SUSPENSION COWERS

ERING OF THE

FRANK HATFIELD with an introduction by ROBERT PAYNE bv photos by ZEUS

Frank Hatfield called to tell me that arrangements had been made to have one of the slaves reportedly going to Inferno XII fly with us to Chicago on the red-eye special leaving at midnight the day before. The plans had already been made for us to pick up a car at the airport and drive to Michigan. It seemed like a great idea to have him along to handle the luggage and do the driving. It seemed like a better idea to start his excursion into Hellfire the minute he got on board the plane.

But naturally the first thing to do was to check him out. He called me as directed about a week before we were to leave. He turned out to be an athletic looking fellow in his late twenties who reported at my office exactly on time. He was dressed in a suit and tie since he had just come from work. I liked the way he stood at my desk, rather than seating himself as the average caller would do. In fact, I liked his looks. His shoulders were broad, waist narrow, and you might even call him handsome. He asked if he could take off his jacket and I indicated that he should lay it on the couch.

"Take off your shoes and socks too," I added, and he hastened to comply, without question. I came around the desk and went across the hall to the refrigerator for a cold can of beer-after all, it was after office hours. I came back in, sat down on the big leather chair and looked the young fellow over. He stood, waiting for instructions.

"Sit down." And I waited to see if he would know enough not to sit anywhere but the floor. He did just that, squatting before me. Good manners, this.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries. He mentioned that he had had one of his nipples pierced especially for the Hellfire weekend.

"Let's see it."

Off came his shirt and he proudly exhibited a broad chest with a somewhat largish ring through a very tender-looking right nipple. He had just enough hair on his chest to accent the definition. A fine line of it went down the middle of his abdominals past his navel toward his groin. Hell, let's see the rest of him.

"Strip," I said, sipping on my beer can— and strip he did. He laid his clothing neatly in a pile next to his jacket and stood awaiting my examination. His dick was beginning to grow and certainly showed considerable promise. His balls hung loose and full. Good legs and small, well-shaped feet which belied the size of his expanding whang.

He looked like very good material to spend a weekend with, let alone a five-hour flight. I bound his arms behind him with his belt, pushed him down to his knees and poured a little Budweiser in him. He thanked me, not forgetting to add "Sir," and I pushed his head down to my left boot with my right one. This kid was a great bootlicker!

He was a good cocksucker too. After I got my rocks off, I told him when to report to us prior to the flight and gave a suggestion of what was expected of him. He seemed delighted and a little let down when I told him he could put his clothes on. He was to report at six the evening of the departure, giving us several hours to get him ready to fly. Literally and figuratively.

He appeared right on schedule the night of departure and had on exactly what I had told him to wear: teeshirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. I knew he was dving to wear his leathers, but he also knew they were forbidden him, at least until he got there. He carried his suitcases , one of which clanked when he set it down. I could tell they were heavy.

'Get your fucking clothes off, we've got a lot of work to do."

"Yes Sir," and he stripped in less than a minute.

He stood like that until Frank arrived, which wasn't very long. We strapped the kid to the barber chair in my office and went to work. Frank shaved his crotch and belly and then, while I held his legs up around his shoulders, he got his little ass shaved as smooth and clean as a baby's. I applied the alcohol and, though tears came to his eyes, he squirmed very little and made no sound.

We had already discussed our plan, not with the slave of course, but between each other. I put a nice, wide ball stretcher on him, then taped his fat cock to his now-hairless belly. When he was given permission to go to the can, he could only do so by laying on his belly on the john. Or else simply pee in his pants. We fitted him with a butt plug and taped that on too.

I took some plain cotton clothesline rope and wove it in and out between his toes. He looked confused but naturally said nothing. We then finished up the half-roll of tape by wrapping it round and round his hairy legs. Taking that off later would be fun.

Frank had some small tit clamps held together by an even smaller chain. He attached them to the guy's big brown tits.

"Get dressed, asshole."

"Yes Sir." And he put his shirt, pants and shoes back on. Frank and I sat around for a little while, enjoying a cold beer or two. offering nothing to the slave who knelt on the floor. A couple of cans and I had a bladderful, so I ordered him over to take it. If he thought he wasn't going to have to piss on the plane this flight, he was wrong.

Finally we decided it was tme to go and we ordered him to carry our luggage down to the van. He soon understood the reason for the clothesline between his toes. He was limping by the third trip and by the time he carried his own bags down the stairs, he was hurting.

We sat up front and let him get in the side door. I told him to strip and that is the way he rode to the airport. I drove as Frank checked out our handiwork, adjusting here and there. Then he had a thought. He made the guy lie on his belly and took off his own belt.

"Did your dad ever whip you so hard you couldn't sit down for a long time?" he asked me.

I nodded and he went to work on the kid's ass while I looked for a parking space. I couldn't see but I could hear the blows against the bare flesh and the slave's tearful "Thank you Sir," with each blow. In a very short time he got quite a blistering.

"Get your clothes on and get this luggage over to the door, boy."

'Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.'

Frank and I went on to the boarding area to leave our slave to struggle with the luggage and the check-in. We cleared the metal detection area after discarding keys and pointing out to the attendants that we had on large belt buckles and a chain or two on our jackets. After all, this is San

Francisco, and airport people understand these things. When the kid finally showed up I questioned him as to how he made out at the checkout with what all he had on him. It seems the guard took him aside and finally took him into the rest room to see why he kept setting off the buzzer. He had to show the chain between his tits plus his cock ring and the chain we had fastened around his right ankle. But again they finally understood.

We boarded the plane and the reserved three seats we had selected were waiting for us. Frank got in by the window and I pushed our slave into the next seat. I sat down and hissed his instructions in his ear.

"Put your hands behind you, asshole. Right after you take off your shoes." He bent over and slipped the tennis shoes off his swollen toes. he sat upright, placing his arms behind him. After all the recorded bullshit about the life rafts and oxygen masks, we took off. I asked the attendant for a blanket and a couple of pillows. I insisted two pillows were enough and I handed one to Frank. We spread the blanket across our laps after raising the armrest seat dividers. They dimmed the lights for a movie after we had been served drinks. I ordered the equivalent of boilermakers for the kid. We would take the beer cans and refill them in the rest room whenever our bladders dictated, so he had plenty to drink.

I reached under the blanket and unbuttoned his jeans. I expected his pecker to be shrunk and the tape to be stretching it up against his belly. Instead it was hard as a rock and the head was covered with precome. Our boy seemed to be enjoying his flight to fantsyland!

I rubbed my hand against his hard fat cock, pressing up and down.

"Please, Sir," he whispered, "I don't think I can hold it back for very long."

"You'll hold it back for as long as you are told," I said, giving his prick a squeeze. I pumped it again. Everyone around us appeared to be watching the movie or was asleep. Only Frank was aware of what I was up to. The boy was fighting a loosing battle.

And he was right. It didn't take long for him to shoot in his pants. He was glassy-eyed , then he slumped down into the seat. At this point he was undoubtedly wishing he could relax and not be under the dominance of his masters. Tough shit.

I went to the rest room again and filled up his beer can. I handed it to him to drink, which he did.

"Go to sleep, boy."

"Thank you, Sir." And he put his head against my shoulder.

Some time later I awoke to find him fidgeting. I knew what the trouble was, but he was not about to ask to go to the can to pee. To take his mind off his problem I reached up under his shirt and played with the chain connecting the two

We were awakened by the P.A. system telling us that we were coming into the Chi-cago area. The stewardesses were hustling coffee up and down the aisles and the kid was wanting to put his pants on. tit clamps. It certainly did take his mind off his bladder for the moment.

But it wasn't long before I relented and got up to let him go to the can. The movie was over and the plane was dark and quiet. Only the drone of the engines broke the silence. I waited a couple of minutes and followed his path to the can. I knocked on the door quietly and said "Boy," just loudly enough for him to rec- ognize my voice.

"Yes Sir," he whispered, and slipped the lock on the door. I stepped into the tiny space. He was on his knees, having been on his belly trying to piss into the bowl. Airplane toilets are hard enough to use when you aren't taped up. He lay on the toilet again and I reached down to yank his butt plug. It came out with a "blop" sound. I laid it in the sink then told him to get up and bend over. He did and my cock replaced the plug. It was wild, forty thousand feet up at almost the speed of sound, to be screwing this hunk. When I finished, he cleaned off my dick with his mouth, which I slapped and told him to get himself together. I left and walked back to my seat. He followed, crawling over me to get to his.

He had the plug in his hand. "Do you want to put it back in, Sir?" he asked.

I took it from him and put it in the pouch of the seat in front of me. "No. Pull

Without hesitation he reached under the blanket, unbuttoned and pulled them down, then off. He handed them to me and I dropped them to the floor. "Put your right hand under you ass." He did. "Now stick your middle finger up it … all the way!'

And that is how he spent the rest of the night, finger-fucking himself.

We were awakened by the P.A. system telling us that we were coming into the Chicago area. The stewardesses were hustling coffee up and down the aisles and the kid was wanting to put his pants on, blanket or no. Finally I picked them up from the floor and told him he could. It was not an easy thing to do, but he managed without calling too much attention to what he was doing. He put his shoes on and before long we were sleepily disembarking flight 1129 for a much wilder one.

eathermen from all over the United States, Canada, the Netherlands, Bel-gium , Switzerland, West Germany and South Africa make their trek in early September to attend the greatest gathering of SM experts and devotees for Inferno XII, an institution created by the Chicago Hel-lfire Club. This year a total of 209 men were enrolled. Satan's Station had to turn away the others who were unable to get into the run without reservations. Two resorts were used, one for the participants to stay in, the other where tents were set up in a grove of trees for the Hellfire activities. No one participating was allowed to use any transportation from Friday evening through Monday morning, other than a bus which traveled the three miles between the living and playing sites on a twenty-four hour basis.

The various tents were given colorful and self-explanatory names: The House de Sade, the Tonsorial House, Maison Merde, Casa Crisco, Suspension Towers was an outdoor pavilion with benches and was used for some spectacular demonstrations . A suspension tower with a huge wheel adjoining it occupied the space between the pavilion and the

House de Sade.

The latter had all types of stretch tables, stocks, crosses, pillories and other bondage frames. This was the largest tent, allowing participants full sway to do what they wanted, and the busiest tent by far. In a pillory a man was being whipped with a variety of whips; the whip wielder's technique was a work of art as he played the subject's body. On a table in an alcove of the tent another man in bondage was on his back, having a variety of needles run through his chest, stomach, cock and ballsack. In this particular instance the man was so turned on by what was happening to him that he got off as his cock was being manipulated for insertion of the various needles.

The Tonsorial House was a small extension of the House de Sade, where a number of slaves had all of their body hair removed by both safety and straight razors, leaving them entirely slick and smooth.

The Maison Merde was at the other end of the tents. Few participants made use of it. Scat seemed to have lost a good deal of its popularity because of the growing incidence of AIDS. There is some talk that Inferno XII marked the last appearance of the Maison Merde.

The Casa Crisco had two rows of slings on each side of the tent for the old American art of fist fucking. This tent was busiest during the nights. Enema equipment was out, fists and arms were buried in the

Demonstrations at the pavilion were always well attended because it was here that many tops could learn new techniques . The tops attending these seminars , already very adept in their own right,

recognized the need to continue growing in SM.

Harold of Pennsylvania gave a demonstration of steel bondage, and also on how to deal with particularly difficult people and assaults. During the weekend, Harold kept a number of young slaves in shackles and chains. Try eating with your hands locked behind you!

Sy of New York showed how an antique telephone generator can titillate the cock and balls of a slave, and how a hot asshole can be made to feel even hotter.

A highlight of the demonstrations was performed by Jim of San Francisco, the former Dungeon Master of Hellfire, who branded a slave from Provincetown. This is an especially difficult feat and has to be done with particular care so that there is no permanent damage to the slave.

A variety of other demonstrations were put on, such as the techniques of using a variety of whips, including the difficult-

A new addition this year was a huge wooden wheel over eight feet high, on which slaves could be tied and rolled into any position. since the warm weather encouraged out-

The suspension tower got a lot of use, side action. The cage, the suspension boots, and pulleys all had slaves occupying them in the afternoons. The big bondage contest was held here, where such artists as Tony of Chicago displayed their talents. The most aesthetically exciting piece was the huge spider web which held its victim in the center of the rope tendrils. Another really striking bondage scene was the mummification with bandages of a first-timer to the run. (He won a number of prizes, including best slave.) His tall, slender, muscular body was displayed on a pedestal in the tight mummy pose with only his humongous cock hanging out from the bonds. The girth and length of the cock acted as a challenge to many of the men who tried to take all of it down their throats. The tender mimistrations to the fleshy appendage caused it to grow and harden, which added to the scene.

The energy of Inferno XII was high and the playing was intense, but even the players had to take occasional respite from it. The pool at the resident lodge had its share of sun worshippers and swimmers, while others strolled the grounds where longer lasting friendships would be formed.

Cocktail parties and good food did much toward relaxing the men between play periods. Male Hide Leather of Chi-cago had a tent near Satan's Station where all sorts of leather goods and toys could be purchased.

The slave contest was probably one of the most intense and humorous. The slaves were put through their paces by very demanding dominants. They were judged on submissiveness, proper attitude and the ability to please the Masters who judged them.

Clad only in jockstraps, the men would rub elbow grease over each other and the match would begin. The slick surface was so treacherous that a man could easily be bowled over. First, an opponent's jockstrap had to be removed before he could be pinned down.

The intensity of any meeting such as the Inferno mandates some humor, or the affair can become particularly draining form an emotional standpoint. For the first time a grease wrestling contest was held. There were two participants to each bout, the winner determined on the best of two out of three setdowns. Clad only in jockstraps, the men would rub Elbow Grease over each other and the match would begin. The slick surface was so treacherous that a man could easily be bowled over. First, an opponent's jock-strap had to be removed before he could be pinned down. Most of the jockstraps ended up coming off over the contest-ants' heads. There were no holds barred, so a sturdy set of balls, able to withstand grabbing and squeezing, was an advantage . One man was so innovative he tried to ram his hand up his opponent's ass to get the needed purchase.

On Saturday morning after breakfast, the ball weightlifting contest was held. This contest has been held every year and everyone looks forward to witnessing it. This year's winner failed to break the 1979 record, but took second place among winning weightlifters over the years. In a semi-squatting position, the man must stand erect while he lifts the weights suspended to his balls. This year's winner lifted 50 pounds. The 1979 winner lifted 57 pounds. Understandably, the next morning at the close of the run, he walked rather tenderly as he went to the podium

Some of the participants, because of job and professional committments, left the run site on Sunday afternoon to make plane connections for home. Sunday night turned cold with intermittent rain, but inclement weather did nothing to dampen the ardor of the remaining participants . They played as if there would be no tomorrow.

Monday morning was cool and crisp, with a bit of a somber tone. An experience unique in SM annals had occured, an exchanging of vital energy and camaraderie . There was regret that it was over,

To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, sex is sex is sex. On the other hand, any relationship between two men should be a growing experience, and there is no single area in human sexuality where this can be better realized than in sadomasochism . but already participants were looking forward to Inferno XIII.

From across the country, leather business men had donated gifts to be passed out during the award ceremonies Monday morning. The president of Hellfire graciously acknowledged every donor, and each donor and his gift received loud applause. Mario of Drummer was at the run, and gave a year's membership to the Leather Fraternity and a subscription to Drummer to each winner.

One of the great events in the SM world was coming to a close once more.

The Chicago Hellfire Club is one of the most unique organizations in the world. Each Inferno is the Club's big anniversary party. With only about 25 full members, they manage to put together one of the cardinal events of the SM world. Associate members literally span the globe, another indication of the club's uniqueness.

Attendance at each Inferno is by invitation only. Each member and associate member is expected to know the man he recommends, since his behavior reflects, good or bad, on the member who recommends him.

Each Inferno raises and answers its own questions. Before Inferno XII, members speculated whether the response would be good or not, especially in the light of the growing incidence of AIDS. Trepidations proved groundless, since so many showed up.

These men trekked to Inferno XII at great expense. The SM experience is by its nature above the sexual experience. The energy displayed between the sadist and the masochist, the dominant and submissive , lends a sense of banality to mere sex itself. To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, sex is sex is sex is sex. On the other hand, any relationship between two men should be a growing experience, and there is no single area in human sexuality where this can be better realized than in sadomasochism.

Next year will soon be upon us, and with it the great Inferno XIII.

See you there!

Three Haiku

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

II. I licked his leathers, Sucked him off. Why now Is he fast asleep?

III. The gentlest kiss, Touching me everywhere, No, It was my own hand.

Now, much later, Eric writhes upon the bed, his body suffused with pain. It is wrapped about him like a mist of acid. His face is hot, his lips swollen from the slapping. His ass is burning and numb from the belt, his nipples tender from the clamps and the whip. His throat and ass are sore and bruised within. The bed-sheets are soaked with his sweat.

Eric has not touched his cock, and the man has touched it only with the whip. Eric cannot see it, cannot touch it, can only sense it; but he knows it is stiff as wood. As he writhes upon the bed his hips define a lurid circle, his bound and bloated cock fucks the air.

The man has left for a time. In the darkness behind the blindfold Eric tries to remember what the man looks like. Lean and muscular, though less muscular than Eric; a cock bigger than Eric's, much bigger. Eric remembers black leather, a vest and crotchless chaps that match the man's darkness and make obscene display of his naked flesh. His face…his voice…Eric cannot reassemble them out of the silent darkness.

It does not matter. Eric has had many men like this one since his return to the States. Some are more satisfying, more cruel and relentless than others; some know better than others how to spit him upon their cocks, how to bring him to the grey nadir. This one he has seen several times, will probably see again.

But it will not stop the craving. With all these men, as the first surge of submission and abandon begins, he imagines he is with Rezi again-reeling from the sting of Rezi's hand across his face—forcing his throat onto the dense thickness of Rezi's cock—opening his legs and straining to hold them open as Rezi splits him with the shaft-

He had thought, when he was returned to Washington from Istanbul—or rather, when he was sent home in disgrace—that he would learn to forget his craving for Rezi, if not for the things Rezi did to him. But Rezi was like the blood-red Turkish poppy. Rezi's sweat was morphia, Rezi's semen was opium. Eric was the addict, and Rezi the drug. Only pale substitutes, weak echoes of euphoria, are available to him now. The real thing has been sealed away from him forever.

He lives in San Francisco now, in another city built on a hilly tongue of land surrounded by sea. But often at night, hearing the foghorns, sensing the shroud of fog and the surrounding waters, he imagines himself returned to another life in another world. They thought they had punished him when they exposed his weakness and expelled him from Istanbul, naked in his humiliation; but the true punishment is that he can never return.

9

They met when Eric was with the Agency, stationed in Istan-bul . It was in the spring of 1980, in the last months before the coup. Eric lived in a hotel in the city, in a small room on the fifth floor that faced the Bosphorus. The view from his terrace was spectacular and dismal. Seen through the haze belched from the inland factories, the ornate minarets and the vast dome of Hagia Sophia were like calcified eruptions of stone rising above the squalor. Beyond was the Bosphorus, a dark channel of water scalloped with tiny waves, glistening bleakly under the sun and crawling with life-small craft and oil-streaked tugboats busy as maggots on the water, tiny in the distance and dimly seen across the gulf of filthy air. Beyond the Bosphorous, the far shore of Turkey-in-Asia could only be guessed at.

Eric posed as an interpreter at the American consulate. He was fresh in the field, little known on the circuit; officially he was simply a civil servant, with no ties to the Agency.

His real work took him across the Bosphorus each morning, by ferry to Scutari. His contact there was a British agent named Maple who had been serving Her Majesty since the days of Kennedy and Khrushchev. Because he was new and untested. Eric's work was unexciting, largely confined to unclassified paperwork; but because he could travel unremarked between the city and the suburbs, he sometimes acted as a runner, carrying packets of information from contact to consulate.

On these excursions he dressed informally, wearing sunglasses and white summer suits without a tie. Because of his dress, the locals sometimes assumed he was Italian. More often, because of his blond hair, they took him for a German or Swede.

One morning, on the deck of the ancient steam-powered ferry, he noticed a man dressed in dirty khakis and a workshirt dusted with soot. The man was a Turk. He stood alone at the stern, smoking a cigarette. His hair was dark and wiry, cut very short. The ragged ends of his mustache curled around the corners of his mouth. His thick upper lip was drawn back slightly, revealing a row of large white teeth with a gap in the middle. His jaw was cleanshaven and dark with the shadow of his beard.

The Turk's chest and shoulders were massive. At first, Eric thought he was short and stocky. Then a passenger in a business suit joined the Turk at the stern, and Ericsaw the man's stature in perspective. He was talll, well over six feet. He was not stocky. He was broad with muscle.

Eric strolled toward the stern. He stopped a few yards away from the Turk and the businessman and lit a cigarette. He pretended to watch the traffic on the water. When his eyes passed the Turk, they lingered.

The big man leaned on one elbow against the railing. He looked to Eric like some sort of magnificent animal, relaxing in the sunlight. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, his bicep contracted and filled the loose sleeve of his shirt.

The shirt was soaked with sweat. In the brisk breeze, it snapped about the Turk's waist and molded itself to his torso. His chest rose hard and high below his collarbone; there was a deep cleft between the muscles. Below his pectorals, his belly was like a curved shield ribbed with muscle. Through the thin wet cloth, Eric could see the man's nipples, the identation of his navel, the mat of wiry hair that covered his chest.

The smaller man was talking to the Turk and fidgeting, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The Turk looked bored, and faintly amused. The small man finished whatever he was saying and looked up at the Turk expectantly. The Turk did not answer. He did not look at the man. He smiled thinly, curling his upper lip to show the gap between his front teeth. Then he casually raised his arms above his head and stretched. His chest expanded and his waist contracted to an oval so compact Eric imagined he could fit his hands around it.

The man in the business suit stared openly and moistened his lips. Eric realized that the man was propositioning the Turk, and the Turk was teasing him, displaying his magnificent body while ignoring the man's presence.

The Turk tensed his shoulders. The muscles rose in knots around his neck. Then he relaxed and dropped his arms to his sides. He was still smiling. There was something obscenely presumptuous about his smile, cloyingly sweet with disgust and pity. If a man ever looked at me that way, Eric thought, I'd kill him.

The man in the suit reacted differently. Need erupted like a tattoo across his face. He dropped his eyes to the Turk's crotch and reached to touch him there. The Turk allowed the man to grope him for a moment, then picked the man's hands away. He cupped his own hand over the mound that projected from his pants like a pair of clenched fists. He ran his other hand luxuriously over his chest and belly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to touch and admire himself in front of another

The smaller man grew more agitated. Eric watched his hands open and clench. He spoke again. Eric could not make out the words, blown away by the wind, but he could hear the tone of the man's voice—barely controlled, servile, pathetic. Eric shared the man's embarrassment. His face turned hot and the back of his hands prickled.

The man in the suit fell silent. The Turk still had not looked at him. The man bit his lip and turned away, then turned back. He opened his mouth to speak, but there was no sound. The Turk ignored him. He ran his hands slowly over his chest and stretched again. Then he brushed the man aside and left him

alone at the stern.

Eric watched as the Turk approached. The sight of the man's body, drawing nearer, seemed to paralyze him. For a moment, as the Turk passed beside him, their eyes met and Eric felt completely exposed, like a naked boy caught masturbating. The Turk smiled at him. Eric had an impulse to speak, but his throat was frozen.

The Turk walked on. Eric turned his head, unable to take his eyes from the man's body. The damp shirt was stretched taut across his back, molded to the dimpled muscles in his shoulders. His narrow hips swayed gently as he walked. The khaki pants, loose everywhere else, were pulled flat across his ass. The cheeks were like a single ledge of hard rolling muscle.

The Turk reached an opening in the deck and descended out of sight.

Eric passed the day in a state of continual excitement. His mind was on the Turk all through his meeting with Maple. He hoped that he would see him again on the return ferry, but the Turk did not appear on deck. From the soot on his clothes and the breadth on his shoulders, Eric guessed that he worked in the boiler room. He imagined the Turk stripped to the waist, loading coal into the furnace with his strong arms, his flesh hot from the flames and pouring sweat. He imagined his own mouth pressed deep into the hard muscled cleft of the Turk's chest, his tongue lost in the mat of wiry hair, drinking up the man's musky sweat.

Back in the city, he went to the consulate to drop off a packet that Maple had given him. The fantasies were like a fog around his head. There was a briefing on new Russian naval maneuvers in the Black Sea; Eric could not concentrate on the graphs and maps. During the slide presentation that followed, he took advantage of the darkness to place his hand on his lap and press discreetly against the erection that had been there since the

After the consulate, he was free for the day. He considered going back to the ferry. He did not go; a part of him would not admit the reality of the obsession that had overtaken him. On his way to the hotel he chose a meandering route that took him through the Gardens around the Sultan Ahmel Mosque. He had heard, somewhere, that late at night the Gardens became a crusing ground for sailors, hustlers, drug dealers…and the underground police.

In late afternoon there were few men in the park. Most of them gave him no more than a glance. But there was one, a heavy Turk with enormous shoulders, who leaned provocatively against a tree and smiled at him lewdly. Eric drew closer to the man, then turned back, shocked at himself. His heart beat wildly as he reached the outskirts of the Gardens. He had to rest for a moment on a bench to catch his breath.

He ate alone at the cafe across the street from his hotel. The waiter, who knew him, asked what was wrong with the food; Eric explained that he had no appetite that evening.

Later, alone in his room, he thought about returning to the Gardens. Instead he took off his clothes and masturbated, thinking about the Turk.

Other men, in Eric's experience, had radiated the same attraction , but never so strongly. The Turk was irresistable. It was not just his body, the rough beauty and power scarcely concealed by the thin, damp clothing he wore. It was the manner in which he carried himself, the image of total self-possession he projected-and the cruel way he had teased the man on the ferry, allowing him to touch the thing he wanted before rejecting him. So aloof, smug, disdainful.

Eric imagined that such a man would be very rough with the few lucky ones whose advances he chose to accept. He would know how desparately they wanted him. He would be callous, selfish with his pleasure, malicious. Even if he were cautious and gentle, there would be pain. Eric had been fucked only a handful of times, in odd places on odd occasions. He thought of the thing that bulged, obvious and huge, from the front of the Turk's trousers. The Turk was strong enough to force it inside another man, willing or not. The image frightened Eric. It made his cock grow hard.

Eric imagined it in his mouth. Years ago, on the Stanford campus—where Eric was engaged in the studies that would later make him such a perfect candidate for the Agency's Turkish operations—a stranger in a men's room had taken Eric's head in his hands and driven his cock all the way down Eric's throat. The cock, no bigger than Eric's own, had made him sputter and gag. The sudden violence had angered him, he had left without satisfying the man; but for years afterward, whenever he thought of the incident, it excited him, and he wished he had stayed. If the stranger had been as magnetic as the Turk, would he have objected?

Eric ran his hands over his body, appreciating it, touching it, as the Turk had touched himself. He was certainly more attractive than the rejected man on the ferry. At twenty-seven, his face was still boyish, cleanshaven with high cheekbones and a firm jaw. His body was lean and smoothly muscled, shaped by the athletics of a privileged class, tennis, racquetball, rowing. Each summer for the past eight years he had cycled from Stanford to Monterey to visit his family, then down the coastal highway to San Diego and back; his thighs were broad with muscle, his buttocks round and compact. Was he what the Turk wanted?

He touched his nipples, slid his fingers down the contoured flatness of his belly, over his hips and around to converge at the cleavage between his cheeks. He slipped two fingers deeper into the cleft of the opening there. His fantasies ran wild and broke into fragments. A stranger in a toilet stall-The Turk, glistening like molten copper in the red light of the furnace—a heavy mass of flesh atop him, holding him down, arms and legs outstretched-crackling of flames-pistons firing-

Eric came, sooner than he intended.

The next morning Eric arrived at the ferry tense and short of breath. He watched for the Turk as he boarded. He circled the deck, searching for him. Eric was not sure what he would do when he found him; he only knew that he wanted to see the man, badly. But the Turk did not appear.

He did not see the Turk all week.

The obsession, deprived of its center, began to break, or at least to lose focus. Eric gradually resigned himself to the likelihood that he would never see the Turk again—or that if he did, nothing would come of it.

But the fever continued. He locked himself in his room every evening and masturbated all night, drawing out the pleasure for hours, pinching and slapping his own flesh, searching for more violent fantasies.

He wanted to feel a cock in his mouth again. The last time had been months ago, just before he was approved for entrance into the Agency. It happened in a hotel in Washington. The young porter caught his eye in the elevator. In his room, without a word, the dark-haired young man opened his tight uniform trousers and showed Eric his erection, short, blunt and very thick. Eric knelt and sucked the porter's cock. The young man did not move or make a sound, even when he shot. One moment, unexpectedly, the cock in Eric's mouth began to jerk; the next moment the porter was filling his mouth with semen.

Afterwards, zipping his pants, the porter told him: "You suck pretty good." The words were flat, like a compliment that had to be given. Eric simply nodded. He knew he had done a poor job. The young man's cock deserved much better. Eric had been distracted, paranoid. The Agency was in the process of assigning his security status. He was not worried; he had always been very discreet. But it was reckless to suck a stranger's cock in a room that, for all he knew, might be filled with bugs. That was the first time Eric realized the degree of self-control—and self-denial— he would have to practice once he was in the field and frequently under surveillance.

He gave the porter a fifty. The young man smiled at the size of the tip and lewdly hinted that he would be available for more:"You know, if you get hungry…and you can't find what you want in the room service menu… "Against his will, Eric told the porter that he wouldn't be needing his services again.

The hotel porter in Washington had given him a mouthful of

come to swallow. The come had been warm and thick. The taste had been musky and slightly bitter. Eric wanted a man to come in his mouth again. He wanted the Turk on the ferry to put his cock in his mouth and fill it with come.

Eric thought of the Gardens again. Too dangerous. He would as likely receive a knife in his back as cock down his throat. There was also the chance of arrest by the Istanbul police. Eric would be immune from prosecution, but the Agency would be scandalized . Expulsion would be certain.

Over the weekend, the fire the Turk had sparked in him died to a smoulder, more smoke than flame; exhaustion and frustration left little room for desire. By the following Wednesday he was almost back to normal, breathing easily, managing to keep his mind on his work. Less and less frequently the brushfire swept through him, demanding that he surrender to the fantasies and touch himself.

He ate breakfast in his room. He dressed in white pants and a white jacket; the sun promised to be fierce. He walked to the Scutari ferry.

That was the day he saw the Turk again.

As before, the man stood alone at the stern, smoking a cigarette. Eric's pulse began to race. His breathing grew quick and shallow. The longing returned in full force, catching him unprepared and defenseless. His body, confused, revolted. His knees went soft and his mouth turned dry.

He drew as close to the man as possible without being obvious. He watched from behind the inadequate concealment of a narrow wooden post.

The day was already hot. The breeze had died. The Turk tossed his cigarette into the water and unbuttoned his shirt.

Eric clutched the post and watched as the Turk pulled the sweat-soaked shirt from his shoulders and crumpled it into a ball. The Turk leaned against the railing, closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the sun warm his gleaming arms and chest. He stood facing Eric with his knees apart and his hips pushed forward as if, Eric imagined, he were waiting for Eric to come to him and kneel.

The sunlight on the man's trousers was dazzling. Eric stared at his crotch and saw that the thing within was stirring, like a sun-baked serpent straining to lift its head against the confining cloth. Eric moved to approach him, as the other man had done before. But he could not bear it if the Turk snubbed him. And he knew, in that instant, that he was capable of doing what the other had done, of degrading himself before the Turk. Eric shrank from the possibility. And yet, the Turk had at least allowed the man to touch him. Eric wanted to touch.

At that moment, as Eric lost all consciousness of his own appearance and allowed the lust to spread over his face like a damning stain, the Turk opened his eyes and saw him.

Eric froze as he was, lips parted, eyes fixed on the Turk's, tongue loose and wet in his mouth. The Turk tilted his head quizzically. He smiled faintly, revealing the space between his teeth. He moved his hands to the front of his hips and framed his crotch, drawing the loose material tight across his cock. Not touching, but displaying.

After a moment, he pushed himself from the railing and walked toward Eric.

Eric saw spots before his eyes and turned away, suddenly unable to face the man. His shoulders turned to gooseflesh, anticipating the man's touch. But the Turk did not touch him. Eric felt, rather than saw, the mass of the Turk's body pass beside him.

Eric turned and lifted his face. The Turk was descending into the hold, looking back at him. His eyes moved up and down over Eric's body as he took the steps. His legs and waist, then his massive chest and shoulders, then his face, still watching Eric, disappeared below the deck.

Eric hesitated, knowing what he had to do but needing time to gather the courage. At last he followed.

Into the hold. Into a narrow, winding passageway of booming metal and dim light. Banging of steel on steel and the smells of oil and friction. The corridor straightened. Ahead he saw a red DRUMMER 30 glow. The heat from the chamber seemed to suck him inside. Black metal framing sheets of flame. He did not see the Turk.

He heard a sound like trickling water. He followed the sound. Around the corner was a narrow alcove lit by a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. The walls were covered with crackling pale green paint. Before a rust-stained porcelain trough littered with cigarette butts, the Turk was standing with his pants open.

For a confused instant, Eric thought that the Turk was holding his right forearm in his left hand. Then he realized that the thing in the Turk's hand was his cock. He was pissing.

The Turk smiled at the shock on Eric's face. He took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into the trough. He glanced down and aimed his piss at the glowing tip, making it hiss and expire.

He stopped pissing then and shook his cock, spattering the porcelain with yellow drops. He reached into his pants and pulled out his balls, and turned toward Eric.

Eric stared, open-mouthed. The unnatural size of the Turk's organs was shocking. More shocking was the way he displayed them so casually, like an open threat. Eric could not bear to look at them. He could not bear to look at the Turk's face, smiling and blank, promising nothing. He fixed his eyes on the man's broad chest, where the crisp short hair lay flat against the swelling muscles. The chest loomed larger and filled his vision as the Turk drew closer.

Then the Turk was before him. His breath, stale with tobacco, was moist and warm on Eric's forehead. Eric looked up. The Turk's eyes caught his and held them; he took a step closer. Eric felt the blunt tip of the Turk's cock press against his crotch.

"Deutsch?"

Eric answered in Turkish. "No. American."

The Turk nodded slowly. "An American," he said. Perhaps he pushed with his hips, or perhaps his shaft grew longer, fuller; the blunt flesh pressed harder against Eric's crotch. The Turk tilted his head and stared down at Eric obliquely. "Do you know what I think of Americans? I piss on Americans." He paused, giving Eric time to respond. Then he went on. "I piss on them, then I fuck them." His nostrils flared. "Do you like to get fucked by Turkish cock?'

It was what he had wanted, exactly. The moment had arrived, unhoped for. Eric was frozen again. Afraid of letting it happen, afraid of letting the moment pass. Then the new sensation obliterated all his thoughts.

A flowing sheet of warmth covered his groin and seeped down his legs. It was so unexpected and pleasurable, Eric did not question it. The Turk's cock, touching him there, seemed to be pouring warmth into his crotch.

Eric could hardly believe it. His wildest fantasies were outstripped in an instant. His only response, as the Turk continued to piss against his crotch, was to moan and dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

The warm flow ceased and the Turk stepped back. Eric looked down at the circle of wetness that covered the front of his trousers. The stain ran down the inside of each leg to the knee.

"You've wet your pants, American."

The Turk's hands moved to undo the clasp of Eric's pants. He unzipped them and peeled the wet corners of cloth away from the clammy flesh. He pushed them down over Eric's hips. Eric's cock sprang free. The pants dropped and pooled around his feet.

The Turk stepped forward again. His cock had grown thicker, longer. Still it drooped. The head pressed huge and round into

Eric's testicles. The Turk began to piss again.

Eric's face twitched and went slack, unable to hold any expression for more than an instant. There was incredible pleasure between his thighs, a swirling, pressing, trickling warmth around his balls like a nibbling mouth. He listened to the frothing liquid sound and the splash of piss on the floor below.

The flood ended. The Turk curled his upper lip.

"That's what I think of all those wriggling American babies in your sack. Now I'll show you what I think of you."

He clamped his fingers onto Eric's hip and forced him to turn.

Eric's feet were tangled in the wet cloth around his ankles. He fell spinning and caught himself on the edge of the porcelain trough. The Turk grabbed his balls from behind and forced him to raise his ass and open his thighs. His head whirled from the smell of strong urine and moldering cigarette butts.

There was only a moment for fear. Then the Turk was in him, all the way. Eric opened his mouth to scream. Nausea clotted his throat. He made a stifled, rattling sound.

The Turk pulled out. The pain flowed out to the lips of Eric's ass. There was a vacuum inside him, surrounded by stinging thorns, and a strange, sweet ache. Eric shuddered and stared into the trough. He watched a long string of saliva drip from his mouth and slap the porcelain. Then the Turk was in him again, all the way.

Eric clutched the rim of the trough. His knuckles turned white as the porcelain. For a moment he wondered if it was the Turk's cock inside him. He had been fucked before. This is not what he had felt. It had to be something else-a bottle, a brand, a torch…

Then the Turk began to fuck him, and Eric knew the thing in his ass was alive.

The sensation in his bowels had no beginning or end. It was everywhere. He was a tree of nerves inside and every spindle fed directly to his ass and the thing that moved inside it.

It was forever. The Turk's cock was part of him now and it would never leave, it would be there forever, like a new organ lodged inside him. His body fought to eject it. The cock fought back and won.

The Turk did not touch him. He fucked from the hips. His pounding was relentless. There was no respite. The cock demanded to be inside him.

The pain was indescribable, irresistable. Eric could not bear it. He could not fight it. The pain itself rendered him helpless. The cock sapped all his strength, drawing it out of him with each outward stroke, then pumping fresh pain into him with each inward rush.

Eric's eyes wandered drunkenly over the trough, confused by the merging whiteness of his bloodless hands, the porcelain, the cuffs of his jacket, down to his own cock. There was no sensation there except the feeling that was everywhere in his body, the fullness radiating from his ass—yet his cock was hard. He had no time to wonder. Nothing was real but the thing that moved in his ass.

At last he managed to speak. "Please," he whispered, "please—please—" until the word became a chant in time with the rhythm of the Turk's pummeling hips. He was not begging the Turk to stop. He was begging for him to go on forever.

This was what he had wanted. It was the Turk inside him. It was the Turk's huge cock pumping him full of sensation.

At some uncertain point, pleasure joined the pain and then replaced it. Eric's cock, untouched, began to throb with feeling as if the Turk were stroking it from within, filling it to bursting, the Turk's cock inside his own. Eric looked down, shaken and dizzy from the constant pounding against his ass. He was coming . Not in spurts—the white cream poured in a steady flow from the tip of his cock into the trough below.

Still the Turk fucked him. Suddenly he grabbed Eric's cheeks, one in each hand, and stopped. The cock was buried inside, motionless. Then it throbbed and jerked. The Turk released a low, growling moan. Eric felt the cock shudder and empty itself inside him.

Time stopped, and did not start again until the Turk began the long, slow withdrawal. Inch after inch pulled free. An endless glistening club removed from his bowels. Then, with a belching sound, it was gone. Eric was empty again.

He tried to catch his breath. He tried to stand, but when he stepped away from the trough his back was too stiff to unbend. The bones in his legs had disappeared. His legs could not support him. Eric sank trembling to his hands and knees. He stared at the floor, orange-gray in the light from the furnace.

He looked over his shoulder. The Turk was above him, hands on his hips, breathing hard. His cock was still full and stiff. It

stood straight out from his groin, smooth and dark and impossibly huge. The Turk gave him a smile without warmth.

"You liked that, didn't you?" Eric looked at the floor. "No."

"Liar. Stand up."

Eric rose to his feet, pulling his pants up to his waist, wanting to

The Turk stepped forward and wiped his cock on the bottom flap of Eric's white jacket, smearing it with brown mucus. "Which id you like best," he said, "when I pissed on you, or when I fucked you?"

Eric flushed and looked away. The Turk nodded. "It doesn't matter." He pushed his cock inside his trousers and closed them. Eric moaned involuntarily as the shaft withdrew from sight. The Turk smiled. "Follow me."

They went to a dim, small office. The Turk placed a smudged square of yellow paper and a pencil before him on the desk.

"What's your name?"

"Eric."

"Just Eric?"

"Eric Christie."

"My name is Rezi. You are living in Istanbul?"

"Yes, at a hotel…

"They have a telephone?"

"Yes."

"Write it down."

Eric shook his head. "I can't. I can't see you again like this." Rezi grabbed the back of Eric's neck and pulled him to his toes. "I may want to see you again." He pressed Eric's hand to his crotch. He was still hard. Eric felt the stiffness through the cloth and the memory of it filled his ass. "I may want to fuck you again."

The Turk raised his hand to Eric's face. He ran a finger, gray with soot, over Eric's lips. "Maybe I'll use your mouth next time. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Eric closed his eyes and nodded.

"Alright then." Rezi pushed him back to the desk. Eric wrote his name and address. His hand shook so badly the script was barely legible. While he wrote, the Turk stood behind him, pressing his fingers into the crack of Eric's ass.

Then the Turk sent him away.

On the deck of the ferry, Eric felt like a leper. His clothes were rumpled and filthy, His face was smudged with dirt. His body was soaked with sweat. There was a clamminess between his legs as if his thighs and ass had been smeared with jelly. The stain of Rezi's piss was dark down the front of his pants.

He could not see Maple in this condition. He took the return ferry to Istanbul. He kept his eyes on the water, knowing that others were staring at him.

He wandered back to his hotel room. Hundreds of eyes followed him on the street. He could not even walk normally. It felt as if there were still something lodged inside his ass, huge and throbbing.

He called Maple and gave an excuse for being late. Something about an accident on the way to the ferry. His own words sounded faltering and false in his ears.

He showered, changed, took a later ferry to Scutari. Maple seemed suspicious. Perhaps he was only concerned.

Back in the city, at the consulate, his superiors noticed his condition and asked if he were sick. He told them he was not. There was a large stack of paperwork on his desk. He shut himself in his office and lost himself in the work. He did not leave until very late.

He returned to the hotel. There was a message for him at the front desk. Call me tonight. Rezi.

Rezi Bakal lived in a ramshackle tenement building on a narrow cobblestone street in the Stamboul district. It was there that Eric went each night to be used and humiliated.

Knowing what Rezi did for a living, Eric was surprised by the size of the apartment. There were two rooms and a private bath. DRUMMER 32

The plaster walls were unpainted, and most of the furnishings were crude, but scattered about the rooms were several expensive objects—a silver cigarette lighter with obsidian inlays, an enormous bronze ashtray, a chrome box with a few pieces of jewelry. There was also a telephone.

It was clear that Rezi accepted gifts for his favors. Eric never offered them. Rezi never asked him for anything. Eric considered this a small triumph in the midst of a great defeat.

Rezi was an engine, inexhaustible. Eric was the fuel. The sex would go on for hours. Eric gave all he had. It was never enough. Rezi would use him up. Drained completely, Eric would tear himself away, his jaw and his ass unable to take more of Rezi's cock. He would barely have enough strength to return to the hotel. There he would fall into bed and sleep until morning.

Sometimes he saw Rezi on the ferry. Rezi never took him down to the boiler room again. On the ferry they were strangers. But after work, Eric walked faithfully through the winding streets to the shabby apartment and delivered his body for Rezi's use.

Locked into a life of abstinence, he had learned to find excitement in his own flesh. There was something thrilling about the way Rezi treated his body, as if it were a thing of ugliness, hairless and angular and white. Eric's cock was beneath his contempt. Rezi never touched it, except to slap it after he had tied it painfully tight in loops of oxhide that made the pinched flesh ache with bloated sensation. Nor would he allow Eric to touch it. Even the act of rubbing it against the bedsheets or the floor while Rezi fucked him was forbidden. When Eric forgot, and his hips fell into a natural rhythm, Rezi stopped him with a blow to the side of his head. Any reminder of its existence offended him. It was pale, small, an insult to Rezi's own perfect beam of dark muscle.

When he was with Rezi, all Eric's sensations were diverted—to his ass and mouth, vessels for Rezi's cock, to his nipples, which Rezi used to teach him how simply pain could be inflicted, to his balls, on which Rezi vented his special hatred. It was unlikely that their seepings would ever create a child, but Rezi hated them as if they carried the seed of the West, the fountianhead of all the scum of European blood that would poison the earth for centuries to come. Tied with oxhide, the sack was reduced to a hard red knob, small enough to fit in the palm of Rezi's huge hand. His calloused fingers closed like a five-pronged vise; five other fingers in Eric's mouth to gag his screams. More than once he thought that Rezi had ruptured him at last.

Then the orgies began.

They were conceived on the night of the phone call to Ahmed, a friend of Rezi's who worked as a security guard at an American hotel

Eric had just finished a long, painful evacuation in the toilet. He had not been clean for Rezi's cock. The relentless pounding had compacted the waste inside him into a hard, burning mass. It came out like lumps of caustic clay. The semen Rezi had pumped inside him came out as well. It floated in long opalescent ribbons, dispersed, and clouded the dark water.

Eric emerged from the toilet with trembling legs. There was a dull fire like a rope burn in his bowels. Rezi sat in his chair. His red robe was thrown open to show his chest, so massively muscled that the definition showed clearly through the wiry black hair. His cock was heavy and bloated after the long fuck. The sleek brown flesh was mottled with mucus and oil.

The telephone was in Rezi's hand. He looked up at Eric and continued to speak into the phone. "Yes," he was saying, "an American pig, with blond hair and blue eyes … no cock to speak of, but his legs are always open."

Eric's face grew hot. He lowered his eyes and stared at Rezi's cock. The drooping beam of muscle grew thicker before his eyes. Rezi's virility astounded him. Very soon the cock would be full, and Rezi would put it inside him again.

"He's in the room with me now," Rezi said. He paused, listening . "Naked," he answered. "Sometimes I let him wear a strap of leather around his little boy's cock when he's in my house. Otherwise I keep him naked.

He held the receiver away from his mouth and spoke to Eric, loudly enough to be heard over the wire. "Come here, pig."

Eric crossed the small room and knelt between Rezi's legs. His eyes stayed on the cock. The shaft, still pliant, bowed to gravity. It arched downward and rested on the chair like a sunning serpent. Three veins ran down the length. The cock jerked and hardened a bit; the veins meandered beneath the flesh like rivers changing course.

Rezi laughed. "Go ahead, pig." His voice was cloying and sweet. "Lick it."

Eric opened his mouth and bowed his head. He pressed his tongue against the slick mass of flesh.

Rezi purred with pleasure. "Yes, he does whatever I tell him…of course…both—his mouth, his ass…" Rezi laughed. "When did you ever see it? Ah, that time we went naked on the tourist beach. Those German bitches were scared out of their wits when they saw it. I thought they would turn and run. But my little pig isn't afraid of it. He loves it … Of course it hurts him. You should hear him squeal. But pigs like to be hurt."

Eric tried not to hear. He stared at the base of Rezi's shaft and licked in broad strokes. He ached to touch himself. His cock had shriveled from the pain of the evacuation; now it was hard again. He felt it as a presence projected into the air, throbbing with fresh blood. He did not dare touch it.

"What do you mean you don't believe me? You want the pig to tell you himself?" Rezi pushed the receiver into Eric's face. "Speak, pig."

Eric stared up at him dumbly.

"Go ahead." Rezi shook the phone.

Eric stared at the telephone, pretending not to understand what Rezi wanted. He began to lick again.

Rezi slapped him, the hard calloused hand struck him across his ear and the side of his face.

"Tell Ahmed what you're doing," he whispered gruffly. He pressed the receiver against Eric's mouth and ear, numb where the hand had stung him. Eric looked up at him, close to tears.

Eric swallowed. He moved his lips soundlessly. The words finally began with a stutter. He stopped and closed his eyes. The words rushed out. "I'm licking my man's cock."

Ameds breath was heavy over the phone. "What is your name?"

Eric's heart pounded in his chest. Rezi's cock rose to nudge his throat. He prayed that Rezi would take the phone from him. Rezi only scowled and told him to speak.

"My name is Eric," he whispered.

"Eric. A Nordic name. You're blond, as Rezi says?" "Yes."

"And your breasts are smooth as a woman's. Rezi says you have a woman's nipples, that they beg to be touched. He says you moan with pleasure when he bites them. Is that true?"

Rezi jabbed a knee into Eric's ribcage. "Effendi," he whispered . "Address him as your master."

"Yes, effendi." A trickle of sweat crept down Eric's spine. His cock, defined by the empty space around it, throbbed with illusory hugeness.

"How old are you?" Ahmed asked.

"Twenty-seven, effendi."

The man's breath grew ragged. "And you're naked on your knees, with your face between his thighs?"

"Yes." Eric flinched-"Yes, effendi."

"I know his house. I know that chair. I can almost see the two of you." The disembodied voice seemed to stifle a moan. "And you're licking him?"

"Yes, effendi."

Let me hear it. Do it so that I can hear."

Eric obeyed. He lapped at the flesh as loudly as he could, hoping Ahmed would hear and be satisfied, and stop the interrogation . Rezi snarled above him, mistaking his compliance for resistance. He slapped the other side of Eric's face.

Eric's head reeled. Rezi was grinding the phone into his ear. He heard Ahmed's voice again.

"It's big, isn't it? It hangs like an arm between his thighs. L've never seen it hard. It must be huge when he's with you. When you're like that, naked on your knees."

"Yes, effendi," Eric whispered. "Rezi is huge."

Rezi smiled above him. He pressed his cock, almost full now, against Eric's burning cheek.

"He says you let him put it in your ass." Ahmed sounded skeptical.

"I do, effendi."

There was a long pause. Eric closed his eyes. Ahmed's breath was in his ear, heavy and metallic. The strong smell of Rezi's cock pressed like a mask against his face.

"Rezi, he's a big man. He's very proud of his cock…He fucks you hard, dosn't he?"

"Yes, effendi, very hard." Rezi slapped him lightly with his cock.

"It must be very strange to have something so huge inside you. It must hurt you, very badly."

"Sometimes…"

sphincter; but Rezi continued to force Eric's throat onto his cock, inch by inch, until the entire shaft was buried in hot, convulsing flesh. Eric's body twisted, heaved and submitted.

Rezi did not choose to come for a long time. There were other calls to make.

The next night, Eric met Ahmed. During the next week, he was introduced and offered to all three of the men Rezi called that night.

None of them projected the full range of Rezi's power; none were as big between the legs. But they were alike enough to have been his brothers, dark, broad-shouldered men in their thirties with thick mustaches and smouldering eyes. They had the hard, hairy bodies of working class Turks. Their laughter was sharp and coarse, like the barking of dogs.

Eric met them, and was taken by them, one at a time, then by all together. The uses to which they put him, alone or together, but always under Rezi's amused eye, passed through many stages over the next weeks.

On the game nights, all three came to Rezi's house.

Eric did not know the game they played. He never saw them play. The four men sat at Rezi's table, shuffling cards, drinking cup after cup of black Anatolian coffee, smoking hashish and tobacco. They stripped off their khakis and workshirts and changed into long robes tied loosely at the waist, dressing as Rezi dressed at home. Eric would be naked, crouching on his hands and knees beneath the table.

As they played above him, telling grim, lewd jokes and exchanging crude insults, Eric moved from man to man. One of them would open his robe, part his legs and reach beneath the table to wave his cock. Eric would crawl to the offered sex, press his face between the man's thighs and nurse at the cock. The men soon learned how to indicate, with gentle pressure or a pinch, what they wanted him to do-to lick the inside of their thighs, to hold their balls in his mouth, to bow low and kiss their feet.

Sometimes, the man he served-never Rezi, of course-- would hook his foot under Eric's crotch, encouraging him to hold onto the man's thigh and rub himself against the man's leg while he sucked. Or, while he knelt to kiss and lick one of the men's feet, the man behind, feeling Eric's ass against his knees, would reach down to push a finger into his hole, or reach deeper to grab his cock and pry it backward like a lever, squeezing and pulling, then releasing it to hear the sharp slap it made against Eric's belly, over and over. Eric's cock was always hard for them to play with. Bound by Rezi's strap, untended by his own hand, it stayed hard and aching for hours beneath the table.

When a man was finished with him, he would shove Eric's face from his crotch and push him on to the next man.

Every fourth cock was Rezi's. Rezi did not like him to suck aggressively. He preferred for Eric to lick his cock, to let it slide wet with spit over his cheeks and eyes—to love the cock with his face, as Rezi said—then to swallow it down his throat and hold it there as long as he could.

Sometimes, Rezi's cock would suddenly soften in his throat. The tube along the underbelly would fill and press down on Eric's tongue. The men drank coffee all through the game. Rezi pissed often.

Eric learned to swallow without pulling back to clear his throat. He pressed his lips into the wiry hair of Rezi's groin, and Rezi was a soft pipe in his throat, emptying piss into his belly. Only after the cock slid from his throat did the taste, sharp and bitter, rise in the back of Eric's mouth. At those times it was hard to keep from touching himself.

The other men soon noticed that Rezi never left the table to relieve himself. Nothing was said, but one by one they began to make the same secret use of him.

Eric was not allowed to crawl from beneath the table until the game was over. Only once was a game interrupted and left unfinshed. Eric had been serving Ahmed. More than the others, Ahmed allowed him some freedon to suck as he wished. Ahmed was the largest of the group, except for Rezi.

That night Eric was fucking his throat on Ahmed's cock, slowly, then faster and faster, feeling the shaft expand and watching Ahmed's flat belly, hard as steel, bulge and contract with growing excitement. Eric ran his hands over his own belly, pressing his fingers into the puffy skin around the cord that tied off his genitals, making his shaft beat time in the air.

Ahmed reached under the table and pressed his hand against Eric's forehead, signaling him to stop the sucking. Ahmed gasped. His hand withdrew, trembling. Eric tightened his lips around Ahmed's shaft and pushed his face all the way to the man's belly.

The cock throbbed. Ahmed was going to come in his mouth.

Eric moaned and began to swallow.

Ahmed had not been ready to come. He pushed himself away from the table, jerking his cock out of Eric's throat. His semen shot into Eric's face and hair. Ahmed snarled and held his cock at the base as if Eric had wounded him there. He cursed loudly and slapped Eric's face, spattering the come that dripped from his forehead and cheeks.

Rezi was furious. He pulled Eric upright by his hair, causing him to scrape his back against the hard edge of the table. He threw him belly down across the tabletop. The others held him down while Rezi left the room. He returned with a thin leather belt.

Rezi struck him across his ass and thighs, then across his shoulders. Eric began to scream. One of the men stuffed his mouth with a sock. When he was through, Rezi passed the belt to Ahmed, who still pouted darkly.

The game was forgotten.

They took him on the table that night. Ahmed, so angered by his premature ejaculation, grew hard again before he passed the belt to the next man. After they had each taken a turn at welting his backside, Ahmed was the first to fuck him.

On all the other nights, Rezi was first. After they finished a game, they moved into the bedroom. Rezi removed his robe and the others watched while Eric served him. Rezi showed them how an American pig could be made to swallow his cock whole, how pulling on Eric's nipples made him suck more eagerly . "It's like a machine," he explained. "The harder I pull on her tits…the harder she sucks. The deeper I press my fingernails into her nipples…the deeper she takes me down her throat." He showed them how he could drive his cock all the way to the balls' in Eric's ass with a single thrust.

After Rezi, the other men took their turns. Sometimes, while Ahmed used his mouth, the other two men would work their smaller cocks together into his ass. After Rezi, there was room inside him for two.

Eric would be in torment while they used him. Their cocks pressed against his bladder, swollen with the piss they had put inside him. He ached to relieve himself. But if he released the flood on Rezi's bed, the punishment would be terrible. If he could relax, he might enjoy the bursting pressure in his ass; but he had to hold himself tense. Every new thrust battered at his control.

Sometimes he could not help himself. His body would revolt, and even as he fought to hold it in, jets of urine would fly from his cock in spasms, as if he were ejaculating. This amused the men, especially Ahmed, who liked to torture him by kneading Eric's swollen belly with his knuckles while he used his ass. "Come for me, pig," Ahmed would whisper in his ear; a jet of piss would squirt from Eric's cock. Ahmed would laugh and fuck him harder.

Rezi liked to watch. He sat in his chair, lazily drawing on a cigarette and stroking his hard cock. He moved his lips obscenely when Eric looked to him for relief.

Eventually the others left. Then Rezi would be ready to take him again.

He would lead Eric, crawling because he was too weak to walk, into the tiny bathroom. There, Rezi sat on the edge of the rust-streaked tub with his feet inside. Eric climbed into the tub and sat on Rezi's waiting cock.

Rezi filled his guts and left no room for the piss in his bladder. When the impalement was complete, the piss began to flow. Rezi held Eric's cock, still stiff, and aimed the uncontrolled rush

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of urine over Eric's belly and chest. Sometimes the flow was so forceful that it splashed onto his neck and chin; and Rezi would point the pissing cock straight up and force Eric's face down so that the jet shot into his open mouth. Eric relaxed inside at last, and Rezi was there, huge inside him. Then he felt a pleasure so exqusite it was worth all the agony that came before.

After Rezi came, perhaps for the fourth time that night, Eric would finally be allowed to touch himself. Rezi sat in his chair, tired and glowing. Eric took his place on the floor. He drew the big cock, soft and satisfied at last, into his mouth. He mastur- bated while Rezi watched and cooed obscenities.

Often, he was too exhausted to come. He pumped his cock until his body was glazed with sweat and his hair hung in tendrils . He stroked himself frantically, futilely, faster and faster, unable to respond. At a certian point-Eric came to dread the moment-his cock simply became numb. The harder he stroked, the softer he became, until his cock flailed limp and useless in his fist. Even as his efforts to pleasure himself ended in anticlimax, Rezi's cock would be stirring again in his mouth. Then Eric would long for Rezi to use his big cock—to fuck his throat again, or piss in his mouth-to slap his face or twist his nipples. He needed a last, desparate burst of excitement to make his own cock rise.

But Rezi would simply grow bored and push Eric away. He would laugh at Eric's soft cock, and send him home.

It was hard to sleep on the nights they used him. Eric tossed and turned in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position for his battered body. The inner passages of his ass, bruised by their cocks, throbbed in time with his heart. The rough muslin sheets were like razors on his nipples. A welter of strange tastes filled his mouth. His balls, full and heavy, ached as if they would burst. His cock was limp, as it would remain until the next time he stood naked before Rezi, waiting for Rezi's hands or Rezi's cock to make use of him

Rezi had enslaved him. And Rezi had unsexed him.

He was a fool to think that his deterioration would be invisible to the others at the Agency. His concentration grew weak. He seldom spoke except when necessary. He forced himself through each day, fighting a greater and greater accumulation of fatigue. His work suffered. These things did not go unnoticed.

His immediate superior, a thin gray agent named Landers, suggested he visit one of the doctors at the consulate. Eric procrastinated, knowing he would have to explain the marks, faded and fresh, on his body.

Landers was an old hand at the Agency. Considering his age and his years of service in Turkey, his position should have been much higher. Time had borne out Eric's first estimation of the man: that Landers was an unimpeachable mediocrity, the kind of agent who stabilizes early on in a position of low authority-valuable for his loyalty and his slow accumulation of knowledge in a very narrow field, but ultimately unimaginative, more ambitious than capable, aware though painful experience of his limitations and jealous of younger, brighter men. This jealousy he masked as curiosity and mock-parental concern. Landers liked to play the mentor; this gave him the opportunity to exhibit his superior rank, to render advice, to pry. He spoke in a dry, cynical Midwestern drawl that seemed to lace even the most innocent comment with multiple insinuations.

As his obsession with Rezi grew more extreme and its consequences more visible, Eric began to fear Landers. There were numerous small signs that Landers suspected something. These might have been coincidental, as meaningless in fact as they appeared on the surface. Perhaps the frightful connections Eric saw were illusions created by his own anxiety.

Landers asked how he spent his free time. Was Topkapi up to his expectations-or had he been too preoccupied with the Turkish women to play tourist? Landers warned him about venereal disease, cautioned him about religious improprieties and the drug market; the consulate would rescue him from any embarrassing situation, of course (for its own sake), but it was DRUMMER 38 always preferable to avoid an incident altogether. And once, entirely out of character, Landers made a reference to the famous oil-wrestling matches at Kirkpinar ("faggots fly all the way from the States to see it"), followed by an obscene joke about homosexual tourists hunting for Turkish cock at the Gardens of the Sultan Ahmel Mosque.

Eric did not even try to hide his agitation. Rezi had stripped him of every shell. He could pretend nothing. He moved through life naked now, and was frequently amazed that his exposure was not obvious to everyone; they behaved as if everything were normal, as if nothing about him had changed. It was like walking stark naked into a crowded room, unremarked.

But a man like Landers could smell a younger man's vulnerability . Did he notice the faint bruises on Eric's cheekbone and neck, the small cut on his lower lip? Could he tell, from Eric's awkward gait and the slight wince when he sat, that Rezi's cock had been in him only a few hours before?

Perversely, Eric began to find excitement in his own paranoia. When Landers seemed to drop an innuendo (or as Eric imagined, to subtly interrogate him), Eric felt himself grow loose and submissive between his legs. He thought of Rezi, of Rezi's cock. He allowed his thoughts to show upon his face. He fantas-ized that Rezi would enter the room at that moment, would strip and abuse him, and Eric would not resist. Landers the gray scarecrow would grow fat with smugness—order the clerks and agents into the room to witness the incident—order cameras to record what could not be spoken-suspicions confirmed. They would all see him for what he was, whimpering and groveling as Rezi slapped his face, fucked his mouth, called him an American

If Landers read these fantasies in Eric's face, his own face was too stony and bloodless to show it. Later, Eric would see that this fantasy had been a prophecy; and he would spend much time considering the role he played in his own destruction.

Then, for a short time at least, Eric had to put a stop to the nights with Rezi. At last, the long-expected coup was about to begin. The Soviets were massing in the Black Sea, American naval units intensifying reconnaissance in the Aegean. There was a new tension in the streets-overnight, a doubling of armed troops, chaotic interruptions in rail service, reports of bombings, confusion, excitement. Intelligence from Ankara was sporadic. Eric worked long hours at the consulate, far into the night. His trips to Scutari ceased; information was being exchanged through higher channels now.

For the first time he became genuinely interested in his work, caught up in the manic flurry. There was simply no time for Rezi. Surprised, Eric found himself working for long hours at a stretch without thinking of him. At night, he left the consulate, ate at the hotel or cafe across the street, showered in his room and went to bed. At first, there were messages from Rezi every night. It was difficult to answer the calls, to tell him he could not come. Rezi did not demand or taunt; he would simply hang up.

Eric knew that Rezi was displeased; and in the taciturn way he accepted the refusals, in the way he continued to call, Eric thought he sensed disappointment as well. This gave him a curious feeling of power, as he realized their affair was not as one-sided as he had imagined, or fantasized. It was strangely disillusioning to discover that Rezi desired him, just as he desired Rezi—and that he could say no, and still be desired. But it also gave him a glimmer of all that Rezi had stripped away from him, and a faltering first step outof the maze of frenzied self-abasement in which he had lost himself since that first day on the ferry

Each day, while a government crumbled about him and the consulate spun in a whirl of anxiety, Eric felt stronger, calmer. There was a sudden but subtle change, and Rezi began to recede. Not thoughts of Rezi-because Eric thought of him every night as he masturbated before going to sleep. It was his craving for Rezi in the flesh, to be with him, to feel Rezi's cock inside him, that suddenly slackened. As long as he was occupied with useful work—as his own identity and history came back into focus—it began to seem that Rezi had been a fantasy that

had somehow ripped through the safe fabric of his reality, had taken centerstage, had now begun to fade into fantasy again. It was almost as if the memory of Rezi, and the truths he revealed, was enough. This saddened Eric; but it gave him a sense of peace as well, a calmness after the madness of the storm. He had passed through fire, and he had survived after all.

But all this was premature. As the days dragged on, the constant tension began to wear on him. Slowly, with a sensation of quiet horror, Eric knew he had taken only a short respite from his need for Rezi. The moment came when he knew that the memories would not be enough.

He still said no when Rezi called, but now he tried to keep him on the line, said the words he knew would invite Rezi to taunt him. Rezi sensed the change in balance and reclaimed the advantage. He might have begun to doubt, but now he knew for certain: Eric was his. He grew abusive when Eric continued to hesitate, called him pig, reminded him of the game nights, of the piss he loved to drink; told him his cock was hard and ready for Eric's throat, slapped it against his thigh so Eric could hear. Eric resisted more feebly now. Almost in unconscious anticipation, he began to hoard his regained energy, still masturbating every night but never coming, falling asleep with his erection in hand and thoughts of Rezi in his head.

Then he saw Rezi on the ferry again.

The countryside was still in chaos, but events in Istanbul had cooled as quickly as they had erupted. There was an important packet from Maple in Scutari, and no one else to spare. Landers sent him on the evening ferry. He was instructed to pick up the packet and return to his hotel, to sleep beside the documents and bring them to the consulate in the morning.

As soon as he stepped onto the ferry, he knew he would see

Rezi. It was a premonition as exact as his instructions for the day. On the return trip, Rezi stood alone at the stern, taking his cigarette break.

The sun was low, sinking below the water to the west. Its orange rays lit Rezi with a strange, lurid light, like the glow of the furnace below. He had removed his shirt. The sweaty muscles gleamed in the harsh twilight, massive and smooth. The mat of dark, wiry hair between his pectorals was lit from the side, tipped with liquid fire.

He glanced up, saw Eric. They said nothing, kept their distance . Rezi smoked his cigarette, staring. He finished it, tossed it over the rail, approached the stairwell into the hold. He continued to stare as he came nearer. As he passed by, Eric lowered his eyes and shivered.

Rezi paused for a moment. His voice was almost a whisper, low and harsh. "Tonight. I'll have you tonight. Do you understand?"

Eric kept his eyes lowered. He found himself staring at Rezi's crotch. The cock was stiff as a pipe, the shaft and head defined against the damp khaki.

Rezi. No.

Rezi moved his hand to his cock, slowly stroked it through the cloth. "Yes. Tonight I'm going to put it in you again. I'm going to fuck you with it all night long." Eric stifled a moan. "And I'm going to beat you. Do you understand? With my belt. You've made me wait, little pig. You've made me wait too long. You'll come to me tonight, and you'll be punished."

"No… "Yes."

"When?"

Eric, staring at the cock, could not see Rezi's face. He felt, DRUMMER 39

When it was over, they seemed grimly satisfied. There was nothing he had not told them.

It was Landers who came to release him from the white room. Eric had been sleeping on the cot in the corner, fully dressed, when Landers shook him awake from a sea of lost dreams. Saying nothing, Landers pointed to the wash basin. Eric rose, splashed water on his face. Landers offered him coffee in a paper cup.

"You're free to go now," Landers said. His gray face revealed nothing.

"What?"

"To return to your hotel. We're not keeping you here any longer.'

Eric stared at the coarse grains floating on the surface of the coffee, confused. "I thought-

"You're not under arrest, Christie. The intelligence you lost was of no concern to the military, or you'd already be in their hands. This affair will remain in-house. The consul prefers it that way. He's conferred with me, we've gone over the transcript of your interrogation. There is no reason to suspect you of treason. You've been criminally negligent, but as to your crime, that's to be decided higher up. You'll return to your hotel now, and remain there. A car will arrive for you tomorrow at noon. You'll be flown back to Washington. They'll take it from there."

"Then-you want me to leave the consulate." Eric was still confused.

"Yes. Through the kitchen and service entrance. No need to go through the offices. Your desk has already been cleared. We'd rather you left as inconspicuously as possible."

Back in his hotel room, dazed, moving like an automaton, Eric paced the floor. He had no sense of time. Later, it was impossible for him to remember his thoughts. Nothing was clear, really, until he threw himself on the bed, hoping at last to sink into an unconscious retreat. There was a lump beneath the mattress. He thought of the valise, but what he found was a pistol with a single bullet in the chamber.

He knew who had left it, and how they intended him to use it.

They preferred that it happen here, away from the consulate. It would be so much easier, so much cleaner for all concerned.

Throughout the afternoon and into the night he lay on the bed, the gun nestled on the pillow beside him, pointing so that he could stare into the dark cylinder of the barrel.

He finally slept for a time. When he awoke, in the last darkness before dawn, he had made his decision. It would rectify everything , he thought. It was the only possible outcome—and realizing what he was thinking, he wondered if he was insane.

He would use the gun. But not as the Agency had intended.

He has remembered what happened next, replayed it in his head a thousand times. It is like a dream that will turn out satisfactorily, if only he dreams it often enough. But the outcome is always the same. The only possible outcome. The worst possible outcome.

He is in the hotel room in Istanbul, lying on the bed beside the loaded pistol. He rises from the bed, takes off his rumpled clothing, showers and shaves, puts on a freshly pressed suit.

He picks up the pistol. Spreading his feet, raising the gun with both hands, he takes aim at the mirror. The image satisfies him, makes him feel secure. He slips the pistol beneath his belt. His buttoned coat is adequate concealment.

He leaves the hotel without incident. They are probably not even watching; they think he is dead by now, or patiently awaiting the car to take him to the airport. He takes a taxi to the quayside, wanting to be sure he catches the first morning ferry. Rezi will be on it. Eric knows his schedule by now.

What will happen afterward? For a moment, on the crowded deck, Eric falters. Is he only compounding the disaster? Does Rezi really deserve to die?

Yes, to both questions. Let the disaster run its course. Let Rezi suffer, for once. It was Rezi who betrayed him. The timing was too be perfect to be explained as coincidence. Eric does not for an instant believe that Rezi himself is an agent. No, someone has simply used him, someone who knew who Eric was, who knew

the power Rezi had over him. They probably paid him to do it—to make sure Eric was out of his room that night. He was only an object to Rezi after all, a valuable toy to be bartered for money.

Eric scans the deck, still not sure that he hasn't been followed. When he is certain no one is watching, he quickly descends into the hold.

He remembers the airless corridor, the booming metal, the first time. Red heat rushes over his face, matching the coldness inside him. He enters the boiler room. Through a maze of pipes, furry with oil and soot, he sees Rezi, bent half-naked to feed the furnace. Perhaps, he thinks, he can do it without detection. The sound of the engine might cover the shot …

Rezi sees him now. He frowns. Eric reads the confusion on his face. Rezi never expected to see him again. Yes, Rezi knew.

Rezi stands, then draws closer, still frowning. The shovel is in his hands. Before he can speak, Eric pulls the gun from his belt. This is the moment Eric has been waiting for-the shock on Rezi's face, the greater shock to come when the bullet penetrates his forehead.

But Rezi only smiles, that smarmy, conceited smile Eric has come to know so well, showing the gap between his front teeth. He draws closer, his shoulders back and chest expanding as he begins to laugh. Eric is paralyzed. Like an insect pinned to velvet, all his limbs are useless. He tries to squeeze the trigger, but the only result is the strange, embarrassing, half-stifled noise that issues from his throat. He would like to silence Rezi's laughter, now, forever. To drown it with a single blast from the pistol. But Rezi is too perfect to be destroyed.

He remembers a hard, black shape erupting against the left side of his head—the shovel, swung by Rezi's strong arms. Eric is knocked to his knees, the gun flies from his grasp. Rezi is over him, no longer laughing, angry now. Eric sees the gun, reaches for it-but Rezi's boot is on his hand, crushing the fingers, making him howl with pain. Then Rezi is over him, smiling again as he points the gun at Eric's temple. "Do you want it? Eh?" Rezi runs the barrel over Eric's face. He slaps him, and when Eric opens his mouth to cry out, Rezi thrusts the barrel inside. Then, somehow—Eric cannot remember how-because he could not understand it at the time—Eric is on his knees, his pants ripped apart, his wrists held behind his back, the barrel in his mouth and Rezi's cock in his ass.

"You want it, don't you?" Rezi is saying. "This is what you want!'

Perhaps Rezi intends to kill him; probably not. He will never know, for at that moment Rezi freezes inside him as both of them realize that someone else has entered the boiler room.

Eric turns his face, and from the corner of his eye sees that Rezi is turning his face as well, in perfect synchronicity. Landers stands framed in the doorway, his face lit by the orange glow.

Then Rezi begins to laugh again, a conspirator's laugh, and he starts fucking again, much harder. Eric looks at Lander's gaunt face, expecting condemnation, shock, disgust-and sees only a thin gray smile.

He will never know for certain, but he is sure it was Landers who set him up. Landers found out about Rezi, contacted him, bribed him; arranged for Maple to dispatch a bogus packet, set the date for Eric's ruin. That is why his punishment—a reprimand and expulsion-was so mild: The packet he lost was only a decoy, part of a test set up by Landers. Eric failed that test, more spectacularly than even Landers could have hoped.

Istanbul is a scar on his life. In three years it has scarcely healed. He keeps the wounds fresh by remembering. He would like to return there. Perhaps, after three years…but the State Department will not allow it. Instead, he lives in another city surrounded by sea, and searches for men who can remind him of Rezi. He imagines himself a slave, bound by chains of memory, as faithful as fate will allow to the master who betraved him. He wonders sometimes if Rezi, too, remembers and regrets. But if Rezi is everything Eric thought, he has long since forgotten.

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This information arrived addressed to Drummer Daddies at large, "from a wet, bad little boy." It's the latest in handkerchief codes, for "diaper-boys and their Daddies."

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CHURCH'S FRIED CHICKEN

The much-loved "hot seat" may soon become a thing of the past at Holden Ranch for Boys in Morgan Hill, California. It appears that Youth for Christ (YFC), an international religious organization which provides volunteer services at the county-run facility, recently went too far in applying its electrical "youth programming tool," and two teenage boys incarcerated at the ranch ended up with dime-size burns on their thighs. Unwelcome media exposure and threatened lawsuits followed.

Use of the "hot seat" is apparently a long-standing fetish among YFC organizers . Ideas, a YFC training manual, explains: "The 'hot seat'…is a great youth programming tool… Esentially it is an ordinary wooden stool that has been wired with a six-volt battery and a Model-T coil. Its function is to give the person sitting on the 'hot seat' a harmless shock that usually sends him (or her) leaping off the seat… When properly used, it can be a tremendous source of enjoyment for any group of young people… The 'hot seat' was developed and widely used in the nationwide network of 'Campus Life' clubs and has been used for fun in many other youth programs from coast to coast.'

Another YFC booklet suggests lines to use during the fun: "This is the original Bunson burner-Mike is now going to get his bunson burned," "Joe has just won a free rump roast," and "Are you chicken? Good…now you're going to be fried chicken!"

Another book promises, "When it is used for fun, kids will usually look forward to the day when they get chosen to sit on it," but warns that "it is quite possible to get such a personal thrill out of frying kids on the electric chair that fun turns into vindictiveness."

Shocking.

DESTINONOHO) (4)

THE LIMITS OF DESIRE

In the history of American porn there has been little that was revolutionary. Sure, the explicit depiction of certain sexual acts-fistfucking, water sports, genital torture-have raised a few eyebrows. But in as many quarters as not these acts have been splayed across the screen without causing even the slightest arch of outrage. Literature, or more specifically porn literature , has brought the vagaries of human sexuality into the home and the mind since the first editions of de Sade. There has been nothing new under the sun.

Until now.

The She-Male Encounters collection contains six one-hour and two feature-length titles packaged by Caballero Control Corporation like potato chips-you can't eat just one; if you eat one you'll eat them all. Directed by Kim Christy, who obviously comes from the traditional Hollywood school of filmmaking, these eight entities are the sexual revolution in porn. There has never been anything like them, and they alter forever the way one views sexuality.

Christy uses a wide variety of reidenti-fied genders throughout the series: Transvestites (in the classical sense), preoperative transsexuals, and, in Sulka's Wedding, a post-operative transsexual. With the exception of the latter, these are the "she-males," a label that quickly sheds She-Male Encounters, Volumes 1-6; Dream Lovers; Sulka's Wedding; directed by Kim Cristy; Caballero Control Corporation; 1983; running times one hour to 90 minutes. Volumes 1-6 are $49.95 each, 2 or more titles $45.95 each; Dream Lovers and Sulka's Wedding are $69.95 each, both for $130 (add $6 postage and handling per order). Beta / VHS. Signed statement required. VMC, 21540 Blythe St./Box 91304, Canoga Park, CA 91304. itself of any ignoble infamy and becomes a term of sexual and political power. But since all these works are aimed at a major heterosexual market (and one must believe they were and are), Christy mixes his metaphors, biologically, and uses both homosexual-identified as well as heterosexual-identified men as sparring partners. As if that were not complicated enough, especially in a world where complications are the order of the day, Christy also employs biologically female co-stars.

A word about all these bodies, each of which works against any traditional gender identification: We label things and people so that we will know exactly where we are at any given moment and what is expected of us in any situation. It has its advantages. But, since labels are hardly absolutes, it doesn't always work. She-Male Encounters is a sterling testament to how misleading labels can be.

There are myths about pre-operative transsexuals (who make up the bulk of this series) that She-Male Encounters vaporizes-like "transsexuals have no sexual desire," "transsexuals can't achieve erection and / or orgasm," "transsexuals cannot function in a heterosexual encounter as a male." Wrong, wrong, and wrong. In human sexuality there simply

The male-identified actors in these tapes are themselves worthy of special attention. It's easy to pick out which ones are in reality gay men; for the sake of a never-ending argument we'll assume that in those episodes in which the participants are pre-operative transsexuals and biologically-identified men who either fellate or get fucked by their consorts, that the men are inherently gay. Easy enough. But when it gets slightly more complicated, when the characters are composed of one pre-operative transsex-ual , one biological female and one man-who engages in every sexual combination possible given such a group-where are the boundries? Especially in projects like Sulka's Wedding-the crowning achievement of this series-where well-known heterosexual-identified male porn stars are the co-stars. It's best if you first of all simply forget everything you've ever been told about men and women, heterosexuals and homosexuals.

She-Male Encounters Collection 1 and Collection 2 are a good place to begin. Designed as a basic introduction to trans-

-from She-Male Video Encounters sexualism through fictional narrative, Collection 1 stars Carnal Candy and Magnificent Margo, each sporting well-deserved adjectives, as two friends who chat over coffee one afternoon about their lives, their friends, and their adventures . Both are pre-operative transsexuals (everything but the actual vaginal construction ); both are, as near-women, extremely beautiful. It seems Margo has just posed for a magazine as a transsexual. When she visits Candy she tells her about the shooting, about the latest news in her career as a model; Candy tells Margo about a new seamstress she has found who makes elaborate underwear-corsets , garter belts and such—and when Margo shows an obvious interest in Candy's intimations that the woman came over for more than a fitting, describes what transpired, Collection 1 uses this literary device, known as the "reliable narrator," to bring forth each of the sexual episodes. The first we see is the encounter between Candy and the seamstress . It's glamorous and low-keyed; like everything else in this series extremely well photographed and paced. But there is a great deal of attention paid by director Christy to details of clothing, setting, and how the bodies are set against the environments in each of these tapes. Candy is well-hung (another myth shattered) and

Margo is impressed with Candy's story and expresses her desire to someday be

DRUMMER 93

introduced to this multi-talented garment-maker. Candy next tells Margo about something that happened to their friend Sulka (the legendary Sulka, as we will see.) One day, while sunbathing by her pool, she caught a young blonde boy watching her and beating off behind a fence. Never one to let a culprit go unpunished, Sulka makes the the young man join her at poolside and gives him a lesson in erotic deportment. She takes him inside her house where, in a moment of over-heated passion, she reveals her cock, which is about the same size as his. His eyes show amazement, but his mouth-which falls open in disbelief-is soon filled. Sulka does not fuck him (I've never seen Sulka fuck another man in any of her films) but that in itself is the exception and not the rule. In the next tale, which Margo relates to Candy, we see the first example of a man being screwed by a transsexual. It's the delivery boy, who gets cheeky about a tip when he drops off Margo's groceries. Margo is 99% domina-trix and plows his young hairless ass with her oversized equipment.

In Candy's final tale, she and Sulka pick up a hunky young hitchhiker. Like most men in these adventures, he initially believes the transsexuals to be biologically-natural women. But, clever vixens that they are, they always wait until their male partner is hard, exposed, throbbing, drowning in passion before revealing their male sexual organs. The point being, one must assume, that by that late date he will find himself on an irreversible course. It never fails. By the end of this adventure, the hitchhiker finds himself helping the two statuesque she-males adjust their stockings.

Margo begs her departure-errands await. She promises to come and visit tomorrow.

Collection 2 is almost a direct seguel. Margo and Candy are watching Margo's first porn film. Candy is fascinated by the whole idea of making films as a transsexual-and Margo encourages her to imagine the kinds of roles and situations she could stage. This cassette has a few remarkable plusses. It is the most strikingly photographed of the entire series—each of the situations is extremely well-conceived and realized-and the individual segments are exotic and highly-charged with a sense of style and mise en scene.

In the first imagined film idea, a black transsexual, Sylvia, seduces-and nearly fucks the brains out of-her poolboy. Candy imagines herself a German mistress with a transvestite maid, whom she tops with her inherent sadistic nature as well as her oversized cock. Lynn has the choicest film sequence, where she portrays a socialite getting dressed for an evening out when a muscular, handsome burglar invades her mansion and, finding a lack of ready cash, violates her porcelain body. When the housebreaker rips off her panties and exposes her dangling male genitals, he goes for them like a fish to water. Finally, Toni, a raven-haired transsexual with a fiery Latin disposition, beats the shit out of her rubber slave, whom she keeps chained in the basement , before plowing his throat with her between-the-thighs surprise. This is also one of the few tapes in which there are no biological women present.

Collection 3 starts a new format in the series; individual segments are not tied together (as in 1 and 2) by a common narrative. The couplings become more diverse. TV Therapy is a three-way between a transsexual, a biological woman, and a man who decides to dabble in transvestism. The Seduction of Jennifer has a biological woman rape (in the mildest sense of the word) a transsexual. Dominate Desire is a real treat. A shackled slave in a play room (Craig Roberts, a seldom-seen but extremely hot man) is being worked over by a leather-clad woman who, among other delights, makes him drink milk from her breasts. They, or rather she, is caught by the real mistress of the house, Miss Sugar, a black dominatrix transsexual, who decides to punish them both. She does. Craig Roberts becomes the first heterosexual-identified male porn star to have his ass violated by another man in this series-but not the last. So much for labels and sexual-preference identification.

Collection 4 starts with The Truth About Jennifer-who is forced to reveal her transsexualism to her husband-to-be before their wedding night. It isn't even a minor disappointment as he proves to Jennifer a little thing like her dick won't stand in the way of their sexual happiness. In fact, by the time the story ends, he has on her clothes. The Salesman's Surprise features another handsome, hung hunk who is peddling dildos door to door. When he calls on Debra, Jennifer and Margo (one is a biological woman), he finds out that he has a product without a market. In this episode complete bisexuality (as we know it) is the focus, Mark gives and takes any and everything, a few things twice. Witch on Heels brings more transvestite SM, as Debra dresses up her boyfriend, whom she renames Rebecca, in slutty whore's garb and tortures his oversized genitals completely and without mercy.

Collection 5 is two very long segments, Orgy at the Poysinberry Bar and The Outrageous Nurse. In the former, one of the most languid of all the encounters, we see a wide variety of men, women, transvestites , transsexuals, and downright drag queens who frequent a bar where just about everything goes, either on the bar, the bar stools, or the dance floor. A newcomer in the male category stars in both of the stories on this cassette and he is a sight to behold-maybe one of the hottest men I've ever seen in a nongay porn film. His name is Larry Shipps and, though

I've never seen him before, he is destined—unless he decides tomorrow to become a dentist instead-for stardom. Although Craig Robert's ample charms are featured in Orgy, it is Shipps who ultimately gets invited home with a quartet of various genders for an all-night orgy. In The Outrageous Nurse, Shipps reappears as an oversexed stud who has worn his girlfriend out. The nurse is none other than transsexual Jennifer Thomas (known as Juicy Jennifer), who gives girlfriend Gypsy Rose a complete vaginal examination with everything in the clinic. Rose is on the table for such a long time that boyfriend Shipps comes in to check on her and finds the nurse buried to the balls (literally) in the alleged sore spot. Yes, Virginia, they have a three-way.

Collection 6 is called Trilogy of the Bizarre and moves toward new areas, including lesbian SM. Manhattan Pickup, the first of the trilogy, has the distinction of being the first transsexual story in which (as far as I have noticed) both the transsexuals and the young man are uncut. Two New York transsexuals, coming home the next morning from an all-night party, encounter a young college-type hunk on his way to wherever . He follows them for a few blocks before they stop and confront him. They let it be known that they are not biological women, which he doesn't believe, so they take him home to prove it. In this completely non-threatening environment (there is no one around to tell his college friends) he experiments, and experiments, offering up his virgin ass to both the she-males (which they accept with relish) and later to a rather large dildo. In She-Male Surprise, a peeping Tom is watching two women make out on their semi-private deck. They see him, invite him in, and-you've got it-one turns out to be a transsexual. He's no great beauty, although sexually quite sophisticated. Naughty Girl's Nightmare is deceptive at first. You expect the leather-clad, whip-wielding dominatrix to be a transsexual. This is a lesbian SM section that has a wonderful hair-cutting scene (a wig is used at first, but later you see the really-shorn head in question) but otherwise does not live up to the intensity of the other stories.

Dream Lovers and Sulka's Wedding are, in a word, unique. These two feature films, when taken together, carry the viewer through the entire spectrum of emotions and sexual desires of transsexu-als , and include the pre-operative as well as the post-operative performances by Sulka, the single most famous contemporary transsexual.

In Dream Lovers, Sulka, who is still preoperative , is a hostess in a nightclub where everything goes. Mixed with her duties are her dreams-for the perfect lover, who appears as a man in a plastic mask (and nothing else) early on in the story. Filmed as a montage of episodes and incidents, the story aims towards the romantic coupling of Sulka and Craig Roberts. While director Kim Cristy can handle the set-pieces well enough, there is lacking in Dream Lovers an overall cohesion that underlies the narrative filmmaking.

Not so in Sulka's Wedding, the cream of the crop of transsexual films. The film opens on the morning of Sulka's wedding day-to her dream lover to be be sure, who is spending his last morning of freedom in bed with a woman from the night before. Besides Sulka herself and Craig Roberts, Sulka's Wedding also sports the likes of Paul Baressi (from, among other things, Men of the Midway), Ron Jeremy (the biggest cock in porn films excluding John Holmes—and a man who takes pride in being able to blow himself, which he does in this film), and a number of other more superwoman type than the traditional , is a prime example of what plastic surgery and sexual reidentification can achieve. Everything has been done but the soles of her feet including some areas you might assume are never redesigned, like the mouth and chin.

After seeing all of these cassettes, I have to admit that I have a much different perspective (no pun intended) of preoperative transsexuals. Beyond the shock value, there is an innate eroticism in transsexual porn. To the gay man it is accessible in a way that heterosexual porn is not. Very often the camera records a tight shot that is all male genitals, an image straight from gay porn, one that is identifiable and comfortable. As the camera moves back and reveals a woman (the transsexual) in a masculine sexual position performing a male-identified men and women who have appeared in porn films.

The entire film is devoted to bringing each of the characters to the wedding (it seems everyone is either in bed or occu-pied in mid-morning sexual bliss). Once assembled, after a few pit stops for various additional sexual encounters (in the bathroom, in the kitchen, etc.) the wedding begins. Then comes the reception: champagne, much picture taking, and one final all-stops-out orgy to end all orgies. Whew!

Sulka's Wedding covers the entire spectrum of transsexual sex as well as the more mundane heterosexual and homosexual varieties. It is, unquestionably, well worth the price of admission.

Sulka herself, now that her final trans-sexual operation has been completed, is a marvel of modern technology. Not the most beautiful transsexual-some of the transsexuals in this series are breathtak-ingly beautiful-nonetheless she is the most famous, and her body, while the

-from She-Male Video Encounters sexual act, the boundaries become less clear, the visual stimulus redefined.

When the scene is a transsexual and a biological woman, given the same tight shot, the look and feel is heterosexual porn, another social given and one that has become, if not accessible to the gay man watching, at least identifiable, understandable. Then, when the camera moves, it does not move to what can be identified as a lesbian framework—we are not watching two women making love— but equally does not move to anything else "comfortable" in the realm of our experience. The more complex the couplings , the more fuzzy the boundaries and points of reference, until finally we are left with only one absolute, as simplistic sounding as it may well be-sexuality is. That is the revolution of transsexual porn and of transsexuals themselves, that they have laid bare the lies of human sexuality and offered the only proof of sexuality , that it exists without limits.

-John W. Rowberry DRUMMER 95

OF / THE / PROPERTY [×12+]

THE HAPPY HUSTLER

The saga of Sam Steward (alias Phil Andros, alias Phil Sparrow) seems likely to go on forever. Novelist, namedropper, scholar, tattoo artist extraordinaire, seducer of the great, sex researcher (in league with Dr. Kinsey), pioneer writer of erotic gay fiction—Steward has done all, and told all.

He was born in the Midwest in 1909. and grew up amid rough-hewn farmboys whose favors (as he reveals in his book of memoirs, Chapters From an Autobiography ) were often surprisingly easy to come by. Those initial erotic adventures established his first lifetime preoccupation early on: a passion for the glories of the male body and spirit. His second fascination was for writing and writers, and as an adult Steward pursued contact with the literati of his day with the same fervor he brought to his pursuit of handsome (and willing) men.

Steward is a self-professed and obsessive collector—of men and of mementos (he claims to possess a lock of Rudolf Valentino's pubic hair), and of meetings, fleeting or prolonged, with the literary great. Over the years, Steward managed to rub shoulders, and sometimes more than that, with Thornton Wilder, Lord Alfred Douglas (the lover of Oscar Wilde), Andre Gide, and the Paris salon of Gertrude Stein. His association with Stein and her companion Alice B. Toklas grew into a deeply felt relationship than spanned more than two decades.

Steward's own literary career started in the 1930s with two novels now long out of print and virtually forgotten, Pan and the Firebird and Angels in the Bough. Recognition from the literary establishment and the reading public was not forthcoming, and Steward eventually settled into college teaching and a numbing affair with alcohol. He eventually gave up drinking and severed his academic ties, not to resume his career as a novelist, but to become a tattoo artist (under the nom de needle Phil Sparrow). That vocation allowed a certain outlet for his creativity, and also brought him into contact with a fascinating range of fetishists and their fetishes.

Eventually, Steward returned to writing , merging his craft with what fascinated him most: men, and the pursuit of sexual adventures. In the early '60s he began a cycle of erotic stories, told in the first person and published under the name Phil Andros.

Andros (the character) was a vagabond hustler and bon vivant, earthy and perpetually horny, but hardly dumb; Steward gave him a voice authentic to the streets, along with a skilled writer's eye for ironic detail and an ear for clever dia- log. The Phil Andros adventures offered an unusually polished blend of literary craft and steamy sex, and (published as standard porn paperbacks) stood head and shoulders above most of their seedy competition.

Between 1965 (when the Supreme Court made it possible for his work to be published in the U.S.) and 1972, Sam Steward wrote seven Phil Andros books. The work may have been artistically and erotically rewarding for the author, but it was financially unremunerative (sometimes a flat $400 per book) and frequently frustrating-dealings with disreputable publishers, pirated editions, waits of up to five years between writing and publication . After finishing The Greek Way in 1972, Steward retired from writing. It appeared that the gay world had seen the last of Phil Andros, and heard the last of Sam Steward's uniquely convivial voice.

The story might have ended that way: Steward alone and silent with a lifetime of amazing memories, his reputation as a writer based on a series of novels and

$tud, the first Andros book (written in 1965 but not published until 1969), was brought back into print last year by Aly-son Publications of Boston; and San Francisco's Perineum Press has just reissued-in handsome paperback editions with striking cover art by Tom of Finland—two more Andros volumes, My Brother, My Self and Roman Conquests.

Phil Andros, first and foremost, is a good read. His physical descriptions are among the finest I've ever encountered. Steward knows how to transmute adjectives into flesh; images of his characters seem to levitate just above the page, as enticingly defined as daydreams. He knows how to skirt the fine line between the immediacy of actual experience and the embellishment of fantasy; and there is a very welcome, very subtle sense of humor underlying all. I recommend any or all of these titles. Roman Conquests, with its nonstop erotic encounters and exotic setting, might be the best place to start, though the stories in Below the Belt are more oriented toward SM. story-cycles relegated to pornography and remembered only by a small circle of collectors and cognoscenti.

But this story has a happy ending, for all concerned. The surge of gay publishing in the mid-1970s offered a fresh market to Steward, and eventually new Phil Andros stories began to appear. In 1976, Drummer featured two Andros stories, "Babysitter" (Drummer 5) and "Many Happy Returns" (Drummer 8), and a year later (Drummer 21) published the classic "In a Pig's Ass." (All three stories, with nine others, were reprinted last year in the Perineum Press anthology Below the Belt and Other Stories.)

At about the same time, a re-energized Steward published his correspondence with Alice B. Toklas, Dear Sammy, and began writing the series of memoirs that appeared in The Advocate and eventually led to his book Chapters From an Autobiography.

Sam Steward and his alias / alter ego, Phil Andros, were reclaimed by his original readers and rediscovered by a new generation.

I'll close with a brief sample of the author's craft, from Roman Conquests. Our hero, lost in a delirium of amyl, is getting royally screwed by an Italian cop: "I shut my eyes tightly too, and against the green-colored lids I saw his cock plunging in and out of my asshole, seeming to grow larger—a baseball bat, a sapling, and then a huge tree topped with a policeman's cap instead of the high-tranched leaves. And then as the dream faded a little again I felt that I could see through his cock, that it was transparent, and that the white gyzym was rising in the vast trunk of it-and then spurting with violence into me…

The titles mentioned in this review, if unavailable in bookstores, can be purchased by mail: $tud from Alyson Publications , PO Box 2783, Boston, MA 02208 ($6.95 plus $1 postage); Chapters From an Autobiography ($5.95), Below the Belt and Other stories, Roman Conquests, and My Brother, My Self (each $6.95) from Subco, PO Box 10233, Eugene, OR 97440 (each title, add $1 postage).

-Steven Saylor DRUMMER 97

030000000000000000000000000000000000000 11130

YOU WAIT, THE WORLD FALLS APART

1982: Querelle is finished. Producer Dieter Shidor has been making an extracurricular film about it-about its director : Der Bauer von (the Wizard of) Babylon. "What will you do now," asks Shidor, when he can no longer provoke his subject very far out of torpor. The wizard slumps further sideways into the puffy cushions, sucking invisible lines of coke out of the air, his eyes sly, shy and swollen nearly shut, his speech slurred and ingenuously articulate. Rainer Werner Fassbinder replies in a wry death-song : "I will grow ugly and work—then let them come."

Two years and five well-received films earlier ("Mighty are the fists that caress you when you're a success"), Fassbinder completed Berlin Alexanderplatz, the ultrafilm of Alexander Doblin's epic novel whose central character, Franz Bie-berkopf , possessed the filmmaker most of his life. Via Gunther Lamprecht, exhaustively brilliant in the signal role, the character and the alter-identity merge and expand in 15½ hours or dramatic immortality . The style of Alexanderplatz is remarkably viewer-friendly-an expressionistic evocation of feelings and acts of the Bavarian soul, lighter-tempered than the mordant Prussian, trapped in 1928 Berlin except for that "now" always present in RWF's Einsteinian space / time continuum.

Franz is the eponymous anti-hero of Fox and His Friends; the ultimate controlling hand of three-fourths of Fassbinder's films (editor "Franz Walsch," a composite named after Bieberkopf and the admired American director, Raoul Walsh); and plain "Franz" in a half-dozen others where pieces of character fit. He is as gay as he need be. "Homosexuality is not a theme: (The film) is about the identity of an individual."

In Alexanderplatz, the auteur is present throughout, though on screen only once, spying on Franz during a slaughterhouse orgy and flanked by unheavenly Angels. Like Fassbinder, gay sex itself is not exem-plified until toward the end, but its consciousness pervades. Franz-all the men-will stand as straight as the umbilical pull of a homosexual undertow will allow.

There are caustic in-jokes ("as if politics needed me to make it up"), on the perversions and prejudices of this (any) conventional , depressed, repressive society—a prescription for enhancing erections, signed by Dr. Magnus Hirsch-field , abandoned half-used in a prostitute's room; a "scientific" sex manual fictionalizing the tragic effects of Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code.

Franz' sympathies and interests are crushed by others' scorn, but he goes on "knowing what he knows" and acting accordingly.

Women are not immune. In a case of mistaken sexual identity, Franz', friend Eva (Hanna Schygulla) is horrified at what she takes to be a lesbian approach by his naive true-love, Mieze (Barbara Sukowa). In fact, as prominent as the female roles are in Alexanderplatz, they fade to insignificance whenever the men make contact-another social mirror.

It is Franz' Nemesis, Reinhold (Gottfried John), the compulsive womanizer, who finds his eventual reward / punishment in seduction and capitulation to a fellow prisoner (the latter, by the way, the most self-assured gay image ever to appear in a Fassbinder film). Franz and Reinhold meet early on as strangers, lower class-mates, in the local pub (later transformed into a backroom leather bar in a mad-dream sequence). Reinhold is the stuttering, saturnine, liquid-eyed villain . They cruise and connect powerfully; Franz' innocent approach out of curiosity and friendship has challenged the other beyond bearing—he has set in motion the necessity for Reinhold to manipulate, and destroy, him.

In Wizard, only actress Jeanne Moreau flirts with the camera, declaiming her pas- sionate admiration for her directer-the rest flirt with their own egos, with each other.

On the crowded, twilight set of Querelle, Fassbinder is glimpsed in film noir frames, never wholly captured, always surrounded and set off in a kind of bas relief by shadows of deep alcoves or platoons of dark, sexy men in purposeful Brownian agitation around their nucleus. He disappears emotionally from view even while holding center stage-his magnetism, his magic, deflects attention always to the work at hand. "My body already heavy with fat and leather," he tells the interviewer with breezy detachment . "I am disenchanted with glamor."

Shidor cuts back and forth between sets and eliciting remarks from cast, crew and incessant visitors. The takes and retakes of kisses and clinches, off-camera solitary workouts, bodies exuding sensuality, provocative poses never entirely at ease-these are always in view of an attentive male audience. The sexual tension is the work tension, not unpleasant, and later transmitted en bloc to the screen. It is all the more powerful for containing the ambiguities and fears of those, like stars Brad Davis and Franco Nero, who are playing gay…but from the bottoms of their souls.

For Franz Bieberkopf, for Querelle, for Fox, for all the denizens of all the Babylons who fall victim to their own imaginations or realities, Fassbinder tossed off a message to critic and admirer alike: "The heroic part will be added by the spectator."

-Penni Kimmel

FORESKIN UPDATE

FORESKIN RECONSTRUCTION

Greg P. Logan is (or was) a circumcised Drummer reader living in Virginia. Greg wanted a foreskin; Greg got a foreskin, by undergoing a surgical procedure called a Phalloplasty. What follows is his first-person account of that experience. The first part, written a few weeks after the operation, describes the surgical technique he selected and the recovery period that immediately followed. It's updated at the end by a brief postscript, written four months after the operation, in which Greg reflects on his decision. This true-life drama is not for the squeamish , but we believe it's a valuable and unique contribution to the lore of foreskin.

The procedure is technically called a Phalloplasty. It is an operation by which, among other things, a foreskin may be "installed" where none was before. I recently elected to have this operation performed on my own phallo, and am still in the process of recovery. I am writing this in hopes of answering any questions you may have concerning this type of plastic surgery, and probably answer questions you may not even think to ask.

My surgery was performed by a urologist in Hollywood, California. I had originally considered a scrotal implant technique by a plastic surgeon in San Antonio, Texas, but the plastic surgeon's method seemed technically complicated and, considering that the entire procedure takes up to a year to complete, time-consuming . I suppose I wanted something simple, yet effective, though I would have gone with the surgeon if I had not chosen the urologist's method.

I sent him a letter expressing my desires and inquiring as to his surgical technique. His reply was that he uses a variety of methods, according to the needs of the individual. The plastic surgeon's method takes skin from the scrotum to constuct the foreskin. I saw pictures of the results and I was impressed. However, I have some skin left, being not as tightly cut as some I have seen, and I wanted a method that pulled forward what skin I had and then added "new" skin behind. This is just what the urologist proposed to do in my case. (He might have suggested something else had I been built differently.)

The surgery itself seems relatively simple—the recovery is not, and this is where I think more information should be provided. Had I known the degree of healing that would be needed I might not have elected to have the surgery, or at least I would have been better prepared for what lay ahead. I was in excellent health and physical condition, so my recuperation time should have been the minimum expected. It is taking longer than I thought, and I believe the doctor feels the same way, considering that he originally said the swelling would be down in a month, and has since decided that it may take two or three.

The surgery was performed while I was under sodium pentathol. I pray for once I kept my mouth shut. I awoke (kind of) that afternoon-the surgery was performed at 7:30 A.M. and lasted one and a half hours. I had a catheter, but was not of the mind to enjoy it. I also had an IV. That evening and sometime the next day I had a shot for pain. Since I had to lay on my back for the duration, I discovered that the shots caused almost as much discomfort as they eliminated.

The operation was performed on a Monday, and the catheter and IV were removed on a Wednesday. The IV was mostly for antibiotics. I was put on two grams of penicillin per day, to which I later developed an allergic reaction. The reaction didn't occur until a week after the surgery, while I was at home. I looked and felt like I had rolled around in a bed of poison ivy. My sweat and urine reeked of antibiotic. Since I showed no sign of infection the doctor took me off the antibiotic . I was later placed on a different type.

The removal of the catheter was the first opportunity I had to observe the doctor's handiwork. I think I must have gone into shock. I am not what you would call "well endowed," but what I had was adequate and not bad looking. What I had when the bandages were removed resembled an over-ripe eggplant. I was told that there would be some swelling, but I was not prepared for the bulbous growth which now rested (painfully) between my legs. Not only was it swollen to the limit the skin would stretch, but it was a purplish color, with black splotches thrown in for aesthetics. It looked diseased . There was blackened, dried blood on one area that had been cauterized to stop the bleeding, and pieces of rubber bands stuck out from underneath the sutures. The rubber bands are used to promote easy removal of the stitches. To borrow a phrase: We were not amused.

Admittedly, part of the swelling was from the saline injection administered to purposely stretch the skin, but this swelling did not even begin to recede until eight days after the surgery. (One month later it still has not returned to normal.) The stitches were removed one week after the surgery.

My four and a half days in the hospital had their memorable moments. two female nurses shaved me-the first one having done an inadequate job. And one nurse was so interested in my operation, she would try to sneak into my room at 1:30 in the morning when she had night

by Fledermaus

The hunky man is stripped naked, tied down to the black leather torture table. his head hooded, his mouth gagged, his balls stretched away from his body by a wide strip of leather. Gently at first I begin to play on his pecs with a pair of slender, black wooden rods, tapping a rhythm inspired by the music coming over the sound system. Rapidly I move over his body, tapping at his shoulders, his biceps, his abdomen, his thighs, his calves, the soles of his feet.

Slowly the taps become harder and harder. The skin and underlying muscles become more and more sensitive. At first he lay there quietly, now he writhes and yelps at each tap. He doesn't know where I'll strike next, his sweat-drenched, spread-eagled body tenses and jumps as the blows continue to rain on him, but his cock is hard. I include it in the repertoire along with the light blows to the bound balls. He screams, nicely. I grease his cock with Vicks, it burns but he stays hard and throbbing.

I switch the black drumsticks for a length of heavy rubber hose. It punishes with deep bruises. I know from experience that tomorrow he will be black and blue wherever I use it on him. With one hand I use the hose to beat his pecs, his abdomen and his thighs; with the other I stroke his long hard cock. He writhes and moans and gasps and screams-and finally shoots a load across his chest. One of the men who has been watching licks the come from his chest hairs.

Just off Interstate 85, in the heart of eastern Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains , is a motel, one of a major US chain not unlike hundreds of others scattered across the country. But on the second weekend of May each year this motel becomes like no other anywhere! This is the site of the Pocono Warriors White-water Weekend.

Robin is a mummy at heart, he loves long, immobile bondage. I put him in one of the slings and wrap his torso and the sling securely with long strips of rubber. Then I wrap his arms and legs to the chains supporting the sling. I wrap his head leaving only the nostrils exposed.

The sling has disappeared. The rubber mummified body hangs from four chains.

To occupy the time while he hangs there and enjoys his bondage, I select Geoff and use ropes to securely lace him into the adjacent sling. I work him over with the drumsticks then put a ball crusher on his balls. Two dowels trap the balls and, as I turn the pair of wing nuts, a wooden plate tightens on the trapped balls, slowly increasing the pressure. With each turn of the wing nuts the pressure increases and his cock gets harder. Now he's writhing more than ever, and letting out low gasps of pain. I tighten more and more and he starts to beg, "Please, Sir, please!" but his cock stays hard. When I think he has neared his limit I tell him he will get two more turns on each screw. Tears fill his eyes. I put the side of my hand in his mouth and he bites hard as I turn the screws twice more. I stroke his hard cock as he savors the pain.

This past May 6 through 8 the No Vacancy sign went up on the six-floor motel as the space was occupied by nearly 200 hot and horny men. Many of them had come primarily to experience the wild ride in rubber rafts down the Lehigh River, seasonally swollen with frigid water from melting snow on the mountain tops. On Saturday a 6:30 A.M. wake-up call rouses them to an early breakfast and a bus ride to the river. There they don wet-suits and enter four-man rafts for the ride. The water is cold, the sun is hot, and the scenery is magnificent. Muscles strain to keep the rafts off the rocks and occasionally all of the occupants of a raft take a brief, involuntary swim in the bracing water. After about five hours the weary voyagers beach their craft and head back to the motel.

Animal has a well-deserved reputation for destroying equipment, so I take particular care in putting the leather wrist restraints on him and securing them to the horizontal beam of the cross. I put a pair of clothespins on each tit and he looks at them with disdain. I add more clothespins in a row across his chest, connecting the nipples, then more, extending the line from his nipples up towards his armpits. His lean, wiry body trembles as the number of wooden clamps biting his flesh grows and grows. Rows of clothespins cross his chest and run down his sides from Adam's apple to navel. Now he's literally vibrating in the bondage, shaking the clamps so they keep the skin awake and alive to the torture, and from his throat come some of the sounds that helped give him his nickname. I've used only about half of the 300 clothespins with which I intend to decorate his body when he begins to writhe violently, ripping the D-rings from the tough leather of the wrist restraints. But he has to stay there and take the worst punishment of all, the removal of the 150 clamps that decorate his torso.

The whitewater ride is unique. Only the

Pocono Warriors, among the country's leather / levi clubs, offer this experience at a run. But this isn't the only unique feature of Whitewater Weekend. One floor of the motel is reserved for the other activity that drags men to this run-the Dungeon. Several years ago the Warriors asked the Chicago Hellfire Club to host a dungeon at Whitewater. There was considerable interest and over the years the Dungeon has grown. Many men now hold membership in both clubs and the Warriors no longer need the help of any other organization to equip and supervise a superb dungeon party. Safe and sane SM sex are the objectives, and a very hot time is available to all.

I'm tired and it's late. The crowd is thinning and I pack up my equipment to head back to my room. I have to save some energy for tomorrow! Then I notice a cute little hairy hunk that I've been admiring all evening. I tweak a tit and he responds the way he should. We end up wrestling around on the floor until I pin his muscular little carcass, using my own massive body for bondage. I fuck his mouth and finally relieve my own pent-up passions.

Dungeon facilities at Whitewater 5 included a smoking lounge (no smoking in the rest of the area unless the smoking material is an integral part of the scene-love to singe chest and crotch hairs with the tip of a glowing cigar!); a porno movie palace; two fisting rooms, one with slings and one with beds; three general purpose dungeon rooms; a water sports room, an electrotorture room, and a shaving room. Both T. A. Feldwebel, who supervised the electrotorture room, and Ross V., who expertly wielded the straight

razors in the shaving room, are members of the Warriors and associates of Chicago Hellfire Club. And both rooms needed a take-a-number rack for the eager participants who wanted to try out the relaxi-cisor , the violet ray wand, the hand crank magneto, etc., or get all or part of their body shaved.

Two muscular bodybuilders (one the policeman coverman from Drummer 62) stand back to back. Ray and I wrap them tightly with rubber bandages until there is only a beautifully shaped grey rubber mummy standing with a cock hanging out on each side. With bodies and legs wrapped together they have to cooperate to keep their balance, rubbing sweaty, muscular bodies inside their double rubber cocoon. Two eager volunteers come forward to suck their cocks.

After years of working at Chicago Hell- fire Club Infernos and one-night parties it was GREAT to be at a party where all I had to do was play. All kinds of action was going on all over the place. I was too busy doing to observe much of what others were doing, but I was constantly surrounded by wonderful sounds of whips striking flesh and moans and screams of agony and ecstasy.

I take a break and head for the lounge. On one torture table a muscular man writhes under layers and layers of hot wax. In the hall I hear the sound of a whip striking flesh and look into another dungeon room to watch Ken use his expertise in applying a bullwhip to the ass of a man spread-eagled on a cross. In the next room Paul is bound into a bathtub (not the one in the bathroom, but a special one in the middle of what would normally be a bedroom) with a virtual spiderweb of ropes. His face reflects ecstasy as four men stand around the tub hosing him down with their own anatomical hoses.

In the lounge I sit back and enjoy a cold drink. From across the room I admire the whip stripes on the back of the slave kneeling at John's feet, each red mark sharp and distinct and perfectly parallel to every other mark, the entire back a grid-work of welts and stripes as precise as if done by a draftsman. I catch John's eye and offer my compliments, we discuss the possibility of a precision flogging contest at a forthcoming Inferno.

Not everyone at Whitewater Weekend is eager for SM. They come for the rafting, or just for the fun of the run. Live music and dancing provide entertainment elsewhere in the building. Many spend all their nights there, or at private parties in their rooms. But many come to watch, to learn, to discover their own interests, to come to terms with their fantasies. For many the Dungeon at Whitewater is their first encounter with the reality of safe and sane SM. Some learn that they prefer the fantasy to the reality. Others discover that they want to DO. No one is forced, unless they want to be, but many discover new worlds of pleasure and sensual experience.

Three short muscular bodies, two white and hairy, one black and smooth. I place each in a rope body harness, taking care to select a particularly white rope for the glistening ebony skin. When all three torsos are tightly encased in the rope network I put the three of them together, facing out, and lace each adjacent pair of arms together, tightly confined against the bound bodies. Then each adjacent pair of legs is laced together so that the trio stands on a tripod of bound legs. Three cocks stand out hard. The three heads are tied together by ropes through each of the three mouths and across each of the three pairs of eyes. Then the three sets of balls are linked. Volunteers assist me to chew on tits, stroke and suck cocks, squeeze balls. Each time one reacts to a stimulus, all feel it; the slightest movement by one is felt by the other two. And my helpers and I see to it that all three of them are kept writhing in a constant combination of agony and ecstasy.

The Pocono Warrior's Whitewater Weekend is the only run I know of that includes a major dungeon and which is open to anyone who wishes to attend. All other dungeon parties are by invitation only. It is the perfect place for someone who thinks he is interested in SM to learn more about it and about his feelings, and to do so in an environment of safety and concern. For information about White-water Weekend 6, write the Pocono Warriors , PO Box 381, Scranton, PA 18501.

Animal asks me to torture his balls. I'm eager to do so but don't want to destroy any more equipment. I sit on the floor cross-legged and tell him to lay on his back with his head in my lap. I tell him that

I'm not going to restrain him, he has to lay there and hold his balls up for punishment . He holds them in both hands, forcing them up and away from his body-a tempting target. I tell him that the torture will come in sets of ten strokes, then tap his balls rather lightly ten times with a black wooden rod. He sighs and writhes and after a few seconds I repeat the ten strokes somewhat harder. By eight he is writhing and I command him to lie still. After a brief pause he gets ten more, harder still. After the tenth stroke he rolls around on the floor moaning in pain, then puts his head back on my lap and holds his balls up for more punishment.

Now I'm hitting HARD. With each blow I see the balls flatten and rebound, muscular reactions to the pain cause his mus-c'es to jerk violently and he screams out with each blow. After the set he writhes uncontrollably for several minutes. When he returns to the punishment position I switch to the heavy rubber hose. Ten moderately heavy blows of the hose is terrible torture. He screams with each one and his body tries to double up and protect his balls. My own cock throbs at the sight of him fighting against himself, r acting to the pain and fighting it, making himself lie there, begging for more.

At the end of the ten with the hose he rolls around on the floor like a madman, clutching at his tortured nuts and his cramping muscles. He seems reluctant to return to the torture position. I order him back and tell him that he will get only three more blows-but these three will be the hardest yet. With each blow he screams, his legs jerk into the air and his body rolls, trying to escape despite his determination. After the third blow he again rolls around and writhes in agony as several men jerk off watching him. Finally he recovers his ability to control his body and crawls to me. Sweat drips from him as he thanks me and takes my cock in his mouth.

DRUMMER 108

WELCOME TO 1984 ISSUE

BIG BROTHERS AND CONCENTRATION CAMPS,

FUN TORTURES AND NEWSPEAK!

PLUS OUR ANNUAL FREE CALENDAR FOLDOUT BY AMERICA'S TOP EROTIC ARTISTS

NEW FICTION SECTION TO TITILATE YOU.

HOW TO BUILD YOUR OWN DUNGEON.

ERICA'S MAG FOR THE MACHO MALE

More pages of original artwork and fiction than any other Gay publication.

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 contribu- tion. The doctors and the lab have helped us succeed beyond our wildest dreams. We have named it VITA-MEN and we are ven proud of its accomplishment.