This month, publishing history will be made with the appearance of Urban Aboriginals : Celebrations of Leather Sexuality. For the first time, leathersex is explored by a man who is both an insider and a qualified researcher. Using perspectives from the disciplines of medicine, sociology, psychology and anthropology—and combining them with his own experience and scores of personal interviews— Canadian leatherman / scholar Geoff Mains has fashioned a startling, groundbreaking look at who we are and what we do. In this excerpt, Mains looks at the roles of Master and slave, and at the animal origins of the urges to dominate and submit.

Excerpted from Urban Aboriginals: Celebrations of Leather Sexuality by Geoff Mains, published by Gay Sunshine Press, Box 40397, San Francisco, CA 94140.

Photos by Victor Arimond

10 DRUMMER

Geoff Mains URBAN BORIGINALS

Manners of Approach

Some sexual role-play is an expression of dominance. Pete and Roger are lovers , together for over five years. Their relationship has had its ups and downs, more so initially, but less so now. "We find that our understanding of each other has improved with perspectives gained from our sex play," says Pete. While the two men occasionally enjoy vanilla sex, sex involving intense role play yields greater satisfactions. Equal in each other's regard, they do ritual battle each time around to determine role. This competition is fought in earnest, but with good spirits, and each of them has on occasion won and lost. DRUMMER 11

Jack has had rows of needles pushed into his cock and scrotum. He's had nails banged through the head of his cock. And he's been virtually suspended by his tits.

Pete: "We enjoy the uncertainy, and we respect each other enough that losing is always a pleasure. Don't get me wrong. When we play we play seriously. There are limits, but the winner takes all."

Roger: "Shit, I'll never forget the time Pete won and shaved my head as part of the scene. I had an important business meeting the following week. I can for- give, but I'll never forget."

George and Dominic arrange their roles mutually and by way of discussion at the beginning of each scene. "Dom's usually top, although sometimes we decide differently…Sometimes I provoke him a little to get him to show he's really in control. It's not that I'm passive. I just show what I like. I love slipping into the role of worshipping his gloves, his boots. I love it when he does things so that I want more. And when he gets aggressive. You know…'You can take it, fucker'…'Get your hand away or I'll have to restrain you'…It's such a nice feeling to sink into it and let someone else take charge.'

Ed wrestles sexually. "Not a lot of guys are into wrestling but those that are-watch out!" While some do battle for dominance, Ed looks at it as a friendly struggle between equals. "Something is very sensual, animal, in rubbing sweaty limbs together, in grappling instinctively, no holds barred."

Sometimes they wrestle naked or in jockstraps. Sometimes they wear leather. As much as possible it's skin to skin. And as the wrestlers sink into sensual eroticism , all sorts of feelings come loose. Pain-pleasure barriers rise. Hands grapple at ball sacks and tits. Oiled, sweaty bodies bang like drumbeats against the mats and each other. The action is intense, even violent.

"We fight to dominate territory of body. All the way it's a give-and-take sort of fight, teetering at the edge, both of us knowing that either of us could go over at any moment. In between rounds we recoup our energy. We lie together and touch each other. Nearly always, we kiss.'

"I've got to be on the look-out," recounts Jerry. "In the relationship we share, Hank's always trying for ways to catch me up." He maintains his position as top, Jerry explains, through an ongoing mastery of his lover's attempts to gain the better of him. "We talk about it often. We enjoy the challenge of pitting ourselves one against the other, especially during sex. This isn't the sort of thing we expect every couple to engage in, but we certainly enjoy it. We have our rest periods, of course.

This is a careful, yet emotional form of thwarting, the two men explain. "We become totally engrossed with each other but we control the way we use our emotions. Jerry very rarely gets angry, he just quietly does something to show that he's in control. Occasionally I'll get him hopping mad, though. Then the belt feels really good.'

Under a close black beard, Jack has the looks and body of Marlon Brando. He rides a Gold Wing. And he can tell some pretty raunchy stories of the abuse he's taken.

"I've always been proud of my capacity to withstand. I'm physically strong and I've been through shit. Sure, I like myself. But I also like to see what a man can do to me. I like to see how much more I can take.

"It's controlled and I wouldn't have it any other way. Most tops are careful. But my limits are way out there and I'm real proud of it." Jack, on occasion, has had rows of needles pushed into his cock and scrotum. He's had nails banged through the head of his cock. And he's been virtually suspended from his tits. "It's got to be in the right head space. But it's a real proof of who I am, of the strength that's in me. Look at the warrior initiations of the Mandans. Skewered through the pecs and hung from ropes; they had to dance themselve free. That was the same sort of proving.

Bob is twenty-four and presently a slave. Before he met Lou he was fucked up. He emigrated to the City from Kansas in search of the great gay life. Instead he found drugs, street life and a coterie of burnt-out friends. His hair was long and full of lice and he lived in garbage in the Tenderloin. The bottom had fallen out of

Bob chanced to meet Lou because of his like for stronger and self-comfortable men ready to give direction. "He's learning respect for his own life," Lou says. "He's a hot little fucker now he's cleaned himself up. But I wouldn't tell him that directly. He's got to learn to appreciate himself in his own way, not by letting his ego loose.'

Quite voluntarily Bob addresses his master as Sir. He does some housework and errands and he's going to night school. "Sometime I expect he'll be out managing quite well on his own," suggests Lou. "Eventually he might even want to become a top.

While they have never met, Charles and Neil might fit each other well.

Charles defines himself as a heavy bottom . "I'm totally passive and I like to give completely." And while he has limits,

Charles feels these are often unimportant . He enjoys whatever his top does, more because he does it than because of what it feels like. "I'll drink piss, get slapped around, be tied up, if that's what the man wants…There's only one thing. I've got to like him and he's got to care about me and he's got to show that. Otherwise it won't work. I get some real joy when I let go and focus on how much my master is enjoying the situation.'

When I met Neil in a northwest coast leather bar, he was quick to explain what he wanted of me. "I like to dominate. If we go home I'm going to put you in a sling and restrain you. Then I'm going to catheterize you. After that I'm going to fist your ass.'

"Don't you like any suspense or any improvisation?" I inquired.

'Certainly that's possible," Neil told me. "But it's also possible that I've already decided just what I want to do.'

Later, a friend who had on occasion played with Neil told me a further thread of the story. "It was my birthday, and Neil and I were involved in a heavy scene. Toward the end of it, and while I was still in restraints, Neil exercised his ultimate authority. I was to have a choice, he said. He was going to pierce me, something of which he had said nothing in his detailed synopsis at the beginning of the evening. The ring would go either under my cock or through my foreskin, would I please make up my mind? It was fabulous," my friend continued, "I've always wanted it done. What a birthday present.'

John first met his current master when the man had been visiting Boston. Giving up an executive position with no mean financial rewards, he had moved to the California coast to become a full-time slave. "I was getting ulcers from the conflicts in my life," he explains. "It was either living in a totally new way or going mad.'

Did he have problems in making such a shift? "It wasn't easy for the first while and we had to jostle things around between us. Voluntarily I work, serve, obey and love him. But I still have my own creativity . I paint and he encourages me to do that." John explains that he looks to his master for security, responsibility and a sense of values. "Giving for me is an absolute thing, and I have to be sure it's the right person. In return he knows he can trust me. He knows my devotion will be honest.'

His master echoes these sentiments. "He's been my boy for nearly two years now and I absolutely run his life. I give him stability. You know there can't be a

DRUMMER 13

"SM isn't for everyone. For people who can be emotionally open and who trust their ultimate integrity, SM offers an incomparable experience… master without a slave. But I won't tolerate attempts to manipulate me. I feel gratified by the confidence he has in me. I wouldn't take it if it wasn't given freely and from the heart. I'm determined never to betray that."

The two men live in a form of delicate balance, each feeding off the other, each supplying the other's needs. It is a self-perpetuating cycle that depends on each respecting the needs of the other, neither can step too far without causing disruption of the whole.

Neither John nor his master see their way of life as a guideline for anyone. "Both of us came to the agreement that it was best for us. We still talk about it. That's important, because so many Gay couples get so caught up in their roles they forget that they actually made the choice in the first place." While long-term slavery of this type happens only occasionally in the leather scene, the individuals involved see it as a natural outcome of their characters and their sexual play.

John and his master are amused at what they regard as contradictions in larger society. "Everyone is told they're equal but people sure don't treat each other that way. We believe that we're equal but that we're coming from different directions . It just happens that of our own free will, many of us don't want to live in a prescribed way." They see the right to choose as essential in the matter. "Our sort of relationship," says John, "helps to explore a lot of what actually goes on within people. It creates an awareness of sexual and emotional motives. We are sexual and sensual beings and what turns us on has a lot to do with the way we act. Our form of slavery reconnects us with our animal selves."

Shakespeare Said It All

It has probably been said that anything to do with the basics of human nature has been touched on by Shkakespeare. Leather is no exception. The work that most clearly casts light on this subject is The Tempest, and its focus is role-play.1

In what must be the most magical of Shakespeare's plays, Prospero, deposed as Duke of Milan, has become sorceror on a lonely island. Under his enchantment are two slaves. The first, Caliban, is a metaphor of the animal side of the human spirit. The second, Ariel, is the giddy and inspirational flight of human fancy.

Onto this island and into the web of Prospero's magic are conveniently dropped, by way of a contrived shipwreck , the enemies of the wizard. Unaware of their plight, they remain motivated by their ambitions and insecurities and they play out all of their frailties. But however free any of these characters think themselves , they are but acting under the direction of Prospero who guides their encounters to bring insight and gentle retribution.

The Tempest is about role-play and the stepping into and out of it. Here is a type of leather scene where the master probes and cajoles for the benefit of those concerned . Here are individuals blind to their own games, their actions fraught with delusion. Here are characters that are spoiled and bitchy, cunning and scheming , faithless and uncharitable, or just plain bumbling. None of these are traits generally espoused by leather, although some of them are certainly present. Most of them are regarded as shortcomings that leatherplay can work to overcome.

Within the play are incessant allusions to bondage, to pain-pleasure, to indulgence , to discipline, to piss-even to licking boots. They are made in reference to the bonds in which life traps us. The play tells of the harshness of unseeing people and of the cruelty of rigid and involuntary roles. Civilization, with all of its higher orders and established seniorities, seems vulgar and cruel.

We live in a world run by schemers like Sebastian and Antonio, who, blind to the insecurity that drives them or the pains they wreak on others, know nothing of limits. In contrast with these blind men, Prospero the master understands limits and responsibility. He exercises his extraordinary powers with restraint and even gentleness. He has learned his limits like a true leatherman through reversal of position, and through the insights and humility that come from such a reversal.

It is our propensity to role-play in everyday life that makes theatre such an attractive experience. Just as in drama, we may well be motivated by personal desire or social and economic disparities, by prejudice or by hope. But these moving forces are almost inevitably transformed into actions that follow repeated, almost predictable patterns. We, like the actors confined within the written roles of the play, slip into the constraints of our personal behavior. How soon we become blind to expectation and to response. The play can be apotheosis for us.

On the mystical isle of The Tempest, Shakespeare steps beyond the world-order of his time to suggest that there may be others. But whatever the order of those worlds, acculturation can make a people blind to the roles they play and the injustices these roles bring. Whatever the culture, Shakespeare suggests, there are inevitably roles, for however different those roles are from the Elizabethan world-view, the tendency to play them is a human one.

Gonzalo, a wise and rather ineffectual counselor to the king, waxes mellow on the ideal world of the noble savage. But Gonzalo has yet to meet the caricature of Caliban, bound to earth, instinct, indulgence and gut emotion, and as conditioned and full of shortcomings as any citizen of the feudal age. Like Caliban and Ariel, humans are bound to both their passion and their animal natures as well as to the roles they play. Even the master of them all is slave to the intellect and the roles that it demands. We can only learn, and possibly change, by stepping beyond ourselves. That is the magic that Prospero wields, and in the very end, he himself must beg us to release him from it.

Dominant as Submissive

"Mutuality. Heavy SM to me implies heavy enjoyment on both sides…both input some control to each other… Take your one hand and hit it with the fist of the other. Which feels the more? Both feel the same force but from different directions."

Wakefield Poole²

Role-play, as practiced in leatherspace, vields some contrasts with the backdrop of larger society.

Role-play is undertaken because people enjoy it. Submission is voluntary with full awareness of its taking place. The adoption of distinctive roles is restricted to specific situations, and between specific individuals. Often, the individuals are flexible in their choice.

Role-play is at least in part a form of conscious auto-drama. Proposes Ian Young: "…the exploration is itself liberating …While the dynamics of SM may reinforce the categorization of sex and sex roles, I think it is more likely to break them down. People have an opportunity to be more aware of the elements of dominance and submission in all relationships …3 Leather theatre might be viewed as a form of play (another primate behavior) and based on possibly instinctive influences related to dominance and role. In this play the actors tend to view themselves and their action. As well, this is a form of play that attempts to come to grips with motivation.

Leatherplay works best with a clear mind and an honest approach. Writes Don Miesen: "SM isn't for everyone. For people who can be emotionally open and

DRUMMER 15

who trust their ultimate integrity, SM offers an incomparable experience. For people who are erotically repressed and dependent on erotic authoritarianism, SM triggers hatred and myths about how human nature is fundamentally evil."4

The act of coming to grips with role-play and other forms of instinctive motivation that underlie humnan behavior is by no means endorsement of either their rigidity or applicability in general human affairs. Rather, by running through the instinctive gamut, the mind can come to experience both the range of their effects and the degree of their powers. These perspectives in turn provide opportunity for liberation. One participant in heavy role-play makes just this point: "I love licking boots if it's the right man. Ten years ago I wouldn't have believed that I could be that submissive. A lot of people say they don't have any power motives either way. But often they're the first to blindly get caught up in some form of power trip.'

It is because of these perspectives, perhaps , that many leathermen share a basic sense of equality and are distrustful of power-seeking in others. Comments one man: "I find what I do sexually, either giving or dominating, diffuses my tendencies to scrabble ahead without thinking of others or to assert my authority." It seems possible that because of the accentuation of role during play, many leather-men wish assurance that the scene is undertaken by equals or involves two-way exchange. Such mutuality confirms that the play is but a form of living theatre with ground rules that are pre-set. Suggests one observer: "The dominant is also a submissive partner in an SM relationship . This is because the dominant, although 'in control,' is in control within the physical and emotional limitations of the submissive."5 Both men have a good deal to contribute, and respect each other's ability to do just that. "… It takes a lot of strength and direction to let yourself go and commit yourself to a master," proposes one man; "many slaves have more direction than their would-be masters."

These views suggest that leathermen expect very different attitudes within their role-play than those associated with dominance expression in the larger world. In short, attitude is out. Writes one man: "The two most unwelcome types- … are the pushy bottom who wants to be abused and humiliated to justify his feelings of guilt and self-hatred, and the pseudo-top who is only top because he is afraid of his own passivity and inability to trust…" Of these latter men, he suggests that "their low self-image coupled with an inability to deal with criticism leave them open to taking irresponsible action."6

That leatherplay is largely mutual may have biological roots.

Where forms of dominance hierarchy Continued on page 37

URBAN ABORIGINALS Continued from page 16 or pronounced role-play exist, only one or a few animals can hope to become dominant.7 Expressed in another way, only a few individuals can hope to achieve happiness through a position of dominance. It seems unlikely that any society of social animals could peaceably survive were absolute dominance the only manner of finding satisfaction. Large numbers of irritated and frustrated individuals could very well bring an end to social stability. Stability and group survival would indeed be helped if most individuals were of the capacity to function as either dominant or sumbmissive, and to receive some form of euphoric pay-off from either role. Mice, subjected to repeated social defeats in encounters with more dominant mice, show evidence of strongly elevated opioid levels.8 Could it be that these opioids are also mitigating the psychology of loss with a sense of contentment ? It is also intriguing that in the expression of dominance among many primates, the submissive animal grooms the dominant. Such play is often relaxed and euphoric. Grooming behavior has also been associated with opioid release in laboratory animals.

Such observations in primates and in rodents by no means assures their applicability to human behavior. Nor does it mean that all forms of submissive role-play or social defeat generate some form of mental euphoria. (The links between heightened opioid levels and feelings of happiness are still only suggestive.) It also seems reasonable to assume that there may be limits to this process—on when, how and in what situations it could take place. In some causes and between some individuals, however, given the correct psychological condition, mental rewards may be equally plausible from both submissive and dominant behaviors . The roughly egalitarian situation of leatherplay may be just such a case. Here, there is an openness towards and a play upon instinctive capacities while other pretenses have been pushed aside.

Role-playing, sociobiologists argue, is a refined form of social dominance behavior. Among primates, and especially the higher monkeys, the strict patterns of dominance so often found in other species are commonly replaced with more flexible and equal arrangements. The rigidity of top-boss and the pecking order beneath becomes unproductive. Rather, the members of a tribe interact as groups and in a variety of distinctive roles, social and economic. According to this hypothesis, the adoption of roles thus acts to mitigate some of the social tensions that can accrue from dominance expression. Individuals, whether or not they are in positions of status, are able to gain a sense of importance from the roles they undertake. Not only does the role bring certain protections from the outright expression of dominance , the products of a role can be exchanged for security and to the purposes of group survival. And while the larger, social struggle for dominance is somewhat subdued by role-play, dominance seeking is still common within each of the subgroups based on role. The idea of all of this is that role sharing and relative dominance systems can encourage peaceful, co-operative interactions between members of a species that band together for survival. And, generally speaking, the more cohesive the group, the more numerous and relatively equal are the factors that determine rank and the more complex is the dominance order.

What may seem reasonable in theory, however, is certainly not the case with humanity. Whether or not biotic instincts are at work here, and whether or not role evolved as a means of ameliorating dominance, human role games are only occasionally exercised between relative equals. If there is any creature that consistantly seems to break the rule, it is humankind. Sha-kespeare was certainly not the first to observe that roles are often exploitive and involuntary. And while some individuals may on occasion enjoy relative freedom, social mobility or just rewards, many more are caught in economic servitude stacked against them from the beginning. Countless laws passed against

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Within this matrix, our struggles for self-advancement are often roles in themselves. We free ourselves from one role position only to adopt the behaviors of another. Along the way we subconsciously learn to put down others, sometimes in a manner that hurts, usually in a manner that reinforces role-play. Pain, physical or mental, is a common expression of authority, and hurt serves to reinforce the dominance of the successful. From the cheap slurs by which majorities and minorities put down each other to the underhanded jabs of self-propelled business people and politicians, these patterns of advancement and reinforcement are but roles in themselves.

One author goes so far as to suggest that every human society has institutionalized means of carrying out this degradation. One party establishes his own social worth by creating a social outcast from someone else. He calls these "ceremonies of social degradation."10 Freedom and the search for it can be deceptive.

A Matter of Controversy

To imply that animal instincts are important in human behavior is controversial. It has become acceptable to say that humans have animal origins, but not that human behavior has roots in animal behavior. Sociobiology, the study of animal and human behavior as a continuum, is an enfant terrible.

The arguement rages over the degree to which human behavior is patterned by culture and the degree to which it is determined by instinct. Social democrats and many libertarians fear the application of any biological principles to human nature. These could be misused, they argue, to justify existing social or political inequities. It might be reasoned, for example, that low-income groups do not succeed because of genetic inferiori-ties and therefore poverty is an unavoidable aspect of the human condition. In many respects these concerns are justified. Scientific data has been consistently misused to justify discrimination and social inequity.11 Ironically, the fundamentalist New Right, who might sympathize if not agree with a rigidly instinctive view of the human condition, do not concur with the theory of evolution!

As in many debates, viewpoints have become polarized. Either human behavior is absolutely or inescapably driven by inherited animal motives that no amount of cultural patterning will erase or shift, or human behavior is so different from that of our closest human ancestors and so plastic that broad variation is not only possible but present.

I subscribe to the view that encompasses elements of both of these alternatives.

First, behavior is plastic and to varying degrees shaped by culture. There is strong evidence that such adaptability has had positive benefits for human survival. In the course of their incredible treks across the face of the planet, humans have adapted a diversity of strategies appropriate to meeting the demands of survival in different environments. That plasticity is expressed today as a broad range of cultural approaches.

Second, human beings are not all the same creatures. Capaci-ties , metabolism, emotional and sexual response, motivation and learned response—all of these differ considerably between individuals. Each of us learns to respond differently to the demands and pressures placed upon us. Beneath these behaviors that are shaped by society are instinctive drives with genetic roots. These drives may influence behavior in areas such as sexuality, dominance and territory. But these are not simple either / or capacities. Like the hereditary determinants that influence size and intelligence, these drives could very well involve polygenic systems. These are assemblages of tens, even hundreds or copies of the same gene that interact to create fine gradients of expression. And typical of such genetic systems, the behaviors thus influenced may be strongly shaped by the environment of the individual.

In summary, then, I argue for the existence of animal-derived motivations within human nature that vary genetically from individual to individual, that are shaped by the process of development , and whose expressions are also influenced in an overall way by the value system of a particular culture. Thus a person may inherit a combination of genes that create a strong urge to dominate, but this urge may be downplayed by a family life that stresses equality of relations. Contrary to this upbringing, larger society may place premiums on aggressively reaching for the top. In another person, another family or another society, the converse may equally be the case. In summary, all three factors may very well play important and possible co-equal roles. And a determination of the degree to which any one acts may well prove to be difficult to determine.

The details of leather role-play provide no simple generalizations . Partaking of these rituals are individuals with a diversity of attitudes, tastes and capacities. Some men search for security and self-affirmation. Others desire contrast, exhilaration or pure enjoyment. Some search for all of these. The nature of personal relationships varies with individual, with acculturation, and apparently with physical capacity. Something as fundamental to leather as the pain-pleasure barrier varies considerably between people and thus between relationships. So also is the case of role-play.

Brute Force Is Not Enough

"Absolute dominance is not the symbol," says John. "It's dominance given in trust and received voluntarily. It's dominance given with humility as love." Adds David: "It's enjoyable to express or receive dominance, but there are other things involved. Emotional release. Affection. And let's not forget the sex!"

Dominance expression in many mammals is linked with sexuality , and expression of the two is often synonymous. Quite clearly, these behaviors are linked in leathersex. Writes Don Miesen: "In SM, our outer physical acts of domination and submission also reflect our inner erotic feelings. It's this power of SM to challenge and explore both body and emotions that makes SM so frightening and confusing to outsiders and so rewarding to those who produce it."12

Human sexuality is indeed linked with dominance expression, although in some perverse ways. Sexual expression of dominance may be blind and brutal as are many forms of role-play. Just as equally it can take on other forms. Strong dominance may be expressed by one sex or the other in relationships characterized by sexual repression. There may be restraint of any dominance expression among individuals who are otherwise sexually active. There may be strong yet not abusive dominance expression in relationships of intense sexual activity. Or, dominance may be muted within relationships of sexuality.

Despite the differences, there is a standard hallmark to nearly all of these forms of dominance expression: They are culturally determined and they are enacted as expected patterns of role- play to which little if any second thought is given.

On first appearance, the dominance games of leathermen echo trends in the ambient world. Topmen are sought who possess masculine qualities, who are hot, sexy men in their own right. But brute force or good looks are not enough. The act of submission is largely performed to proper attitude, to a man deserving of respect. Will power, intelligence, warmth and experience may be involved. But more often, it is humility that is paramount. That humility is sign of a mind that, if it has not been there itself, at least knows and respects the space that its partner is about to enter. Both top and bottom give hard and second thought to the chains of their reality. Arrogance and insensitivity have little place in this searching. Comments Jason Klein: "A master can be destroyed as easily by an intelligent slave as a slave can be destroyed by a stupid sadist."13

Pain as Authority

Despite occasional homage to democracy, we experience a world in which aggression is to large extent the currency of law

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and order. Who benefits, whether individual or society, and which concept of morality is upheld, is not the question here. The spanked child, the battered spouse, the victim of a mugging, or the apprehended insurgent, all of these people alike suffer pain as an expression of social power. The involuntary and aggressive use of pain is a major tool in the maintenance of human dominance despite the efforts of some cultures to put limits on the abuse of authority.

Involuntary pain as an expression of power is common not only in the West, in dictatorships, or in the military or the prisons. Aboriginal ritual widely uses pain as expression of social or religious authority. The boy at puberty may be beaten, ears or nose pierced, or forms of skin gouging or tattoo applied. These rites may involve intense, cathartic pain-pleasure experience. Preceding rituals of separation such as fasting, solitary confinement , exhaustive dancing or sleepless vigil could well generate opioid highs. And yet, while these mind spaces may lend to the spiritual authority of the experience, they are not essential. These rituals are one-shot; they mark special passage in an individual's life and are statements of the tribe's sanction of that passage. Pain is a means of exerting the authority of the tribe and of driving the message home. The products of the pain, whether tattoo or piercing, are an ongoing statement of this new-found status.

Another and second kind of pain ritual is quite different from this first. This ritual is voluntary, often communal, and repeated many times in a lifetime. These are rituals found not only among aboriginal peoples but also among subcultures in Asia, Europe and the Americas. Most often these rituals have strong spiritual contexts. Pain becomes a symbol of sacrifice as well as a submission to divine authority. Take for example the Kavadi dancers, who, surrounded by crowds of friends, make their way through the streets of Penang and Singapore on Thaipusam Day. Each man, as he dances, carries on his shoulders a heavy yoke of steel and wood that is connected to his flesh by hundreds of tiny steel hooks; the yokes are highly decorated for the festive occasion.14 Compare these rituals with those reported among Mayan tribes. Here, each of a group of dancers is pierced with thorns or wooden skewers through various body parts-tongues, cheeks, earlobes, legs and genitals. Each of these piercings is linked with those of other participants by a web of ropes. The group dances itself into states of ecstasy.15 Consider the firewalkers of Singa-pore who whip each other to banish fear before their passage across the red hot coals. 16 And more familiar than any of these are the recent images from Iran: penitent Shi'ite Muslims flogging themselves and each other in the streets.

In these latter forms of pain experience it seems highly likely that the mechanisms of the pain-pleasure barrier come into play. Here, pain is yet a symbol of authority to whom submission is demanded, albeit a divine one. But submission is voluntary and the eventual and ecstatic release that is obtained, both through the release of opioids and a shift of consciousness, is a reward to the faithful. Here also is an incentive to repeat performance . The pain-pleasure rituals of leather, often enacted in voluntary submission to a trusted dominance, share strong sim-ilarities with these latter experiences.

A New Primate Frankness?

"We use the rituals of SM to achieve gnosis, a mystic understanding and strength in ourselves. We gain an understanding of violence and the uses of power in the world. We also learn about male bonding and about the natural human instinct that develops cohesiveness in any group." George Stambolian¹⁷

"Let's put it this way" suggests one leatherman. "I have little difficulty in dealing with either the Gay or non-Gay worlds. I've had to do it nearly all my life, so I'm pretty adept at it. But when it comes to people I feel most comfortable with, it's got to be the leather crowd."

What this man observes of his personal affiliation is echoed by many leathermen. They get on with and even enjoy the larger and Gay communities. But while none of them would immediately trust another and unknown leatherman, there is a feeling of affinity. Says David: "You don't have to put up barriers and hide a real part of yourself. You don't have to work nearly as hard to find out where the other guy is coming from. You don't have to tone down that openness we share with one another that could offend outsiders." Generally speaking, while leather-men feel fewer constraints when dealing with the Gay community than with the ambient non-Gay one, they find the leather community more tribal.

What these men express is perhaps but a variant of an ancient conflict in the human condition. "The old primate frankness," Wilson has argued, would destroy the delicate fabric of human life that has "built up beyond the limits of the immediate clan." 18 The world of monkeys may be too open and too honest to permit faux-pas and delusions that make larger human civilizations possible.

It has been proposed that we are caught in an ongoing conflict between our reactions to our immediate tribe (to whom we relate mutually and relatively honestly) and those to larger human society (to which we feel allegiance but to whom we have difficulty affording the same frankness). The origin of this conflict is not fully clear. Perhaps it lies in the needs of survival, in the need for cooperation beyond the immediate tribe. Perhaps it has origins in the consciousness that we are all in the same

boat together. In any case, humans show a strong propensity to cooperate with people who have quite different cultural learnings . Nearly any metropolitan area is a vivid example of this. Barter, reciprocal trade and cultural exchanges extend world-wide in a manner demanding interaction with individuals who have very different ways of doing things. Here is an existence a good way from that or our primate relatives who trust their immediate tribe but distrust and have few relations beyond.

Humans deal with this dilemma, it appears, in two ways. We probe and we contract. Society appears to have evolved (and it is not clear whether this is cultural or genetic) powerful and complex means of probing. Our actions with strangers are designed to reveal a maximum of information useful in allowing each of us to better ascertain values, character, beliefs and approaches. We do this almost automatically and with little or no second thought. This reconnaisance helps us to determine how we, as individuals, will react to these strangers. The depth and type of probing depends on the nature of the future relationship.19 In turn, this probing is preliminary to contractual arrangements, written or implied, that will define our relations with these larger worlds. Here, the accepted and almost automatic relationships of the close tribe are replaced by formal agreements that lay out the expectation and obligation. Here then are employee and employer, government and citizen, and buyer and seller.

Where a large society is afforded the alternatives of either contract or aggression, our role-play within the tribal group is often taken for granted. Stifled by tradition and the demands of community, we more than often come to be assigned roles without consultation and without contract. In families these roles can be particularly involuntary. Supposedly, they are demanded by a common cause of group survival held to surpass individual desire. But the ultimate arrangements, expressed in personal lives that are sold, battered or commandeered, are in strong contrast to the contractual agreements afforded our larger relations.

Leathermen deal plainly with this involuntary servitude. They usually do not write out contracts for intimate forms of role-play , but these are implied. They are signed with commitment. In doing this, leather stresses the need for contractual approaches between all peoples. The grounds of leather contracts are clear. The tribe that is leather has no need for involuntary servitude by either force or tradition in order to meet its ends. Nor does acceptance of contractual limits obviate devotion : Bootlicking is an act of consummate passion.

Whether or not relations are contractual, the members of larger society find themselves trapped within the tensions and frustrations of role-play and the desperate search for status. How different is the role-play of leather. Here the ends are guite opposite: to expunge and to defuse. Leathermen accept their roles voluntarily. Whatever the cultural reasons that a particular individual is drawn towards this community, sexual roles are chosen, not assigned. On a tribal level, the role demands are minimal and universal: self-respect and ego-control. These demands contrast strongly with those of the surrounding society.

Notes one man: "The most free, most successful and most self-aware frequently opt for the bottom…role." Here, men fraught with the tensions of social and economic striving seek contrast and relief through a relinquishing of power. This very act of submission provides for an intriguing reversal. "Ironically, those attributes leading to success in our society are also those attributes leading to satisfaction as a bottom: delay of immediate gratification, serving others for potential self-benefit, perserver-ance , fortitude and a 'sixth sense' in judgement and manipulating people."20 The gratification obtained from such reversal is full and powerful. Based on a recognition of the individual himself and not on the status of his otherworld achievements, these perspectives can brake, even reverse those patterns of behavior in which we strive for the success that ignores ourselves . In doing both of these things, leather can release stress.

How much more rewarding in this world fraught with the tensions of role-play, of self-definition, of ongoing probing, to let loose in a scene where all is done for affection and for pleasure. How much more gratifying in a world in which these may well be institutionalized degradation ceremonies that maintain social rank and hurt, to subvert these in the cause of caring, emotional interaction between two individuals. How much more enjoyable to let down the defenses, to let instincts and aptitude flow, to let the body open itself to a new set of possibilities. How wonderful to do so, where both top and bottom share patience, humility, the openness to learn, the willingness to communicate and the honesty to talk from the soul; where the partners counter-balance vulnerability and sensitivity . These characteristics are the real essence of leather role play and they speak of a refined art.21 This deep probing can bring two strangers to a state of close brotherhood, so that whether they meet again or not, they wil be mentally bound for the rest of their lives. Is this the behavior that Time magazine, in one of their more contemptuous moods, chose to condemn as a "driven activity, fueled by rage"?22

Role-play in leatherspace is high drama. Intimate. Soul-searching . And consciousness-raising. It demands, as does much of leather, that individuals come to face themselves and to deal with their own realities. "The essence of SM is the ritual enactment of dominance and submission…the use of pain, humiliation , trust / responsibility exchanges and controlled assaults on the body to achieve a high intensity of experience."6 It "means the pleasure of giving oneself away, the pleasure of submissive vulnerability."2 This ritual is important to our lives "to unite the physical and spiritual…revealing aspects of both that may have been hidden before."3

The rituals of leather reach deep into our human emotions, our cultural training and our animal presence. They reveal things that are at once surprising and enriching. And they open to the mind of the most incredible of its chambers.

Notes -

1. The Tempest, William Shakespeare, ed. Anne Barton, Penguin Books, 1968.

Interview with filmmaker Wakefield Poole, p. 14, Drummer 27, 1978.

3. Ian Young, p. 86 in Lavender Culture, ed. Karla Jay and Allen Young, Jove / HBJ Books, 1979.

4. Donald A. Miesen, in "Growing Pains," p. 8, Society of Janus newsletter, San Francisco, June 1981.

5. "Growing Pains," p. 9, Society of Janus newsletter, San Francisco, April 1980.

6. Rick Leathers, "Growing Pains," Society of Janus newsletter, November 1980, San Francisco.

7. E.O. Wilson, Sociobiology, The New Synthesis, The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Boston (1975).

8. A.P. Jones and M.I. Friedman, Science, 215, 1520-1522, (1982).

9. See, for example, W.H. Gispen and V.M. Wiegant, Neurosci. Letters 2, 159-164 (1976).

H. Garfinkel, Am. J. Social. 63, 420-424 (1963).

11. Some of this finagling is documented in The Mismeasure of Man, Stephen Jay Gould, W.W. Norton, New York, 1981.

12. Donald L. Miesen, Society of Janus circular, San Francisco, 1980.

13. Jason Klein, p. 16, Drummer 44, 1981.

14. M. Ratram, Penang, pub. W.D. Andreol, 1973. Also described in B. Finer, p. 223-227 in Pain and Society, ed. H.W. Kosterlitz and L.Y. Terenius, Report of the Dahlem Workshop, Berlin (1979); Weinheim: Verlag Chemie GmbH, (1980).

15. P.T. Furst, p. 53 in Alternate States of Consciousness, ed. N.E. Zinburg, The Free Press, Collier-MacMillan, New York, 1977.

16. A. Weill, p. 254 in The Marriage of Sun and Moon, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1980

17. George Stambolian, "Interview with a Fetishist," p. 17, Christopher Street, August 1981.

18. E.O. Wilson, Ibid, p. 533.

19. For a sociological outline of this phenomenon see Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Doubleday Anchor Books, Doubleday, Garden City, New York, 1950.

20. Dr. H. Versicolor, p. 5, Dungeonmaster #10, May 1981, Desmodus Publications, Chicago.

21. "Growing Pains," p. 8-9, Society of Janus newsletter, June 1980, San Francisco.

22. Time magazine, May 4, 1981.

Sit on it, Superman! Cram it, Captain America!

THE ADVENTURES OF DRUM

An awesome collection of leather fun and fantasy by England's master erotic illustrator, Bill Ward! Sixty-nine big, splashy pages present the hottest exploits of the most farmous character in leatherdom—with a supporting cast you'll have to see to believe!

The Adventures of Drum couldn't be more graphic— you'll spend hours and hours poring over each panel and each episode of Drum, probably holding the book firmly in one hand… 495

THE EROTIC ART OF BILL WARD

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G HAIR IS OUT. NO HAIR IS IN. PERIOD.

ROBERT PAYNE / "CARE & TRAINING OF THE MALE SLAVE" getting poked in the eye. I looked upon beautiful, smooth buns flowing down to heavy thighs and calves.

"Your hair is too long, buddy."

"I'm talking about the hair on your head.'

"You can shave it if you wish, Sir." And I had only been asking for a possible haircut.

"How about your pubic hair?"

"It is usually shaved, Sir. Would you like it off?"

Beautiful attitude. So be prepared for the photo session. Our coverman, Elias, eagerly volunteered to act as a master barber and Scott submitted to his electric clippers almost lovingly. First he was shorn military style, then prison style, until his blond curls filled the floor. Carried away in his enthusiasm for a job well done, Elias began on Scott's pubic hair and ass. Next came the Barbasol and razor. I had once used alcohol on Elias' shaved body so he naturally insisted on such an aftershave for Scott. It proved effective enough and Elias was delighted.

What to do with that big piece of meat which alternated between hanging down, way down, and standing out a full ten inches in front of the now-smooth belly. I tied a thin leather thong around the big head, doubled the whole thing under and bound the head to the base, just like the Romans liked to do as an entertainment. They did it to prevent the victim's urinating process. We merely attempted to keep his big piece of meat from getting hard. We then tied it to another thong placed through Scott's nipple rings, drawing it tightly enough to keep him bent over in the middle. Beautiful ! We also tried tying it to his big toes as a toe-jack-offer, but since it was doubled, it was unlikely it would be producing much of an ejaculation in the near future.

Scott was directed to crawl around the room with his tits attached to his cock and balls, which were attached by thong to his toes. I used this opportunity to warm up that smooth ass with a wide belt. It

DRUMMER 19

HIM. SHAVE HIM. SHOW HIM WHO'S BOSS

ROBERT PAYNE / "CARE & TRAINING OF THE MALE SLA speeded him up a bit but not too much. Either he enjoyed the whipping, which was likely, or one can only go so fast in such a position, which is even more likely.

We put him on a small table that doubled as a block. He was told to show his ass, to stand and get his meat erect, but after being released, it did it on its own.

For those of you into feet, you might notice the soles of Scott's well-shaped feet as he was bent over showing us his ass. Wide, well-shaped and of a good size (to go with that big cock), they really invited a hot wax treatment, preceded by a bit of good old-fashioned Turkish whipping across their bottoms. Here is a place that one doesn't use a wide belt, since the feet have innumerable delicate bones in their structure and can be harmed by heavy beatings. A whip made up of thongs, similar to one used on the genitals , is perfect to bring the slave completely to do one's bidding. Not that we needed that for Scott, but working with his ankles and toes seemed to increasingly turn him on, using his big erection as a barometer.

We tried our new chromed Fetters shackles on him and, in fact, kept him in them, they seemed like such a part of him. The rest of the session he rattled around the studio in them. But finally we had to come to some conclusion with this farm-boy turned slavestud.

It was then that we decided to put him in an "In Training" shirt and nothing more (other than his leg shackles) and let him stick around the place for the rest of the day, bare-bottomed, helping with the many things there are to do, what with one thing and another.

Like, for instance, keeping that huge piece of slavemeat standing at attention, showing his receptive hole in case our tools also came to attention and had to be relieved.

He was sent out for Cokes and beer, and, not being able to go completely naked, we let him put his jeans back on, leaving his shackles still dangling from around his neck to his wrists and down his front. I don't know what they thought in the grocery market on the corner, but it takes something pretty spectacular to

DRUMMER 21

even raise an eyebrow south of Market in San Francisco. Scott ran back fast, his bare feet rattling with chains. He obediently dropped his pants at the door and stepped out of them. It was nice having a slave around who didn't have to be told.

He opened the cans and handed them around, never once getting an order wrong. I noticed that he opened none for himself. When he came over to me to squat next to my chair, I turned his face upward (not by his hair since there wasn't any) and poured some beer into his immediately open mouth. He would get more later, even if recycled.

But I had work to do, so I led him by the chain from his collar over to a low table, took two long metal pushpins from the tray and attached the rings in his tits to the edge of the top of the table. He knelt with his hands behind his back and that is the way I found him about an hour later when I returned to the room after I had finished whatever I had to do.

There had to be a lot of uses for a piece of slavemeat like this. Anxious to please, anxious to serve, he instinctively knew what was expected of him.

The sight of such a beautiful young fellow , so amenable and so willing, down on his knees, his titrings tied to someone's legs, bringing his head to the most opportune spot, could be a wondrous sight. He knelt by the table we had used for a posing block and layed out that big meat for us to stand on or to just admire.

When it came time to turn the lights off and close the place up, Scott was still there.

"Still haven't had enough, Kid?"

"It was a great day, Sir.

"Maybe we ought to do more? We could make a book of this process of getting a slave shaved and shaped up?"

Scott's eyes lit up. "That's a wonderful idea, Sir.'

"Ever read Care and Training of the Male Slave?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How would you like to star in the sequel?"

'YES, Sir!"

"Let's get to work, Kid."

Mr. Payne wasn't just blowing smoke up the slave's ass. His all new version of CARE & TRAINING OF THE MALE SLAVE III is indeed well on its way to being ready as long as the slaves hold out (and up). Since Alternate Publishing did so well on the first version, swingers that they are, they allowed as how they will pop for the sequel. If you are fool enough to buy your copy in advance, you can have a couple of bucks off the outrageous $10 cover price and they will pop for the postage. Send $8 to Alternate Publishing, 960 Folsom, San Francisco, CA 94107 and take cold showers for about six weeks from today.

Watershed

Lone tear of pain reflects the candleflame.

-Auggie Camelli

Once Was Too Often

It's mine! S-M-A-C-K It ached so much. S-M-A-C-K For months I couldn't touch it. S-M-A-C-K I just touched it once. S-M-A-C-K Just once. 5-M-A-C-K …it's yours, master.

-Auggie Camelli

CUTTING THREADS BBY DDAAWIDD IMAAY

He knew what was coming.

The cock moved inside him with deeper earnest, plowing his bowels with machine-like precision, hitting its target with every stroke. The prostate grew tense, eager to explode as the ridge ran against it time after time. He could concentrate only on not coming.

His legs were separated into a V above his head, his ankles suspended in cuffs hanging from the ceiling high above him. His ass cheeks were spread apart by the enormity of the battering ram filling the space between them repeatedly and with increasing momentum. His wrists were cuffed to the wall. His life lay in his Master's hands, as always, helpless.

The machine increased its power.

"Ready, boy?" "Yes, Master!"

Two gloved hands reached over the slave's body to his throat, pushing the slave collar up above the adam's apple, and with the same machine-like precision of the fucking pelvis, each turned

"Come, boy! Now!"

The slave ejaculated, coming over the two of them, spraying their bodies with the warmth of his balls as his Master's come emptied itself into his guts, filling the void with semen and sperm that would eventually drip, as it always did, from his battered hole. Both cocks expanded to their maximum size before exploding, bringing them to a joining in space at the climax of their agony and lust…The slave felt himself suspended in space, again, above the darkness; then he was falling into it, into the void that opened within him. He fell further into the darkness, felt it engulfing him. The threads were broken.

By the time they met, Pete had given up on finding a man, the man who could be his Master. Willing bottoms, anxious slaves, were plentiful. A good top he had not found in years. The need to submit was so strong at times that he could feel his guts cry out for the lashes he gave his slaves, his body yearning for the pain he inflicted on others. Where were the men?

The others, the men who had initiated him, trained him as a slave and then as a Master, who had given him his first leathers and taught him the (then) obscure rituals of an underworld, had all disappeared. Now he walked the streets, bars and alleyways asking himself, What happened to the men? Why are the men so different today? Pete was not so old—in his mid-thirties—that he felt out of date, nor so foolish as to believe that things wouldn't change with time. He was handsome enough, bearded, well-made ; the type that turned a few heads, but seldom noticed them turning. Attractive but not outstanding.

They met at a bar on a night when Pete was meeting two boys of his own. He'd been examining the potential dynamics of two slaves who were already friends, seeking out ways to play them off each other, forming a riff of competition between them. He was looking forward to the scene and had arrived early in order

He was waiting for them when Karl came in.

Karl came in wearing his leather like a second skin, not a costume. He took off his jacket with a natural, animal grace, revealing his huge arms and chest covered with fine black fur. His leather pants bulged at the codpiece, promising something substantial. His knee-high boots were slick with spit and polish, demanding homage. Each tit carried a gold ring. A tattooed serpent coiled around his left arm, its tail resting on his shouldler, its head poised at attention on the bicep.

He's too perfect, Pete thought. Why haven't I seen him before?"

Karl stood there, immaculate in his eroticism, staring at Pete. Still unbelieving, Pete approached the man as he would an altar, in reverence and fear. Karl extended a gloved hand to shake Pete's; the serpent moved gracefully over the flexing muscles in Karl's arm. Pete knew then that the man was real.

In moments a collar was around Pete's neck as he kissed the gloved hand of his new Master in gratitude. Then Pete was 26 DRUMMER groveling, kissing his Master's boots, giving them their due with his lips and tongue. This done, Karl pulled him to his feet, put him on a leash, and handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

"You trust me, slave?"

"Yes, Sir.'

"Good. You'll need to."

Pete was led down Eleventh Street on his leash, passing his own boys who were on their way to meet him. They were dumbfounded, staring first in awe and then in contempt. What had become of their Master, they asked each other, as Karl led the man past them on the street. Pete kept his eyes on the pavement at his feet, saying nothing.

The Room took up the better part of the second floor of what had once been a warehouse. It was equipped with several slings at various angles, mirrors, hanging restraints, a padded vinyl floor like a wrestling mat, a wall covered with hooks from which hung a variety of whips, cats, paddles, clamps and toys. The Room's centerpiece was the table, elegant if menacing, covered with black leather, trimmed with chrome studs, against a brick wall. The wall itself bore several pairs of hooks for restraints. Over the table hung another pair of restraints, their origins lost in the shadows of the high ceiling. At the table's edge was a scoop of molded black leather, a sort of saddle that forced its occupant to lie back on the table with his ass in the air, an offering to be used or ignored. Pete stared at it all in wonder for some time.

"Yeah," said Karl, answering an unasked questeion, "I used to have parties a lot, so all this stuff was getting used. Not so much now, though.'

Pete nodded, then stared at the floor in response, waiting.

"Is your hole clean, boy?"

"No, Sir." Pete kept his eyes locked on his feet. He was humiliated already by his lack of preparedness.

"Why not, shithead?" Karl's bark cut into him; he trembled like a novice. There was a slap to the side of his head. "Answer me, fuck-up!"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. I wasn't planning, Sir. I didn't know I'd be serving you, Sir.

Karl's gloved hand stroked Pete's head as one might a child's. His voice was quiet, even gentle. "That sounds reasonable, boy, but in the future-from now on-"

The voice became colder: "You are to have a clean asshole." The tone was steelier: "At all times." And then the voice was like ice. "Do you understand me, boy?

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

"But since you have a dirty hole, we'll clean it together." The voice was gentle again, the hand stroking Pete's head.

"Thank you, Sir.

Karl led Pete to a laundry tub and proceeded with the enema, his voice laced with paternal concern as he said, "You can hold more for Daddy, can't you, boy? Just a little more water…

On the third bag, his guts full of water, Pete found himself kneeling in the tub, his ass in the air, and his hands still handcuffed behind him. Karl's voice lost its warmth as he said, "Don't lose a drop, boy." With the last word a strap cut the air and lashed over Pete's bare flesh. Pete had no idea how many times the strap was wrapped around his ass cheeks; he concentrated only on holding his position, on retaining the water filling his intestines.

When Karl was satisfied with the condition and color of Pete's ass, he commanded Pete to squat in the tub, releasing his water. "Everything, boy. Now!" Pete obeyed. "That's a good boy. A good beginning.

Later, Pete stood silently in the center of the room, waiting, shivering naked in the chill of the darkened room. After what seemed like an eternity he heard his Master's steps behind him. A voice came out of the shadows.

"Boy."

"Yes, Sir."

"Turn around, slowly."

"Yes, Sir."

Obeying, he faced the man again, the same powerful figure

glistening with his own sweat, but with the addition of a black leather executioner's hood. The hood only accentuated the sensuality of the mouth, bead and eyes. It made the man seem even more like some dark god to worship.

"Do you like what you see, slave?"

"Yes, Master."

"On your knees."

Pete crawled as commanded to his Master. The leash and handcuffs weere replaced.

"Take off the codpiece."

Pete leaned forward and with his teeth unsnapped the leather triangle from Karl's pants, firmly but gently, so as not in any way to graze against his Master's cock, the cock which now hung before him, swinging into his face, fat and bulbous at the head, as long as the throat that would engulf it.

Both gloved hands were on the back of the slave's head. The command: "Open, fuckface." A brief second to aim and a single plunge. Pete was choking, fighting for air. He began to struggle against the two hands holding his head to his Master's groin. It was useless; Karl's need for an orgasm was stronger than Pete's for air. Karl said nothing, only grunted from within his own animal center, pushing his cock in and out of Pete's throat with increasing force. Pete began to black out as he felt the cockhead swell in his throat, then explode and fill him with come, hot and salty, coating his esophagus with slime.

Karl leaned down to kiss his slave, his mouth open wide as if to eat Pete's whole mouth, tongue and teeth: a cannibal's kiss. He kissed him deeply and long. And as he kissed him, Pete felt himself restored, renewed in strength.

"And?"

"Thank you, Sir."

Karl led Pete to a pair of hanging restraints. Both wrists were secured over his head. Then both ankles were secured to hooks on the floor. Karl said nothing as he fastened his slave into place. On the table he laid out his paddles, whips and crops. Japanese clamps were fastened to Pete's pierced nipples. A parachute was attached to his balls. Weights were hooked onto both of these. Pete stole glances at Karl's face, which remained quietly preoccupied , not unlike a craftsman so used to his work that his hands go quickly and naturally about their tasks without wasted effort or thought. Karl moved behind Pete and inserted a greased ball bearing into Pete's rectum. Pete heard a sigh of approval.

"You're not to lose that, boy. You're to keep it there until told to release. it."

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm starting you with ten pounds. You'll learn to hold more."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

More weight was added to Pete's testicles. Pete held his breath to keep from moaning.

"And?"

"Thank you, Sir."

Karl pulled on the chain joining the tit clamps.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

"It's only polite.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

Pete managed to speak only through pained gasps for breath. His face twisted into a grimace from the discomfort he felt in all his extremities, pulled in all directions.

Karl left him alone for several minutes. When he returned again out of the shadows of the cavernous room, his high boots echoed coldly with each step. He approached from behind. A blindfold was placed over the slave's eyes. A strap cracked against his ass cheeks.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Good boy."

A gloved hand gently stroked the tender buttocks. A pause before a riding crop was gently stroking the cheeks, caresssing them.

"I want to take you where you've never been before, boy. That will take time. You'll first have to trust me.'

"Yes, Sir."

"You'll have to believe in me, believe that I know what I"m doing, that I'll never hurt you…permanently. Can you do that?

Pete listened as closely as he could, but felt already as if he were elsewhere, suspended between earth and sky by the threads that seemed to tug at his tits, balls, ass, wrists, ankles; threads that might snap and let him fall to an inconclusive end. But even as he looked out with open eyes into the darkness that was behind the blindfold, he knew the answer.

"Yes, Sir." And he realized that there was no alternative. He was at the man's mercy-no one knew where he was.

"You're sure?" The riding crop continued its gentle stroking up and down along the spine.

Another pause before Pete answered again, more certain than before. "Yes, Sir." Now he knew, or had decided he knew, that he was dreaming.

The riding crop began its slow dance on the ass cheeks, moving softly over the furry mounds, quietly at first, slowly building to the first crescendo. The power and pace of the crop's kisses were methodically increased. Pete's sinewy arms and legs strained at their manacles as he continued to feel suspended in the air, felt himself writhe in space, found himself lost deep within himself, lost in a maze of his own making. The crop's tongue bit deeper into the flesh along the whole of his backside. He remained a viewer to the ritual, detached.

The crop was replaced with a cat-o'-nine tails that sliced still further into his consciousness. He felt his mind a latticework, a series of fibers spaced with perfect symmetry allowing for single shafts of illumination within. With each stroke of the cat the spaces enlarged and the light increased, until it seemed that there mustn't be any space left unillumined. But as he looked within the depths behind his blindfold he saw that it was still dark, still in need of the cat's many tails lashing it to clarity. In time he hardly felt the cat's strokes, then not at all…

Time passed and Pete found himself again touching ground, returning to the world and feeling the many threads pulling him in all directions. He also felt his Master's arms around him and the man's bearded mouth on his in a kiss that was deep and passionate. (Passion, he would later remind himself, meant pain.) He would have to thank the man for this kiss, he remembered . But before he could say anything, two gloved hands were around his throat and all the threads that held him were released. His lips no longer felt his Master's lips, though he knew that Karl was there, still kissing him. He felt himself falling into a void, falling faster into what he knew was bottomless. No, he remembered, I need to thank him for the kiss.

What was already black became blacker and enclosed him: I must remember-

He was awake now in the stranger's bed. Karl's two great arms were wrapped around him. Pete's whole body felt stiff with welts and bruises. As he opened his eyes and looked around the room, he had the nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something . He tried to stretch and found his ankles were in restraints. From where he lay he could see a large basket at the foot of the bed, a bed for a very large pet, a slave. Pete wondered why he wasn't in it.

The room was as large as the other Room, the same high ceilings and spartan decor. A stack of yellowing newspapers sat neatly near the door. An assortment of leather goods had been thrown casually over a chair in a far corner.

Karl stirred next to him.

"Awake, boy?"

Pete touched the collar still secured around his neck. It hadn't been a dream.

"Yes, Sir. Good morning, Sir."

"Good morning, boy."

"All right, boy, release the ball bearing."

Pete had kept the ball bearing in his tightly clenched asshole all night, even in his sleep. It was only with a great effort that he was able to relax the sphincter and release the weight into Karl's 28 DRUMMER waiting hand.

"Good boy."

Karl took the ball bearing and replaced it with a finger.

"You're such a good boy, Daddy's going to fuck your brains out."

The finger was gone and Karl's massive cock pressed against the hole. Pete screamed as the shaft hit its mark with one long hard stroke that touched bottom. Karl's arms wrapped tight around the slave, holding him in place as the huge cock sought out again and again the last interiors of Pete's bowels.

"That's my boy. Be a big boy for Daddy and take his dick. Take

Daddy's dick.'

Pete felt the tears welling in his eyes as he bit the pillow and concentrated only on relaxing the muscles he had kept tight all through his sleep. After several minutes he began to feel the stirrings of pleasure inside him. His prostate hardened. His cock moved against the mattress with each pounding stroke of Karl's cock.

"My boy likes it, doesn't he? He likes Daddy's dick."

"Yes, Daddy, yes…Oh!"

Pete came. He came shooting his load over pillows and sheets, over his chest. His body tensed like one in the last throes of death. Karl's cock stopped moving. Pete felt calm and safe, he began to relax into the warmth of the afterglow when a cold voice cut it in two.

"Did I say you could come, boy?"

"No, Sir. I-

He was flung over onto his stomach, Karl's dick still inside of him. A cat-o'-nine tails appeared in Karl's hand.

"Then why did you come, fuckface?"

Lashes cut into his already raw and tender backside.

"I couldn't help it! Please, Sir!"

The lashes continued.

"You will not come again without permission! Is that understood , boy?"

Another stroke.

"Yes, Master! Please forgive me, Sir." A lash. "PLEASE, SIR!" Suddenly it was over and Karl was lying down with his full weight on Pete's raw, bleeding back, pumping away at the hole as if nothing had happened. One gloved hand slowly closed over Pete's mouth and nostrils…

At first Karl did not want Pete to leave.

"If you go, it is without my consent."

"Please, Sir, I have responsibilities, a job, friends…"

"Those should have been forsaken when you wore my collar."

"That was not made explicit, Sir."

"It was implicit, then, and you knew-"

Pete gave up trying to reason.

"Karl, come on-

A back-hand sent Pete flying across the floor. He slowly pulled himself to his feet. Blood trickled out the corner of his mouth. He could only stare at the naked man in boots and gloves standing between him and the door.

'Crawl to me on your stomach, kiss the underside of my boot

Pete did as he was told.

"Please forgive my disrespect, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. I know I'm a worthless slave, Sir. It won't happen again, Sir."

"No, not worthless. Disobedient but not worthless." Karl pulled Pete up to his feet and held him.

"You may leave and come back to me next Friday promptly at seven p.m. You will continue wearing my collar during the week. If you take it off I'll know it, and you will be severely punished. During this time you will decide whether or not you wish to continue being my slave. If you decide to continue, as I expect you will, you will not return to the outside except as I see fit. Do you understand me, boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Any questions?"

"What if I need to call you, Sir?"

"I'll call you."

Pete wondered if Karl even had a phone. He'd neither heard nor seen one during the three days he's spent with his Master. "Yes, Sir."

"Now put on your clothes and get out of here before I change my mind." "Yes, Sir."

Karl left the room.

When Pete stepped out into the fading sunlight he spent several aimless minutes wandering before he was reacquainted with his surroundings. Finally he found a landmark, and from there his way home. In the three days with Bill he'd forgotten so much: how to live, where he lived, his job, friends.

Pete wondered at what had happened to him. His body was a mass of welts and raw edges. With each step, each minor readjustment of his body weight as he walked, he was painfully reminded of the weekend's occurrences. He was content in his discomfort, in wincing with every movement, and he relished his pain as if it were a precious gift. Possessing it made him feel closer to his Master.

He'd been taken out on a leash the night before, and knew that he could have left then if he had really wanted to; and knowing that he did not escape then meant that he was born only to serve, only to be as his Master commanded. It had seemed very natural to be used as a footstool in a public place, to be a dog tethered to a bar stool. Only now, as he re-experienced everyday life again, did any of this seem out of place to him; or, as he would soon come to see it, the world seemed out of place with him.

Friends called, some desperate to know where he'd been all weekend, others angry over broken engagements. He was evasive with everyone, telling no tales of where he'd been or why he could not see his friends now. He was unsure of this himself. He felt now only the need to wait for his Master's call. And he did not want to explain the need to others, nor the stiffness in his body, nor the bruises at his throat.

At the office the collar was hidden beneath a coat and tie. At home he stayed naked and fingered the lock that hung at his throat. He never touched his cock.

On Wednesday the phone rang. Pete knew who it was on the first ring. His heartbeat raced.

"Boy.

"Yes, Sir."

"Whose boy are you?"

"Yours, Sir."

"Friday."

"Yes, Sir."

Then the click of a phone hitting its cradle.

Exhausted by only this brief exchange, he lay down on the floor where he now slept wrapped in a blanket. He was also ecstatic: he had heard his Master's voice.

Then the next night, just as he was falling asleep, the phone rang again. He knew who it was.

"Boy."

"Yes, Sir."

"Whose fuckhole are you?"

"Yours, Sir."

"Tomorrow, boy."

"Yes, Sir."

"Go to sleep now, boy."

"Yes, Sir.'

And the line went dead.

Pete was at work Friday afternoon when the phone rang. His voice trembled as he answered it.

"Boy."

"Yes, Sir."

"A clean asshole, boy."

"Yes, Sir."

"At seven o'clock."

A woman at a neighboring desk looked only puzzled. "VIP?" she asked.

On Friday evening, as he walked down Bill's narrow street, it occurred to Pete that he'd never given the man his phone number-neither at home nor at work. Or at least, not that he could recall…

"You're a Master in your own right, aren't you, boy?" Pete hesitated and decided on the truth: "Yes, Master."

One gloved hand touched his bowed head softly. Pete leaned his face against his Master's thigh.

"I knew you'd have to be a Master, too, or there'd be no point in training you."

"Sir?"

"You don't understand me do you, boy?"

"No, Master."

"You will in time."

"Thank you, Sir."

Karl led Pete down the hall on his leash. Pete moved naked and on all fours at his Master's feet. He'd only just been trained to heel the night before.

"You'd like to know more, wouldn't you, boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

Karl opened the door and led the slave outside into an unkept yard. Pete was led to a spot where newspapers had been spread out on the ground and held down with discarded bricks. With no hesitation, or even an order, Pete scrambled onto the newspapers , squatted, took a shit and pissed.

"Done, boy? Good dog!"

Pete scrambled back to his Master's feet.

"Boy, you're being trained to serve me in a very specific way. This particular service will take place only once, and when it is done you will be freed from servitude forever. Even though you'll be free to go your way, slave, the ramifications of this service-what it will mean for you when you have performed it—could be devastating to the unprepared. You will be a different individual entirely. You will be more like me. In fact, you'll become me.'

Karl spoke matter-of-factly, without bravado or pretense to anything overly serious. But it was this casualness of tone that demanded attention.

Karl led the slave back inside to where an old laundry tub sat waiting. Pete jumped in at once.

"Good, boy," said Karl. "Time to wash the dog."

That night Pete slept in the basket at the foot of the bed. Because he'd been such a good dog he was allowed to walk on two legs the next day, though he was reminded that his position in life had not changed; he was still to heel on a leash and to eat out of a dish on the floor.

"And today you may use the toilet, though not the toilet seat, providing you have been given permission."

"Thank you, Sir."

"By the way, don't you think you should clean up your shit in the backyard?

"Yes, Sir."

"NOW!"

"Yes, Sir!"

Pete was at once obedient. He was the sort of slave he'd once longed for himself. Good slaves like me, he thought, clearing away the soiled newspapers, are hard to come by-not the pushy kind.

"But, Master, you said I could stay! Please let me stay, Sir." Pete laid his cheek on Karl's boot, the one spontaneous display of affection now allowed him. "Please don't make me go, Master.

Karl sat in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He pulled his boot out from under Pete's face and rested it on the slave's back.

"What I said, slave, was that you would not leave again unless I 30 DRUMMER wished it. I wish it. I am leaving your collar on you, so there is no need to worry. I will not argue. If you persist I will remove the collar and throw you out on your worthless slave's ass. Am I being clear enough for you, boy?"

"Yes, Master."

"Now, because you have angered me, you will be punished."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Sir."

Karl stood up, his riding crop in his hand.

"Count, fuck-up."

A crop-stroke sliced the air into Pete's ass.

"One, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

Each stroke followed the next with little pause. Old bruises grew bigger. Healing cuts from crueler whips broke open. Blood trickled down his spine and dripped to his scrotum and down his legs. Twenty strokes.

You disappointed me, boy, but you took your punishment well. You'll go home now and await further orders.'

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

"I know, slave."

There was no tenderness expressed, no gentle touch or reassuring word. He threw the slave's clothes next to him on the floor.

"Now get out."

Pete heard Karl's steps as he left the room. In only a few moments he was dressed and gone.

As the weeks passed, the whippings became more intense. The weights that were suspended from his nipples and balls and inserted up his hole were also increased. Each time Pete was fucked, Karl became more brutal. But Pete could only feel more content, less anxious, as time went on. Like a bodybuilder he adjusted to pain, or at least learned to be unaware of it. He took pride in his pain, in the deep purple bruises covering his body, marking his neck.

Each climax found him choking for air, and then coming to consciousness in Karl's arms, covered with his own come. It was always timed perfectly. And each time he woke up to Karl's voice saying, "It's alright, baby, Daddy brought you back." Then Karl would kiss him deeply and Pete would feel the kiss restore him, fill him up with what had just been drained from him.

The humiliations increased. Pete would never know if he was to walk on all fours or upright like a man, if he'd sit at the table or eat off the floor out of a dog dish, if he'd be taken for a walk with or without his leash, or if he'd be called to service his Master at any time during the week. Pete would sit by his phone waiting, cutting conversations short with those few friends who still called him. "Pete," they'd say, "what's become of you?" Pete remained evasive. He wanted no one to know about Karl; being with his Master was a joy too precious to be shared.

This is what is means to submit, he'd say to himself, to be a

He never knew Karl's phone number, but wouldn't have called him even if he had to for fear of displeasing his Master by such presumptousness. When he wasn't called to serve his Master , Pete found the agony of separation a joy, a new pain to relish, another way to serve his Master. He was happy to think his suffering would bring his Master pleasure, and so he wallowed in it, wept and wondered only when (not if, for his faith in Karl was now complete) he'd be granted the privilege to kiss his Master's boots again.

After two such long and agonizing weeks, Pete received a call on Tuesday morning while he was at work.

"You're having dinner with me, slave."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Be there at eight. Coat and tie." And an address on Chestnut Street.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

No goodbye, only the heavy click of the other phone.

Pete was prompt, arriving just as Karl was pulling up in a taxi. Karl extended his hand with a jovial smile and asked in a loud voice, "How's the boy?"

Pete took the hand offered him. He felt stunned at the apparent familiarity. "Fine," he answered, and felt Karl's hand squeeze his to the point of causing pain until he added, "Sir."

Karl's smile remained intact. "Glad to hear it-boy.

Pete felt himself completely off-balance. They were seated at once. He waited for Karl to sit first and motion that he sit in a chair as well. He was startled and unsure of hmself for the first time in all these months he'd spent in living only to serve his Master.

"You'll have the filet mignon rare, boy."

"Thank you, Sir."

Karl ordered for both, poured the wine.

When dinner was served, Pete squelched the impulse to eat his dinner without permission. He stared quietly at the table just beyond his plate, waiting and wondering if he dared ask, "May I-?" He decided against it; it was presumptuous, distrustful. After several long minutes Karl said, "Eat, boy."

"Thank you, Sir." Pete ate contentedly; he had passed another test

When the check arrived, Pete offered to pay for his dinner. Karl looked at him angrily, signed the check and walked out without a word. Pete followed him outside. A summer mist had settled over the city.

"Sir?"

"How dare you?"

"Sir?" Pete did not understand.

"Whose boy are you?" Karl spoke very loudly. They were in front of the restaurant. People passed them on the street.

"Yours, Sir."

"Don't you think that your Master will take care of you?"

"Sir, I only-"

The back of Karl's left hand met the right side of Pete's face. In seconds there was blood in his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Sir. Please forgive me, Sir."

Karl extended a clenched fist. Pete flinched.

"Kiss your Master's hand and beg forgiveness."

Pete obeyed, holding Karl's gloved fist in both of his hands.

"Please, Sir, forgive me, Sir. Please."

"Very well, slave, you're forgiven."

"Thank you, Sir."

The fist was pulled suddenly away. Pete looked up from where he knelt on the sidewalk to see Karl vanish into a cab, calling out as he shut the door: "Friday, boy."

"Yes, Sir!"

Pete got up off of his knees, shirking off the stares of those who had stopped to watch the spectacle, murmuring their shock and recognition. He walked home in the damp and cold: this would be his own self-imposed punishment.

It went on for months.

"You've gone where no one else can take you."

"Yes, Sir.

"And I bring you back again, don't I, boy?"

"Yes, Master.

"You trust me to know that I always will?"

Pete lifted his eyes up toward his Master's face without permission . Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. "Yes. Master !" He was offended that the question even needed to be asked. He was also worried that his Master might even doubt him. He bowed his head to his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back, Karl's booted feet resting on his shoulders.

"Kiss your Master's hand."

Each time he served his Master, Pete found himself in space again, suspended by the invisible threads at his ankles, wrists, neck, tits, cock, balls, navel, asshole. The threads, he came to realize, never broke, but were only released. Each time he'd fall from space into the blackness, plunge into the nameless ocean inside of himself and re-emerge in Karl's arms again, panting like a swimmer and being kissed.

He was taken out for walks on a leash more frequently, and to places other than Folsom Street. First to Polk Street, crossing

Market Street along Van Ness, then to the Castro on a Sunday afternoon. On a holiday weekend he was sent to a supermarket across town in a tank shirt and a slave collar. Pete knew that people from his office might and did see him as he executed his errands, but he cared less and less what others thought. Serving his Master was the only thing that mattered.

On another night, in coat and tie once more, Karl put Pete in handcuffs and attached a leash to him as they strolled down Union Street. During this walk intended to humiliate him the only thought in Pete's mind was a fervent hope that he be allowed to lick Bill's shoes in a well-lit place for everyone to see.

Seasons changed. The rains came. Friends who had given up hope of getting in touch with Pete during the summer tried again. No, Pete would say again and again. I can't see you; too busy. Inevitably, they were offended. Soon no one called but Karl, and Pete was happier because now he could answer the phone at once with "Yes, Sir!" everytime.

Karl was sitting in his chair in full regalia, encased in his leathers. They had just returned from a walk on lower Market Street. The leash was still in his hand. Pete sat on the floor, nestled between his Master's legs, his head resting on Bill's knee, as a dog would. It was a Sunday evening and Pete didn't want to leave yet. He hoped that he wouldn't have to, that Karl would give him permission to stay longer as he had on rare occasions before, though Pete didn't dare ask.

'You will not see me for a month, slave."

"Master?" He hoped Karl was only being cruel. "A month."

"Sir, have I-"

"No, you have not displeased me, boy."

Pete said nothing now. He waited. Minutes passed in silence.

"Boy, I have a special task for you."

"Yes, Sir?" Pete's eyes brightened. His head lifted slightly.

"You are to be a Master again."

"Sir?"

"I am going to give you your freedom for a month. In four weeks exactly it will have been a year since I put my collar on you."

Pete nuzzled his Master's legs like an affectionate pet. "Yes,

"On that day you will come back to me and perform one last task. You may choose not to carry out this last service, but I expect that you will take it on with the same pleasure with which you've performed every other task I've put before you."

"Yes, Sir." Pete was amazed to even imagine disobedience. It was beyond him now.

Karl stroked his head.

"When you have finished, you will be changed, you will be like me. In fact, you'll become me in some ways. And this," he waved around the cavernous room with his gloved hand, "will

"You don't understand me yet? I can't put it any more simply. You will understand me, though, in time.'

A moment's silence, then: "Sir? May I ask you a question?"

"If I'm to be a Master, where will I find a slave?"

"He'll find you as you found me."

A half hour was passed in silence.

"Boy."

"Yes, Master."

"You know I love you."

These were words Pete had longed to hear, as a dog looks for praise. Now that he had heard the words he didn't know what to say or do, so he licked his Master's gloved hand instead. Karl fondly caressed Pete's head.

"I know you love me, too, boy, and that's why you'll do as I ask in four weeks. But for now…

Karl got up from his chair and knelt on one knee. With one hand he held Pete's head as he kissed himdeeply, caressing and

DRUMMER 31

exploring each part of Pete's mouth with his tongue, as if for the last time. With his other hand Karl removed the collar and layed it aside.

"All right, Peter, it's time to go."

The phone rang the next day.

Pete jumped out of his chair and stared blankly at the phone. He knew it wasn't Karl. Who else would call him now, when no one had called him in months?

"Hello?"

"This is Jim. How've you been?"

Pete knew several Jims, but was able to place this one at once: blond, a little young but handsome, eager to please. Pete had shaved him once. A good submissive.

'Juist fine. How's the buns?"

"They need a good licking, Pete. I tried calling you before, but you were never home.'

'Been busy, but… this Friday?"

"Okay." "What?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Better. I'll send you your orders."

"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

"And, boy-"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Better keep the whole weekend free."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

Pete hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

He looked at himself in the mirror and saw it, saw what had been missing for so long: the glint in the eyes that said "Master." He took off his clothes to examine himself. The old bruises, welts and abrasions were healing rapidly. They'd never healed so quickly before, and he was certain that Karl had been no easier on him during their last few days together. He was puzzled by this; but in the last eleven months he learned to accept a great deal that he didn't understand without question. This new oddity, the sudden healing of old wounds, was just one more to take in stride.

He put on his leathers. They fit better than he remembered. He found his toys in the chest he had put aside eleven months ago. The power stirred inside him once again. His cock hard-dened beneath the leather. He stood before the mirror, pulled out his cock and slowly stroked it with one gloved hand. The other gloved hand played with each pierced nipple in turn. He stared at his reflection and came like a geyser, covering the glass with come.

They were in The Cell. Pete had been away a year and had been missed. Other regulars wanted to know where he'd been hiding. Pete continued to be evasive.

Jim was counting the strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails as it kissed his ass cheeks.

"Twenty-two, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

The knotted ends of each tail dug into the slave's flesh. Jim's body screamed for release. But Jim held on; he needed it, all of it, all that Pete had to give him, whatever that might be.

After the fortieth lash, Pete stopped to examine his handiwork with cold detachment, feeling the heat from the hot, raw flesh

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through his gloves. Jim's breath came out in long hisses through his teeth.

He's almost there, Pete thought. Then aloud, "All right, boy,

Jim could only mumble, "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." He was near collapse, his hands suspended over his head, holding too

Very gently, Pete released his hands, rubbed life back into them, and half-carried Jim to a mattress. The surrounding crowd followed them and then dispersed as Jim was laid down, each thinking that the show was over, each stroking his cock and wishing that he was in Jim's place. Pete held him gently in his arms, murmuring endearments, being Daddy to the frightened child.

"All right, baby, Daddy's here. Daddy will make it better."

Pete watched Jim's face intently for signs of readiness. It would have to be timed just right, take place while Jim was still suspended in space. He watched in The Cell's half-light, listened to his slave's breathing beneath the noise of the over-amplified music. Then the moment arrived; Pete could taste it.

He rolled Jim over on his stomach, covering Jim's body with his own. He positioned himself quickly and with one stroke was inside him. Jim screamed at the sudden assault, screamed at the pain, but didn't resist. The screams were only lost in the shadows and the bass of the music. Pete pumped furiously, as enraged in his own pleasure as an animal, lost in the ecstacy or regaining his power, in the sensations in his groin. He came to a new understanding , a deeper passion he hadn't thought possible

Jim's screaming turned to whimpers, then to moans. Pleasure untied the slave's prostate, built up inside him. His cock stirred beneath him, squashed against the mattress. Each of Pete's arms were circled around Jim's. Then one gloved hand closed over Jim's face, over his mouth and nostrils. The other held his throat. Jim felt himself falling as the pace quickened in his fuckhole, as the cock inside of him began to swell, as his own cock began to squirt come. He fell faster, deeper into the void that opened beneath him, inside him. Pete's breathing reached a climax in Jim's right ear as the body on top went into its final thrashings. Jim felt the chasm close in around him.

Pete wondered if he'd gone too far. Even in the shadows of The Cell he could see how ashen Jim's face was. The breathing was alternatingly shallow and deep, as if the lungs were bruised and recovering their strength. Jim stirred and opened his eyes. Pete kissed him gently, then deeply as the slave looked about in wonder.

"You're back, baby. Daddy brought you back."

A hoarse voice whispered, "Thank you, Sir." Another, stronger kiss and a clearer voice repeated, "Thank you, Sir."

Pete felt yet another surge of power inside of him, new and wonderful. He was in awe of himself.

Karl didn't call. The fourth Sunday arrived and he still hadn't called. Pete had not been sure that Karl would call, but he had hoped to hear from the man, to tell him what had happened. Even with the rediscovery of his own masterfulness, he felt that a part of him was missing, the part held aloft by taut, invisible threads above the void. Excited as he became each time he led Jim to that same place, the dark center inside, Pete also envied his slave, and wished that he could go there too. Even if it was just for one last time, even if the threads might break…

On Saturday, the night before, he had sent Jim away. Jim was dismayed, terrified that he was being rejected by his first real Master, the first man to make him feel he belonged, as a dog feels he belongs. Seeing the pain in his slave's eyes, Pete allowed him, by way of reassurance, to continue wearing the collar through the week and gave him orders to be available to be ready for immediate use. "Keep your hole clean, boy." Jim had kissed Pete's boot in gratitude.

On Sunday Pete walked to Karl's house. He almost got lost, forgetting the alleyway. He was wearing his leather and enjoying the sound of his boots clicking on the pavement and echoing 36 DRUMMER against the walls of the alleyway. Again he lost himself, walking several feet past the door before realizing it. He backtracked to Karl's door and found it ajar.

Everything was in impeccable order. It had the air of a house cleaned for inspection. No lights were on except upstairs in the Room. He called out Karl's name; there was no answer.

At the top of the stairs he found a slave collar, unlocked. He held it in his hand and called out again. No answer. He followed the light into the Room. He found Karl kneeling on the floor under a single light, naked, his head bowed, his hands behind his back.

"Karl?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Look at me."

Karl obeyed. "Sir?"

Not understanding but knowing by instinct, Pete stepped up to his former Master and secured the collar tightly around the man's neck.

"Doesn't that feel better, boy?"

"It feels right, Sir."

Pete kicked him in the side and sent him sprawling on the floor.

'Is this what you wanted all along? Why didn't you tell me, fuckhead?"

Sir, I had to show you first, Sir, show you where I needed to go, Sir."

Another kick in the side.

"So you took me there and made me like it, pig?"

"Yes, Master. Please, Sir, I hope you'll take me there now, Sir." His eyes pleaded more than his words. Pete was touched and spoke gently now.

"You want to feel yourself fall from where you were, boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"To feel suspended in space and then to find yourself falling inside your own soul?"

"Yes, Master! PLEASE, MASTER!" His eyes pleaded up to Pete like a dumb animal's for food.

"You're ready to let me hold the threads, to trust me to bring you back?'

No answer. Karl stared at the floor where he lay sprawled before his Master. Pete kicked him in the chest.

"I asked you a question, shit!"

"Master, please-"

"No?"

Pete didn't understand and wasn't sure that he wanted to understand.

"Don't bring me back, Sir, let me fall."

Pete understood. His voice was even. He spoke as if to empty space. "Cut the threads entirely and let you fall into the void. He looked down on the collared man groveling at his feet.

"Yes, Sir. Please, Sir."

Pete looked around the Room.

"And all this?"

"Yours, Sir."

"Whose was it before?"

"My Master's, Sir."

"And before him?"

"His Master's, Sir."

Pete understood again. While he would wonder where and when this had all begun, and when—or if—it would ever end, he also knew that there was no escape, even if he wanted to escape. He was, if not caught in the web, then drawn to it by instinct, by intuition, by his own inner longings. This was It.

He examined the man for some time as he lay trembling on the floor, eager and afraid with anticipation. Yes, he said to himself, this is It. The only escape would be to follow Karl, to fall free of the web into the darkness, to cut the threads that had held him all his life. He envied Karl.

He pushed one booted foot into the slave's face.

"Kiss it," said Pete. "Kiss you Master's boot…"

Dear Larry,

Drummer has been a magazine that I have enjoyed, from the first, as one of the best expressions of our unique lifestyle. I very much get off on most of your material , and I've also learned a lot.

Recently I answered a number of ads from Masters, as I am definitely and seriously in need of a strong and long-term Master. (And I'm really not a bad catch.) Despite your best efforts in forwarding the mail to me, over 60% of the people approached never even bothered to reply. This is very discouraging, and if I didn't know better it might make me think we're a bunch of phonies, J / O effeminates, not man enough to follow up on earnest applications—at least with a "Thanks, but I don't like your looks," or something.

Would you, Sir, have any suggestions on how a sincere, genuine, experienced slave can match up with a real Man? I must tell you that a few honest Masters have responded, fortunately. Word of mouth by good Masters and friends may also help. But your experienced advice is sought in my deadly earnest search. Thanks.

Sincere and Willing, VT

Dear Sincere.

It seems I've heard this song before. Your batting average sounds about … average . When a guy runs an ad, especially as a Master, he will generally get a flood of replies, because (as has been said, written and sung many times) a good Top is hard to find. He can pick and choose from the responses. Nor, would I suspect, is Vermont the most fertile territory for your search. If you've already gotten it on with a few good Tops, I'd say you haven't done badly. There are a lot of guys reading these pages who'd be more than gratified to find just one. And since you've found more than one, I can't help but wonder if you're really as good a bottom as you think you are. Why haven't these good "honest Masters" come back for seconds?

Dear Larry,

Being an avid fan / reader / collector of Drummer, I know you have given some excellent advice. But you have never discussed the problem that most applies to me, and that concerns my lacking one particular piece of equipment, which I've especially enjoyed on other men. I got ripped-off early in life; my balls are very small and undescended. They seldom come out, and when they do they are very tender if someone tries to suck on them. I've tried hormone pills, but all I got was a slight change in voice and more hair. I also tried weights attached to leather cords, and still no luck. Any advice from you is worth the effort—or do I just forget about it and try to enjoy other men's balls and cocks down my throat to make myself and them feel good?

Low-Slung Gear, S.F.

Dear Low Slung,

I'd say you were high slung, and that's a medical problem which you have probably already investigated with an MD. (I'm assuming this, since you have tried hormones .) At any rate, you appear to have tried the two most logical approaches to the problem. Beyond this, and short of surgery, I don't think there is very much you can do. The "tenderness," of course, is a direct result of your nuts' failure to descend normally. I know of guys-and have discussed the problem in this column-who wanted their balls to hang lower, and have successfully accomplished this with a series of increasingly longer ball stretchers, wearing these over a long period of time. However, I hesitate to suggest this in your case, because you could do yourself some harm. You live in San Francisco, where there is a plethora of gay doctors. If they can't help you, I guess you'll just have to enjoy the low hanging equipment on other guys.

Dear Larry.

For a while now: the concept of "safe sex" has been in. Many of us want to practice it, but it presents somewhat of a problem in a bar or when cruising anywhere else. Specifically, many people are reluctant to bring it up in their initial contacts , for fear of making it seem a turn-off.

Some of my friends and I have come up with a solution, which we feel might catch on if properly publicized. It's an addition to the handkerchief code—a white handkerchief , along with whatever other color you might normally display. A red handkerchief , for instance, along with a white in the left pocket would mean: I'm into fisting, Top, but everything we do will be within the "safe guidelines." Or dark blue in the right pocket with a white next to it would say: I'm into getting fucked, but I only with a condom, etc. I think it's a good idea, and if enough people did it, I think it could save a lot of lives.

Rick, Atlanta

Dear Rick.

On the surface, it doesn't sound like a bad idea, although we're still only guessing as to what is "safe" and what is not. Your concern, obviously, is with AIDS, and a white hankie may be a good start. However, I still think a little conversation is necessary if a guy is really concerned (as he should be), and if he is going to get into one or more of the kinkier scenes. Frankly, I'd be a little more comfortable if that white display also meant: I'm not going to use any drugs. Impaired judgment can be our worst enemy.

Dear Larry,

I'm writing about a letter in your column in Drummer 72 which refers to a man who can't seem to enlarge his nipples . You asked for some real nipple expert to comment, and while I'm not really that, I have some experience and would like to pass it on.

You suggest a clamp with minimal weight as an enlargement technique. My experience is that the weight will stretch the pec area, not just the nipple. Suction cups simply do not provide a lasting effect. Since my nipples are cross-pierced , they are now solid and stick out all the time, roughly a half inch. To make them larger, I'm going to try a plastic ice cream scoop, with the handle cut off and a hole in the center of the globe. If the nipple is stretched out to the hole, and barbell piercings used to hold it in place, it should stretch the part you want to enlarge, while the mouth of the scoop will hold back the rest of the chest. The assumption, of course, is that anything stretched long enough (time and length) will eventually assume that shape.

Thanks for your past advice, and I hope you get several more responses on this subject.

T.G., Palm Springs

Dear T.G.

Your idea is quite ingenious, and might work well for guys with pierced nipples. For the rest, they still seem to be left with clamps, weights, and suction cups. Although there is really no substitute for a Master's fingers-applied hard and frequently-these other techniques can (and do) work. I'd be interested in knowing the results of your experiment, since you seem to indicate that you haven't actually tried it. If you'll recall, I did previously suggest that push-ups and prone bench presses are recommended to firm the pecs and help prevent their being stretched along with the skin.

(If you would like to have Larry Townsend address a particular problem or issue, you can write him via Leather Notebook, Drummer, 964 Folsom Street, San Francisco , CA 94107.)

1) (11) (1) (1)

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DRUMMER ISN'T A COPY OF ANYTHING ELSE.

The best in fiction, photography and art presented in the hottest, most forthright manner possible. The popularity of DRUMMER is legendary and there is nothing else like it. Don't miss an issue. It's one of a kind! Sample copy is 3.95

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If you think DRUMMER is outrageous, wait until you meet MACH. We introduce the Six Dollar Magazine, which is in itself fairly outrageous . More color, more of everything, except adver- tising. MACH is fresh, bright and a definite instant turn-on . Strictly High Octane. Sample copy $6

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At a buck-ninety-five, you certainly get your money's worth from MANIFEST. The biggest gathering of personal classi-fled ads around in our Man-hunt Section. More pictures of more flesh along with bright articles and fiction. It's what you've been waiting for, priced at about half of anybody else. Take advantage of us quick while we're young and vulnerable. TWELVE ISSUES Sample copy 1.95

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MR. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA DRUMMER LOS ANGELES

Mr. Southern California, John Rush (left and above) rose out of a large and aggres-and above) rose out of a large and aggressive pack of finalists to cop the top honor at the regional contest at Greg's Blue Dot. A packed house watched imaginative and dedicated leathermen give their all—and the judges wer Castro.

"Spread those cheeks!"—the command heard around the world, and demonstrated with finesse by one of the leather-clad contestants in the Mr. Southern California regional. regional.

"I'll lick the towel Mr. Drummer dried off on" seems to be the sentiment of everyone in the contest, especially this particularly demonstrative individual.

MR. APPALACHIAN DRUMMER PITTSBURGH

Grooming up for Mr. Northern Appalachian Drummer (top, far left) backstage at The Pittsburgh Trucking Company. Winner John Phillips (far right, center photo and above photo) was away with the gold. All photos by Ivann. Sun

which featured Golden Boy (his real name!) in the line-up (far left). Winner Ken Bergquist (center, next photo) flanked by Runners-Up. 1983 Mr. Southeast Drummer David Earl Lee (center photo) calmed the crowd when he gave up his reins. Ken in swim trunks (next photo, left) and stripping off his t-shirt (far right photo). All photos by Jerry Lasley.

MR. SOUTHEAST DRUMMER FT. LAUDERDALE

MR. NORTHERN CALIFORNIA DRUMMER RUSSIAN RIVER

Mr. Northern California Drummer was selected after three days of intense competition at The Woods, set in California's popular Russian River resort area. The men who entered this mega-contest were put through their paces in both indoor and outdoor events. Winner Sonny Cline (directly above) topped even the bigger guys with this award-winning attitude and guys with this award-winning attitude and personality. But the going was rough for all the contestants, and every aspect of their leather personalities was exposed to careful scrutiny, including a backside perspective (top tom row, far left) mingled with the crowd making sure everything went smoothly. The resort was filled with fun-seekers from all over the state (center and right) who took advantage of the clear, sunny weather to exercise their tan lines. All photos by Robert Pruzan.

MR. PACIFIC NORTHWEST DRUMMER

From the Canadian border to the southern Oregon border, the hottest men from the Pacific Northwest came together for a weekend in May in Portland for the timber region's annual leather contest at JR's Cell. Hot and hunky Ray Woods from Seattle walked away with the top honors, becoming the third Mr. Pacific Northwest Drummer, and joins the extraordinary group of men from all over the country who will descend on San Francisco on June 23 to show the world what real leath-ermen are made of. Be there!

They came, they showed, they con- quered: The men who entered the four regional Mr. Drummer Contests shown here are but the uppermost tip of the iceberg. And they are all winners, regardless of how they stood in the final counting. Although only half over, and with the Mr. Drummer finals still to come, these men have once again demonstrated what Drummer is all about—men together sharing a fraternity based on mutual respect and an uncompromising lifestyle. If you can't be there, you can experience all the excitement imaginable in the official 1984 Mr. Drummer program; filled with photos of the supermen who have won the ten regional titles and photos from the contests across the country.

Not the same as being there, but the next best thing! Last year's program was a sell out; reserve your copy now, $2 postpaid, from: Drummer Program, 964 Folsom, San Francisco, CA 94107.

52 DRUMMER

INTERNATIONAL LEATHER SCENE

HUN(K) ART

In print and available at last: the first collection of erotic art by the notorious Hun. Famous for his unflinching visions of bondage and torture, an inspired eye for muscularity and fetishistic detail, and more recently for his own outrageous brand of one-fisted fiction (see "The Interrogation" in Drummer 68), the Hun has now issued his own collection of manly art: Hun Book One.

Debuted earlier this year at The Black Party at Probe in Los Angeles, Hun Book One is printed on heavy stock in striking black and white. Subject matter in the 35 drawings ranges from leather / levi Masters and slaves to muscle-bound barbarians , with a few touches of romance among the mostly hard-edged fantasies. A catalog / index gives details on titles, medium and models, as well as on who owns the originals and where certrain illustrations were first published. (A few of these you may have already jacked off to in Drummer, but most have never before been seen.)

Hun Book One is available at select outlets, including Male Hide Leathers in Chicago, A Different Light in New York and Los Angeles, and The Studstore in San Francisco. Hun fans in the hinterlands can order it directly from the Hun himself by sending $10 plus $1.50 postage to Box 19240-A, Los Angeles, CA 90019. A simple buck sent to the same address will get you the Hun's current brochures and place you on his mailing list (tell him you're over 21). Messages of submission and undying loyalty are also accepted.

MARDI GRAS NEVER STOPS

Mardi Gras in the midst of the World's Fair? Why not? Starting June 30 and continuing through July 6, Partners Saloon (New Orleans' popular western / leather bar and home of Lancers M.C.) will be hosting "Carnival in July." In keeping with Carnival tradition, there will be a different theme party each night.

A highlight will be the opening event, a Mr. and Mr. Partners Poster Look-Alike Contest, sponsored by the Lords of Leather. Rules: One partner must be in leather, the other in western wear. The winning duo will receive a trophy (everybody in New Orleans should own a trophy for something) and reign over the "Mardi Gras in July" party that caps off the week's festivities on July 6.

Partners Saloon is located at 718 N. Rampart Street. Phone (514)523-9265, or

drop by any time-they're open 24 hours a day.

As for the Lords of Leather, the "newest crewe in New Orleans" reports a rousing success with its first-time Leather Coronation of Lord King and Lord Consort at this year's Mardi Gras. According to Lord Chancellor Bob Brown, advance word in International Leather Scene brought in a large out-of-state contingent. Riding high, the Lords of Leather are already planning for next year's coronation of Lord King II and his Lord Consort II, to be held February 18, 1985, Mardi Gras Eve, at Partners Saloon. Info: Lords of Leather, PO Box 71205, New Orleans 70172.

NEW LONDON LEATHER

The newest from Great Britain: the opening of Expectations, an emporium and showroom that promises "the ultimate experience of leather and rubber.' All items are personally made on the premises with custom designing and repair available. Expectations also claims the lowest prices in London, with a guaranteed refund on the difference in price if a buyer finds a similar quality item elsewhere for less. That's what we call leather integrity.

The next time you're in London, drop in. Tell 'em Drummer raised your expectations . The address: 56 Hoxton Square, London N1 6PB, Telephone: 01-739 0292. Readers in Great Britain can send a stamped, self-addressed envelope for the latest Expectations price list.

SEATTLE SM MARATHON

One way to beat the rainy day blues in Seattle: Stage a nonstop 24-hour SM Marathon. This report comes from Steve Foiles, leatherman, biker, and writer for Seattle Gay News.

"Graphic demonstrations of sadomaso-chistic techniques gripped the attention of a sell-out crowd at The Club, 918 E. Pike Street, in April. Attendees in denim and leather watched demonstrations of bondage , body shaving, and electrotorture-all performed on volunteers, of course. The demonstrations were part of a 24- hour SM Marathon put on to increase understanding and improve safety among Seattle practitioners of SM.

The event was sponsored by Vancouver Activists in SM (VASM). The British Columbia club's announcement stated: "It is the contention of VASM and The Club that consensual, erotic SM practices and relationships can and should be healthy, safe and positive ways for gay males to express and explore our sexuality and emotions.

Free-lance experimentation of various techniques went on throughout the afternoon , night and morning. One guest invented and demonstrated the use of a new device which he dubbed "Port-a- trick," a refrigerator dolly rigged for

bondage. The inventor's first victim was wheeled around The Club, blindfolded, for about two hours as a sort of mobile conversation piece.

Other spontaneous demonstrations included the use of slings, a "meat hoist," and the technique of using Mylar wrap.

The most startling demonstration started at midnight-sort of saving the best for last. Two men in scanty leather were strung by legs and arms to eyebolts in the ceiling and wired to medical machines. Dean of Seattle explained that his "victims" were lightly restrained to protect them from self-inflicted injury. As he conducted the electrotorture lesson with expertise, total calm, and dry wit, it became apparent why the restraints were necessary.

The two men twitched, clenched their teeth, and sometimes jerked startlingly as extremely low wattages pulsed in waves through their bodies. Dean, an old pro at these demonstrations, said that these sessions do not produce any lasting harm in the "victims," although they may experience soreness, similar to that following a good workout, the next day.

Expertly swishing the electrical connectors and round washers in salt water (to improve conductivity and eliminate skin burns), Dean explained that he has been involved in shocking games since the age of 13. He emphasized that the two men were not in pain.

They agreed. Despite the way the two jerked and twitched involuntarily, they insisted that the experience was an enjoyable one. "It's like waves of warmth and pleasure rush through your body," one young Hercules told the crowd. Dean displayed an astonishing variety of sex toys, all wired for sound, though he didn't get to use even a fraction of them.

Every time is different," said one of his regular partners. "He has so many different toys." The man said that it was a wonderful experience to finally meet someone who was into this rare sport, and indulge in it at will. Dean is also very cautious about safety, explaining for example that he didn't attach wires above the waist, to avoid affecting internal organs.

The show began at 5 p.m. Saturday with a rope bondage demonstration by Bump. Utilizing the many eyebolts in the wooden frame set up as a stage in the TV room, Bump emphasized the aesthetic features of bondage, and imposed a symmetry of pattern as he wrapped cotton rope round and round about a slim young body. The two-hour bondage event showed several techniques of single-person bondage, and ended with a spectacular three-man wrap, the Tripod.

Bump uses a wide variety of chains, shackles, cuffs and hooks in his sport. He said that it took him about five years to collect the equipment on display. He was clearly serious about his skills, and demonstrated a virtuosity unsuspected by novices such as this reporter.

The second demonstration had Gary shaving the entire body of a seemingly reluctant victim. The constantly squirming blond man, spread out on a couch, subjected himself to a number of harmless nicks before he was gently but firmly restrained by volunteers from the audience. Gary employed Crisco (as a lubricant) and a gleaming straight razor while delivering an instructional monologue about the particulars of hair removal for fun and games.

The audience circulated freely about the stage to get close-up glimpses of the lengthy, exhausting process. Gary's extensively tattooed body was shining with sweat when he was done.

The 24-hour event, a first for Seattle, was conducted in an atmosphere of friendliness and frankness. The crowd stayed to watch movies and munch a Sunday buffet right up until the closing bell at 2 p.m.

It was a unique chance for Seattle gay men to learn about activities which are often only whispered, and only learned about by experience. The men present formed an open camaraderie with their fellow SM devotees; undoubtedly, the spirit of freedom and experimentation registered during the 24 hours will bloom again-tempered by greater knowledge, sensitivity and awareness of the hazards 80 DRUMMER and pleasures of SM games.

MR. EUROPE LEATHER

August, 1984, will see one of the biggest weekends in European leather history. The annual meeting of the MSC-Hamburg leatherclub is always special, but this year it will also mark the celebration of the tenth anniversary of the European Confederation of Motorcycle Clubs (ECMC), plus the first-time-ever selection of Mr. Europe Leather.

Festivities will begin with a welcoming party at Hamburg's Chaps bar (corner of Woltmannstrasse and Hogerdamm) on Friday, August 9. A rapid climax is scheduled for the following night, with the selection of Mr. Europe Leather at the Fabrik, Barnerstrasse 32 in Hamburg-Altona . A cool-down starts on August 11 with a motorcycle run, barbeque, and sightseeing tour (by boat), then builds to another climax with the really big event of the weekend—the Ten Year Jubilee Party for ECMC, starting at 9 p.m. in the famous Bauernhaus im Volkspark, featuring dancing, movies, live entertainment and special guest stars.

Europe's big leather weekend will then end where it began, with a free brunch and farewell party back at Chaps on Sunday.

Throughout the weekend, there will be numerous other special events and features , including an art exhibit organized by Revolt Press, special sauna arrangements , and discounts offered by New Man, an "action and movie center." And of course the most memorable events will be those arranged by individual leather-men for their own amusement…

For information on all these events, contact: MSC-Hamburg e.V., PO Box 7683, D-2000 Hamburg 19.

SMART SET

SMART, a quarterly "Newsletter of Gay SM" published in London, continues to be one of the more interesting leather / SM publications coming out of Europe. SMART's third issue, released in May, is an all-glossy 20-page production filled with art, advertising, and some very good writing.

The newsletter definitely has a sense of humor, openly displayed on its cover-in this case, a tongue-in-cheek mix of slapdash fashion art attributed to "Alice & Gertrude." But there's a very serious, hands-on attitude underlying the whole, from the practical (includiung instructional features on constructing a rack and-Boy Scouts take note-tying effective knots) to the contemplative (such as an expertly written and very negative critique of William Carney's novels The Real Thing and The Rose Exterminator).

SMART also covers art (in this issue, a feature on the rope and chain bondage art of Nigel Kent), features a bit of fiction and poetry, and takes a political stance. The opening news section deals with an ongoing problem in Great Britain, print censorship. The editorial response: "If I am a slave and my Master tells me not to read a certain book, then I will obey him…I do not consent to being told by the state what I can read or not read. Theay are not my Masters. I am not their slave. They must be resisted."

Most controversial is the cover article, "Fi & Reinhard: A Mixed Gender Gay SM Relationship." Yes, the true story of a gay man and a lesbian, both into SM, whose friendship progressed "from locked glances to locked handcuffs."

SMART is published by SMART Press, BM SM Gays, London WC1N 3XX, Eng-land . Subscriptions from the U.S. for four issues are $12 (surface mail) or $18 (air mail).

DUGH CUSTOM

MICHIGAN SPARTAN

Slaves can learn from this modern-day Spartan, Mike of Michigan, who knows how to bend stubborn peasants to his will! Submit to TC Box No. 1051.

SNAP ME!

This is Roger, a six-foot, 36-year-old Britisher who's "very pro-American." Vacationing in the Rockies this summer, wants to be photographed in cowboy hat, chaps and boots against rugged scenery. Cowboys with cameras contact R. Charles, Flat 9, 40 Berwick St., London W1V 4BL, England.

WANNA BE A T.C.?

Think your stuff is hot enough to appear in Drummer's Tough Customer pages? Like to show it off? Send your photo (black and white reproduces best, dim color shots won't do at all), along with a brief description or message to: Tough Customers, Drummer, 964 Folsom Street, San Francisco, CA 94107. Tell us you're of legal age, put your signature on the back of the photo and include your name and address (we won't print that information unless you ask us to). See ya around!

MADE IN JAPAN

This T.C. describes himself as a High Quality Slave, 27 years old, 135 lbs. of clean smooth muscle. He's looking for a master or patron to abuse him and his 7" uncut dick. Contact him via Drummer at T.C. Box No. 1074.

ENEMA SLAVE

"I am very excited that this picture of myself taking enemas will be seen by all your readers," says this Canadian bottom. He's 34, 138 lbs. and 5'6"-except when stretched over his master's lap to receive a warm, deep enema, in which case he's about crotch-high and takes on a pound or so. Likes spanking, tit work and Greek action from an experienced Top. Box 446, Station A, Longueuil, Province of Quebec, Canada J4H 3Z2.

HOT DAMN!

The T.C. attached to this towering tube-steak is 46, 185 lbs. and 6'2". Slaves desiring to tongue ass, balls and cock and drink piss may submit SASE to Box 7651, Richmond , VA 23231. Doesn't want to correspond , just wants to "meat."

DRUMMER 81

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BUTT-IN-AIR REPAIRS?

Somehow we had visions of hot British soldiers on their hands and knees with their buns in the air waiting for a corporal correction when one of our correspondents from England told us signs had gone up in Manchester announcing "Raised Manholes." And here's the proof that the signs, if not our desires, were on public view. Truth is, the roadworks was trying to keep pedestrians from falling down holes in the street while subterranean repairs were being made. Oh well, we still like our version better. Photo by Chris Rogers.

DIAL-A-SAILOR

What's the country coming to? The country is West Germany and the latest wrinkle in getting into the uniforms of not-always-available sailors was the special program set up by the government in co-operation with the armed forces wherein you could call a special telephone number and have a sailor (or marine or army or air force serviceman) available to spend the weekend with you. Of course, you had to go pick up your charge (and bring him back when the weekend was over)-and entertain him during his stay.

Sound too good to be true? The program was designed to provide closer contact-also known as social interaction—between West German fam-ilies and lonely servicemen, especially during holidays. The program was,

FREE RADICALS IN LEATHER?

Witness the next biological step in the advancement of homo sapiens: man (the one with the cleaveage and tresses) re-engineered by way of chemicals into superman. Captured in all his high-tech, low-salt glory, Durk Pearson at the Whole Life Expo in San Francisco expounding the theories he co-authored in Life Extensions , the most controversial of the new wave of self-motivated molecular recon- struction theories. According to Pearson. we can live longer (forever and ever and ever) and be mentally sharper, healthier, sexier, more desirable, more immune-and still have pleasing body odor-through a combination of preservatives, vitamins, and hardly-researched wonder drugs. The only drawback is-(wait for it!)—we'll all look like Pearson. Photo by Robert Pruzan.

<u>dir doch eine</u>

Appell der Bundesmarine brachte Einladungen über Einladungen

Kiel, 29. März Ungewöhnliche Zustimmung findet die Aktion der Bun-desmarine „Wähl dir einen Seemann“ bei der Bevölkerung in küstennahen Gebie-ten .

Jeder, der Lust hat, kann für einen Abend, für einen Tag oder für ein Wochen-ende einen Seemann einladen.

Norweger, einem Kanadier oder einem Holländer deutsches Familienleben oder ein Stück deutsche Heimat zeigen will, muß den Seemann von Bord abholen auch und wieder zurückbringen.

Bundesmari-Die ne: Bislang liegen für 126 Seeleute Einla- dungen vor. Ende der Aktion ist am 14. according to officials, a resounding success . And while there were no official figures on exactly how many servicemen wound up with families and how many wound up with deutsch ledermiesters, our reporters inform us that tongues are still wagging in Koln, Munchen and Hamburg.

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DOUBLE-BARREL TRUCKER

Dave Nesor's newest feature for Slave & Master Video is firmly set in the traditional narrative genre, but that's about the only thing that even smacks of the traditional in A Winter's Tail.

Nesor seems bent on never repeating himself as a director—and subsequently never peaking; each title goes further and further afield of mainstream porn (even mainstream sexual behavior). A Winter's

A Winter's Tail, directed by Dave Nesor, S&M Video, 1984; features entire cast; 60 minutes, color / sound; Beta / VHS; $85 plus $3 shipping / handling; signed statement required. S&M Video Productions, 1349 N. Wells, Chi-cago , IL 60610.

Tail is no exception. His cast includes three bipeds and one quad. But before you get your hopes up, the furry quad doesn't have an active role. He just watches intently.

A Winter's Tail begins in the cab of a long-distance truck heading for Chicago. Outside, it's snowing. On the radio, Ronald Reagan is making his acceptance speech (this story could be set in either the future or the past). An accident on the road, a jack-knifed rig, illustrates how dangerous it is in the real world.

The trucker is reminiscing about the hot times he has had in the windy city, oh, so many years ago; about all the hot studs who used to line up to slap his ass, to work him over in that "real leathermen only" sense. It takes a trucker to have an attitude about what makes a real top.

Dumping the load (in the truck) and no turn-around means at least an overnight jaunt into the haunts of yesteryear, looking for some trace of the kind of adventure that only nostalgia can make memorable.

He parks it, takes a hike, and scouts out a dive he used to frequent back in the good old days, looking for a man to match his machismo. As he lumbers down the hallways of a movie theatre-cum-sex club, he moans about how memory has been replaced with glory hole cubicles.

He spots a figure at the end of the hallway , wearing a jacket with a Skulls logo, a red hanky dripping out of his left rear jeans pocket. He says about this man: "A Skull never lies.'

The trucker does a little subservient shuffle and the Skull goes after him like a bull to a red tablecloth. On your knees, fucker, and lick those shit-covered boots! You want some of me, asshole? Get down and get to work!

Along comes a curious (you know how it goes in these places, let the sound of a little ass-slapping fill the air and you'll draw a crowd) twink with a slave's harness strapped to his torso. The Skull grabs him up and slams him against the wall-the message here is that a Skull can take on two sniveling assholes as effortlessly as he can one.

The trucker is played by the infamous and ubiquitous Donut (The Black Hole) and it's a good thing; otherwise this might have been just a run-of-the-mill fisting story. Donny, the leather twink (aka The Hungry Hole) and Donut make a good match for The Skull (played by Dr. Bob from The Terrible Trilogy ), who has the equipment-two arms, no waiting-necessary to keep both boys occupied at the same time. In fact, Dr. Bob is not above using both hands, one hand and an oversized dildo, or his feet to plow ass-but more about that later.

The Skull drags his two charges to a room somewhere in the bowels of this establishment wherein is waiting a double sling, a hitching post, a chain-link fence, and the quadruped bystander.

First the trucker gets slung, with a monster rubber cock shoved into his wet, anxious rectal orifice. The twink gets chained to the hitching post and a previously unintroduced, curly-haired leather-clad bottom's bottom sucks his dick.

Then The Skull attaches a second story to the sling and both assholes are primed for his multiweapon assaults: one fist each, both fists, rubber fists, large dildos, larger dildos, double-headed dildos, you name it. The more the slaves holler, the bigger their assholes gape, the deeper The Skull plunges. He works the twink's cock in his leather-gloved hand until it erupts. He smashes the trucker's balls in his leather-covered palms until they turn beet-red.

Finally, he throws both bruised bottoms on the concrete floor and attached them, butt to butt, by one long, wobbly, double-headed dildo. He plows them with his feet, first one, then the other, then both.

Quadruped takes notice. He's interested , but all available holes are filled. (Rumor has it that Donut decided to eat quadruped's food and they spent the final half-hour barking at each other, but those scenes-miraculously-do not appear).

Even a true blue trucker can get satisfied , if he works at it long enough and eventually (after about an hour) The Skull decides they've had enough (or he's had enough). That's it. No "can I take my hand (or my foot) out of your ass now," just pull em out and wipe 'em off and get lost. But then, he's taught this out-of-towner a thing or two.

A Winter's Tail is, overall, one of Dave Nesor's most cohesive works. The narrative style he employed for Crime Does Pay works as well here as it did then. The

character motivation in porn is fairly universal ; the knack is to keep the characters moving until the end of the tape. No one falls slack on the job in a Dave Nesor story.

Technically, A Winter's Tail is inconsistent . The opening montage in the truck cab are simply the best visuals ever to come out of Nesor's camera; in fact, the outdoor shooting—which has never been an element of Slave & Master Video productions-is superb. Light balance and clarity in the interior shots are only average. But hardcore fisting fans will find it easy to overlook almost everything. A Winter's Tail gives this audience their fill.

THE ROOTS OF THE RANCH

Seeing Ranch House Video 1 after having seen Ranch House Video 2 (see Drummer 72, pg. 86) is neither a disappointment nor like witnessing some ear-lier , obscure movie by Francis Ford Coppola. Rather, it's like seeing a parallel version of the same thing. Oh, there is a great deal of difference between Ranch 2 and Ranch 1, to be sure. And a striking number of similarities.

In fact, if you ran these two tapes together, besides having a nearly seamless 3 hours of intense sexuality in

Ranch House Video 1, D.T. Enterprises, 1983; features entire cast; 90 minutes; color / sound; Beta / VHS; $85 postpaid; signed statement required. D.T. Enterprises, 7131 Owensmouth No. B7, Canoga Park, CA 91303. extreme close up, you'd also have three hours that built and crested like a great crashing wave of an orgasm. Ranch 1 the foreplay, Ranch 2 the endless orgasm that ends the night.

The same group of twenty very diverse men appears in Ranch House 1, ranging from the slender hairless to the hairy and hung, although in a different order (if there is an order to relentless sexual exploration) and to different conclusions. The extra-endowed black stud who opened Ranch 2 shows up in Ranch 1 on his stomach, having his guts fucked out by an even bigger, rougher black man. The thickly-endowed, uncut blond (that's the best I can do with the characters who are totally unidentified) who was the closing urinal in Ranch 2 makes his debut in Ranch 1 as a depository for dildos in an extended segment that might make even Chris Burns green with envy.

That's the way it goes in Ranch 1, these pansexual men showing off specific sexual proclivities one time and certain other endearments the next.

Both tapes are extremely well done for independent work, clear, concise, constantly fresh; the emphasis on the sexual pyrotechnics rather than the personali-ties . A little less rough than Ranch House 2, Ranch House Video 1 is recommended for viewers who want to start off with something less severe than a high-pitched wail.

-John W. Rowberry

QUICKIES

How's this for a premise: Amid the sexual shindigs of California politics rises a sanctimonious female crusader for morality. Demanding an audience with the senator from her district—who is more interested in getting a blow job from his secretary than the prattle of local do-gooders—she outlines her plans to expel gay teachers and close down gay bathhouses and otherwise mind other people's business. Seems the crusader has been given a message from beyond the blue: Clean up the morality of the world or else. Going after gays is her way of getting her foot in the door; prostitutes, pornography , singles bars, swing parties—all are grist for her mill. But the senator, anxious to head her off at the pass, arranges for local gay libbers to eat her up, orgy-style. Getting Ms. Righteousness in a compromising position and documenting it may even call for-ugh!-seducing her yourself. But no sacrifice is too much for the cause. And such is the story of S&L Video's one-hour feature Beyond The Blue, due out this summer and aimed for the heterosexual market. Once again, art imitates life.

Good news and bad news for Matt Ramsey fans: the hot star of William Higgins' Cousins has another spectacular feature under his belt, Steve Scott's Screenplay (which also stars Lee Ryder). Screenplay is expected to be Steve Scott's second summer blockbuster, coming hard on the heels of his staggering Non-Stop. That's the good news. The bad news is that Screenplay will be Matt Ramsey's farewell to gay porn. Why? The response he got from his first non-gay porn film convinced him that he was destined to join the superstars of that genre. Ramsey is hardly the first crossover talent; he joins a long list that includes Jack Wrangler, Eric Ryan, and George Payne—but his fans are hardly going to feel they've had their fill of watching him pound willing male asses, only to find themselves sitting through encounters of a completely different kind looking for a glimpse of the all-American stud.

While Trophy Video will be debuting Steve Scott's Non-Stop at the Summer CES Video Market in Chicago (and while the theatrical version is having its premiere at the Bijou Theatre in Chicago), Al Parker's new film, One in a Billion, will be promoted by Rollo Productions. A major title for Rollo, the Al Parker video awaits a release date.

Let the buyer beware: White Horse Video is offering what looks like ten full-length gay video titles for $99-but read the brochure carefully. Although ten boxes are shown, word has it that what you get for $99 is a preview tape with excerpts from the bestsellers being promoted. No one, and I mean no one, is going to sell you a pre-recorded video cassette for $9, no matter how many you buy.

Old Reliable has a major number coming in their VT series, VT-19—90 minutes of street punks engaged in no-holds-barred wrestling, with and without trunks. Is the world ready for non-gay, balls-to-balls scrappling? Watch this space.

Still to be decided: Who will get Arthur J. Bressan Jr.'s newest explicit feature, Daddy Dearest, which also marks Richard Locke's return to the screen.

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POR CHONDISC

TWO SIDES OF THE MIRROR

Immediately before me I saw the shocking sight of coaches and market carts rattling past, pulled by slaves instead of horses. As many as eight and ten slaves were harnessesd to the large coaches, and here and there a small chariot rolled by pulled only by a couple of pairs, and there were even small market carts without drivers being pulled by lone slaves, the Masters on foot beside them.

But before I could overcome my shock…I saw the Master's leather coach before me, and five slaves, the four in pairs, all laced into boots and well-harnessed with bits jerking back their heads, and their naked buttocks decorated with horsetails…a smartly dressed youth pushed me forward to complete the third and last pair nearest to the vehicle.

'No, please," I thought as I had a thousand times at the castle, "no, I beg of you…" But no real belief in resistance galvanized me. I was in the power of these villagers, who placed the long thick bit firmly back in my mouth and the reins over my shoulders. The thick phallus ground into me as it was shifted up…

I have to explain something about tits and me. I think men's nipples were put there to make life easy. There really is very little that works as well in S&M as tit play-unless you want to go all the way to some pretty heavy stuff …

Pretty soon I had him moaning a bit. Not much, but enough honest little groans were escaping that I could tell he was really feeling it. I didn't slow down. In fact I increased the pressure some. "Please," he whispered even- tually. I ignored him. I kept on teething his tit till the little nub was so tender that even my tongue could bring on the guttural sounds. Finally he tried to pull away.

I leaned up quickly and looked at him … "What the fuck are you doing?"

He looked a tiny bit guilty and answered in a low tone, "You were starting to hurt."

"You knew what you were getting into. Want to leave?"

'No." He spoke that out loud.

I put a hand gently on his face. "Then put the other one in my mouth."

The two passages above are superficially similar. Each is from a major new work by an important writer of SM fiction. Each contains a tableau of Master and slave, in which the submissive male pleads for release but capitulates to his Master's will and to his own desire. Each is a turn on. But there is a marked and significant difference in these two scenes, and in the two books from which they are taken.

The first is from Beauty's Punishment by A.N. Roquelaure (E.P. Dutton, 233 pp., $7.95), a quasi-medieval fantasy of Masters and slaves and a sequel to last year's The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty. The second is from John Preston's new collection of short fiction, I Once Had a Master (Alyson Publications, PO Box 2783, Boston , MA 02208; 121 pp., $7.95).

Roquelaure and Preston represent two very different approaches to this type of fiction; except for the fact that both deal with sexuality and SM, one could almost say that they are working in completely different genres. Roquelaure is a fantasist, working in shades of purple (the prose) and black (the vision); in the world of Beauty and Tristan, sexual playthings of their Masters and Mistresses, slavery is real and unrelenting. Given this setting, Roquelaure's imagination is unrestrained , and Beauty's Punishment is a feverish fable of self-indulgence and self-abasement.

Roquelaure's sequel is more successful than its predecessor. Here, the fantasy is more fully realized and immediate, and the masochistic longing for humiliation takes us closer to the heart of darkness.

But it is also an uneven book; the sequences about Beauty, told in the third person, are less potent than those about Prince Tristan, which are narrated in his own voice. It may be that the author empathizes more deeply with Tristan, or that Roquelaure is simply more effective when writing in the first person, but I also suspect a purely commercial reason for the novel's split voice. Since Beauty's Punishment is marketed to appeal to all sexual persuasions, the passages following Beauty are in a voyeuristic third person to appeal to straight men, who might be left cold by Tristan's confession of being used and penetrated (with which women and gay men can identify).

It is a book best read in small doses, or else the unremitting debasement of the characters—and the breathless prose describing it—becomes cloying. Played out in reality, Roquelaure's story would be spiritually numbing and ultimately horrific ; but this is fantasy, and the writhing of Roquelaure's endlessly penetrated and humiliated slaves provides an entertainment , not a moral lesson. The psycholo-gies at work here are imaginary-but no less valid or vivid for being idealized.

The people and situations in Preston's I Once Had a Master, on the other hand, are decidedly true to life. These are short stories, but they could as easily be passages from an intelligent and articulate leatherman's diary. (Much of his material is in fact autobiograpical, as Preston explains in a revealing epilogue, "On Writing Pornography.") Preston should need little introduction to readers of this magazine; four of the pieces in this collection , including the title story, first appeared in Drummer. Those who have followed his work since the serialization of Mr. Benson will agree with the author's self-assessment, that his concerns as a writer have moved from fantasies of wish-fulfillment toward an increasingly documentary style.

The psychologies here are not imaginary , but recognizably (and sometimes painfully) real. Where Roquelaure's chief themes are lust and its frenzy, Preston replaces lust with longing, and frenzy with a rather wistful nostalgia. Nothing is permanent in I Once Had a Master. Men meet and move on, and even the happiest resolutions are tenuous. Memory is the touchstone: Lessons are learned, partners are not forgotten. Roquelaure's world seems static by comparison, despite all its wild and torrid movement-a place where desire is crystalized, and memory has little value in an unquenchable onslaught of flesh.

Beauty's Punishment is the dream, I Once Had a Master is the reality. There may be some readers who will like (or dislike) these books in equal measure, but I suspect that most will have a clear preference ; and that will say as much about the reader as it does about the writers.

—Aaron Travis

DESTINONO HOVE

DEUCES WILD

Forty Deuce stands for 42nd Street. Add "Bee-way" for the corner thoroughfare and you're standing at the crossroads of Big Apple mythology. Tack on up and down dimensions and the boundaries extend from graffiti-garnished subway to pigeon-shit rooftop. Human gobs of unidentified vegetables float around in the legendary melting-pot middle.

All talk and no action—a day in the life of lowlife-doesn't usually make for gripping drama, but this'll hold you, if you don't need subtitles. The language of Forty Deuce is cant, not camp, and Berlitz couldn't touch it if it would; what playwright Alan Bowne didn't invent for the original 1981 stage production was already re-encoded by the real street people, well before Paul Morrissey (War-hol's erstwhile alter-libido) brought it to the screen.

From the meatrack comes the plaintive, assertive cry of the new street vendor: "Coke! Speed! Cock!"…the sounds of young immigrants just-off-the-bus via the Port Authority Terminal. The verb is "to sell"-hands fondle baskets instead of pushing carts, but the bargaining style hasn't changed. The noun is "scat" in both standard and off-color definitions of the word, a limited vocabulary of Anglo-Saxon expletives and multi-ethnic jargon ("We all niggahs, niggah!") with a flat-toned writing rhythm all its own. "Fuck" replaces the adjective ("I know Ropah, I do Ropah; he's fuckin' Upper East"). Nothing is named straight out ("Your dirt cracked the kid, Blow") and nothing is done straight up ("It's a big banana, Mary, and they'll ram it right up your uterus"). When plain old English idiom and pop-psych comes along ("You modulate my desires; It's tit for tat, kids: our tyranny opposed to yours") it sounds weird and suddenly questionable: "It was the feeling of being without power that made me hurt you." The fancy rationalizations slough off and the more plausible truth that comes through is that the speaker is "slummin', like some oleomargarine queen" or the married men who pay to get their bottoms busted by boys so they can go home and play macho to their suburban wives.

The result is a down-and dirty talking blues on film ("a small change dealer and a workin' queen"; "faggots pay top dollar and they pay right now") halfway between Woody Guthrie and a 17th century London broadsheet, spat off the tongue like a rusty switchblade ricocheting off bones. The visuals shuffle out a counterpoint to the rhythm of the words, as secretive as the language is forthright.

The story is free enterprise and futility in action. There's business going down, amateurs playing with a major drug deal, complicated by sideline hustling and the presence of a suggestively posed 12-year-old whose role calls for lying very, very still (read: very, very dead). The ensemble acting is subdued and tight—as it should be with the cast that paid its dues in front of the footlights: Ricky (Kevin Bacon), Crank (Tommy Citera), Blow (Mark Key-loun ), Roper (Orson Bean). They're going to burn each other, fuck each other over, shift loyalties, hang together and separately , and make out like the Lost Boys after Peter Pan dumped Wendy and took off with Tinkerbell.

All values are juggled on the same scale-pricks, snorts, put-downs, power trips and the thin, cold fantasies of what imagined cash can buy-and they never even get to realizing that they're nothing going nowhere. But they do it so well.

Morrissey's movie is still a filmed play, with split-screen and mirror effects in the second half (so you can see for-sure how they never come and never contact) and a slightly altered, expanded plot to add locations-a scene at the back wall of a poolhall framing a Torchsong Trilogy poster-and flesh out minor characters like "the dyke at the donut stand" who stands in for the creatures who people NoWoman's Land.

We've heard about them, known a few, hung out with the never-ending stream of kid hustler / junkies and fringe Mafia types, but this is where art separates drama from documentary. Forty Deuce permits no "-ologist's" bird's-eye view or clinical dissection. They're a circus act seen close up, practicing death-defying leaps into an unnetted void, oblivious to oohs, boos, applause, attack or indifference-a generation of outlaw acrobats who won't live long enough to reproduce their drug-mortified genes even if they could care less. The next crop of babystuds are already on their way. They left their virginity and their potential citizenship behind in Brooklyn and Boise, stepped from bus to highwire act and will stay aloft, for your viewing pleasure, until the bough breaks.

Forty Deuce is a true romance for the '80s, already part of the myth of the American Untouchables and other cabalistic, colorful gay-spawned folklore. It has its place-go visit it before they shut it away in the asylum archives.

—Penni Kimmel

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