biggest collection of prime meat you'll find anywhere.

73 DRUM The saga continues…

DRUMMEDIA VIDEO Besides the latest hot porn, a special look at 77 heterosexual SM / B&D.

DRUMMEDIA BOOKS A modern retelling of the Sleeping Beauty 82 legend with a decided bent…towards the lash.

DRUMMEDIA FILMS David Bowie as a prisoner in love with his 83 guard? You read it right.

LEATHER SCENE 85 Drummer's newest department, a cross between Leather Bulletin Board and The New York Times…

90 DRUMMER DADDIES True confessions from a father and a son.

94 IN PASSING Something to quench that endless thirst…

Cover: When construction was announced on the new Drummer offices, some of the hunkiest carpenters on the block showed up. Photo by Jim Moss. Opposite page: Strung up for Old Glory…or whatever. Photo by Jim Moss.

VOLUME 8 / NUMBER 68 / 1983

CHAINNO CO (I) P) P

DRUMMER's big move from Harriet Street to Folsom Row was about two and a half blocks and has taken over four years. We looked South of Market over when we first came to San Francisco but nothing suitable was available so we found a great old Victorian on Divisadero and were there for two years. Then when we took over our own distribution we needed ground floor space and we bought 15 Harriet, which at least got us to South of Market. After four years, it was becoming apparent that we had outgrown that building. Then the former location of The Trading Post became available and we went for it. Several months later here we are, after interminable delays from the fire department, spacey realtors, non-functioning workmen and the weirdest set of rules ever fostered on indifferent contractors by a building department since the great quake.

It was an off-again, on-again show and months overdue, but the new offices are turning out better than we expected. More room, new people should produce a better product. That's the theory.

But the big change will be the new STUDSTORE on the main floor, where Taste Of Leather / Trading Post used to be. Now when you are in San Francisco you can come in to our new showroom. There are lots of exciting happenings planned and we are looking forward to meeting you in person.

The address is 960 Folsom, which the Post Office is having difficulty learning. We have had mail returned instead of forwarded and are taking measures to put a stop to that. If you have problems, make sure your mail to us is:

960 Folsom Street San Francisco, CA 94107

We can remember having this problem virtually every time we have moved. It is just that the tonnage is so much heavier this time around.

Publisher. [×3+]

FUCKING OFF GOINGS ON

AT THE NEW DRUMMER OFFICES

Photos by Jim Moss

During the early rough stages of construction at the new DRUMMER offices, everyone who could and would help joined in to try to bring us up to within a couple of months of schedule. Even Val Martin took off everything else during the hottest spell San Francisco has seen in years and donned a carpenter's belt. He brought his friend Chet with him and together they put a new ceiling in the art department. It took two days and it was hot work. Then they went to another part of the building for some heavy construction.

Along came the Kid, who wanted to learn the trade. The guys said alright, but to start his training properly, he had to work with his cock and balls hanging out. The front of his work pants was sticking out anyway from the time he was introduced to Chet and Val. He willingly unbuttoned and let it all hang out as they worked his little ass off.

halfway measures for Val.

The kid's technique didn't satisfy Val at all and the master had to show him. Chet joined in and showed him how to spit on it, slick it up and enjoy it more. The kid now spells relief with some great one- handed meatpounding and was so grate- ful afterward he happily went about his chores, carrying lumber, handing tool expertly, running errands and getting down on his knees to keep everybody happy.

Three Haiku

I. He gave me a warm Beer as an invitation. His eyes told stories.

11. I am your lover. Let me rub my loins with you, And full moon, kiss me.

III. I know these strangers. I watch them and I envy, Just as their lips touch. -Aubrey H. Sparks

En

I was pissed off and miserable. Miserable because I was pissed off and because it was raining and because some asshole had just ripped off my bike. Miserable too, I suppose, because I was standing on the side of an Interstate wearing the only clothes left to me, broke, miles from anywhere and certain no one in their right mind, except maybe a cop, would stop to pick me up given the way I looked. Nonetheless, I stood there, feeling like a fucking fool, with my thumb out. The bastard who'd swiped my bike after I'd serviced his fucking prick so expertly hadn't had the decency to leave me anything other than my boots, underwear and a denim jacket. The only saving grace in the whole stupid episode was that I'd worn underwear and that they were dark blue bikinis with no fly, giving the impression, I hoped, that I was standing around in the frigging rain in a goddamned bathing suit.

When the van slowed, the only vehicle to do so in the two hours I stood there, I jumped back as it slid past and was actually pissed off at it for taking so damned long to show up.

My anger quickly disappeared as I ran toward it and stopped dead in my tracks next to the scene expertly airbrushed on its side. I stood there, oblivious to the cold rain, staring at the bold, brazen depiction: I wondered for a second how the guy inside had avoided being arrested for driving around with what to me was obviously porn painted all over the side of the vehicle. I say "guy" because the instant I saw the picture, I knew the owner was a man.

Below the painting was one bold word painted in bold, jagged electric colors: Marauder. In the foreground, his back facing me, stood a muscular, herculean-type guy, stark naked save for knee-high boots, his marblelike asscheeks reflecting the mercury vapor lights of a gas station. The face was turned back over a powerful shoulder and his hands were down out of sight in front of him, giving the impression he was taking a piss. I smiled at the statement until I noticed that in front of the figure, harder to make out, was another man kneeling down on all fours, his ass aimed at the unseen prick. Seeing the second guy really made me do a double take and I wondered again how the driver got away with it. I figured maybe the two-hour wait for a ride had been worth it after all. I felt a flush run over my body, driving the chill away as I grabbed for the door handle.

Just as I latched onto the handle, the large door slid open, scaring the shit out of me. Kneeling inside, glowing under the ghostlike light, was the flesh and blood twin of the figure painted on the side. My words of thanks choked in my mouth because, like the painted figure, the guy kneeling, staring curiously out at me, was stark naked save for those same boots. He sat on his thighs, his muscular bulk resting on his toes and knees. His long cock and heavy balls nearly touched the black carpet.

My mind and eyes were riveted to the guy's incredible physique and his super sex gear and I forgot about being pissed off, forgot about being cold and wet and forgot about my long-gone bike.

"Where you headed?" he asked casually, reaching down to

"West," I stammered, watching him gently squeeze his huge balls, forcing them one at a time between his fingers like Captain Queeg working his ball bearings-except this guy wasn't nervous , he was relaxed and grinned down at me mischievously. "You, uh, always greet strangers like this?" I asked.

"Whenever I can…breaks a hell of a lot of ice, quick. Climb in," he said, pulling back out of the doorway, "I'll see if you qualify."

"Qualify?"

"I sure as fuck don't give rides for free." I nodded my understanding , not sure if I did understand, and climbed in, rubbing my bare thigh against his hard flesh, the contact turning me on. The interior of the van was completely barren save for the carpet DRUMMER 26 and black walls and ceiling and a couple of storage boxes mounted behind the two front seats. The warmth of the interior

"Why don't you strip outta them clothes," he said, moving away from the entrance to sit on one of the boxes. I eagerly complied and gave him the once-over as I shucked my things. I felt a little strange, getting so fucking turned on by this guy. I was used to guys turning on to me. Nonetheless, I found myself sitting in the middle of the van floor worshipping this guy like an art lover might worship a favorite painting at seeing it in person for the first time; the feeling for me was unusual, but in itself a turn-on. I savored the hard, smooth flesh and the expertly developed musculature which lay powerfully beneath it. I stared unashamedly at his powerful shoulders which sat board-straight above large, hard pecs. His washboard stomach tapered dramatically to a small waist which in turn perched above small, round, marble-hard asscheeks. His lean, powerful thighs were dusted in the same dark hair which grew abundantly on his head and at his groin. And there were his fuckin' cock and balls which were in a category by themselves and which made adrenaline pump into my mouth. The twin tit-rings and the ring through his cockhead did nothing to cool me down, and as I finally pulled off my briefs my cock slapped loudly up against my own flat stomach. He laughed.

"Yeah," he said, appreciatively, when I finally sat naked before him, "I think you'll do just fine. You any good with that thing?" he asked, nodding toward my rock-hard prick. The question startled me: Did he want me to fuck him? I couldn't believe it.

"Yeah, it does okay by me," I replied guardedly, looking for some sort of trap.

"Yeah, I'll just bet it does; it's a good one. Wanna sell it?" I couldn't believe he was buying.

"Sell it?" I stammered, "shit, it's yours." He laughed again. "I mean sell it. I pay you, you give it to me." Alarms began sounding in my brain: What the fuck had I gotten myself into

'Give it to you…in what way?" I asked, moving my hands nearer to my cock, protectively.

"I always wanted to eat cock, you know, raw. Just chew it up a little then let it slide down my throat…whole. I'll give you ten grand for it, right now."

I sat flabbergasted. "Forget it!" I shouted, and began reaching for my clothes. He laughed harder.

"Relax! I was just askin'. Never know till you ask, right? Shit, I ain't a cannibal." I wondered about that. Why is it, I wondered, that the good ones are always weirder'n hell?

'Come on," he said, rising off the box, "let's get the fuck outta here." When he rose I heard a familiar slurping noise and glanced at the box to see a black dildo sprouting from its top. The guy had nonchalantly sat on then pulled off the fucking thing without me knowing it. I inhaled deeply. With anyone else the self-impaling would have turned me on; with this guy it just confirmed my notion that he was nuts. But before I could make up my mind about what to do, he had slammed the side door and was in the driver's seat.

"Come on up, enjoy the view," he said, slipping the van into gear. I climbed forward and went to sit down when I felt a prickhead jabbing at my asshole. I bolted upright. He laughed again as we pulled into traffic. "You got something against being fucked?"

'No. But usually I like knowin' about it, you know? What the fuck is this thing?"

"It's part of the price for the ride," he said seriously, staring at me with his penetrating eyes. The mood had swung: We'd put the softball away and now were playing with a hard one.

Shit, I thought, looking out past the flapping wipers into the miserable night. I reached below me and felt the fat shaft and

knew I could take it despite its size. But somehow impaling myself on it would be some sort of submission, and I wasn't sure I wanted to play this guy's games. But then I looked back outside again and felt the warmth of the heater as it blew on my legs. Fuck it, I said to myself and gently lowered my ass until the cockhead began spreading my lips. Just then he floored the van and I fell full-force onto the latex prick, feeling it plunge deeply into my unprepared ass. The momentary pain soon left and I turned to curse at him, but the sinister grin on his face told me to shut up.

"You, uh, you get a lot of takers?" I asked, squirming my ass into a more comfortable position.

"Specially on nights like this," he said humorlessly.

"Say, that painting on the side, and the word beneath it… Ma- rauder…what's that all about?"

He stared at me appraisingly for a second. "You ever seen an abandoned mine shaft?" I shook my head "no," wondering what the fuck he was talking about. "They usually put up a sign you know? Sometimes a skull and crossbones, or maybe just a notice sayin' to keep out for your own safety."

My heart skipped a beat. I turned toward him to ask exactly what he meant, thinking I'd misinterpreted his comment, but instead of seeing his face I saw his curled knuckles coming at me full-force.

When I awakened my jaw was killing me and it took me a second to remember him, the van, the whole situation. I was lying flat on my stomach and started to rise up but the pain shot through my balls. I let out a yelp and fell back down. I looked down under me to see that my balls had been wrapped in a tight steel shackle which was padlocked to a ring in the floor.

"Jesus Christ!" I muttered, feeling very panicky. I looked around and discovered that it was daylight, and the van was stopped with the side door open, and that I was apparently alone. The ache remained in my ass and I reached back to massage the aching sphincter but felt instead a leather strap. The brief harness was holding something big inside me and I couldn't get it loose. "Shit!" I moaned, lying down again in resignation. Then I jumped again, forgetting my tethered nuts, thinking that maybe the asshole had gone off and abandoned me. I screamed as the cords in my sack snapped tight, and thought for a second that I'd castrated myself. But the continuing pain radiating out of my balls gave me strange reassurance that I was still a man.

I looked outside and saw we were in the desert. "Hey!" I called out to whomever might be around: No answer. I called out again with no response. Then in the distance, a few dozen yards from the van, I saw him.

He was naked and was climbing to the top of a rugged pile of boulders. I propped my head on my arm, fascinated, momentarily forgetting my predicament. He had painted his marvelous body, accentuating his musculature with lines and shapes with all the patterns radiating inward to his crotch. His maleness was screaming itself to all who might see him. He looked like a savage and the appearance got through to my cock and it swelled painfully, wedged as it was between my stomach and the carpet. I reached down and pulled it loose and gently stroked it as I watched the scene unfolding outside. It occured to me that the way the van was parked, the way I was tethered, that the show was for me. Shit, I was a captive audience.

I watched as the beautiful form climbed higher, and the sight of his straining body, his swinging cock and balls, caused me to pull more frantically at my own prick, but not so much that I'd come: I had a feeling that I'd need that come and more, later. When he finally mounted the tallest boulder he turned and faced me, his arms held high above him. A black mask had been painted over his eyes, but despite it I could see the stern expression on his ruggedly handsome face, and a bit of a sinister expression I'd seen earlier.

His legs were spread and he slowly reached both hands down and grabbed his sex flesh fiercely, then lowered his face and bent his back severely and took his cock into his mouth. I about came right then, until my eyes were distracted by a shiny glint coming from between his legs. I looked harder and made out a knife blade emerging out of his ass, hanging down toward the ground. I watched as he freed one hand, and while continuing to suck himself he reached between his legs and yanked the knife free, holding it by the blade. A stream of clear ass jism dripped slowly from his ass to the ground. Grabbing the knife by the handle he slowly brought it toward his groin and lay its sharpness against the base of his stretched balls.

A chill swept over me as I realized for the first time the extent of the guy's…passions. I wanted to look away but could not. He remained motionless for several long minutes, his cock in his mouth, his balls held sharply upward, the blade poised. I frantically maneuvered myself into a sitting position, my balls stretched painfully back under me, and I tugged at them with both hands, praying for them to slip free. Pain was the only response to my struggling and hesitantly I turned to look back outside to the drama atop the rocks.

In one frantic, sudden motion, he jerked the knife away from his balls and straightened himself, his arms once again high overhead in a victory stance, his massive cock standing out before him looking like a symbol of defiance.

I breathed a sigh of relief until he climbed down from the boulders and walked back toward the van. I tugged at my balls again when I saw him coming, when I saw the blade glinting in the sunlight. I wondered for a fleeting second whether it would be better for me to tear my own balls off, or if I should allow him to slice them off, neatly. I gave up my efforts at pulling myself loose and looked up. He was standing at the opening, the knife in one hand, his other hand clenched in a tight fist. The body paint gave him a wild, ferocious look: My heart was racing.

He slowly climbed into the van; his long prick and nuts slammed into the edge of the floor. He reached toward me and I scooted back as far as my balls would allow. I felt his fingers on the harness and in a second felt the leather straps fall loose, felt the giant shaft buried in me yanked free. I exhaled heavily, relieved. He forced me into an all-fours stance and when I cried out at the intense pain shooting out of my stretched balls, he carefully lay the sharp blade at their base: I knelt then, motionless , barely breathing. The quick, expert jab of his prick at my ass took me by surprise and I gasped as it plunged deeply into me. The attack was vicious, nearly knocking the wind out of me. My tethered balls took the brunt of the blow and I gasped at the additional shot of pain which filled them. Once in me he remained motionless. I was speechless, not knowing whether anything I said would calm him down or send him over the edge. I eyed the blade lying in his hand next to me and kept quiet. I understood then why many rape victims don't protest.

After a few seconds I felt his fingers begin probing my entrance beneath his embedded shaft. I gritted my teeth at the additional bulk squeezing through my assmouth. His fingers pushed and prodded until I finally figured out that he was carefully shoving his copious ballsack into my ass. I started moaning then, more in anticipation of pain than from pain itself. I kept reminding myself that I'd taken fists, but even that realization didn't help. I felt a large object being forced past my stretched entrance and jumped when one of his huge nuts slid through the tight opening to become trapped within me. He relaxed for a second, breathing heavily, before he squeezed the second nut into me. I closed my eyes and testingly squeezed my ass muscles around his sex gear. He gasped and I immediately relaxed my muscles and felt my body fight to expel the too-big

"Don't let go!" he hissed, apparently feeling my ass pushing him out. "Squeeze me harder…harder! Crush my fuckin' balls!" The wild desperation in his voice scared the crap out of me and I squeezed as hard as I could and with each squeeze he let out a cry of agony which filled the van and echoed off the distant rocks. "Harder…harder!" he screamed between yells of pain. He screamed repeatedly as my assmouth chewed on him until finally he fell forward onto my back and I felt the sharpness of his metal tit-rings dig into my flesh. His fingers dug their way under me, toward my balls, and I held my breath.

"Wait…Wait a minute!" I pleaded, desperately, but then felt the shackle loosen then fall away. My balls sprang free like a suddenly released spring and the pain of that instant freedom caused me to cry out. He pulled my ass backwards and helped me move my legs until I sat on his groin, his equipment still firmly embedded in me. He pulled me around, twisting his cock and balls within me until I sat with my legs on either side of his chest; our eyes were riveted on one anothers'.

I thought I caught a glimmer of…desperation…in those eyes. Anyway, it was an expression which, oddly enough, made me feel sorry for him. But then it passed and the uncertain look, the wild look of earlier replaced it.

"Grab on and stand up," he whispered urgently, rolling his head back and closing his eyes. I knew that what he wanted was impossible, but I clamped my ass muscles shut and began rising. I guess the size of his sex gear was enough that my ass got its teeth into it, because as I slowly rose to a low crouch I watched his groin rise with me, fused to my ass. I managed to pull his ass maybe an inch off the floor and he lay still, his teeth clenched shut in pain. He reached down and partially encircled his sex roots with his thumb and forefinger, then slowly reached for the knife. As I watched he placed the razor-like blade against his cockroot. One quick motion would free his body to fall to the floor and would fill my ass totally and irreversibly with his manhood.

Run! I screamed to myself, thinking that while he was so spaced-out I could shit out his equipment and flee. But he still held the knife, and its proximity to my own sex gear allowed the moment to pass.

As I held him slightly above the carpet I held my breath and so did he. Then with a scream of rage which so starled me that I did shit out the precious cargo, he slammed the knife to the floor and grabbed his slime-covered sex organs and rocked back and forth slightly, cradling them in his hands. I was then aware that my ass was leaking. I looked down to see a steady, slow stream of come drip out of my gaping asshole. In the intensity of the

I felt wholly inadequate with this guy. I had no idea what he wanted. But I found that that total uncertainty really turned me on, but not in the usual way. I was no longer getting worked up over his physique, his good looks or even his huge sex set. I was getting turned on by being so completely out of control. I was used to watching slaves jump at my commands, used to people trying to please me and satisfy my desires. But that was all so predictable. The situation with him was anything but predictable , and yet it was wildly exciting in a dark and dangerous way and I felt a side of me emerge that I had never before known.

"Now fuck me," he said, his eyes still closed. My cock, generally as reliable as a steam-driven piston, hung about half-mast, as uncertain as I was. But glancing down at the knife still held in his hand, I began giving it some encouragement. It was strange, having to urge my cock erect, but that strangeness blended in with every other fucking thing that was happening. I caressed and squeezed it, desperately, struggling to ignite that spark of electric energy in its head.

"Fuck me," he said again, more insistently. I squeezed and massaged harder and faster until the spark finally glowed alive. I watched, relieved, as my shaft began rising ponderously. Although not yet rock-hard, I scooted myself forward and crammed it into his sloppy hole. I felt like an automaton; just going through the motions, not really feeling the sensations radiating from my cock that I generally lived for. My only

thoughts as I went through the mechanical pistoning were of his thoughts. Right then, for instance, he gave no indication that he even knew I was in him. He just lay back, eyes closed until for a second I thought he was asleep. My cock was nearly the equal of his in length and girth and I'd never had anyone not react to it as it drove into their ass or mouth, and I soon found myself pissed off that he was so oblivious to my most prized possession. As my anger increased, so too did my intensity until I was pounding into him furiously, slamming against his crotch roughly, scooting him backward on the carpeted floor. I was gritting my teeth, concentrating on hurting him with my prick, so consumed with at least getting his attention that when my cock erupted it took me by surprise. The intensity and unexpectedness of the explosion shook my entire body and my back arched as if in a spasm, which in turn caused my long prick to jab even more brutally into him. He gasped, at last, and writhed under me and his ass began milking me for every drop. I fell forward onto his wide chest, exhausted, and lay there gasping, my cock still plugging his chewing assmouth.

After a moment he slid his ass out from under me and scooted back to sit on his thighs. I looked first into his eyes then down across his sculpted torso and finally at his own hose. It was hard as a rock and I moved forward as if drawn by a magnet and gently lifted its tip with my tongue, savoring the satiny rock-hard smoothness of its flesh, tasting the starchy flavor of the pre-come oozing from its cat's-eye. I opened my mouth wider and played with the gold soldered-shut ring with my tongue before I inhaled the thick shaft, feeling its warmth slide past my lips, over my tongue and finally embed itself down my throat. I smelled his masculine aromas blending with the leather scent from his boots and began eagerly lapping at the underside of the creature within me, caressing it lovingly. I withdrew to take a breath then impaled myself again on the strong, muscular-looking shaft, working my throat muscles against its smooth bulk.

I heard him moan as I worked and thought that maybe I'd finally made contact with him. I reached up and cupped his heavy balls and began tugging and squeezing them, finally understanding that along with the caresses, sucking and other attentions I was paying to his body, he also wanted - needed - some pain, sort of as a chaser…a side dish. I twisted the sack until the balls were held in a tight knot, then began squeezing, harder and harder until he writhed in exquisite agony. I felt like I was servicing a leopard and was unsure just when I'd go too far and what his reaction would be, but strangely, that uncertainty turned me on and my prick resumed its almost-natural state of erection. He moaned louder in pain and pleasure as I twisted and squeezed his sack and worked my tongue along the underside of his penis, feeling its veins and piss-tube bulging like ropes.

His breathing quickened and I felt the shaft shudder and felt his balls attempt to contract. At that moment, he suddenly yanked himself free of my grasp. I looked at him, startled, and saw a look of insane anger on his handsome face.

"No!" he shouted. He got up and quickly jumped out of the van and stood on the low ground beside it and began slamming his cock onto the floor of the vehicle as if it were a rag. I watched in awe as he grabbed his large balls with his other hand and began slamming them too, grimaces of pain and pleasure shooting across his face. I winced too, sympathetically, and held onto my own nuts protectively.

As I watched him brutalize himself, saw the impassioned expression on his face, I realized just how far out of my element I was. I had no idea at that point what to do, for either of us. I thought again of trying to get the fuck out of there, but he had the van, superior strength and the knife, and I had no idea where we were. I felt as helpless as when my balls had been shackled to the floor.

He finally stopped the self-brutalization, stared at me strangely , turned and walked away to sit silently on a large nearby rock.

I sat on my legs staring out at him, wondering what the fuck to do. Finally I decided to go with my instincts. I turned and began (Continued on page 30)

rooting in the box where he'd placed the shackle and harness and found a treasure-trove of devices. Glancing back at him and seeing him still unmoving, I began selecting the things I wanted.

Carrying my choices out to him, I knelt before him. I carefully placed a long ball-stretcher around his pendulous ballsack and locked it shut. He stared down but didn't say a word; somehow I knew he wouldn't. I fastened a heavy chain to the lock on the stretcher. I fastened a smaller chain to a tit-ring, passed it through the ring in his cockhead and then pulled the cock roughly upward and fastened the end of the chain to the other tit-ring. He winced from the threefold pressure, but remained passive. Next, carefully, like sticking a hand too near a crocodile's mouth, I inserted a cock-gag between his passive lips and forced its length into his mouth and buckled it in place behind his head. Finally, I cuffed his hands behind him. I stepped back to view the shackled, helpless creature.

He was magnificent: A real turn-on for me. His muscular body with its aboriginal markings, sweating, bound by the balls, his cock and tits straining against their fetters, his hands held firmly behind him… it aroused a feeling of mastery and dominance in me that I hadn't felt in months, and I reveled in the feeling of absolute power I had over him. Before I'd sold my bar … giving in to a wanderlust … I'd had my pick of the litter every night of my life, and the nearly continual scenes in the backroom had seemed to me then all anyone could ever hope for. But this guy had added a new dimension to SM: Genuine fear and uncertainty , elements which the more civilized practice of the art form quite naturally precluded. I felt some very raw, very uncivilized juices begin coursing through my body as I gazed down on him.

I forced him to his feet and smeared lubricant onto the giant ass-plug I'd found and unceremoniously pushed it into him, ignoring his muffled screams as the cone spread his opening nearly to the tearing point. The scream grew louder just as the widest part of the plug entered him. His assmouth slammed shut to engulf the narrower neck. There was a metal ring screwed into the neck and it remained outside his ass, looking like a fixture used to secure a boat to its moorings. I locked the end of the ball-chain to his ass.

Why didn't I just leave him there - get in the van and drive off? I've asked myself that question many times and the best response I can think of is that I was too turned on to just walk away. He had humiliated me and scared the shit out of me; now it was my turn.

I grabbed the long chain in the middle and began leading him toward the pile of boulders he had climbed earlier. He hesitated , but when the chain snapped tight, tugging hard against his ass and balls, he followed. When we started climbing, he occasionally stumbled and had to allow his sack and balls to take his weight; tears streamed down his passive, handsome face. I was glad, seeing the tears. I didn't intend to castrate him, but liked the feeling that he didn't know that.

I had him kneel before me, once we'd reached the top, and I raised my cock to the hollow gag. I felt the piss begin to flow as I pressed my cochead against the open end. He coughed and sputtered as the warm liquid ran into his throat.

"I understand now," I said to him as I emptied my bladder, "the drawing on the van — the man standing is you. But that less distinct figure, the man kneeling … that's you too, isn't it?" When he didn't respond I yanked on the tit-chain.

He nodded slowly, then eagerly, as if relieved. I removed the gag and was pleased with myself for having guessed correctly.

"You're a marauder all right, but the person you most enjoy … terrorizing…is yourself. That bit with the knife, that's you wanting to cut away the wild man who holds your more tame half captive. All the shit you dumped on me, that's you wanting to dominate … feel like a man. Then when you get that out of your system, your other half takes over and you want to castrate yourself to kill off the wild creature who's in there too. Shit, man, you don't need a knife, you need a shrink." He hung his head without saying a word.

I reached forward to take off the cuffs, feeling that my little DRUMMER 30 analysis had somehow made us kindred. But as soon as the cuffs were off he lunged at me and wrestled me down, and before I knew what had happened he clicked one cuff tightly around my cock and balls. He laughed, then grinned down at me as I stared up at him incredulously, once again frightened of his strangeness . He clicked the other cuff around the log chain which ran from his ass to his balls and turned and walked across the huge rock. I let out a yelp as the chain grew taut and stumbled to my feet, hanging on, following him, my cock and balls on fire.

We climbed down the jumbled pile of boulders in silence. When I would stumble and the chain snapped tight, snapping his balls back between his legs, he just kept on going, dragging me steadily after him despite my protests.

We stopped at the van. The two of us stood there silently for a moment. I recognized the frenzied expression in his eyes I'd seen before and realized that my little attempt at psychoanalysis had been directed to the wild man … the marauder … not to his civilized, weaker half as I'd thought.

"You think I'm trying to destroy myself, huh?" he hissed between clenched teeth, the veins in his neck looking as if they'd explode. "You think I'd want to do away with this?" he asked, grabbing onto his rigid cock, still pulled taut by the tit-chain, his tits sagging long under the strain. "Or this?" he asked, grasping his steel-encased ball shaft.

"You are crazy!" I stammered stupidly, feeling, as soon as I'd said it, that I'd just thrown gasoline on a fire. He laughed and yanked the chain, pulling me nearer.

"I'm crazy?!" Who the fuck got into the van greeted by a bare-assed driver … an obvious pervert?"

"Yeah, but … "

"Bullshit! I may be a little eccentric, but even I ain't that crazy," he shouted. We stood there at a verbal stand-off, him with his war paint on, his cock tethered to the tit-chain, a chain draped from his ass to his balls; me at the other end of that chain locked by the balls, neither of us moving.

Then, as I stared at him, his head lowered and his expression relaxed. Shit, I thought, here we go again.

"Now," he said, avoiding my eyes, "now." Until he reached for my hand and placed it over his engorged prick, I didn't know what he meant. Subtly he raised and lowered his body until I understood. I began stroking the large cock, wincing as I watched the rings in his tits and the ring through his cockhead strain and pull strongly at the sensitive flesh. "Faster," he begged through clenched teeth. I worked my hand faster on the long organ, watching the small chain grow slack then snap tight as I stroked him. He sagged to his knees and I lowered myself with him, watching the copious discharge of his come fly out of his cock. His fists were clenched and his face distorted in rage as his prick hurled charges of white jism up onto his chin, his chest and stomach. As the eruption slowed, the ooze poured steadily out of the large head, running down its sides, onto my hand and down onto his shackled sack to drip to the ground.

He opened his eyes and the expression on his face was one of calm. He gently pushed me away … dismissed me. Grabbing his cock fiercely in both hands, he suddenly snapped it downward, in one powerful thrust, between his legs. His head was thrown back and his lips let loose a piercing scream of rage and pain which dulled my senses. His tits were torn and bleeding and the chain now hung only from the ring in his cockhead; blood dripped down it from the ripped hole.

He sat back on his legs, still holding his cock sharply downward and I watched as his entire being relaxed. I stood mute, feeling numb, staring down at his wounds. He looked up at me and smiled.

When he took me back to the Interstate and let me out, my thoughts turned to previous experiences. I recalled the indescribable thrill that went through me every time a slave begged to be chained, whipped, brutalized, and the sweet ache that filled my groin as I picked up the whip or cuffs to oblige. As I stood there, recalling the brazen scene painted on the side of his van with the bold word painted beneath it, I asked myself: Which of us is not a marauder?

THE PERFECT MAN by Roy F. Wood "I'll never forget those few seconds, watch- ing that hunk com- ing towards me, getting closer and closer—becoming real…" Illustration by RAW

hen you're from a small city like I am, you're cruising all the time: While waiting at traffic lights, grocery shopping, laundro-mats - any place there's a man, you've got to be alert to the possibilities.

I was in the laundromat when I first saw the Perfect Man. Maybe he couldn't have competed in a Mister Olympia contest, but he sure had muscles! His pants stretched across his thighs like he was poured into them and he exhibited the sort of box you'd die to open on Christmas morning. Like I said, he was pure perfection.

Now I keep myself in top condition, too, so it's easy to get away with staring openly at guys like this stud without (unduly) worrying about getting set-upon by queer-bashers — always a danger in a small town where folks are paranoid even while being perpetually horny.

I hate laundromats so I visit them infrequently, leading to sizable amounts of wash everytime I venture into the places. For once, this became an advantage. With every trip to my car for dirty clothes, I got to eye this stallion. He caught on quick to the fact I was interested and didn't appear to get enraged at the idea. I was just about to make an opening gambit when he started unloading his clothes and I saw it.

"It" being a Sheriff's Department uniform.

Just what I needed! I could visualize myself getting tossed in the can for propositioning a stalwart Man Of The Law!

But goddamn! He was perfect! Strong face with a jutting jawline reminiscent of all those heroes in the cowboy movies of the fifties (as seen on the late, late show!). His brown hair was close-cropped (which should have alerted me to his job, even without seeing a uniform), but on him it looked superb. It was easy to picture myself having a session with the guy; I'd willingly play any games he might have in mind!

Well, being only human, I continued eyeing him, but reserved enough caution not to open my big mouth. In due time he gathered up his wash, loaded it into his truck and drove away, leaving me hot, horny and disillusioned. I pretended he looked overlong at me as he pulled away.

And that should have been the end of the episode.

Instead, in a weak moment, I decided to do something foolish. We've got this little weekly newspaper in town whose major attraction is want ads. I sure as hell wanted him, so … I ran an ad! Oh, I worded the damned thing subtly enough. And I knew he's never see it, he wasn't supposed to see it. The whole business was going to be a game. A game in which I could play "what if…" What if he did happen to pick up on it? What if he really did come over and… You get the point? It was all a sort of wishful-thinking proposition. In the kind of town I live in, being 'gay" is ninety percent dreaming anyway. Love — and happiness is somethig reserved for big cities and their steamy bars and

The subtle message ran a week. Now I don't get many phone calls - I'm not a sociable person. Too much of a dreamer - dreaming annoys "practical" people. That week, however, the phone seemed to ring more than usual. I can't describe the emotion which shot through me every time I heard that damned bell. I knew it wouldn't be him — and yet…

The ad expired. So did my hopes. I didn't forget him; but the episode was over. Reality reasserted itself. One afternoon I was just getting ready to step out into the garden to do some weeding when the phone rang. I almost didn't answer the blamed thing.

In the end, I picked up the receiver.

"Is this 543-7264?" demanded a harsh, masculine voice.

"Yes, it is!" I snapped, suspecting I was talking to some damned salesman getting ready to hand me a line.

"You've got a goddamned nerve running that ad in the paper last week."

I almost dropped the phone. I stood there holding the instrument — mute. I had the bastard on the line and couldn't think of a thing to say! Dream and reality were clashing with a DRUMMER 42 vengeance.

"You still there, asshole?" "I'm…still here." I think.

"Well? What you got to say for yourself? You think I'm a goddamned queer?'

That annoyed me. I don't mind being called a queer by a member of the club. Hetero sons-of-bitches better watch out.

"You phoned, didn't you?" I asked him, arrogantly.

"Yeah — to find out what the hell you thought you were doing. Only a real asshole would run an ad like that in this town! Why'd you do it?"

You asked for it, I thought.

"I ran it because I think you're one hell of a sexy stud and I'd love making it with you. I can't even say I thought you'd be receptive; hell, I didn't expect you'd even see the blasted ad. The slight chance you might…and might be willing…

What the hell am I saying? I thought. "Anyway," I rushed on, anxious now to escape, "I'm sorry you aren't interested — but

I'm sure as hell not sorry for running the notice."

I pressed the button on the phone and broke the connection. was sweating. Scared? Or excited? Fool!

The phone promptly rang again.

Warily, I picked it up.

"Goddammit, don't you hang up on me. What's the matter, you changed your mind? Lost your nerve? You hang up again, I'll come over there and whip your ass!"

"You'd have to find me first," I said. I'd only run my phone number in the ad. And what was the guy pulling now? Was he saying he was interested -

He interrupted my confused thoughts.

Hell, I know where you live. I've got ways of finding out stuff like that." He laughed softly, pleased, I think, to be telling me something he no doubt expected would frighten me.

"I'm surprised you went to so much trouble," I told him lightly.

"You still think you want some of me?" he asked. "Want me to come over there?" His voice was loud, dominant. As if he were challenging me to say "yes."

"That depends on why you're coming around."

"Scared, aren't you?" This time there was no mistaking the challenge.

"No." I snapped out the word. "I can take care of myself. I hardly think you'd come over to my place and start trouble. In your position," I reminded him.

"Don't bet on it!" The phone clicked and went dead.

Now what happens, I wondered?

The bastard was so perfect! I didn't know whether I should be nervous or aroused. Arousal won. He couldn't do anything; how'd he ever explain being on my turf?

I decided to dismiss the phone call. The garden still needed weeding.

I was just stepping into the yard when his truck pulled into my driveway. He got out and headed right for me.

I'll never forget standing there those few seconds watching that hunk coming towards me, getting closer and closer, larger and larger. Becoming real! His body was encased in a tight-fitting teeshirt and sweat pants; he filled out each article of clothing.

God, he was splendid!

He halted a couple of feet from me and scowled.

I stared at him. Openly, hungrily.

He glanced around, saw my back yard, noticed it was grassy and secluded and jerked his head at me.

"Back there!" he ordered.

Obviously, he felt he was born to command. Maybe it was a result of working in law enforcement. At any rate, his attitude annoyed me. It was my place, not his!

My hesitation cost me. He expected instant obedience.

He grabbed my arm, hard, and pushed me towards the area he's indicated. When we reached the grassy patch, he spun me

around facing him.

I'd had enough of this. I don't mind being dominated; actually I enjoy it. But dominance is something a guy has to earn, not demand! He hadn't earned anything yet - I wasn't even sure he was on the same wavelength as myself. I flung up my arm, halted his attack and tried throwing him off balance.

It was a futile move. I'm over six feet and weigh close to one-ninety, but he had me by a couple of inches and twenty pounds - and I don't think there was an ounce of fat on his entire frame.

He appeared to enjoy my response. For a moment I thought a smile flickered across his lips. If it did, it was gone quickly. I was too busy trying to keep him at bay to notice.

After sparring for a couple of minutes, he came at me. Not fighting — every time I swung at him he simply blocked my punches. He wasn't interested in slugging it out. He wanted to wrestle. Suddenly it dawned on me we were playing my game. The idea shocked me so much I let up and his hand darted out, grabbed me behind the neck and pulled my head forward. Just as swiftly his leg knocked my feet out from under me. I flopped down on the ground with him on top of me.

He pinned me completely beneath his powerful body. I stared up at him — it was like looking up at Mount Rushmore, only he was far more attractive. I was ready to do anything he asked of me.

Nothing was said, however. Who the hell needed words?

His crotch was at eye level. I could tell he was excited, but if sex was what he was after, he wasn't willing to succumb yet. Instead, he slapped my face. Hard. Back and forth. I understood him now. Loved him, wanted him. And he knew it.

My eyes sought his in an arrogant stare.

He had me down, hell, he was sitting on me, feeling my hard cock beneath him, he knew what his hand was doing to me. I've always dreamed of finding a guy capable of dominating me. Mostly, I'm so big, it's a senseless search — but then, I've already said he was perfect. And he knew exactly what I wanted, needed.

He hit me again. Harder.

I bucked strenuously, trying to dislodge him. Knew I wouldn't succeed, but he had to be challenged. Neither of us would be satisfied if he won easily, if I let him win. Not that I had a prayer of a chance when it came to defeating him.

"Alright, bastard. You going to do what I tell you now?"

"Yes Sir."

"You'd better." He swung himself off me, yanked me off the ground and pushed me in the direction of the house. Silently I led the way to my bedroom. His prisoner — as effectively as if he'd arrested me in that damned laundromat.

Wordlessly he pushed me onto my bed and pulled my shirt over my head, eyeing me critically. His hands, calloused and firm, swept over my chest, pinching my nipples, arousing me with light, casual touches. Then standing stiff-legged in front of me, he removed his own shirt. A veritable Hercules awaiting my unabashed, worshipful stare.

Tentatively, fearful he might disappear like a mirage, I reached up and touched his rock-hard chest. He was all I'd dreamed he'd be.

He was getting impatient — we both were. He grabbed my hands and forced them down to the strings of his sweat pants. I untied them and pulled the cloth down bronzed, muscled thighs. His cock was hard and waiting. I took it in my mouth, resisting only slightly the pressure of his hands forcing my face into his crotch. My fingers crept along his legs as I worked on his long, thick cock. He allowed me to explore his body as my lips and tongue attended to the main attraction.

Then he suddenly disengaged my mouth from his cock, pulled me to my feet and crushed me to his chest, meeting my lips in a hungry kiss full of all the passion and lust I had ever dreamed of. My arms encircled his massive chest and held him close against me. His bulk and warmth completely controlled me. Our lips parted and I felt his tongue darting, searching, discovering that inexplicable delight of a man's kiss.

His hand dropped to my belt buckle, unfastened it and, still pressing his lips against mine, worked my levis down my legs. I stepped out of them and we stood naked against each other.

Finally he broke our embrace and pushed me back down onto the bed. My mouth searched for his cock like a new-born calf searches for food, but he had other ideas. He'd noticed the belt I keep at the head of my bed - in sweet anticipation - and quickly flipped me onto my stomach, grabbed the belt and began working on my ass with it. Hard licks, stinging, but stimulating because it was him wielding the piece of leather.

And at last we reached that ultimate moment when he greased my ass and his cock and entered me, filling me with his hard, pounding presence. I arched my back against his ribbed, muscular stomach, felt his hands on my shoulders, his lips on my back, biting me, sweeping me along in his lust. He pulled me to my knees even as he rode my ass, reached around and began masturbating my hard prick - which is just the way I like it best. Him straining in back of me, fucking like an animal, going in and out of me hard and fast, as if he were trying to split me in two. In his final spasms of shooting come in me, I experienced his roughness and expertise. Draining him of his load, feeling the shuddering violence of his release, exploding forth my own come all over his hand - and finally collapsing back into his arms!

And somewhat to my surprise, he did hold me. My back moulded against his chest, our sweat mingling, his heart pounding so loudly I could hear it, his arms holding me, pulling me harder against his flesh, his hands on my pecs.

We lay there united in pleasure.

"That what you wanted, stud?" he whispered at last.

"Yes!"

"You gonna do what I tell you from now on? Every time? You gonna be ready anytime I want you?"

"Yes Sir!"

He loved it! At the tone of submission in my voice, I could feel his cock, which had never left my ass, harden again. He rolled us both over and as he slowly worked himself deeper into me, I felt once more the stirrings of undiminished lust…

YOUASKED FOR IT. YOUGOT IT.

You ran a picture a long time ago of two guys being trained to eat out of a dog dish. Do you have any more pictures?

R.L., Milwaukee, WI

The pictures in question appeared in MACH. In the new issue of MACH, there is a true-life article of a man who lived as a dog for five years. Below is a picture from the first story, at the right is one from the new one. All those shown are models, however.

YOUASKED FOR IT.

Whatever became of Olaf, your artist who did the illustrations for STORY OF 'Q'? I have beat off to that book until both it and my dick are down to a frazzle. Did Olaf ever do anything else for you or for anybody else?

A.W., Denver, CO

Olaf's new book THE JOURNAL OF BROTHER AUGUSTINE is in the works and will be finished soon. Olaf has done 70 illustrations for it and excerpts will eventually be printed in DRUMMER. The originals will be shown at the Studstore Gallery in San Francisco this November. Here is one of Olaf's new works from his forthcoming show.

You didn't ask for it, but …

Rex delivered our new Studstore poster just in time for this issue. Like all of Rex's work it will be a collector's item. It's yours by risking your fingernails on the staples in the fold.

SULVINO HI) (

1) H (

THE ALL-DAY FUCKER

Here goes: Christopher Rage's Orgy is his best work to date and the single most exciting use of direct video that has ever been applied to gay porn.

Rage pulls out all the stops with Orgy and achieves the sort of cinematic mile stone that eluded Joe Gage's Closed Set, an orgy in which all the parts are as interesting as the whole, and in which the whole emerges as a complete, satisfying work.

Orgy is a highly experimental work, make no mistake about it, and that is what helps elevate it from one hour of mindless fucking and sucking into a work of art. Christopher Rage draws from the hi-tech, state-of-the-art video catalogue of tricks; everything is here but computer-generated animation. He manages to make all these special effects work, clearly because he understands video and doesn't just use it as a gimmick.

Orgy is easy to describe and equally difficult to break down: An unnamed, ambiguous leather type goes to an undisclosed location, a warehouse of sorts, as either the host or the guest of honor of an all-day or all-night orgy. People come and go, people come and disappear until much later; duos, trios, groups and solos are meshed with an eye for rhythm and visual excitement. There are a few characters who play aggressive tops, a few who are servicemen to everyone. There is also a great sense of total abandon in the sexual couplings that is seldom as interesting as this.

Orgy, directed by Christopher Rage; 1983; 60 minutes; Beta / VHS; $69; Club Scorpio / VCA Labs, 2051 Pontius Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90025; Signed statement required.

Orgy doesn't just experiment with plot and visual device. Rage tackles sound with obvious relish. And here he excels. The soundtrack to Orgy could be released as a sex tape for the sexual intelligentsia . Dare I say it-Christopher Rage seems to be taking lessons fron Francis Coppola in the effective use of sound to underscore and enhance visual narrative. actually tried closing my eyes and listening to Orgy all the way through-it was fascinating.

Orgy is also ensemble porn. The overall sexual tension grows equally from each of the nameless characters, flows from character to character, encircles and enhances the entire group.

If you like standard mindless sucking and fucking, you're probably going to hate Orgy. But if you are willing to have your sexual as well as cerebral circuits stimulated, then Orgy should be your next acquisition.

CALIBRATED ORGASMS

Ian McGraw, as a porn director, shows good promise. Two recent works currently available on video cassette, for which McGraw wrote the screenplay as well as helmed as director, while flawed. serve notice that the future holds something more from McGraw than the usual grind-house graduates. McGraw has wit, which is rare in porn; but it is a wit tempered with a basic sense of what is and what is not sexy on the screen.

Trisexual fails slightly; it does not live up to its promiscuously experimental title. The star, Dwan, one name only, is hardly tri-sexual; he will try a limited number of things, all basic vanilla sex, and just about anyone-but he won't try just about anything. He and the feature suffer from sameness; the sex in Trisexual is good, just limited.

But the ambitious title aside, Trisexual is otherwise well thought out and well realized . Dwan, writing a letter home to his brother, trys to describe his new-found gay sex life in New York City. The scenes he recalls, which are supposed to flesh out the letter, are somewhat random and not always cohesive. He does not, for instance, progress from calm, garden-variety sex to things sleazy; but there is no sleaze to be had in the sex scenes anyway.

What he does is progress from one quickly-set-up situation to another with a wide variety of co-respondents.

First stop: A bathhouse. The provocative moanings of someone masturbating in another room gets his attention; they get it on.

Dwan calls a former fuck-buddy who has a fondness for Noh masks; they get it on, on a cut-velvet sofa.

Dwan stumbles into an ongoing scene between a slight bodybuilder (Jeff Stone) and a Latino stud (superhung Jose Morales), and joins in; they get it on. And so on and so on.

Finally, Dwan concludes his letter home and prepares to go out and really get laid.

McGraw's strength lies in knowing what to do with his characters when he has them stripped down for acion, not in getting them from point A to point B. He is assisted by John Turk's fluid camerawork.

McGraw's Video Encounters is more ambiguous and much more interesting. Although it purports to have a plot of sorts, plot is allowed to fall away to the point that Video Encounters becomes an exercise in style. Style and sex run a mean race in this feature.

Jamie Wingo, Steve Anthony and Vince Richards are very good college buddies DRUMMER 78

(crotch-close, if you like) who have been experimenting in the school television department during off-hours, making their own porn videos to take home with them during summer break.

McGraw has designed this project as a video-within-a-film, sometimes showing action in simultaneous time, sometimes altering real time just slightly. Because the viewer sees the videos being made, and is able to view the video monitor on the set as well, Video Encounters has an unusual look to it that only enhances everything that passes before the viewer's eyes.

Trisexual, directed by Ian McGraw, starring Dwan, Jeff Stone, Jose Morales, Daniel Holt; 1983; 60 minutes; Beta / VHS; PM Productions; $65; Signed statement required.

Video Encounters, directed by Ian McGraw, starring Jamie Wingo, Steve Anthony, Vince Richards, Derek Cassidy; 1983; 60 minutes; Beta / VHS; $65; PM Productions, 218 West 49th Street, New York, NY 10019; Signed statement of age required.

But the plot of Video Encounters falls away quickly. After the college chums have made their porn tape, they split up for the summer break. One of the trio accidently leaves his copy in the video recorder in his parents' home and they watch it one night accidently…at first.

Another of the trio stays on campus. It is through a letter to him that we learn of the above episode (we also see it in excellent cross-cuts). He makes a foray into a leather fashion show being held in a gay bar. He spots and seduces a stunning Asian man in a deserted hallway.

The college protagonists reunite to share their summer escapades with each other. Finis.

More or less. That's not exactly the order the narrative line explores in Video Encounters, which is part of what makes it interesting. It could be that the opening sequence and the closing sequence of this film is the actual porn tape the college studs make-or it could be two tapes (there are indications of slight variations). The Asian Jamie Wingo picks up in the bar during the fashion show appears earlier, immediately before, in fact, in an inserted video segment where we watch him beating off. Even earlier, he is the cameraman in the first video segment.

Necessity may well have been the mother of invention, but if it was, lan McGraw has used his limited resources extremely well. Whatever is going on in Video Encounters is extremely interesting ; McGraw needs more freedom, and possibly more time, to extrapolate on his pornographic sensibilities.

The cast of Video Encounters is fine, all well worth watching, especially Jamie Wingo.

SM: THE OTHER SIDE

Some (enough) gay men into SM are interested, if only as fantasy, in straight SM practices. Some gay men into SM will quickly tell you that SM is gender-transferable at the drop of a pair of handcuffs.

There is, so far, one video company that specializes in SM and B&D products, all straight. They lead the pack by miles with a wide variety of fetish specialization to appeal to every dedicated, or just curious, taste.

Bound is a good mix of humor and hard-core, no-nonsense straight SM. Two short features make up this generically-titled package. The first is a little on the silly side: a down-and-out couple has decided that the wife will be "rented" to an oil-rich Arab for the weekend in return

Bound; 1983; 60 minutes; Bizarre Video Productions : Beta / VHS; $84 ($3 postage / handling ); hardcore.

Terri's Lesson in Bondage; 1983; 60 minutes; Bizarre Video Productions; Beta / VHS; $82 ($3 postage / handling); hardcore; Signed statement required; brochures available: Bizarre Video Productions, 12812 Garden Grove Blvd, Suite C, Garden Grove, CA 92643. for a hefty fee. While the husband and wife team confess that B&D is part of their everyday lifestyle, she exhibits some hesitation . When the couple present themselves to the sheik (whose face we never see), the wife really gets the willies, but, trooper that she is, follows every instruction uttered by the potentate — with the husband assisting with handcuffs and restraints and chains. Once she is secured, her next assignment is to give the oil magnate head, which she does with some enthusiasm. Rather than just have the husband stand there like a boob, the sultan commands his servant, Aida, to dance for them. Aida took dancing lessons from the Marquis de Sade; she is extremely proficient with tit clamps and weights (at one point she attaches the alligator clamp to her clitoris) - all of which works the husband into an aching erection.

Half bondage, the feature plays itself out with slightly exotic fucking and sucking - with a little twist ending.

The second part of Bound is the real treasure: Porn star Jamie Gillis (who has made at least one gay and one bisexual porn film) abuses his once-upon-a-time, real-life lady friend Serena. In real life their relationship was the talk of the porn circuit - both are perfectly cast in male-dominant , female-submissive roles. Gillis is a real top and Serena is a real bottom. If you think you're ready to see straight SM, then rest assured you are going to see the real thing with Gillis and Serena. On top of that, Jamie Gillis is a hunk of the rugged variety and Serena is a beauty.

Terri's Lesson in Bondage was originally a feature theatrical film, and, while I'm not positive, seems to have been one of the first full-length straight porn films concerned with B&D. It's hardcore, but the sucking / fucking scenes take back seat to elaborate bondage and slow, sure discipline.

Terri keeps calling out another man's name when she and her husband are fucking — and she has refused, for the four years of their marriage, to suck his dick. Put the two together, and he stays pissed-off. One day, after another night of hearing someone else's name accompany her orgasm, he decides she needs to be punished. Because he's an amateur, his early disciplining is rather tame, and not terribly inventive. But as the situation keeps compounding itself, he gets much more specific and elaborate.

You have to wonder why, fully awake, Terri continues to cry out these mysterious mens' names; you guessed it - she likes it. But it's more than he can handle. The husband calls upon his cousin, a very tall, very dominating woman who seems a prototype of the dominatrix. Together, they put Terri through her paces. The more they do, the more she responds.

The quality of this video depended completely on the quality of the original film transfer, and, while it's good and clear it's obviously not as sharp and fresh as Bound (part of which is direct video). And because Terri's Lesson in Bondage is limited to three people, the emphasis here is not on variety, but on intensity. The two women are attractive, and the man who plays the husband masculine and well hung (a decided plus in straight porn). The only disappointment was that the two women didn't eventually turn on the husband and give him a dose of his own medicine - but that's another story.

John W. Rowberry

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(1 H O (10 H O) (4)

A RUDE AWAKENING

The new adventures of Sleeping Beauty, as recounted by author A.N. Roquelaure, do not constitute the stuff of which children's books are made. Instead, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (E.P. Dutton, 253 pp., $6.95 paper), as its classy packaging and subtitle suggest ("an erotic novel of tenderness and cruelty for the enjoyment of men and women"), is an attempt to reproduce the exquisite tone and atmospheric richness of High Porn. Roquelaure intends his entertainment (or her entertainment, since no indication of the author's sex is given) to find a worthy place on the same secluded shelf with The Story of O and the works of de Sade - and it very nearly does.

The setting of Beauty is a vaguely medieval, feudal world unplaceable in real history and outside of real time. It is the fantasy realm of fairy tales and fables, where post-Freudian guilt and the complications of technological life-as-we-know -it needn't interfere with the exercise of more basic desires. It is a world ruled by royalty, and by lust.

It is a practice, in this world, a part of its balance of power, that young royalty spend a time enslaved in a foreign kingdom , away from their own royal families and stripped of their status. This period of thralldom has a definite limit; but while it lasts, the slavery is complete.

Beauty, the title character, is an anomaly in this world, having spent the last hundred years wrapped in slumber along with her parents and all their court. When the unnamed Prince of a neighboring kingdom awakens them, Beauty is his to claim.

If this were only Beauty's story, Roquelaure's novel would still be of interest to many gay readers; the fascination of sadomasochism frequently transcends gender and sexual preference. But Roquelaure, like de Sade, is as interested in substance as in content. Genitalia is unrelated to status in Beauty's world. Abuse and humiliation, pain and power are exercised and suffered by both sexes, in all combinations. Along with Beauty there is a large cast of masters, mistresses and their slaves, and most especially there is Prince Alexei.

Alexei is first seen at the court of the returning Prince. Naked, young, handsome with curly auburn hair, he serves the lords and ladies. Clumsy, he spills a pitcher of wine. He is bound at the ankles, bent forward and beaten, to the great amusement of the court. Beauty, already violated, but not yet broken, is equally saddened and fascinated by Alexei's punishment , captivated by the "scrotum between his legs, dark, hairy and mysterious."

Later, Beauty and Alexei serve the Prince in his chambers. Afterwards, in a stunning tableau, Alexei is bound for the night to a monumental statue bearing an upright, erect stone phallus: "It was onto this phallus that Prince Alexei was now thrust, his legs bound apart on the pedestal of the statue…He gave another moan as the statue impaled him…

"The statue's right arm was upraised, the stone fingers of the hand forming a circle as if they had once clasped a knife or some other instrument. And now the Squire carefully positioned Prince Alex-ei's head on the shoulder of the statue beneath that hand. And through the clasped hand, he placed a leather phallus, anchoring it so that it fit into Prince Alex-ei's mouth.

"It now seemed that the statue raped him both through his anus and through his mouth, and he was bound to it. And his organ, as stiff as before, lay thrust forward as the phallus of the statue was inside him."

Later, Alexei tells Beauty of his enslavement , of the multiple humiliations to which he had been subjected, of his excitement in the midst of shame, and The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty grows increasingly complex to the point of convolution . The style is understated throughout, a technique which only serves to magnify the action. Roquelaure is miserly with physical descriptions, and this is probably intentional, a device to throw the imagining of visual excitement onto the reader.

However well written and deviously plotted, Beauty is not Justine and A.N. Roquelaure is not de Sade. Beauty lacks the horrific philosophical undercurrents that make the best works of the Marquis so naggingly unforgettable and so dis- turbing, even as they excite. The setting and circumstances are too fantastic, too removed from the actual mechanics of human exploitation, to move us to the core. Nevertheless, as an erotic entertainment , it succeeds admirably. A sequel, The Village, is announced on the novel's closing page. If Roquelaure, instead of offering mere repetition, can expand upon what he (or she) has already achieved in Beauty, it should be a title to watch for.

BOHUNK ON A RITZ

Moritz!, by Bob Herron (Calamus Books, Box 689 Cooper Station, New York 10276; 213 pp., $6.95 paper), positively yearns to be a picaresque novel in the tradition of Fielding's Tom Jones. The charming rogue in this case is one Moritz Jellico, a simple country boy with a heart of gold and a dick of death. Moritz begins his adventures as the kept stud of a couple of podunk power brokers a la Boss Hogg, but soon finds himself pursuing a gay (old usage) destiny in the Big Apple, amid assorted eccentrics and a few fellow innocents.

Page after page, episode after episode, Bob Herron maintains a precious style of double entendres, grandiloquent grammar , crafty canards. Is it sophisticated? Whacky? Wonderful? Yes, more often than not, but it's also cloying — and I'm afraid I couldn't bear more than three pages at a stretch. At 213 pages of crowded type, it's a long journey indeed to reach the penultimate chapter, "Moritz Goes to a Garden Party," which was the reason I started Moritz! in the first place. That chapter was first published as an exerpt in Felice Picano's anthology A True Likeness, where it attracted a rousing recommendation in these very pages from John (Mr. Benson) Preston, who called "Garden Party" the "most hysterical recounting of the culture clash between leathermen and piss-elegance that you'll ever find."

It is - largely because Herron knows how to satirize with a sensual touch: "The dark-haired titan had nipples which stood out sturdily half an inch; they were pierced with silver pins. Hanging from the pins and connecting them was a catenary of heavy silver links. Magnus was superbly constructed. Black curly hair swirled in cyclones across his chest. Everybody was awestruck by the muscularity, proportion and expanse of the man's mineral-laden chest.

Published in true picaresque fashion — serialized in a magazine perhaps, with a month between episodes to allow the reader's appetite to rebuild-Moritz! would have made an occasionally tasty diversion. But Moritz! the novel is too much of a too-precious good thing. It's like caviar: Interesting on a cracker, but by the bowlful — pass the meat and potatoes , please.

Steven Saylor

(i) (1) 'Y 10'\c)

POW / SWAK

There are probably many different ways to perceive Nagisa Oshima's film, Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence; this is how I see it.

We don't know a lot about Japanese historical identity or even Japanese social order for that matter. There is talk about the effectiveness of contemporary Japanese corporate society, how capitalism has been merged into a pseudosocialistic / feudalistic state in the production of automobiles and video recorders. But that's mostly talk; whatever it is that Japan is doing may have a financial impact but probably no social or moral impact on what we, in the West, are doing. East is East…etc.

We don't even know much about Japan during World War II, except what is in American history books, what was reported in the American media - such as it was - during the days before and after the infamous atom bomb. And what we do know may not be true anyway; America has a way of hiding its unpleasantness under nail-down rugs. And it probably doesn't matter what happened, or why. The two world wars, Viet Nam, Central America — they only speed up or slow down slightly whatever is inevitable.

We don't know very much about the Japanese and how they think. But then again, the Japanese may not know much about themselves, either. What Oshima tells us in his fiction-based-on-fact story about Western prisoners in a Japanese-occupied Javanese camp is probably going to be a complete surprise.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence is a love story about a British soldier (David Bowie) and a Japanese Commandant (Ryuichi Sakamoto) who cannot come to terms with their inherent homosexuality. Because of the time and the place and their personal histories, they have ritualized their feelings in a prescribed manner. But they push at the boundries of the ritualization until, finally, the perimeters crack.

In 1942, in Java, the Japanese are firmly in control. A camp for POWS is filled with whomever has been captured: British, Australians, Dutch, an occasional Javanese . Oshima weaves his narrative around four players in the war game: A former British diplomat, the title character Colonel John Lawrence (Bill Conti); the aforementioned Jack Celliers (Bowie), a captured soldier; Sergeant Hara, a cog in the Japanese war machine; and the camp boss, Captain Yonoi (Saka-moto ). The relationship of these four men illustrates Oshima's sentiments about war in general and love in particular.

Celliers comes to Captain Yonoi's attention because he is tried for "war crimes" when he is captured. There is much made about the proper conduct of war-making, in ludicrous contrast to the sheer obscenity of war itself.

There is something about Celliers, something as doomed as there is about Yonoi - and the latter sees it. There is the same inherited sense of guilt. For men who go through the motions of honor and duty these two men seem at odds more with their actions than their situation . Celliers is the perfect POW; he strains at the edge of his leash, provokes, refuses to submit completely. Yonoi is the perfect captor; he pulls the leash in, lets the prisoner stretch it to its breaking point, then pulls it in again, more sharply. All the while, the ritualization of behavior dictates that each call their passion by some other name.

The Japanese captor says: "I would admire you more if you killed yourself." The prisoner says: "It is the coward's way out.

The love story of Celliers and Yonoi is even more subtle, and at the same time more pronounced. At the film's very beginning, Oshima sets up the undercurrent with a scene in which a Dutch prisoner has been caught sleeping with a Japanese guard. First it must be established whether or not the Dutch prisoner was raped. If he wasn't, then he is as condemned as his superior. That's the talk of the camp officials, establishing guilt or freedom from guilt. It doesn't really matter if he agreed to the act in even the smallest core of his heart, or if he denied it completely…was physically raped. Both are beheaded.

It is one more ritualization. It has nothing to do with homosexuality, which is — in the time, and in all times in Japan before - an undeniable fact of life. The unnaturalness is in the bridging of the two cultures, East and West. The crime is that the Japanese guard slept with a Westerner ; that is what corrupts - that one would desire other than one's own kind. A similar strain runs through the Aryan elitism of WWII Germany.

But it is Oshima's opening sequence that is the dead giveaway. After that there will be no talk of homosexuality. Instead we will see every physical manifestation available under the guise of ritualization, proper conduct, honor, and yes, guilt. Celliers and Yonoi are in danger of the same crime as the Dutch prisoner and his Japanese paramour, crossing the bridge. Oshima sets up this premise then hammers away at it until one of them crosses. The result is devastating.

This incident, the specific details presented about a POW camp in Java during WWII, is told with exacting precision from sources that, it must be assumed, shoulder the burden of proof. What is difficult about Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence is not understanding the other side, the Japanese mind — for the purposes of war, both sides are the same - but in reaching a common consensus. The guy sitting next to you might just as easily see this as a sterling example of patriotism under fire, or an attempt by former villains to repaint their past in a more humane hue. Perception, which is the answer to the question What makes the Japanese different?, is the real beauty of Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.

THE LAST OF NATALIE

Nostalgia buffs are going to see Brain-storm , Natalie Wood's last film, blind. It won't matter what it's about, or who else is in it, or who directed it. A lot of gay men are going to do the same. She was a legend, but of a different hue than the traditional legends of Hollywood. She was in, at the time, all the wrong pictures. Later they turned out to be just the right ones: Splendor in the Grass, Rebel Without a Cause, Gypsy — always the average, misunderstood, really very pretty young girl caught in some seeming Greek tragedy. The people around her, in her films, always fell apart; she always managed to survive.

In Brainstorm things are no different than in Rebel Without a Cause: Christopher Walken playing the James Dean and Sal Mineo roles. In Brainstorm things are no different for her than they were in This Property is Condemned: decay and the imminent threat of destruction underlie every move, every nervous grasp of hands.

Natalie Wood died, by drowning, before the filming of Douglas Trumbull's nightmare of sensory awareness was completed . While it's an amazing job Trum-bull did, refashioning a complex story from the remains of an aborted vision, it's an unfortunate farewell for the woman who will be responsible for the film's success - if any. It's a minor, minor role; whatever is missing - whatever scenes were not shot before her death - could not have fleshed it out enough.

Brainstorm, in its own right, is a chiller almost until the end. The end, the worst resolution I think I've ever sat through, is the real undoing of the movie, not Ms. Wood's untimely demise. Until then, in sharp contrast, Trumbull has fashioned a deadly excursion into the blackest of man's heart.

A team of scientists, given unlimited funds and time, have worked ten years on developing a device that will record and playback individual sensory impressions: sight, sound, taste, hearing, feel - enabling one person to share with another, or many, specific, unique experiences. It's almost unbelievable to begin with, and it is to Douglas Trumbull's credit that the possibility bears such credibility. The film uses every trick in the book to convince the viewer what has been proposed is possible. The ruse is almost mandatory, the military potential for such a device - and its follow-up discovery, a way to incorporate emotions into the package - is both staggering and frightening.

Once it is established that the plot will narrow itself to good guys (the team of scientists) versus bad guys (the corporate heads and the military), the narrative line becomes somewhat predictable.

Thrown into all this is the love story of Christopher Walken, as one of the scientists , and Natalie Wood, his semi-estranged wife. Their crumbling relationship strengthened through their battle against pure evil has almost religious connotations. And, to its discredit, that's where Brainstorm ends up - in heaven.

Maybe there wasn't any other way. Natalie Wood appears in what itself appears to be the film's final moments; when love has been redeemed through sacrifice - maybe that's exactly what

Trumbull intended. If so, it's unfortunate for all involved.

Louise Fletcher, who plays the pivot discoverer of the sensory process, has the lion's share of Brainstorm, and it is she who will stay in the viewer's mind long after the images have faded from memory.

Videodrome, for all its other faults, did what Brainstorm attempted much better.

Well, what can you say about a hunk like Dennis Quaid who keeps getting cast as a country western singer, even in a movie about unprofessional, unsanctioned boxing …the kid's got heart as well as muscle. Boxing movies, post-Raging Bull, are mainly a bore. Dennis Quaid is worthy of watching as he hails a cab. If he can't convince you to see Tough Enough, then no amount of appealing to your sense of moral indignation vis-a-vis the brutality of the sport will suffice. It's no great shakes, but it's a good enough Quaid fix until The Right Stuff comes along.

LEATHER SCENE

BEYOND HOT TALK

The premiere audio sex-talk cassette people, Stallion Sound, have moved into visual stimulation with their Hot Art collection . Such classic names in supercharged , turn-on erotica as Stephen, Rex, Tom of Finland, and Etienne are in their stable. Stallion managed to capture the original existing inventory ot print sets and original art books by the mega-four and has created a brochure that details what's in stock. You won't believe your eyes: The first editions of Icons and Man-nespielen by Rex, a Tom of Finland portfolio of eight Target Studio superstuds, and the original Etienne storybooks for Studs in the Saddle and Initiation only skims the surface of the cream in this collection . A brochure is available from:

Stallion Sound, Box 436 C anal Street Station , New York, NY 10013. And, of course, you must be over 21 to even write them a letter.

HARBOR MASTERS FIRST

Well, well, well… The Harbor Masters of Portland, Maine, are going to celebrate their First Anniversary on November 12. Has it been a year already? We can remember when Leather Bulletin Board gave them a slap on their naked ass and welcomed 'em into the world. And now they're all grown up, at least a year's worth. The big weekend event includes their First Annual Show, lunches, brunches, dinners, beer busts, special showings of the 1983 Mr. New England

Drummer Contest on videotape, some cocktail parties, a look at Innovations in Leather, awards, and something called "so-so's." Rest assured there'll be many opportunities to meet the members. The First Anniversary Run is open to non- members as well as members, but total applications are limited, so don't sit on registering for this one. Info and application from: The Harbor Masters, Box 10117, Portland, Maine 04101.

LANCERS M.C.

The New Orleans-based Lancers Motorcycle Club will celebrate their Sixth Anniversary with a special run at Thanksgiving . The three-day event (November 25-27) will include a banquet as well as a rash of cocktail parties, a scavenger hunt, and some unmentionables. You can just show up, but prior registration means reduced rates for the run and events. And, you only have to be 18 years of age to participate (thanks to Louisiana's intelligent liquor laws). Information and application from: Lancers MC, Box 51475, New Orleans, LA 70151.

MSC LONDON

There are two winter events scheduled by the MSC London, but for members only (you might waggle an invite if you know a member, however): The Bike Group Country Run on November 6, and the Presidents Birthday Party on November 12.

HELLFIRE / INFERNO

We know, we know…you want to see all about this year's Inferno, and you will! But not until next issue. We were all busy packing and unpacking our leathers for the big move to Drummer's new offices from the minute the Drummer staff returned from the annual premiere SM event. A hot time was had by all, and the photos and details will prove it in Drummer 69 (what an appropriate issue!) - so just hang in there!

THE BIGGEST?

His name is Scott and his eleven inches won the Biggest Dick in San Francisco contest is September at Savages (a combo porn theatre / men's club), but we hardly think eleven inches is the biggest dick in The City! We've heard tales of some foot-long -and-more, thicker than a beer bottle and all that, for years now. True, we've never actually seen these legendary totem poles of throbbing flesh, but our sources are damn reliable. After Scott flooded the first two rows of the audience (he got very excited about winning), porn

superstar Richard Locke thrilled the assembled by showing off his legendary stuff.

Savages has gotten into the habit of holding unusual semi-public events (it is a private membership club), highlighted by Mr. Marcus' Slave Auctions. The Biggest Dick in San Francisco contest was held as a benefit for various AIDS organizations in the city. Information on coming attractions (both on stage and on the screen) is available by calling (415)673-3384.

MINESHAFT SEVEN

The granddaddy of 'em all, The Mine-shaft , New York's bottomless pit, hits the seven-year mark with a special celebration October 16-23-details to be announced (but don't wait to hear the details, get in line now!) via the usual grapevines and street corners. The Mine-shaft is at 835 Washington Street, New York.

MR. LEATHER SAN DIEGO

It's almost that time again, when the leather men of San Diego strut their stuff before the judges for the 1984 Mr. Leather San Diego title. The place: The Loading Zone (1702 India St.). The date: November 12th.

This is the third year for the title, and last year's winner, Steve Despier, will be one of the judges.

During an intermission, an auction of the contestants' clothing will be held to raise money for the Take Aim at AIDS Project (which has already raised a hefty

$45,000 so far. You'll be seeing the winner (who gets a trip to the 1984 Mr. Drummer regionals in Los Angeles and a trip to Chi-cago for the Mr. International Leather contest as part of his winnings) in an upcoming issue. But if you don't want to wait that long, call (619)275-3255 for more information, and be there!

U.K. SMART

Hot off the press is the first issue of what looks to be a promising new SM newsletter from our brothers in Great Britain. SMART runs 16 pages, magazine size, and is well printed. Subject matter runs from the usual to the slightly esoteric. Similar in look to DungeonMaster, but with more illustrations and some advertising, SMART attempts to cover more than Eng-land , and is aiming itself towards an international community of readers. Subscription and sample copy information for this new quarterly is available from: Smart Press, BM SM Gays, London WC1N 3XX, England. (Note: Before you think you're reading a typo, BM SM Gays is a post office box. In England not all post office boxes use numbers).

LEATHER DOWN UNDER

We're still trying to figure out what all the fuss is about; it seems there has been some local outrage, some of which is vocal enough to be reported in the Australian gay press, about the winner of the 1983 Australian Mr. Leather, Terry Oliver. It appears that, because he entered the contest in a policeman's uniform and not in leather, some of the locals think he doesn't (or can't, or shouldn't) represent leathermen Down Under. While we don't agree, there is some valid dispute over the rules which state that the first category is a "Leather / Denim Image" presentation. Reports in the gay press in Australia point to the fact that the judges obviously chose to ignore portions of the rules that would have disqualified Terry Oliver from competing — all of which had to do with what he was wearing that particular night.

We are not, of course, suggesting that had he shown up in a Dior gown there couldn't have been valid objections …Christian Dior was not, as best as we can ascertain, a leatherman himself. Nor are we suggesting it was because he wore an American policeman's uniform that the crowd felt outraged. In fact, from the photos we've seen of Terry Oliver and his uniform, we think he looked right smart.

Maybe the rules should be rewritten - uniforms are such a part of the American leather scenes (not to forget that some uniforms incorporate leather) that we really don't think it would be a disqualifying factor in The States, as long as the man in the uniform had his head in a leather space.

Maybe the rules should be enforced — if you're giving awards for the Best Ass in a Pair of Chaps, it stands to reason that you

have to have a pair of chaps on to begin with.

But you can rest assured that if Terry Oliver - who will come to America to compete for the international titles - doesn't come home with a prize, it will be blamed on his clothes.

THE 1920 POPE

On October 10, 1983, the United States Postal Service (you remember them, they lose your mail with the same regularity that the airlines lose your luggage) issued, as part of their Transportation Series, a new 5¢ stamp featuring a 1920 Pope motorcycle. The city that was picked for the offical debut of this little licker was San Francisco, natch. However, the First Day of Issue ceremonies were held at a posh S.F. hill-top hotel during a convention of envelope manufacturers, not at one of the South of Market places where motorcycles are apt to be found.

If the 1920 Pope motorcycle was used for carrying mail, we can't say. And we have to assume that bike clubs circa 1920 were probably about as wild as a needlepoint-and-tea social. Still, the 1920 Pope motorcycle stamp should give rise to at least one trivia question at your next bike run.

TOM '83

A one-month special exhibition of Tom of Finland work, including the original drawings and color paintings used in the famous Tom book The Shed, may be history by the time you read this. The Basement , a co-operative gallery venture between The Leslie Lohman and the Rob Amsterdam Gallery in New York, brought all new and completely unseen Tom of Finland work to America for their first 1983 show. You can learn about forthcoming exhibitions at The Basement by writing them at: 127 Prince Street, New York, NY 10012. Along with the Tom of Finland exhibition, The Basement showed original leather items from the Rob Amsterdam collection. Tom '83 opened September 29 and ran through the end of October.

THE HUN AT LARGE

The special illustration by The Hun that appears with his new short story on page 20 of this issue of Drummer is the centerpiece of an all-new Hun Show that will inaugurate the equally all-new Studstore when it opens on October 21, 1983, at 960 Folsom Street in San Francisco. Featuring 15 heretofore unseen pieces, The Hun Show at The Studstore will be the first San Francisco appearance in over five years by this legendary artist. A special reception with The Hun in person will be held at the start of the two-week exhibition. But The Hun is also hanging a completely different exhibition, with a western theme, at the reopening of The Bunkhouse (4519 Santa Monica Blvd., Los Angeles) on

October 29, 1983 - with another in-person appearance. And, as if that wasn't enough, Hun Fever will make itself known in Portland for yet a third exhibit around the same time. If you're anywhere on the West Coast, now's your chance to see The Hun in extreme close-up.

LEATHER DADDY

The First Annual Leather Daddy Contest in San Francisco was held at Chaps, a very new but already very popular South of Market bar, co-sponsored by Chaps and InterChain, the international leather club, and coordinated by none other than Alan Selby (the Mr. S of Mr. S Products) to very worthwhile ends. Selected was hot, hairy-chested, very dominant Michael Blair as Mr. Leather Daddy 1983. Funds raised at the even went to the Shanti Pro- ject, an AIDS support group that has received a lion's share of attention and support themselves for their humane and practical approach to AIDS patients and their lovers and families.

And the Leather Daddy Contest has given rise to nothing less than the First Annual Leather Daddy's Boy contest, to be held November 6 at The Eagle, another popular San Francisco South of Market bar. This time the judges will be the three winners (Daddy Michael Blair and the two runners-up) of the first contest. Rules require that potential Daddy's Boys be introduced on stage by their own Daddies . Funds raised from this contest will go to the AIDS / KS foundation of San Francisco . Be there! Bring your boy (or have your Daddy bring you!) and, who knows, you may walk away with the title!

"MY RAT IS GIGANTIC…

Welcome to the wonderful world of chaos, as demonstrated by the newest in a long line of political and social dissenters: West German punks and skinheads. Although not entirely original (England invented both subcultural groups), the West Germans manage to get their point across in not uninteresting ways.

Politically, punks emerge slightly to the left of Chairman Mao, while skinheads are planted somewhere to the right of the Christian Science Monitor very near neo-Nazism . Needless to say, neither group thinks much of the other's politics. The general public can only tell either group apart by their hair, or lack thereof.

Two recent events illustrate the philosophical magnitude of both factions: At celebrations for the 300th anniversary of German emmigrants to America from Krefeld, the police brushed sociopolitical differences aside and pounced on skinhead and punk demonstrators alike (see photo). The German police practice a method of detente that centers around a foot on the back of the neck.

At a Hanover summit meeting of punks and skinheads, in which a peace accord between the two groups was scheduled to be ironed out, 17 policemen were wounded in the longest street battle either group has ever staged.

The West German punks have such stirring political paens as "Drink for Peace, Swords to Faucets," somewhat akin to the East German peace movement's "Swords to Plowshares," but not quite.

The West German skinheads exhibit less lofty aims in their propaganda: "I want nothing other than to be a simple SA man" and "The pigs are laughing while we have headaches."

While the summit meeting did not produce the expected peace accord, there was a well-attended concert by the group SS Ultra Brutal and, in the words of the printed program, "general public sexual intercourse" as well as a visit to the "rich smart set."

A noteworthy item on the agenda was "blowing up all castles in the air."

And yes, Virginia, there are both gay punks as well as gay skinheads.

Many of us have been exposed to some of the terrible illnesses going around in our community. Either our personal immune systems can or cannot throw them off. A lot may depend on how strong our body is at the time.

So we decided something had to be done as soon as possible to contribute to the general health and immunity of sexually active men everywhere. We went to the doctors and the lab who developed the original HIM formula and told them we wanted a better one. Instead of an overwhelming collection of assembled pills, we wanted a master tablet developed that could be taken three times a day (to prevent the body's expelling it). The vita-men , mineral and herbal contents must be as natural as possible and must use the more expensive non-allergic oil-free ingredients , with no starch or sugar fillers and no shellac coating for so-called time release.

While we spared no expense on the formula, to keep other costs down we put this new powerhouse product in a plain brown (sealed) medicine bottle with a simple straightforward label.

We said we wanted to make a contribution . The doctors and the lab have helped us succeed beyond our wildest dreams. We have named it VITA-MEN and we are very proud of its accomplishment.