DRUMMER GOES TO THE TARING OF A SLAVE ALCTION

PHOTOGRAPHY BY 1 MOSS

EIGHT MODELS GET CLIPPED SHAVED, STRETCHED, CHAINED, DISCIPLINED AND PUT IN THEIR PLACE AS WINGS' NEW VIDEO PROJECT 'FOR SALE' TAKES OFF!

Included in the long-suffering cast are three Mr. Drummers, including Sonny Cline, Mr. Drummer '84 and first runner-up Mr. Southeast Drummer. Mr. Rocky Mountain Drummer is there also with the chrome shackles shining against his glistening ebony skin. Magnificent!

We are pleased to report a happy ending. Everyone had a great time, including director Robert Payne, who concocted the whole thing. When the producer finally popped for some six- packs, everybody got sloshed and the action picked up. The video cameramen told off the still cameraman for flashbulbing while they were taping, but later everyone kissed and made up.

12 DRUMMER

The "slaves" hung around to see whether or not the next session was better or worse than the one they had been subjected to, and on a couple of afternoons the "sold slaves" joined the party on the block for more.

For Sale, which is the working title of the film, has all the earmarks of being an exciting production. The Man is for real and it shows. He did most of the work, hauling slaves up and down on the rack and the block. He shaved them, gave one a complete haircut and did it expertly. If you think the clipping in A Few Good Men was exciting, wait until you see The Man's clippers tear into the surfer. We will wait until the producers announce the cast to give credit where credit is due.

For the crew from DRUMMER, it was a blast. But don't take our word for it, see for yourself.

I knew it wouldn't be your run-of-the-mill type of gym. You know, the high tech look, all chrome and mirrors and smoke and grey walls. It looked like a gym alright, the no-nonsense kind where the instructor follows you around and keeps on your ass until you do it right and proper. And while the equipment was definitely not Nautilus, everything was clean and orderly. However, the big difference seemed to be the instructor. Big and beefy, yes. Clone-looking, no. Over his giant pecs he wore a t-shirt that said simply "I AM IN CHARGE HERE" under the insignia for The Gym. And in charge he was. I found that out soon enough.

He patiently waited while I told him what I wanted and who had recommended me to The Gym and vice-versa. He smiled as one would at an idiot and 18 DRUMMER motioned me into a private room. "Strip," he said simply and there was not one shred of a question in the way he said it.

I stripped down to my jockey shorts and socks and stood waiting to be measured . They always do that in gyms. They then put your measurements on a little chart and very seldom look at it again. I yawned.

'All the way," the Man In Charge said and, embarrassed, I pulled off the shorts and socks. He brought over the tape measure and measured everything I had. His sheer authority made one of the things I had considerably larger than it had been when I walked in. He measured it from the top of the base to the tip and wrote it all down. I felt like a fool. "You need to gain a couple of inches across your shoulders, three on your chest, two on your biceps as well as your thighs." That was hardly news, although I never had the expectations so precise before.

"You will lose an inch and a half off your waist. We will guarantee these figures as long as you follow your chart and do exactly as you are told. Are you capable of doing as you are told?"

What they had told me was true and I wasn't going to blow it. "Yes, Sir," I stated, expecting to hear my bare heels click.

"You need some sun and your body would look a lot better without that little patch of hair on the small of your back above your ass. Hair on your legs makes them look bigger, it does the same for your middle.

"How about this coming down my belly…Sir?'

'Shave it or leave it there. Your belly is going to be a lot flatter in a very short while." He paused to make it sound off the record, maybe. "Shaving your crotch makes your cock and balls look bigger.'

I knew. Someone had done it to me once but no one had shaved me since. I made a mental note to do some shaving that night and wished that this hunk was the one doing it to me.

"You will wear a jockstrap and white socks like everyone else. You will be given an ID chain to put around your neck, so we know what to call you." Call me anything you like, for godsake. "There is no smoking and no messing around in the showers. We own your ass while you are here working out. I want to be proud of what we make you into and you had better work hard. In fact, I will personally see that you do." Period.

He put the chart in front of me. It had the outline drawing of a male body with the instructor's notations on my gains and losses, a date of three months away and today's date. I signed it and wrote out my check. I could have signed it with my dick, which was hard enough and oozing enough with precome. I was handed a key to a locker, a fresh pair of white athletic socks, a new jockstrap and a G.I. tag and chain that said "Property of THE GYM" with the number 79 on the back. I put everything on, put my gym clothes and street clothes in my locker and reported back. I felt the need not to waste any time whatsoever.

"Give me a couple dozen pushups,

I dropped to the floor and began doing the traditional pushups, hoping I was keeping my body sufficiently rigid and raising it high enough to satisfy the stern eye of the Man In Charge. I wasn't and before I was through warming up, I had done about fifty good and bad pushups. He wrote it down. I stopped worrying about my bare ass bobbing up and down in front of everyone else since everyone else's bare asses were hanging out just like mine.

I went through the dead weights, the leg machine, the sit-ups, barbells, more

pushups and, in fact, the entire list, Each time the numbers and / or weights would

There was none of the usual chattering and small talk that permeates gyms. Occasionally one of the class would get permission and walk over to the juice bar or the water fountain, but it was certainly not for conversation, other than a short, very low one. I watched some of the guys come out of the locker room. Many wore leather items. Perhaps these were the ones with motorcycles parked outside.

Some of the guys had small chains, other than the Gym's, around their necks. One hunky, if short, blond had a much larger chain fastened with a padlock . I fantasized that he had been enrolled by the man who put the lock there. One had something similar around his right ankle, I noticed in the shower. I also noticed a preponderance of shaved crotches and asses as I looked around in the showers. Was it at the direction of The Gym or the individual choice of the men involved? I didn't know anyone well enough to ask. I soaped up my rising cock and rinsed my tired body off.

The final batch of pushups was considerably better than the first, in spite of my weariness. To emphasize something that he was saying, The Man In Charge whapped me across my bare ass with a yardstick. I was tempted to say, "Thank you, Sir," but I kept my mouth shut and kept pushing up.

I handed in my tag and chain and walked down the stairs. I did say "Good night, Sir," to him as I left. He acknowledged it by telling me to be on time on Wednesday. "Yessir," I promised. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

In a week or so I got over my stage fright and started talking to my fellow sufferers. One of the guys with a permanent chain around his neck said he was a houseboy and that was all he wore while he worked. He didn't mind having to wear only a jockstrap and socks at all. In fact, he felt overdressed. His master wanted to make a showpiece of him and required a report card from The Gym each month. He had no hair on his body and he sported what could be called a G.I. haircut. Looked good since he had a great neck and a good set of shoulders. I hesitatingly asked him if he resented having someone telling him what to do all the time.

He smiled. "No, man. I would never have ended up looking like this. I was so strung out from drugs and bad food that I wonder why my master ever picked me. I didn't have no job and no training for one. Boy, do I have training now. I'm even going back to school. Naw, whatever he makes of this bod is his, believe me. Jeez, I gotta get home or I'll get my ass tanned. See you day after tommorrow."

He went off like an errant schoolboy, all hundred and eighty-some pounds of him. I should have such luck.

The sessions became harder on one hand and easier on another, I could lift more weight and immediately had them increased. The Man decided one evening that I needed bigger calves since my thighs were increasing so well. He changed my chart and loaded the machine to put weights on my shoulders. You have to stand on tiptoe for a couple or three sessions of a dozen lifts apiece. My legs felt like rubber but I came through for the last four lifts as I felt that goddamn yardstick across my calves.

As I was showering he came in and looked at me. He noticed my crotch was shaved all the way down to the small of my back. He nodded his head a couple of times and told me to stand under the hot water a little longer and to keep my leg muscles from tightening up. God, would I love to have been ordered to get down and wash HIS legs, among other things. I put my head under the shower to wash away such thoughts. I should have put my dick as well since it seemed to have a mind of its own at that moment.

It was working, man was it working! By the end of two months I had made most of the scheduled improvements. I have gone to gyms before, but my experience has been that they mostly ignore you after you sign up. They are mostly a social scene and a lot of the guys simply hang out in the sauna or the sundeck. With the kind of work I was doing at this place, they should have paid me. But I looked at myself in the mirror by the juice bar. I really looked good! My posture had improved, my chest expanded, my waist contracted and there was a difference that was just as apparent—my attitude. I was more sure of myself and didn't have to talk a leg off of everybody to prove it. I knew what I wanted at this point and I made a decision to find it. I wanted to be good enough to belong to somebody. And I was beginning to be worth having.

It was about this time that I lost the nowhere job I had in the insurance offices . I hadn't realized how much I really hated going to work every day. It was just that in the back of my mind was the necessity to pay the fucking rent and all the bills that added up to what staying alive cost. But there seemed to be one vital necessity I would have to do without . Namely, The Gym. My first three months would be up and while the bod was all the better for it, it was something I wouldn't have the money for.

As the time period finished, my gains and losses were much better than the Man In Charge had predicted. Or, maybe he knew all the time and was just being conservative. At any rate he actually patted me on the ass with something other than that damned vardstick one evening and I decided that this was the time to break the news. So I did.

He looked at me with absolutely no expression. "You're making good progress , Seventy-Nine," he said. "I know what I want from you for the next three months. You'll keep working. Don't worry about the money."

I started to protest. I was pleased, but I sure as hell am no charity case. Before I could open my idiot mouth however, he said, "You'll work here for us." There was no further discussion. He had said it. He had committed himself and saw no reason why anyone should need to kick it around in discussion. I certainly didn't either. I knew he would fill me in on the details when he thought I should know them.

He did. I was instructed to come in at eight in the morning to get the place ready, start the coffee (I wasn't allowed to drink any-only fruit juices-as "Coffee isn't good for you, kid") and start a day of backbreaking and thoroughly delightful drudgery. I continued to wear only a jockstrap and socks. The socks, I discovered, were to prevent foot infections . After we opened I put on a cutoff t-shirt that had "Property of THE GYM" on it and I guess that was the proper label. Now that I was no longer a client, I got my ass whipped for mistakes and my vocabulary was limited to "Yes, Sir" and "Thank You, Sir."

Not that anybody bothered me sexually . I was paid fairly and punctually and, if you count the fact that I gave up my apartment to live in the back of the gym's basement, I guess I was coming out better than before. When I had nothing to do, which wasn't but an hour or two a day, I continued my workouts. However, since I was there every day, I worked on upper body one day and lower the next. I was beginning to become not only a showpiece but maybe even spectacular. I enjoyed the looks and the occasional comments, along with the attempts at a pickup. But I was a bottom, let's face it, and not too tempted by another bottom, no matter how beautiful. I had The Man to serve, even if only by scrubbing the floors and carrying towels and supplies.

I guess I was making progress, since after the place closed and everyone was out, The Man would tell me to put my jock and socks in the dirty clothes bin and finish up naked as a jay. I still shaved my lower half regularly and had only a cockring between me and nothing. One night he attached my name (number) tag to the ring and told me to wear it that way. He still called me "79" either to reassure me that I was a Gym member or to tell me he couldn't bother with my name, if he really even remembered it. One night in the shower (which I was scrubbing at the time) he came in and stripped down, which was a rare treat anytime. He ignored me and turned on a faucet at the other end. I continued scrubbing the tile, all the while watching him out of the corner of my eye.

(continued next month)

FORESKIN UPDATE

Dear Mr. Berkeley,

I dig older men with foreskin, just like the fellow in your recent Foreskin Update. It's because of my dad. He is a real hunk of manhood and he likes to show it off. When I was a kid he'd go naked around the house with all his tools swinging. I was dazed when I saw him naked.

One day when I was about 12 I had to sit on the pot when he was soaking in the bathtub. He said it was okay for me to come in. I sat there staring as he rolled the soap around the exposed head a few times and then gradually worked it down the skinned-back shaft. Then he held his penis up in the air and just watched as the foreskin crept forward and began covering his head again. It stopped before it got to the top of his dick, so he dug his finger inside the skin and yanked out the foreskin tip. The tip finally came to a rest and formed a voluptuous point an inch in front of his cockhead.

I couldn't stand it any longer and blurted out, "Why haven't I got that?"

"Why haven't I got a point on my wienie ?" I demanded.

"Oh," he sat silently for a moment and then said, "It's because they streamlined you. They streamline all the boys these days. Weren't doing it so much when I was born. Your old man has an old-fashion wienie, kid." He laughed.

Well, that explanation satisfied me for a few years. Then I read Drummer and realized that there were a few other old-fashion wienies available.

Dear Streamlined,

Nice episode, kid. Thanks for sharing it. Yes, there are old-fashion wienies available and they are not all on older men. My mail keeps amazing me at how many guys who were born in more recent decades missed out when the streamliner (circumciser) came around. Of course, it is probably the older men who've got whatever else you are looking for. By the way, where is your old-fashion old man these days? Some of our readers might want you to share him too.

Dear Sir,

I am into cock-modification. I wear a Prince Albert ring through my circumcised cock and have a butterfly on the shaft which spreads its wings when I get hard. I have modified numerous cocks in my day. I have given several cocks custom-designed circumcisions. One design I currently recommend is the California Convertible. No foreskin is removed, but the entire sheath of cock-skin is loosened so that it sits at the base of the cock and the look of the thing is circumcised. At the same time, the foreskin can be brought forward and worn over the glans by securing it forward with a lock or string. It gives the best of both worlds.

I have come to the conclusion that it is a shame to cut off any part of the sensitive foreskin tissue and I only do it now when my subject has his heart set on a conventional circumcision. Recently I ran across the enclosed article from a Japanese medical journal, circa 1940's, describing an intriguing method of circumcision (see illustration) which retains all the foreskin. The instructions are in Japanese. Do any of your readers translate the language? I have a line-up of uncircumcised dicks interested in this modification.

Dear Prince Albert,

Talk about getting pinned back! Al, I assume your subjects voluntarily place their penises in your capable hands and that you are a medical professional. Cocks are certainly fun to play around with (and most cocks love it, too!), but some of your modifications sound rather permanent. Oh well, if the results please your subjects and their lovers…why not? I am well aware that many uncut men have circumcision fantasies and, for them, I agree that finding a method which preserves most of the foreskin tissue would be the most satisfactory (erotically speaking). Any form of cock-modification might sound grotesque to the unitiated, until one realizes that 80% of American men carry modified (circumcised ) meat between their legs.

I have been aware of your Japanese method of circumcision. There is a gory (and grotesque) lore associated with it, which I learned from the "foreskin / circumcision grapevine." It seems that in the early '30s a German medical report announced the development of this circumcision procedure, extolling it as the breakthrough in the ancient art. I once saw a copy of an American medical journal report of that era reviewing the German find. However, Nazis sadism quickly soured the world on German medical findings and the new procedure was forsaken . The German doctor credited for the discovery supposedly continued researching circumcision fetish (surprise ! surprise!) and his favorite cocks on which to experiment were those provided by Greek boys who had been selected off the streets of occupied Athens and shipped to the good doctor's laboratories. The son of a bitch supposedly bragged that his line-up of penises were usually rigidly erect as he went to work on them. Well, of course, Doc, despite what you were doing to them, those penises were responding to your attention…especially as their owners were experiencing a masochistic fantasy come true. Right, Prince?

The California Convertible, eh?

Dear Bud,

I have just read one of your Updates and got a real kick to learn of another

Two Uncut Household. The writer said they had trained their skins to stay pulled back. How did they do it? Any information will be gratefully received.

One foreskin in our household is thin, relatively tight, yet mobile, and just covers a large, bulbous glans neatly euqipped with a long, tight frenulum. The skin ends in a slight pucker around the meatus; because of this nifty feature, its owner, my lover, acquired the name "Rosebud" one night at an orgy.

The other foreskin is quite different— thicker, and for the past few years much longer because the frenulum gradually tore itself loose from the glans so that the effect is, as you say, quite streamlined. These are what we have to work with: what are the procedures for the "retraction training program?"

Dear Rosebud's Lover,

So you want to pin back the household's foreskins? Despite the current fad for long-hanging, drooping foreskins (yum), it is true that foreskin retraction is a basic erotic urge. Skinning it back and stretching out those preputial nerve endings is just about the most erotic sensation an uncut man can get. Somehow, keeping it back seems to prolong the sensation in the minds of some men. Besides, once in a while it's great to feel your cockhead run against your levis. Right? The trouble is that some uncut men can't keep the skin pinned back and others can't keep it forward. So, what will we do with the foreskins in this household?

Foreskin 1: Your problem is your over sized head (yum) plus your tight frenulum . A frenoplasty (surgical removal of the frenulum) would solve your problem quickly, but I have a feeling the household isn't about to sacrifice that tiny piece of magic. So, we have to put you through a regimen of foreskin stretching . One urologist claims that regular stretching will strengthen and thicken thin foreskins, and it will certainly loosen the fit over your bulbous glans. Sit back and let your lover do the work. He will dig his fingers inside your foreskin and pull (see picture). At first you might feel some stress, but as you stretch out your tolerance will widen. It might take several weeks but soon you will find retraction easier and, with your man-size head, you will have no trouble at all locking your skin behind your flaring corona.

Foreskin II: Your problem is the opposite from the one above. You have too much skin (yum, yum) for the size of your glans. Many uncuts have relatively small cockheads (when the penis is flaccid), and in no way can their dainty coronas trap the foreskin. So, what we have to do with you is to make a man out of you…or, rather, your head. We have to widen its flare. Let your lover do the work. Sit back and hold your foreskin tightly down at the base of your cock (or rubber-band it back; making sure you don't cut off too much circulation). Now, your lover will start massaging your exposed cockhead with oil, without touching any other part of your cock. He can apply slightly abrasive brushes or cloths to your head, put hot and cold compresses on it, etc. A blast of air from the hair dryer will help too. Your glans will start flaring like never before, trying desperately to find its missing skin cover. After your lover is through for the session , keep your foreskin back as long as possible. It won't be too many sessions before your corona will get used to flaring , and soon it will act as a good trap by which you can pin back your foreskin. One nice thing about uncut cocks is that if you change your mind and decide you like wearing the skin forward after all, all you have to do is stop the sessions and your foreskin will return to its original beauty.

With foreskins being so scarce in this country, it seems unfair that your household has two. I hope you guys are sharing them with the neighbors.

Dear Bud.

I have a new foreskin. I got it by means of surgical reconstruction. I know that such surgery is controversial but for me it was more than successful. I was totally circumcised at birth. Now, tricks ask me how I missed being circumcised. I produce smegma now and some of my "cheese hound" admirers make dates to clean me up. Not in my wildest fantasies, while growing up with a clean and dried-out cockhead, did I think I'd ever be providing cheese. But the best thing about having foreskin is masturbation.

There is no comparison in jacking-off with a foreskin and doing it without one; rolling the skin over the head is an experience every man should enjoy. In this day of "safe sex," I think the pleasures of masturbation are very important.

Dear New Foreskin,

Hey, congratulations. It takes guts and determination to go through what you did. I'm glad the results are so pleasing to you and the "cheese hounds." Inquiries about foreskin restoration make up half the letters I receive. All I can do for these writers is to give them a list of doctors experienced in the procedure and names of some of their statisfied patients. I also give them the name of the club of circumcised men who are stretching out new foreskins nonsurgically. Some of these men report that even a small amount of additional skin over the glans makes masturbation more enjoyable.

YES, jacking-off is at the top of the "safe sex" list. What can be more exciting than watching cocks in action, watching that foreskin roll over the entire length of the tool? I think it's exciting to watch circumcised cocks being pumped too; after all, the entire works is always on display. Yes, whether solo or mutual, the visual stimulus is an important part of meat-beating. The vision of a man enjoying his penis has got to be great sex …and safe.

Dear Bud Berkeley,

Sir, I have never had sex with an uncircumcised man or boy. I am 22 and was circumcised at 15. I fantasize about having an authoritative figure who is uncircumcised . I have fantasized about the sensation of accepting an uncircumcixed man into my body. I've thought about pulling his foreskin over my bared glans. I've fantasized about uncircumcised tools being thrust down my throat, feeling the sensation of having loose skin bunch up against my lips and visualize the foreskin being pulled back and forth by my teeth; visualize its dark purple glans as it is thrust deep inside my ass. I would like to bury my naked cock into a foreskin and rub my head up against one that has always been inside skin. I would like to be instructed in pleasing foreskin. That is why I would love to be submissive to an uncircumcised man. I would like him to peel his skin back and command me to smell his aroma of maleness. Mr. Berkeley, Sir, this letter has got me so fucking hot I have to jack off.

Dear Jack-Off,

Yeaaah! Thanks for expresing yourself you sexy little dude! Some lucky uncut fellow is in for a treat…when you get your mouth on a foreskin for the first time in your life. You won't be disappointed ; your foreskin fatasizes are all in the realm of reality and I'm not sure you will need "authoritative" instructions, either. Having had foreskin for the first 15 years of your life, you will know exactly what to do with it. The lucky bastard!

Dear Bud Berkeley,

After several months of trying to translate the Egyptian transcriptions that are illustrated in your book Foreskin (see illustration), I have met with partial success and think the results will be of interest to you and your readers. I believe that the scene is taken from a depiction of circumcision found at the Mostabe of Ankhmahor of Saggara—probably from the early VI Dynasty.

Reading the left side gives me: "I will do your pleasure." "Hold him fast." "Do not let him (?)"—this verb is frustrating.

Reading from the right side gives me this: "It was indeed an abomination to Armen." "It will be pleasing to the eye."

Dear Translator.

YES, YES, thanks for sharing your scholarship . One significance I see from these translations is that they were circumcising these boys for sexual reasons and not for hygiene. The Victorian concept that the ancients circumcised for hygienic reasons is pure bullshit. I have been in Egypt many times and have personal friends among the Arabs there, and I can tell you that the modern Egyptians would laugh at such a prudish intrusion into their puberty-age circumcision rites. The boys are trained from early age to look forward to the day they become "men" and the anticipation gives them erections ("I will do your pleasure"). And the older men look forward to the circumcision rites and the thought of it gives them erections ("It will be pleasing to the eye"). Having witnessed such eroticism, I became even more vehemently opposed to the clinical, neo-natal routine circumcision as practiced in our country. Cir- cumcision should only be performed on those men who perceive it as an enhancement to their manhood. If an uncircumcised boy or man does not perceive such enhancement, he should never consider circumcision (unless, of course, it is indicated by a health problem ). Infants don't have the choice. Off my soapbox, Ankhmahor!

Dear Sir,

The 10-inch Marine dick I carry between my legs is uncut as hell. It's got so much fuckin' skin on it, it droops a good two inches off the end of my piss-hole . It doesn't even come to a tip, it just flops wide open. In fact, all you have to do is lift up the dick and look up inside the skin and my piss-hole is in plain view. I hang out at this beer joint near the base and the fuckers all line up in the raunchy latrine and they take turns poking their cut dicks into my wad.

Now I'll tell you my secret. I widen the skin with bottle caps or caps off tooth-paste tubes, etc. I scat-back and push the cap against my pisshole. Then I bring the roll back up and trap the cap inside. I pick caps which are wider around than even my dick is when it is stiff. This keeps my skin so wide that it can take any size Marine shaft that comes along.

Dear Piss-hole.

Did you say 10 inches of…Marine dick? Gulp! Oh, thanks for the widening technique. You've got one healthy roll on that Marine dick, mister! I am sure it can take anything that comes along. However, some of our readers should be a little careful about toxic material in some toothpaste caps. Otherwise, I think your stretching method is great. Did you say those were Marine shafts being poked up your skin? Gulp! The thought of two Marine dicks coming together in there…that'll do it!

DRUMMER 23

Walking The Dog

Out in the electric night, Onlookers stare with envy At the dog on the end of my rope. How they'd like to be him. Hot leather bodies divide. Knowing smiles follow him. Bowed head, he doesn't see them. Potential users approach, One asks. In a dark doorway, The dog is used For the fifth time tonight. His stretched, fiery asshole Will be ready For me.

-Auggie Camelli

NN COMPTOI

The sun had finally set and was hidden behind low hills in the west. The desert floor was growing dark. The metal of the overturned army truck and the sand under the soldier were still warm against the sunburned flesh of the soldier's naked back and legs, but the first breath of night chilled him in the dark shade of the truck and the young man shivered in spite of the warmth.

Gunther knew the valley well. He had read the history of wars men had fought there; desert tribes in prehistory, and after them the Egyptians, then the Moslems. Before this war, the last had been between the British and the dervish fanatics. During the long day, he had thought often of earlier men who had been defeated and faced death on this ancient battlefied.

What remained of Gunther's torn shirt lay nearby where he had tossed it after ripping it into strips for a tourniquet to stop Georg's bleeding. His hand cramped from holding the stick that kept the cloth wound tight on the boy's arm.

Dear Georg. Gunther remembered the sweetness of boy's kiss in the dark when they wandered away from the others; the scratch of boy-stubble on the young man's cheeks when Georg pressed his face between Gunther's thighs. Dear Georg…

Gunther stroked the boy's hair with his free hand. The boy was very still. He had not moved for a Glynn Compton Harper is the author of Clap Your Hands, a novel of gay men in World War II, forth coming from Ashley Books this fall. long time. Good, the boy is resting …

The corpse of another soldier lay beyond Gunther's reach, in deepening shadow beyond the ruined truck. The dead man wore long trousers. They would provide more warmth than Gunther's desert shorts. Gunther wondered if he could move Georg far enough to reach the dead man and take his clothes.

The young man leaned back against the warm metal undercarriage of the truck and shut his eyes. The odor of old grease and gasoline mingled with the smell of burning rubber and the stench left behind by explosives. Gunther stirred in the foulness of his clothing and smelled the sour odor of sweat and shit. He had lost control of his bowels earlier, when the shell hit the truck.

He dozed, but awoke with a jerk, thinking he heard voices. He listened, but at first heard only the wind. It had found a pocket in the metal frame of the truck and made a sound like a distant horn.

The sound of voices came again, distinctly now. One man shouted to another. Gunther heard a name, but the rest of the shout blew away and he heard only the distant horn of the

DRUMMER 25

wind.

The voices came closer. Gunther heard the words clearly now and could understand them. Fear gripped his stomach like a steel fist and his heart began to pound. The men were speaking English—American English. The loudest voice, the one who was directing the other, spoke with the nasal pitch of the American South. Gunther had heard the accent in a film he had seen in Dresden, before American imports were banned.

The words were oddly familiar, like echoes from a dream.

"Stay back away from that goddamn truck, Payne. There may be a fucking kraut back there. The assholes leave snipers behind thick as maggots in shit."

Kraut? Gunther thought. He means me. Should I call out to them that I will surrender? God! I know so little of these people. Many are gangsters like in the films. They kill in cold blood.

He could taste fear like iron in his mouth. His face and ear, the whole side of his head, throbbed with pain from the wound. He felt a fly land in the dried blood on his neck. The insect began to crawl upward toward his ear.

"Payne!" the Southern voice shouted again, "Move down that away, but stay inside the markers. The bastards leave fuck- ing mines when they run off."

Gunther's heart beat in a hard throb he could feel in his temples. He broke into a sweat and could scarcely breathe. He tried to think what to do. Should he shout to them? Perhaps he could play dead. Would they be convinced, or put a bullet in him anyway, in case he was faking?

"Get down, Payne. I'm gonna lob a grenade over there. Get your fucking head down!'

Gunther reacted instinctively.

"No! No, please!" the German shouted in English. He understood the man's English slang imperfectly, but was sure of the meaning. "Don't…lob the grenade. Please. I surrender to you.

"Damnit, get down, Payne," the Southern voice shouted.

For a long silent moment, Gunther heard nothing except his own rapid breathing and the pounding of his heart. Fear twisted in his gut and, as if in some insane struggle of its own, his body began a violent trembling—then inexplicably his dick began to swell until a full erection throbbed inside the leg of his shorts. He looked down at himself, not believing the strangeness of his body, and studied the shape of the pulsing cock, beating with the rhythm of his heart.

'Hey, you," the American voice shouted. "You kraut. You

"Yes. Yes sir, I speak English. Don't toss the grenade. I surrender.

"Fucking right you do. Come on out from back there with your hands up—up high. Understand?"

"Please, yes. I understand, but I cannot do as you say. I cannot

"Do like I say, Kraut and no funny business. Come around the front end of the truck—slow, so I can see you got your hands up." "Please. I cannot, sir."

"Why not?"

"I am a Sanitaets-a medic. I have a badly wounded man. I must hold the tourniquet or he will bleed to death."

"A medic?"

"Yes, sir. I have a badly wounded man."

"It's a trap, Sarge," another voice said. The man spoke from Gunther's left just out of sight around the end of the truck.

"You want me to put a grenade back there? The fucker's trying to trick us."

"Hold off, Payne."

Another long silence followed.

"You got any weapons?" the Southern voice shouted—the one the other called Sarge.

"There is a rifle," Gunther shouted, speaking as clearly as he could. He had not spoken English since he entered the army. He was unsure of the accents.

"Throw it out."

"Yes, please, sir. I will do as you say."

Gunther grasped Georg's rifle, balancing it with one hand just forward of the trigger guard. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his strength and heaved the weapon as hard as he could.

Pain slammed like a hammer in his head. Gunther closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep from crying out. Fresh blood oozed down his cheek.

The rifle hit the dirt butt-first and stood upright for a moment, then toppled and fell in the sand just beyond the front wheel of the vehicle.

Immediately a hand reached out, grabbed the rifle, and dragged it from sight.

Pain ate at Gunther's ear and cheek like a hungry animal. He closed his eyes tight to bear the hurt without crying, but he felt tears on his cheek anyway. The tears were warm and wet like the blood. With his free hand he found his erection and held it tight. The warm hardness comforted him.

'Get your hands up, son of a bitch!'

Gunther opened his eyes with a jerk and put his free hand into the air. He saw an American soldier standing over him, sighting down the barrel of a rifle he held leveled at Gunther's head. A bayonet was fixed at the end of the weapon.

"I can raise only the one, sir," he said.

The American kept the weapon pointed at him. The steel blade of the bayonet gleamed in the dim light. The man turned his head slightly and shouted.

"I got them covered, but they ain't going nowhere. This one fucker's been shot up. The others are dead as shit from the looks of them."

Georg dead? Gunther thought. No. George cannot be dead. Gunther thought of the boy's kiss in the dark. The scratch of the stubble on his cheek when his lips took Gunther's cock. His mouth was warm and alive. Georg cannot be dead, he thought, but his hand loosened its grip on the tourniquet. Georg did not stir.

The other American came around the truck where Gunther could see him. He was a tall, wiry man. Hostility, distrust, and curiosity mingled in the expression on the man's hardened face. Gunther felt suddenly embarrassed, dirty and vulnerable. The hard dick throbbed against his leg.

The Americans were as filthy as German soldiers would have been after a day of fighting, but the Americans did not have the unhealthy pallor or the hungry look of German soldiers. The Americans' boots were new, with thick soles made of real leather.

Gunther looked at the boots and the well-fed faces and knew that Germany had lost the war in North Africa.

'Sarge, will you look at that? The fucker's got a hard-on. I can see it moving in his pants." "I see it, Payne," the sergeant said.

Payne put the thick sole of his boot between Gunther's legs and pushed down hard on his dick. Pleasure flashed in Gunther's groin with an intensity that surprised him. The pleasure was strong and demanding like the pain that throbbed in the head wound, and strangely similar. He moaned with a sound that was unmistakable.

"Like that, do you, Kraut?" Payne asked.

"Please, sir. I do not understand-"

"The fuck you don't. What's got you so horny?"

The boot moved between the German's legs, pushing up the loose leg of the shorts. Gunther felt the rough scratch of the leather sole along the shaft of his dick. Again he moaned, betraying pleasure against his will.

Payne took his foot away, leaving the cock exposed and erect between Gunther's spread legs.

The man whistled in a soft escape of breath. "Will you look at the size of the sausage on that kraut, Sarge?"

Gunther saw a distant, wild expression come into Payne's eyes. The man lowered a hand to his crotch.

"Sarge?" the man said. His voice was husky and he cleared his throat.

"What is it, Payne?"

"Remember me telling you about that blond kid? The one in the state pen when I was locked up that time?"

"The one that got fucked in the ass?"

"Yeah. Did I ever tell you that I fucked him too one time?" "No."

"Well, I did."

"Yeah?"

Gunther heard the huskiness now in the voice of the tall American sergeant. He had the same wild look in his eyes as Payne.

"It felt good, Sarge. Really good. Maybe as good as a pussy. Maybe better. Tighter."

"Yeah?"

Gunther now saw a bulge in the front of the sergeant's trousers. His own dick was still hard, exposed to the cool air of the evening. He reached between his legs and felt the burning shaft.

"He's jacking himself, Sarge."

"I see him."

"You ever seen a dick that big, Sårge?"

"No."

"Bet he's got a tight, sweet ass, Sarge."

The sergeant nodded. He looked into Gunther's eyes. He did not speak, but his face betrayed his thoughts.

Payne lowered his bayonet-tipped rifle toward Gunther. Stainless steel flashed. Slowly the man moved the sharp tip of the blade between the young man's legs. Gunther felt the prick of pain as the American pressed the tip of the weapon into the velvet sheath of foreskin covering his cockhead.

"Please, sir. Please don't hurt me," the German murmured. Breathing was hard. Speaking was almost impossible.

'Listen to the bastard beg, Sarge.'

The other man nodded. He stared at Gunther's cock, then he looked again into Gunther's face. The American's eyes were dark and hard. He gazed at the young German without blinking.

"Let's get a look at the bastard's ass, Sarge."

"Go ahead," the sergeant said. His voice was a whisper.

Payne thrust the bayonet up inside the leg of Gunther's shorts. The cold steel slid along the man's leg, laying open a cut in his thigh. With a gasp, Gunther straightened his leg and lay back quickly, flat on his back, to keep the weapon from piercing his abdomen.

Payne slide the razor-sharp edge of the bayonet backwards, out of the trousers, slicing the shorts open from the waist downward. Gunther lay still, stretched hard on his back in the sand. Blood seeped into the thick blond hair of his inner thigh where the blade had grazed him when Payne cut the shorts. The wound stung, but he dared not move.

"Roll over.

It was the sergeant who spoke.

Gunther twisted his body in the sand and lay face down with his hands stretched over his head. This man, he thought. Yes, this is the man, but he did not know what the thought meant. His dick ached under his belly. He burned for something deep inside his bowels. His asshole throbbed in time with his cock.

A boot swept the cut shorts away from the young man's butt. The wind was cold on the sweat and shit-smeared down of his ass. The rough leather sole of the boot raked across the naked cheek.

"Pull them shorts down, kid," the sergeant said. His voice was low. The words were not angry. The man's voice had a quality that was frightening, but the fright was exciting, not something to dread as anger would have been.

Gunther tugged off what remained of the shorts and threw them aside. Quickly he lay back, stretched out face-down in the sand. His dick throbbed under him. Grit had worked its way under the foreskin and irritated the head. He pressed the hard-on into the desert floor. He felt a fresh flash of pleasure as his dick dug into the sand.

'Look, Sarge, he's humping the ground. He acts as hot as I

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You must state that you are 21 years of age. feel. You think maybe he's a fag?"

Gunther felt the toe of a boot between his legs. The boot thrust upward hard and fast, hitting the root of his cock and striking with bruising force into the nuts.

"Spread them legs apart, Kraut," Payne said.

Gunther spread his legs as wide as he could. The cut in his thigh stung as it moved across the sand.

"Get up on your knees."

Gunther did as the man commanded. His cockroot ached from the blow from the boot. His balls hung between his legs, also hurting from the kick.

Something hard scratched the opening of his asshole. Gunther gasped, thinking at first that the man was cutting his ass with the bayonet, but he realized instead that he had felt the ragged edge of the man's boot again. Payne had dragged it hard over the tender pucker of his sphincter.

Again a moan escaped Gunther's lips, betraying pleasure. Pleasure persisted in spite of his terror. He could neither control nor understand it.

"Leave the kid alone," the sergeant said.

"I want to fuck him."

"No."

"Come on, Sarge. It won't hurt nothing. Fucking a boy feels good. Really it does. It's tight. Tigher than pussy. You can fuck him too, when I get through. You'll like it.'

The man stuck a rough finger into Gunther's ass.

Gunther grunted, but did not draw away. He could not help himself, and pushed his asshole hard onto the finger. He wanted the intruder in his butt. He could not control the urge that had taken possession of his body. Deep in the unconscious mind, the captive soldier felt a primitive urging. He heard the cries of ancient warriors in the valley wind.

"Look at him, man," Payne said. "He's hot for it."

"No."

"Look, goddamnit. I want to fuck him. He wants it."

Gunther heard both the lust and the beginning of anger in Payne's voice.

Like a bitch dog, he knew both the males wanted him-and, like dogs possessed by madness when they smell a bitch in heat, Gunther knew the two would fight over his ass. He put his head down in the sand and waited, letting a nameless wanting take possession of him. He worked his asshole, pushing and flexing the sphincter without knowing why or how, only knowing that it gave him pleasure, knowing that soon one of the men would overcome the other and mount him to pound hard into the ache deep in his ass.

"Get away from him, Payne. I want him."

"Hell, sure. Sure, Sarge, we can both fuck him. Here, I'll just loosen him up for you first…

Gunther heard a brass belt buckle being undone. He pushed out on his asshole and moaned again.

"Please, sir," Gunther whispered. "Please, Sergeant, sir."

"What the fuck, Sarge-" Gunther could not see the man, but he heard in Payne's voice first doubt, then fear.

"Hey, Sarge, what you doing, man? It's just a fag kraut. Come on, all I want is-'

A rifle fired in the semi-darkness. Gunther saw the flash in the sand before his eyes and heard the sudden familiar crack. The sound echoed as it bounced from the hills in the west. He did not have time to think about what the sergeant had done, nor did he care. A hard thing, thick and hot, pushed inside his burning ass. In long, violent strokes, lighting flashed deep in his guts. His arms gave out and he fell heavily on his face into the sand, but he kept his butt up for the man to fuck him.

Ancient wars closed with a ceremonial ritual. The rite stemmed not from social custom or the reasoning mind, but from instinct buried deep in the unconscious. Its roots extend into prehistory. They penetrate to the animal origins of man; into the natural beast from which the race is sprung. The rite still surfaces in defeat and victory. It rises spontaneously, pushed up by animal nature. As natural as birth and death, as hunger and thirst, the loser offers his ass in submission to the victor.

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

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rowing up on a ranch near a small town in East Texas had its advantages. but the availabilty of sexual partners wasn't one of them. That changed when I went away to college. I worked as a trainer with the football team. There were a lot of attractive men on the team, but one was a real standout. Mike was blond and blue-eyed with sun-bronzed skin, heavy and well muscled. He was starting at offensive guard his sophomore year.

I always got the feeling that he was interested in me, and I was sure as hell interested in him, but nothing happened for a number of months.

Then the football season was over. Thanksgiving break was coming up. My parents went on a business trip, and I said that I would come home to tend the livestock while they were away. Mike was currently out of the good graces of his family, so I invited him to spend Thanksgiving break with me on the ranch.

Wednesday after classes we drove to the ranch. I made sure that Mike had a couple of beers on the way. When we got there it was almost dark. We fed the horses and made sure they had water. Then I led him back to the house and into the guest room. Then I started wrestling with Mike, the way any two jocks might indulge in horseplay.

Caught off balance, reaction time slowed by the beer, he fell back onto the bed. A year older, seven inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than me, he was planning to roll with my attack until I tired myself, and then end this quickly. He didn't know about the surprises I had hidden in that bed until I pulled out a rope, looped it around his wrist, and pulled the knot 30 DRUMMER tight.

The sudden appearance of the rope confused him, made him hesitate long enough that I got a more substantial restraint, a fleece-lined cuff, buckled onto the other wrist. I added another leather cuff to his tied wrist, so he wouldn't hurt himself pulling against the rope.

This turn of events surprised him, made him wonder what was going down long enough that he almost didn't struggle while I pulled off his boots and shackled his ankles.

There he was. I had overpowered this stud long enought to tie him down spread-eagled to the double bed in the guest room. He was barefoot , wearing old, tight blue jeans that looked like they were about to split and a white tee shirt that showed his broad chest. From the look on his face he was more confused than frightened.

I opened a drawer next to the bed, and took out a skinning knife.

Mike started yelling "What the fuck is going on?" No houses were near. No one could hear him yell.

If you've never used one, a skinning knife has a curved blade. The inner, concave side is razor sharp; the outer, convex side is guarded, dull. can't cut anything. By keeping the guard toward Mike's skin, I shredded his tee shirt without any danger of cutting him. After warning him to be still, I did the same with his blue jeans. I could have just ripped them off, but I wanted to see Mike's reaction to feeling the back of the cold blade against his skin, the smooth caress of cold steel.

By the time I put the knife down, Mike had assessed his situation. He recognized the wide, fleece-lined, leather cuffs for what they were:

converted horse hobbles. Because of the width of the cuff and the lining he could pull against them without hurting himself .

The cuffs were attached to chains that went out of sight underneath the bed. He knew that he didn't have a chance of breaking a hobble that had restrained a stallion from a mare in heat, but he must have thought he had a chance of pulling the chains loose. If they had been set in wood he might have, but the chains were welded to a steel frame. I had planned this long and carefully.

I looked him over. Anger had replaced confusion on his face. His struggles were making his musculature stand out. His cock was semi-erect.

"You bastard!" he growled. "When I get out of here…" My belt popped across his washboard stomach. Like using a whip on a horse, I was trying to startle him, get his attention, not hurt or intimidate him.

That got his attention all right. He hadn't even seen me take my belt off. Now he was watching my every move. "You'll do what I tell you to, stud. When I let you loose you'll be mine. When I let you loose, it will be because I don't need to tie you up anymore, 'cause I'll own you, body and soul." I went back to the drawer and got a few more items.

The hobbles holding Mike to the bed were worn from use,

Pike using a whip on a horse, I was trying to startle him, get his attention, not hurt or intimidate him. still smelling of the horses they were made for. The next items were brand new, bought with Mike in mind. I walked over slowly, and fastened the wide leather dog collar around his massive neck. It almost didn't fit.

Mike had a large, muscular neck. He sat in front of me in one of my classes and for an hour every other day I had watched that neck, the close-cropped golden hair, the bronze skin, the corded muscles underneath, and I hadn't heard a damn word the teacher had said all semester.

Now his neck was pumped up from his struggles to get loose. The black leather collar, on its last notch, just barely reached around his neck without choking him. I put a small luggage lock through the tab in the buckle. Mike's cock was now fully erect, and he was beginning to sweat.

Next I put a stainless steel choke chain around his neck, fastening it with a clip. "You get out of line, hoss…" I whispered hoarsely, pulling gently on the choke chain to demon-

I figured he was about ready. I took off my shirt and started licking his right nipple. What I was going to do was something I had never done before, which was to lick every square inch of skin I could reach. A warm tongue over steel-hard muscles began to take effect. Mike began to relax and enjoy it in spite of himself. Soon I sensed that he had been gentled enough, and I worked up to his face.

"Try to bite," I whispered, "and I'll beat the livin' fuck out of 32 DRUMMER you."

"Prick-lickin' fairy!" Mike snarled. He had started out yelling, and now was almost whispering.

I continued licking. Across his cheekbones, his forehead, his eyebrows. Finally I was licking his lips. We kissed. He responded almost with desperation, giving every bit as good as he got. After a while I moved on to his thighs.

"Cocksuckin' queer!"

"What does that make you, Mike? What do you call a man who gets tied up and worked over and serviced by a queer, and likes it?'

"Bastard!" He was still almost whispering.

He didn't make another sound until I started working on his balls. Then he started moaning. I spent extra time on his balls, enjoying the sensations I was causing him.

"Suck me!" he finally begged.

I gave his balls a few more licks. "Say, Mike, if I never touched a guy's cock, and just kept licking his balls, do you think I could make him come, or do you think he'd go crazy first?" I continued licking.

The next sound Mike made was somewhere between a moan and a scream.

I moved up to his hard throbbing cock, starting at the base of the shaft and licking upward. After gently, teasingly licking the entire length, I began sucking in earnest. Mike screamed like a panther as he shot his load.

As we both needed rest after that, I laid for a while with my head on Mike's shoulder. We talked as I gently caressed him. He agreed that it had been fun. He said he would like to do it again. Would I take those damn hobbles off now?

"Why? Neither one of us has to be anywhere until Monday." Some acrobatics were involved in getting Mike turned over onto his stomach, without taking off too many restraints at once, but it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be-as I was expecting at least token resistance.

I could have taken him then-fucked his broad, well-muscled ass. From the tension I could feel in his muscles I think he expected me to, and God knows I wanted to fuck that stud! But I sensed that I was pushing Mike close to his limits. If I tried to take him any further that night I might have broken his spirit. I didn't want him completely submissive. I wanted him like a good horse, well trained, docile, responsive, yet spirited.

So I talked to him gently, almost hypnotically, as I rubbed him down. I put liniment on the muscles he had strained pulling against the restraints. I massaged his back where he had chronic pains. I rubbed down those strong shoulders and tense neck muscles.

His neck, close-cropped hair, bronze skin glistening with sweat. The smooth black leather colar, almost too small. The cold silvery glint of the choke chain. Living flesh, smooth leather, cold steel. All contrasting and complementing each other beautifully, almost poetically, and making me as horny as a three-balled tomcat.

Mike went to sleep, and I slept with him, still wearing my boots and jeans.

Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and clear. I looked at my captive, still bound face-down, spread-eagle, and smiled as I anticipated the events of the day. I slapped him smartly on the right asscheek to wake him up.

"Come on, stud. Things to get done today and we're burnin" daylight.'

He looked around and blinked, trying to sort out reality and dream.

Finding himself still in the restraints, still face down and spread-eagle, he seemed surprised that I hadn't violated him in his sleep. But while I was determined that I was going to fuck that muscular ass before the weekend was up, I was going to make that stud want it!

I checked him over carefully, making sure he hadn't hurt himself or been hurt by the restraints. His left shoulder was a little sore from straining against his bonds; other than that he was all right. I unbuckled the restraint on his right leg, and

began to fit him with the fetters I had made for him.

I started by taking a piece of canvas, doubling it, and sewing along the edge and one end. This gave me a long, narrow canvas bag. I put twenty pounds of birdshot in this and sewed up the other end. Then I put a heavy brass grommet in each end. The resulting hobble could be put around one of Mike's ankles, and fastened with a padlock through the grommets. Being canvas, he could cut out of them given an opportunity. I didn't intend to give him one.

I had made a pair of these. I also had a thirty-inch piece of chain to put between the padlocks. I could use these fetters with or without the chain. To start out, I would use the chain.

Before I put on the fetters I carefully padded Mike's ankles with elastic bandages and adhesive tape to protect his skin from the rough canvas.

"Alright Mike, these aren't padded like the ones you've been wearing. Pull against these that hard and you'll hurt yourself. Blisters, pressure sores, bruised tendons, maybe even ligament or bone damage. Don't pull against them.'

I snapped the locks closed, and moved to his hands. I padded his wrist the same way I had his ankles, even though I didn't have anything near as elaborate. All I had for his wrist was a pair of standard handcuffs, which I put on with his hands in front of him.

"Alright stud, let's go."

I put a short lead on the choke collar and led Mike outside. I was still stripped to the waist. Mike had nothing on but his

November mornings in Texas tend to have a chill to them. We were both shivering by the time we got to the barn. Shivering from a combination of cold and anticipation.

I opened the barn door, and told Mike to sit on a blanket that I had spread on a concrete slab. I really don't know what the original function of that slab was. It's been out in the barn as long as I can remember. But what made it ideal for the purpose I had in mind was that it had a large iron ring set into it. I took another padlock, and locked Mike's handcuffs to the iron ring.

Neither of us had eaten since lunch the day before. I went and got breakfast and took it out to the barn. I sat down on the slab, next to Mike. I put my left arm around his shoulders and picked up a piece of his breakfast steak and held it flat on my

"Hungry? Go ahead and eat."

Slowly, gingerly, he lowered his head and took the meat. The rest of breakfast was finished in that manner, the big stud literally eating out of the palm of my hand, licking my palm. The sun came out, warming both of us. We didn't talk, but I could tell that Mike enjoyed eating out of my hand, being petted by me, the growing closeness between us.

After breakfast I unlocked Mike from the iron ring. I set him to work mucking out stalls, still wearing nothing but his chains, while I exercised the horses on the hot-walker.

The rest of the day was spent watching football games on television, Mike sitting on the floor, still in his chains, leaning against my leg and lapping beer out of my palm. Ya know, he never spilled a drop. Try it sometime if you think it's easy, but that stud never spilled a drop of beer.

During halftime of the Texas-Texas A&M game he was allowed to nuzzle my crotch through the blue jeans, feeling the outline of my cock and balls through the fabric with his face. After the game, without being asked, he started to unbutton my fly with his mouth. Without a word he took my cock between his warm, wet lips and began sucking like a newborn foal.

Touched by the gesture of submission, I shot quickly, more quickly than I wanted to, and watched that blond stud drink down my come like he was starving to death.

That night I put him back in the hobbles, rubbed him down, sucked him off, allowed him to suck me. We talked and cat-napped through the night.

The next morning I let Mike put on a shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and his boots. I cuffed his hands in front of him again, and put the fetters on his ankles without the connecting chain.

We went out to the barn and saddled up a pair of horses. I had packed a lunch and we were going on a picnic.

The day was bright and clear, warm for November. We rode for hours, enjoying the countryside, the horses, and each oth- er's company.

At lunchtime we got to the campsite we had been searching for. It was a small wooded hollow near a stream. We unsaddled the horses and put the saddles over some fallen logs that had been left for that purpose. The horses were tethered where they could graze and get water.

I put one saddle blanket over a log and called Mike over. I uncuffed his hands long enough for him to take off his shirt. He was still wearing the black leather collar and choke chain around his neck.

I had him lie down across the log, and stretch his hands out in front of him. I took a piece of rawhide and tied his hands to a picket stake that had been driven into the ground. Then I pulled off his boots and blue jeans and used our ropes to tie his legs to a couple of small pine trees. I got some saddle soap out of my saddle bags, and started to grease up his muscular ass. Mike suddenly realized what was about to happen.

'No…don't, please!" he whimpered.

"I'm gonna do this, Mike. If you resist it's gonna hurt. If you relax I'll take it slow and gentle and it won't hurt you." got some saddle soap out of my saddle bags, and started to grease up his muscular ass.

Still massaging his ass with one hand I reached under him with the other and started to rub his cock and balls. Slowly he relaxed, and I penetrated his virgin ass with one finger. His cock had gotten hard and I was stroking it gently. I lubricated his hole, and then stood up and stripped.

Alright stud, this is where you lose your cherry."

Slowly, gently, I eased my cock into his tight, hot ass. When I had penetrated all the way I started to stroke his cock again. "Doin' alright stud?"

Mike nodded.

I started gently pumping, still stroking his cock. He relaxed further, then started moving with my rhythm. Soon, like any bronc being ridden for the first time, he started to buck.

He yelled wordlessly as he started to come. Powerful spasms from his orgasm reached his ass. I bit his left shoulder and heard a yell of conquest, then I realized it was my own. I reached orgasm just as Mike's spasms subsided. I shot my hot come into his throbbing ass.

As we lay there, both panting, both covered with sweat, he looked up at me and smiled.

The collar, handcuffs, and other bonds were no longer needed. I would keep them on until we started back to school, but I didn't need them. I owned Mike, the way I would a wild horse I had captured and broken to saddle. I had taken him, gentled him, trained him, and ridden him.

He was mine, and he liked it that way.

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BY CARL ALESSI

"This is the new fish, Clark Jones. Put him in with Big Tony.

'Yes, sir, right away."

"All right, Jones, grab your stuff and follow me," muttered the guard as he noisily unlocked the huge, iron-barred door opening into Cell Block 11.

A "fish," that was what he had heard them call him; as Clark Jones followed the guard down the cell block corridor , he suddenly realized just how appropriate that phrase was. He suddenly felt as if murky, tropical waters were closing in silently over his head. As it in a dream, dark, blurred shapes swirled all around him. His legs had gone all numb and weak, and it took every bit of his willpower just to keep them moving.

The air in the crowded corridor reeked with the harsh odor of institutional disinfectant, stale body sweat, tobacco smoke. Inmates were shouting at each other to make themselves heard over the constant slamming of heavy iron doors. A dozen cheap, portable radios were blasting away at once. Disjointed jazz sounds, the strangled banshee wail of urban blues, the sex hungry moans and throbbing pulse of rock 'n roll, the heavy jungle rhythms of the Latino big beat all swirled and mixed together into a huge, numbing, relentlessly throbbing wall of noise.

Tight, dark clusters of hulking, over-muscled figures stood ominously everywhere, all up and down the hallway . Carefully, the guard navigated his way through the ranks of unsmiling inmates. Everywhere Clark Jones happened to look, he saw sweaty, hard masculine faces staring back at him. Every con on the row wanted to check out the new fish, wanted to see if he was fair game, if he could be had.

As Clark hurried past them, many of the constried to get his attention.

"Hey, butter buns, I've got a whole jar of vaseline in my cell! How 'bout it?"

"They call me Long John. Come over to mah place tonight, you find out why!"

Other inmates yelled out through the rusty bars of their cells, their voices harsh and bitter with frustration.

"Hey, white boy, you like it in the throat or up the chute?

'You one fine lookin' bitch, queenie! You ask that bull in blue there with you to put you in with me. I be a good daddy to you!"

Suddenly the guard stopped in front of an open cell. "You bunk in here, Jones. Get in there and fix your damn bed up! Chow is at five thirty sharp. Any questions?"

"John Preston has produced an SM masterwork…Mr. Benson hits the mark with a body blow."

-Phil Andros

Mr. Benson, the Book: Penthouse named it one of the "Top Ten" SM novels ever written.

Mr. Benson, the Man: "One of the great figures of gay literature…awesome, forbidding, almost godlike," writes Jesse Monteagudo in the Miami Weekly News. "He is the ideal Master …No wonder gay males went out looking for Mr. Benson in droves.”

No wonder indeed—as you'll discover when you read Mr. Benson. Originally serialized in Drummer, this trade paperback edition has been completely revised by the author—with a revealing new epilogue from Mr. Benson himself.

ALTERNATE PUBLISHING

964 FOLSOM / SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94107

The guard's eyes had the empty, bloodshot look of someone who spent all night in front of a television set.

"Uh…no."

"All right then, get busy on that bunk."

There were two bunks inside. The con lying on one of them, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, had the body of a professional wrestler, a body just like those big, beefy slobs who always have to play the "villain" every Saturday night in the ring, the social menaces who look like they might really turn murderous in a back alley punch-out someday. The battered features of Big Tony's face and the vaguely Mongolian cast to his eyes would have delighted any wrestling impressario.

The thick, black hair curling over Tony's wrinkled forehead was already starting to thin out, and his jawline just seemed to melt down into the flabby rolls of his jowls. But there was no mistaking the awesome power stored up in that huge barrel of a chest. One glance at Big Tony's massive shoulders and arms was usually enough to convince even the toughest con to keep a respectful tongue in his head around the big man.

'I guess this is my bunk," Clark said nervously.

"You're a real genius, kid."

As Clark struggled to get his sheets tucked in, military style, Big Tony laid back on his bunk and gave the fish the once-over. The kid was pussy all the way, he thought to himself. With that fragile, small-boned physique, there wasn't any doubt about it. From the looks of the kid's slim white hands, he had never had a

Just when Clark had finished making up his bunk, he heard someone laughing mockingly behind him. He turned around and saw two black cons standing in the doorway. They both had big, shit-ass grins spread across their faces, and they both had their hair frizzed up into wild, bushy afros.

"Hmmm, just lookin' at those cute li'l cakes there makes me wanna pack some shit right here 'n now.'

"Yeah, brother, I know what you mean. I love that young white meat, and this here is about the whitest meat I've seen yet.'

"Hey, queenie, how's 'bout you comin' down ta our place and gobbling down some fine black goobers?"

Suddenly, Big Tony began chuckling to himself in a low, almost maniacal way. Still laughing softly to himself under his breath, the big con hoisted his masive bulk up out of his bunk and then slowly walked over to the doorway.

"How would you like my shank rammed up that black ass of yours?" Big Tony snarled at the taller of the two intruders. Tony lifted up the front of his baggy shirt so that the two blacks could see the handle of the knife sticking up under his belt.

The black's eyes glazed over with fear.

"Hey, man, we don't want no trouble from you," he explained nervously, the shit-ass grin quickly disappearing from his face.

"No, that's the truth, man," the other intruder joined in, "we were just throwin' some jive at the new fish here.'

"Well, from now, on keep yer damn jive to yourself! Leave

After chow, Big Tony disappeared, and Clark didn't see him until a few minutes before lights out. When the other man silently started to undress, Clark tried to keep his gaze focused elsewhere, but he just couldn't seem to keep from surreptitiously staring over at Big Tony. From collarbone down to his crotch, the big man's chest was completely covered with a pelt of thick, curly black dago hair. His nipples were big and thick, surrounded by very large round areolas, dark brown rings of color flecked here and there with little white bumps.

Clark felt a strange, disturbing electric shudder shoot up his spine when Big Tony slipped down his jockey shorts. The big con had a classic dago cock-thick, uncut, light tan in color. When Tony moved around, his fleshy tube swung heavy and loose between his thick hairy thighs. Clark stood there mesmerized by the way the fat knob was so clearly outlined under the

And then…Tony turned around, and it was as if a skyrocket

had suddenly, unexpectedly exploded before Clark's eyes, filling the tiny cell with its blinding light. Someone, obviously a master of the art, had covered the entire length of Tony's massive back with the tattoo of an enormous, blood red dragon. Eyes bulging out ferociously, huge jaws open and bristling with fangs, the crouching reptile, just like the big con himself, faced the world ready to attack at the slightest provocation.

Tony turned around again and caught Clark staring.

"Hey, you! What are ya lookin' at?"

"Uh … uh, nothing."

"Say, kid, ya never did thank me for savin' yer sweet ass from those mau maus.'

'Oh, yeah, I meant to," Clark mumbled quietly, apologetically . "Thanks an awful lot."

"Yeah, well…that ain't exactly the kind of thanks I had in mind. How 'bout sucking on this for awhile, hmm?"

The big con stepped closer and began rubbing his dick. His eyes had narrowed into intimidating slits.

Outside in the corridor, somewhere off in the shadows, Clark was sure he could hear someone whispering his name and laughing.

'No, no…you, you got me all wrong," Clark stuttered, his voice laced with fear. "I don't do things like that. I've never done anything like that!"

Suddenly, Tony reached out with one of his big paws and slapped Clark hard across the side of his face.

Don't try to bullshit me, queenie! You're a cum guzzler if I ever seen one. Now wise up! Everything in here has a price. If you want yer daddy to keep on protectin' that sweet ass of yours, then ya have ta pay fer it!

Clark backed away from the big con, desperately trying to escape the awful piercing gaze of those slitted dago eyes. He frantically glanced around the tiny, dimly lit cell and suddenly saw his reflection in a small, cracked mirror hanging crookedly on one wall. The smooth, pale skin of his cheek was turning an angry bright red from where the big dago had slapped it. Clark felt tickling little rivulets of sweat beginning to run down the back of his neck. Wasn't someone going to help him? Didn't anyone care, anyone?

"Please don't hurt me…please."

"Shut up, bitch!"

The big Italian grabbed hold of Clark's trembling, narrow shoulders and started to push down. The grey walls of the tiny cell seemed to be pulsing and moving in front of Clark's eyes. His cheek was burning from the hornet's sting of Tony's slap.

Then, all at once, somewhere inside Clark's tormented brain, something clicked off, and Clark just stopped struggling and let

Dreamy, disjointed jazz sounds floated in through the cell bars. Big Tony stared down at the kid, his bloated face impas-

The hard concrete floor felt cold under Clark's knees. Could this really be happening? He had often imagined to himself what it must feel like to take someone's manhood in your mouth, to savor the feel, the physical solidity of a fleshy tube. But not like this…he had never imagined it like this. The sharp stinging in Clark's cheek had by now subsided into a dull throbbing. But the sweat was still running down his neck, and now he was starting to feel sick to his stomach.

"Go on, suck it! Suck it, queenie!"

Shivering in the chill night air, Clark leaned forward and slowly, awkwardly, hesitantly encircled his lips around the bulging purple knob.

'Go on, dammit, use yer tongue on it!" Big Tony grunted as he savagely dug his fingers into the unresisting flesh of Clark's shoulders. "You know what a man likes."

As the big Italian slid the thickness of his shaft in deeper, Clark began to move his head awkwardly from side to side. His will to resist completely gone, desperate now to satisfy his tormentor, he obediently slid his mouth slowly up and down on the swollen shaft. Tony grunted again like a pig, and decided to let the kid do all the work. The faster Clark's lips slid over the dago's cock, the louder the big man grunted.

Then, suddenly, Tony's legs began to tremble violently.

"Unh…unh…here it comes, ya bitch! Now swallow it! Hear me? Swallow it, queenie!'

The big con's fingers dug so deeply into Clark's trembling shoulders that tears ran down his cheeks. Tony rammed it in as deep as it would go, and then, with his big, hairy nuts mashed up against the kid's chin, he blasted his thick load into the kid's mouth in one long, explosive spasm.

The next night, with his victim groaning and squirming helplessly under him, Bit Tony busted the kid's anal cherry. The night after that, as Clark was blowing him, the big con pissed down his throat. By the end of that first week, the whole cell block knew that Big Tony had "turned the kid out."

Several weeks later, it was Big Tony's turn to get a surprise. The big man was in the mood for some brown-eye action, and Clark, on cue, had just dropped his trousers to his ankles.

"Well, I'll be screwed," mumbled Big Tony as he stared in disbelief at the kid's goose-pimpled bare ass. There, right on the left cheek, was a miniature version of the huge, awesome dragon that spread itself so malevolently across Tony's hairy back. The kid's dragon seemed a harmless pygmy in comparison to Tony's great beast, but there could be no doubt about it. It definitely was a copy of Tony's dragon.

"I'll be screwed," Tony grunted again to himself as he thoughtfully rubbed the spit coated palm of his hand over the tip of his cock.

He never did find out which inmate artist had put on the tattoo, but he knew for sure how the kid had "paid" for the service…

T.R. STEPHENS

A WALK IN THE PARK

The trail was splotched with the sunlight that filtered down through high-arched leaves ablaze with autumn's paint. Their fallen comrades rustled underfoot. Alone he walked, hunting and haunted. He followed the trail around a bend and there the other stood, hunted and haunting.

He stopped and stared. The other returned his stare in kind. One nodded, the other posed. One posed, the other nodded. They closed in. Closer. A touch. And another. Two shirts fell upon the fallen leaves. He touched the other's chest. The other caressed his swollen nipples. Closer. Mouths opened and devoured one another. Tongues explored deep, dark recesses. Quietly, a moan. Louder, a groan.

Apart. They stared. They posed. They shed their clothes. Closer. Anxious cocks arched upward and touched. They throbbed. Apart. They posed. They preened. They stroked. They sought advantage and gained none. They smiled. Closer. Closer.

Body to body, they sank to the forest floor. Grinding, touching hands explored. One turned. Cock slipped into mouth. Mouth slipped over cock. Hips thrusted. Mouths sucked. Swollen nuts contracted. Heads bobbed on aching flesh. Cocks were numbed by hungry mouths. One panted. The other sighed. One twitched. The other thrashed. Together, they erupted. Ravenous throats pleaded for more. One turned and

mouths locked. Semen swept from one to the other and back again. Some swallowed. Some swapped. Some swapped. Some swallowed. Some escaped in rivulets past straining lips over flushed cheeks. Slick and sour-sticky and sweet.

A paradox. A pair of paradox. Apart. Dressed. They touched. They kissed-passion-spent-a kiss of brotherhood. One turned. The other walked away. Never looking. Never meeting. Never again. Just once.

HAPPY HUNTING GROUND

The park smells of garbage, of decay, and of night. A lonely hunter steps from shadows into the pool of light cast by a streetlamp, acknowledging my existence. I stop and stare, acknowledging his. He leads and I follow. He steps beneath a footbridge and disappears in darkness. I step beneath the footbridge and into his embrace.

Our mouths lock and tongues entwine. He smells of cheap cologne and even cheaper beer. From nearby come the sounds of other secret hunters-smacking sounds, moans and groans, and furtive whispers. He breaks our kiss. I hear him fumbling for something and the too sweet odor of poppers wafts past my nostrils.

I feel a tug at my belt and nervously open my pants. I hear a zipper, then a snap. Rough hands grope at my hard, aching dick. My hands grope at his. I kneel in a pool of yesterday's rain and take his dick into my mouth. He smells faintly of piss and of someone else's cheap cologne. I'm hungry and I suck his dick as though it'll be my last. It won't.

He pulls my hair. He's getting close. I fondle his swollen nuts. He grunts and empties his come into my mouth. I swallow and coax his dick for still another drop, and another. He pulls it out and turns around, presenting yet another prize. His asshole smells of shit and stale come but I lap at it in hunger and desperation. I stand and plunge my engorged dick into his saliva-slickened hole. Frantically, I slam into him again and again. I grunt and release my come deep within him. I pull out but he remains bent in awkward acquiescence. I kneel and suck my own come from his battered hole.

He touches me. I touch him. We pull up our pants and separately continue the hunt.

HUNGER

I sit here on the edge of my bed, waiting. Absently, I squeeze my dick. It lies aching beneath the thin cotton of my shorts. He stands hidden behind the slightly ajar bathroom door. I can hear his piss streaming forcefully into the toilet bowl.

What did he say his name was? Oh, yes, he didn't. Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Nothing—except for his dick. It's pissing now—limp and pissing. Not for long. I hear the toilet flush and the door opens. He stands there with his thick, limp dick hanging out of his fly. Not bad. No class but not bad. Better than I expected. He walks over. It hangs there, waiting-willing and waiting. I lift a hand, cupping and squeezing his low-hanging nuts.

He peels off his pants and steps away, leaving them in a pile. His dick responds to my hand on his nuts and arches up. A single tear oozes from its tiny eye and drools suspended from his puckered foreskin. I catch it on my tongue and follow it to its origin. I peel back his loose foreskin and lick the spongy, swollen head. He tastes of piss and smells of sex. I take him deeper. His dickhead nudges my throat. My tongue slithers over his thick, bulging veins. He grabs the back of my head and lunges into my throat.

My nose is buried in his pubic hair again and again as he frantically fucks my mouth. I become his tool, his receptacle, just waiting for him to finish, to slake my hunger and quench my thirst.

He pulls away. His hand goes to his dick, furiously pumping. He groans and grinds and I wait—just wait. He cries out and his hot cream spatters my face. He lunges forward and shoves his hot dick into my waiting mouth, "allowing" me to savor the bitter taste of his last few precious drops.

He turns away. His big dick is shrinking. He dresses silently and leaves without a backward glance.

I glance down at my sticky come-soaked shorts. I creamed in my shorts the moment his come hit my face. I rise and go to the bathroom. He didn't raise the seat and it's spotted with his piss. No class but not bad. I look into the mirror. Opaque drops of come hang on my face like puss. I reach one with my tongue. Others I guide to my mouth with my finger. I look at the toilet seat. I kneel and lick away his stray droplets of piss. No class-but not bad.

RENDEZVOUS

Midnight, Streetlight, The beautiful, black leather stranger leans against it like some macabre parody of a streetwalker. You step from darkness into the eerie pool of light. He flips his cigarette butt at your feet. He shuffles his black leather boots and stands to his full black leather height. You watch in disbelief as he ceremoniously unzips his black leather fly and hauls out his long, thick, vein-corded dick, a black leather thong lashed about its base.

Incredulously, you ask: "Here?" Emphatically, he answers: "Here!"

He strokes his dick, peeling the foreskin from its swollen, purple head. It's dangerous. You're scared. But you're hungry, incredibly hungry. A glistening pearl of fluid oozes from his dick and hangs suspended in the night air. You kneel and lick the drop away. You take the spongy head into the wet warmth of your mouth. Black leather gloves painfully pull your hair and he lunges into your throat. You gag and try desperately to breathe as he vicously fucks your mouth.

A few seconds or an hour passes before he stiffens and grunts, flooding your mouth with his bittersweet semen. He steps back. A black leather right hook splits your lip and you sprawl to the concrete, blinded by pain. Through tear-filled eyes, you see the black leather stranger looming above you shaking his half-limp dick in his hand. A few drops, then a steady torrent of hot yellow piss streams from his dick, splashing your face. He shakes out the last few drops and packs his dick into his black leather fly. A black leather boot smashes painfully into your ribs and he turns and walks away.

You lie alone in a puddle of piss in a pool of light, whimpering.

HOT

Brakes scream and the van skids to a halt. The passenger door swings open. The young, shirtless hitchhiker climbs in and the van roars off.

"Christ, you're hot. Looking for some action?" asks the driver.

"You bet. Know where I can find some?" asks the hitchhiker. The van swerves periously through the noontime traffic and screeches into a driveway, coming to a halt at the deserted end of a parking lot.

"Climb in back," the driver orders, urgency in his voice.

In the back of the van, clothes are wildly tossed aside. The driver grasps both their stiff, raging dicks in one large hand. They kiss like animals, trying to devour one another. They crawl together in juxtaposition and bury their faces in oposing asses, lapping hungrily at puckered holes. Moaning and gasping, they twitch about. They rise to their knees, one behind the other. The driver aims and slams his dick deep into the saliva-oiled ass. The hitchhiker muffles his cry. Moaning and sweating, they hump like crazed broncos. The driver rams home again and again. He reaches around the boy and grabs his dick, stroking it feverishly. His nuts slap noisily againt the hitchhiker's thighs. The hitchhiker cries out as jets of his come ooze between the driver's fingers and spatter the floor of the van. The driver licks the bittersweet cream from his fingers, stiffens and grunts, and floods the boy's quivering ass with his own hot come.

Three blocks away, the hitchhiker gives the driver's crotch a parting pat, climbs from the van, and sticks out his thumb to await the next hot ride.

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Dear Larry,

I have been reading your writings on SM since the advent of the original Leatherman's Handbook, back in the early '70s. As my own experience has grown, I have come to agree with you on most points, disagree on a few, but I find one area where you never quite say what I keep waiting to hear. This has to do with religion. I think you put down religion in a sometimes non-constructive way. If it were not for the built-in guilt feelings engendered by religion I wonder if there would be as many men seeking to be disciplined or have their endurance and fidelity tested. Without men in these states of mind, I wonder if there would be enough bottoms to go around.

Paul, Southern California

Dear Paul,

Just as I try not to put anyone down for his particular sexual interests, I am also a bit wary of delving into one's religious beliefs. I have to agree with you as to the high incidence of guilt feelings engendered by religious dogma, but I feel that these are more the product of organized religion-and most specifically the self-annointed leaders of various religious sects. It is the pressure exerted by these groups that forces society in general to accept the standards of behavior that create guilt feelings in the guy who is unable to abide by them. When all is said and done, your true religion is not the ritualized formulae espoused by the priest / minister / rabbi / ayatollah of "your" church. It is the belief that you hold within your own mind. Even if you never express this openly, the difference may well be the basis for your feelings of guilt. So, do we thank the fundamentalists for giving us all those hot little bottoms ? I suppose we should, much as we can thank Anita Bryant for bringing our community together a few years ago.

Dear Larry,

I'm into cock torture with matches and cigarettes, and I read someplace that there are groups of men who are into branding. Can you give me an idea where to contact them? Also, are there any pictures of branding being done, or of matches and cigarettes being used in sex play? I'm a white male, age 36, into shaving and all types of cock torture. Final guestions: Can testicles be pierced, and if so, what are the long range effects of it?

B.H., New Jersey

Dear B.H.,

You pose several questions; let me try to answer them in order. Cock torture with matches and cigarettes is not the best SM technique, because repeated use can cause such extensive damage. I'm sure there are guys who are into it, however, since it is difficult to name an activity that isn't being done by somebody , someplace. As to an organized group, I don't know of one that is specifically orientated toward branding. Rather, you will find guys in most of the larger SM clubs who are interested or experienced to one degree or another in the subject. (I did a little piece on branding in my last column.) As to testicle piercing, I can tell you that it is done. Dungeonmaster has an article on it several issues back. The guys who were involved in this particular sequence seemed to suffer no long-term ill effects, and the piercing was done with fairly elaborate antiseptic precautions. Just how much damage you are going to do by excessive repetitions is hard to say; in fact it is difficult to define the term "excessive." The guys who are doing it say it's harmless. My medical adviser threw his hands in the air, and said, "What are these nuts going to get into next?" I'm not sure if his pun was intentional , and I was afraid to ask.

Dear Larry,

Hello Brother! Sitting here at Folsom State Prison, thinking about all the hot times at the Brig and Hot House. This Downed Brother needs some advice. I need to know if Drummer will print an ad from a convict. Since I am in the closet, I don't receive Drummer (unfortunately). Thank you for your time. Ride free and play hard!

A Downed Brother

Dear Downed,

There isn't any problem in running an ad in Drummer. In fact, we used to have a column devoted to prison problems and communication, discontinued due to the departure of the guy who wrote it. Of course, if you do place an ad, be honest about who and where you are; and I don't know how deeply you may be able to remain in the closet, once the answers start to come in.

Dear Larry,

I live in a small "bible belt" town, where everyone knows everybody else's business. My problem is that I have anal warts-six of them, as best I can count (those little white nubs, just on the inner edge of the mucous membrane.) I know they aren't going to kill me, but I want to get rid of them. What I want to know is, are they strictly something you get from anal sex, or could they have come from some other source? If our local sawbones sees them, is he going to know how I got them?

Please, No Name or Location

Dear No Name,

I can't think of any way you might have gotten them other than by sexual contact , although your doctor may. In any event, even if it means a trip to a larger city, you should get them removed as soon as possible. If you don't, they are likely to increase in number, and eventually require more than a quick session in the doctor's office. You could also infect someone else. Warts are not highly contagious , but they are contagious. They're also a pain in the ass!

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

LARRY TOWNSEND

Author of the Leatherman's Handbook Offers the most complete and dependable mail order service for the leather-SM-oriented man

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SOCIAL NOTES

NIGHT OF TRIUMPH!

It was a night without blemish. There were several changes from last year. For one thing, it was held on a Saturday instead of a Friday, the day before the biggest Gay Parade in history. The party crowd was even bigger this year, the men were the hunkiest on record, and not a prima donna in the group. The slaves did their best to please and serve. The fantasies were to die for. Ten Mr. Drummers and one invitational contestant battled it out for the really big one in leatherdom. MR. DRUMMER '84. The Trocadero Transfer was packed to capacity as more and more leathermen kept coming in through the long night. Gold record recording artist Mario Simon premiered his original "Drummer Men" and the crowd went wild. Then the audience voted (there were no judges this year) only after all the contestants had been seen and heard from completely. The verdict was in and the new Mr. Drummer '84 rode off on his customized Yamaha Turbo 650 into the dawn. As finally did everyone else.

Pictured above, Mr. Pacific Northwest Drummer rides atop his magnificent feathered steed (and lover) as he triumphantly completes his fantasy.

DRUMMER 45

Each of the fantasies seemed more outrageous than the last. One that particularly stood out was Mr. Midwestern Drummer (Chicago), who remembered being whipped in public as a teenager. When the original guilty party was unable to show up to allow him to even the score all these years later, our man's fantasy was fulfilled anyway by pulling a willing spectator from the balcony and, after forcibly ripping off his unsuspecting pants, giving him some really good ones. Half the audience would have traded places with the delighted victim in a minute.

Anthony Bruno directs the rehearsal for Leather's night of nights. Anthony also directed the Southern California Mr. Drummer contest earlier. A no-nonsense taskmaster, he literally worked the men's asses. The show went without a hitch except for a few awful moments when the spotlights couldn't find Mr. International Leather, who graciously showed for an appearance. They found him and the crowd showed its approval.

Mario Simon performed his soon-to-be-released "Drummer Men" as the eleven Mr. Drummers marched single-file through the dry-ice fog to await their presentations. Presenters were Mr. Drummer '83 and publisher John Embry who told the crowd that his fantasy had just been fulfilled by "Celebrating the ninth birthday of my favorite magazine as I play host to these Drummermen in everybody's favorite city, together in the company of Drummer's friends from everywhere."

Photo by ROBERT PRUZAN

A jubilant Sonny Cline rides atop the Arena's flower bedecked float beside David Earl Lee, Mr. Drummer '83, down Market Street. Whether it was the flowers or the stars, the float won first prize. While the audience of over 200,000 was considerably underplayed by S.F.'s mainstream newspapers, the parade is the largest happening of the year in The City. Gay Pride Week probably brought more tourists to S.F. than the Democratic Convention. But who's counting?

Winner Sonny Cline is congratulated (and molested) by singer Mario Simon and The Publisher at a cocktail reception held earlier for the contestants and their sponsors. No one had won as yet, so the two molested everyone equally.

Photo by ROSE DE CASTRO

[shared layout — see scan of printed page 74]

[shared layout — see scan of printed page 75]

INTERNATIONAL LEATHER SCENE

BUREAUCRACY AND SM

Do leathermen have a place in gay politics? Sounds like a stupid question to us, but apparently there are those in the higher echelons of the gay movement who aren't quite sure-or who, at the very least, require some convincing arguments, preferably on paper with accompanying charts, diagrams, and demographic studies.

Currently underway: a major survey of SM organizations in the U.S. and Europe, their membership, and the place of both in the overall gay movement. The survey was organized and begun this spring by Gav Liberation Front of Cologne, West Germany, under the hesitant auspices of the International Gay Association (IGA).

Two different questionnaires were distributed . The first went to "all available leather / SM groups, to collect various information on their profile and politics ." The second was sent to member groups of the IGA "to investigate their attitudes toward Leather / SM and ask to what extent there is a visible Leather / SM element in their various organizations." The overall aim: to collect information to decide "if it is possible (or even desirable ) to try and draw the Leather / SM subculture into the Gay Liberation Movement" (by which the IGA means itself).

All this maneuvering appears to have been sparked by a paper by Skip Aiken of the Society of Janus, delivered in 1981 at the IGA conference in Turin, Italy. Stating that leathermen and sadomasochists are frequently excluded or shunned by gay organizations as well as by society at large, Aikens noted that SM is often "equated with rape, violence, fascism, and murder. These myths are fiercely defended by our detractors, perhaps because the myths excite their secret fantasies far more than the following facts about SM," namely that it is by definition consensual, includes people of all sorts, and does not necessarily involve pain, fetishes, or even sex. "SM-identified people," Aikens concluded, "don't want to stay in the closet, or to change chothes before coming out."

The 1981 IGA conference responded with a workshop on "Gays into Leather and SM" that concluded that the biggest problem was not the sex but the leather itself. "A particular problem for the lesbian and gay community arises with visible expressions of sexuality through uniform and leather fetishism… A lot of confusion arises…when people asso-

ciate them with their historical use by social groups promoting violence and aggression." Nonetheless, the IGA called for "a continuing dialogue" on Leather and SM within its ranks.

And so the controversy continued, and continues, through conferences, workshops, plenary sessions and lots of paperwork at IGA meeetings in Turin, Washington, D.C., and Vienna. Why all the fuss? Apparently there are those in power in major gay political organizations , especially member groups of the IGA, who feel offended, embarrassed, or threatened by a visible leather contingent within their ranks. This month, the IGA will be taking up the leather gues-tion once again at its sixth annual conference in Helsinki, Finland, aided-"if we get the questionnaires back in time"—by the results of the Big Survey.

We can hardly wait to hear the results.

FOOT FRAT UPDATE

Foot fetishists take note: Art Muench, formerly head of the Foot Fraternity (pun-ouch!-intended), has stepped down (once you start making puns…) from his position and sends this update:

"There is still some concern as to what has happened to the Foot Fraternity. Many people are concerned that it has 'folded.' I have tried to inform all the members that the group is now being run by a friend of mine in the Midwest, Doug Gaynes. I realize it's not the center of the 'Foot World,' but I know Doug is giving it his all! The new home for the Foot Fraternity is: PO Box 24102, Cleve-land , OH 44124.'

NORWEGIAN NOTE

This word comes from roving reporter and travel writer Tomm Du Puis, known for his inside reports on private gay clubs around the world and especially in Scandinavia:

"The Lyseroddag Club of Oslo, Norway (at the Humla Restaurant, 78 Univer-sitigaten ), is now conducting a fashion show in leather each Wednesday afternoon . The showings feature the designs of Tor and Jarle Flatebo of Bergen, and they are some of the wildest leather togs that I have ever seen. They are modeled by some of Norway's handsomest university students, all in their late teens."

Anyone interested in booking a group flight to Oslo? Wild leather togs we've seen, but seldom wrapped around the kind of models that Du Puis describes. At any rate, it sounds like something sure to make each week's "hump day" memorable for Oslo's leathermen.

LEATHERMEN IN BABYLON

Babilonia, Italy's slickest gay culture magazine, recently devoted a ten-page "dossier" section to the subject of Cuoio & Fantasmi-Leather & Fantasy. Though it was clearly not written for experienced leathermen or longtime SM devotees-the editors found it necessary to start with the bare basics, such as an explanation that the terms S and M started with the Marquis de Sade and the Baron Sacher-Masoch-the special section nevertheless managed to cover a lot of ground in a few pages.

The United States' contribution to the world leather scene was the doiminant theme, with references throughout the series of brief articles to the films of Mar-lon Brando, the Mineshaft, the Chicago Hellfire Club, the classic photography of Robert Mapplethorpe, and the more dubious achievements of the Village People (remember them?) and William Friedkin's Cruising. Americanisms also dominated the magazine's leather / SM vocabulary list, with entries explaining "Cock-ring," "Cowboy," "Fistfucking," "T-Shirt," "Dildo," "Popper," and "Leatherman" (L'uomo in cuoio). Curiously , "Master" remains the same in Italian, but "slave" is schiavo. The popularity of Crisco—"lubricante per il fistfucking"—is demonstrated by the name of the popular Italian "macho bar," The Crisco Club.

The special section also included a DRUMMER 77

fairly comprehensive listing of European leather bars and clubs, and of international leather / SM publications including , of course, Drummer, described as an illustrated leather / macho magazine, "molto conosciuta"—"very famous."

Running throughout Babilonia's leather "dossier," and also gracing the magazine's cover, were photos of James Dean-not particularly thought of as a leatherman in his own country, but apparently (for Italians) the epitome of American machismo. And curiously missing were any photographic examples of Italian leather design-reputedly among the world's best, but perhaps not as classically "macho" as the more aggressive, militant look of Northern 78 DRUMMER

European and American leather design.

Babilonia is published by Babilonia Edizioni, Via Ebro 11, Milan, Italy. Cover price is Lire 3.500; U.S. subscriptions cost $29 per year (ten issues). Each issue, featuring news, interviews, art portfolios, reviews and classified ads (but no nude photo spreads) is 52 pages printed on glossy paper. It's the next best thing to a trip to The Crisco Club.

GOOD OLD DAYS IN NYC

There's nothing like Gay Pride Week to bring out that old leather spirit in New York City-AIDS, etc., notwithstanding. You can tell by the traffic. Postscript from a letter from author T.R. Witomski: "We were all very gay for gay pride weekend.

There were lines to get into the Mine-shaft , and the cabdriver who dropped me off said, 'Looks like the old days.' NY cabdrivers know everything.'

ZEUS GOES TO HELL…

Hellfire Inferno, that is. When Inferno XII, the annual anything-goes gathering of the Chicago Hellfire Club, took place last fall, Mikal Bales of Zeus Studio was there with camera at the ready to capture some of the most intense and imaginative SM / bondage action anywhere on the planet. The result is a 48-page black-and -white magazine with over 80 photos depicting Inferno participants bound, racked, clamped, mummified, shaved, whipped, waxed, strung up, and generally having a good time—a hell of a good time.

It's all here-goings on at the Casa Crisco, the House de Sade, the Tonsorial House and the spectacular Suspension Towers. Curiously missing from the Inferno XII magazine is any explanatory text-but perhaps these pictures do speak louder than words. (Anyone wishing to read about Inferno XII should look up the eyewitness report by Frank Hat-field in Drummer 69, which featured a sampler of the photos now available in Zeus' Inferno XII.)

Inferno XII is available from The Zeus Collection, Box 64250, Los Angeles, CA 90064; cover price is $8.50 (mail orders add $1 for first class shipping—and we've got a feeling you'd better tell them you're over 21.)

THE OTHER SIDE OF SM

We've just had a look at a new publication called The Power Exchange: A Newsleather for Women on the Sexual Fringe—yes, a newletter for women into SM, assembled under the demanding eye of "editrix" Pat Califia. The first issue, dated June 1984, contains 8 pages of advice, poetry, press clips, classifieds and ads. The Power Exchange also publishes an SM Resource List for Women and a "Lesbian Hanky Color Code" (our curiosity is piqued). So, if you've got a sister, or maybe a friend of the female persuasion who's been going to the leather bars with you and just not finding what she's looking for, have her send for a subscription form: The Power Exchange, PO Box 527, Richmond Hill, NY 11418-0527.

SUBMIT!

International Leather Scene is our effort to keep Drummer readers informed about what's going on with leathermen in the U.S., Canada, Europe, Australia, and elsewhere. Have you got an event or inside information we should know about? Submit press releases, announcements, photos, etc.-as early as possible-to International Leather Scene, Drummer, 964 Folsom Street, San Francisco, CA 94107.

IGH CUSTOM

REDHEAD

This 22-year-old slave has blue eyes begging for bondage. Also wants pain, humiliation and forced servitude. Lives in Los Angeles but write him via T.C. Box 1075.

BOTTOM UP

Handsome BB / Gymnast offers his tight buns for anal inspection and punishment . Looking for defined, cut, hard-muscled studs to hand out hard discipline. Send orders (and photo) to this New Yorker via T.C. Box 1076.

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!

DADDY'S BOY

This 22-year-old San Franciscan is looking for bearded, big beer-bellied Daddies , 35-plus, into cigars, leather, bondage, boots and uniforms. He's our T.C. Box 1077.

THE CAPTAIN

When the Captain says jump, you jump! He's 36 years old and knows his alphabet (SM, BD, WS, FF), plus whipping and toilet training. Lives in New York, but gets around. Contact TC Box 1078.

JORG-RAINER'S BACK!

Or rather, his front. We last saw this German blond in Drummer 71, showing an ass that craves FF. The front's just as interesting . See his Drumbeats ad under Nationwide.

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THE KNOT THAT BINDS

My main complaint against bondage films has always been that the tying up takes too long. In Paula's Punishment it all happened between the scenes, which is probably worse, since you got none of the joy of bondage. In most of the Slave and Master Video productions you see every twist of the rope (The Pain Down

Captive Men, Close-Up Productions, 1984; starring Daniel Holt, Bart Sterling, Cane, and The Men of Avitar; features entire cast; color and sound; Beta / VHS; 60 minutes; $90 postpaid ; signed statement required. Close-Up Productions, Box 205, N. Hollywood, CA 91603.

Below, Crime Does Pay, and Down and Dirty perfect examples)-which, if it takes too long, can cut into what else can be done before the cassette runs out. In a previous Close-Up Production, Tightropes , the ropes were just tight enough to hold (a few times not quite tight enough), and the pace quickly packed back up as sex in bondage took over.

Captive Men strikes a fairly responsive chord between instant bondage and too much attention to knot-details. It's 60 percent rope work and 40 percent post-bondage amusements. One segment towards the end features a rope spider web so elaborate it's enough to just see it in action, never mind how it was constructed.

The story follows simple lines, structured to get the two main characters in exactly the right positions for some fancy binding. Daniel Holt and Bart Sterling decide to experiment with a little bondage outside their intense but limited relationship. Daniel takes Bart to Cane, supreme master of the knot, and his group, the Men of Avitar. Rumor has it that this master and his group were not acting.

Once inside Cane's lair, Bart is taken to a predetermined location and introduced , somewhat roughly, to his first elements of bondage. Cane looks more than capable of getting the respect he demands, and Bart, at first with great hesitation , succumbs to both verbal and purely physical instructions.

It isn't difficult to judge Cane's techniques as top-of-the-line, and the camera manages to capture nearly every well-placed knot. It doesn't drag in this case because Cane knows just what he's going to do next and trusses up Bart in near-record time. No jump cuts, no dissolves to more complex knotting, just fast and sure handiwork.

Once completely laced into his new environment, Bart is prey and subject to some enticing and rewarding (for the viewer and Cane) discipline. In short, Cane works this trussed turkey, as well as having one of his gremlins give Bart a good going-over.

Meanwhile, in the aforementioned rope spider web, Daniel is waiting for his reward for having introduced a new treat to Master Cane. Spread out for service, it's Cane cock he is expected to worship, until it, like its master, is fulfilled. Daniel makes the mistake of unloading his own oversized organ on the Master's boots-which he's made to lick clean. Now that's a moment worth waiting for.

Unloading his balls isn't everything for Master Cane. Another slave—one we get the impression has been well broken-in -gets the old clothespin torture, where 999 clothespins are applied to 999 parts of his naked body, then yanked off one at a time. It's enough to make you flinch. Or worse.

Untied and somewhat shaky, Bart is escorted out by Daniel, and much talk of a return engagement is made on all sides.

Technically, superb. The direct video look works extremely well in the claus-trophobic setting of Cane's game room; just enough space for the portable camera to get to all sides of strung-up Bart Sterling. Live sound works well, too. The spoken narrative line is kept simple, the dialogue right on cue with just enough fear in Bart's voice and just enough command in Cane's to make it all seem like video verite.

It's a big gamble to make a video that is obviously geared for a specific part of the

DRUMMER 83

market, and you'd never see such a project this intense from the likes of the major league gay pornmasters. But the real risk-takers are the small companies and independents. That's what makes Close-Up worth watching and Captive Men worth watching now.

BLACK MEAT TO EAT

While Old Reliable already specializes (straight men jacking off), their newest number, VT 22, is pure fetish oriented— 84 DRUMMER five black straight men posing and beating their meat for the camera. It's been done before, to be sure (Black Meat in Heat from Puer Eternus), but never on this grand a scale, and never with such a cold, calculating perspective.

Expect little warmth; these guys are-muscles aside—not your contemporary upwardly mobile blacks, but rather mean meat machines who look like they'd as soon break your arm as bust your balls.

Five men in two hours: almost an over- load. The hands-down winner for sheer size and physical prowess has to go to Ron, the first stud on the tape. Muscle on top of muscle (180 pounds on top of 6 feet), once is not enough for this tower of black heat; he appears a second time outdoors, his churning balls and pumped biceps captured under sweat-producing Southern California sunshine.

Stud number two, Charles, is light-sinned , extremely well-defined, hung like a legend, and the most sensuous (in his own cool, detached way) of the troop

Basic Black (VT 22), Old reliable, 1984; features entire cast; two hours; color and sound; VHS / Beta; $59 (plus $3 postage / handling); signed statement required; brochure availble. Old Reliable, 1626 N. Wilcox, Suite 107, Hollywood , CA 90028. as he lays his muscles back and quietly, but intently, works his meat to orgasm.

Darryl is the roughest of the bunch. Straight from the streets, he looks like he might take the television after he gets off; lean, very lean and hard muscles, mean, downright nasty.

Another tall, muscular frame, Thomas, has veins that stand out like relief carving on a slab of marble. Nice smile, big dick, great physique-still, you'd probably rather see him on your television than across your living room.

Ace (did they save the best for last?) is the youngest and almost the biggest of the brood. At 6 feet, his 170 pounds is all muscle. He does things differently than anyone else on the tape: He goes to bed and pulls his tool. You get the feeling he told the cameraman where to stand, and just how close to get, and got his way. Old Reliable has already announced that Ron will appear in a future wrestling video; pity the poor shit that has to take him on.

Specialized, but completely keeping in line with Old Reliable's philosophy of bringing you the toughest in street punks unrehearsed, uncompromising, unedited. This is much safer than cruising Watts or Harlem and probably a lot more rewarding.

Technically, extremely well done; also in keeping with the advance Old Reliable has made in reproduction. The live sound only makes the experience all the more real.

WET RECTUM

Appreciated, but rare on the market, are enema videos. Once in a while an enema scene pops up (PM's Wet Sports and an episode in Slave & Master's The Terrible Trilogy), but seldom does an enema package surface. Superb by default, Enema Night / Enema Slave fills the bill for a half-hour. Originally shot as films, the transfers to video are standard for the underground market. Each film contains at least one slow-mo stream; both are frantic short subjects that waste no time shoving an enema hose up

someone's willing rectum.

In Enema Slave, the first half of this video, a tall, streamlined young man is led over to a motorcycle parked in a bar and bent over face-down while his captor rips the jeans from his upraised ass. In a flash an enema bag appears and the hose is unceremoniously shoved into the

Enema Nights / Enema Slave, J.B. Supply Ltd., 1984; 30 minutes, color, music soundtrack, features entire cast; VHS only; $64.95 (plus $2.50 postage / handling); signed statement required, brochure available. J.B.'s Supply Ltd., Box 84667, Los Angeles, CA 90072. hairless orifice for which it was intended. It is a gusher that emerges, all over the bike and the floor. The captor drags the enema slave home to an elaborate combination rack-sling-bed with every possible enema device in the world hanging overhead. First one kind of hose, then another, then five or six at once, then the inevitable outward bound stream (the single best shot in this package).

Oh, there's some nipple twisting, some ball-crushing, a few well-directed ass slaps, even an orgasm-but it is the water spout that steals the episode.

Enema Nights, the second half of the tape, starts with two leathermen dragging a dressed, unwilling young twink into their dungeon, strapping him to a rack, ripping off his clothes, and sudsing up his ass for the straight razor. Asshole shaving and enemas go hand in hand in some circles. His first enema is a soapy mixture delivered via an antique-looking contraption that must have come from the enema museum. It does the job; cleaned out and puckered up, he gets a wine enema straight from the jug and a piss-enema straight from the crotch-hose of one of his tormentors. Seemingly sated, the two enema experts make the mistake of letting him loose. He turns on one of them (the bottom of the first story) and, with the cooperation of the other, straps him down to the table and hoses his face with the remains of the piss enema. Like a good bottom, he opens his mouth.

Then things get a little more chummy as the remaining top adminsters dual enemas to both ass-upraised bottoms, plugs each with a dildo, and prepares an even more elaborate hosing.

We get to see one stream in mid-air, but the other is dumped into a toilet bowl (the filmmakers obviously intended for you to see this one as well, but the camera angle is off) amid dual orgasms. End of tape.

What's lacking in technical skills is more than made up in boundless energy and imagination. Give these boys a chance and they'll make a flood of a sequel.

-John W. Rowberry DRUMMER 85

DECONORODE BOOKS

SIR ALFRED, THE SADIST

Two words recur over and over in The Dark Side of Genius, Donald Spoto's brilliant biography of Alfred Hitchcock. The first is found in the title: Genius. The second word: Sadist.

Spoto's biography was published in hardcover last year, to extraordinary praise from literary critics and cineasts alike; it combines an unforgettable portrait of its subject with a comprehensive examination of his films that will change forever the way in which both Hitchcock and his life's work are seen. Now available in paperback (Ballantine Books, 665 pages, $4.95), The Dark Side of Genius is currently casting its shadow over hammocks and beach blankets across America . Along with being a dazzling piece of scholarship, it is also a terrific read-and its popularity must be attributed at least in part to the frank and sometimes shocking, but always compassionate and meticulously argued revelations that Spoto makes about the sexual psychology of Alfred Hitchcock.

Tied up in Hitchcock's personality, and revealed consistently in his work, was a fascination for bondage, rape, strangulation , torture, humiliation, bowel movements , and even necrophilia. As screenwriter Samson Raphaelson put it, "It's obvious that there was some kind of sexual aberration in him, but how operative it was nobody ever knew."

Early on, Hitchcock became known for his practical jokes. Probably the most striking which Spoto recounts in his book involves both his penchant for humiliation and his fascination for uncontrolled bodily functions. "Hitch-cock bet the property man a week's salary that he would be too frightened to spend a whole night chained to a camera in a deserted and darkened studio. The chap heartily agreed to the wager, and at the end of the assigned day, Hitchcock himself clasped the handcuffs and pocketed the key-but not before he offered a generous beaker of brandy, 'the better to ensure a quick and deep sleep' … When they arrived on the set the next morning, they found the poor man angry, weeping, exhausted and humiliated . Hitchcock had laced the brandy with the strongest available laxative, and the victim had, unavoidably, soiled himself and a wide area around his feet and the camera.'

A variation on the same theme occured during the filming of The 39 Steps in 1935. One morning, after Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll were handcuffed together for a scene, Hitch-cock pretended to lose the key and then 86 DRUMMER vanished for the rest of the day. By the time Hitchcock suddenly "found" the key, the actors "were tired, angry, uncomfortable, and acutely embarrassed . But Hitchcock was delighted when the rest of the cast and crew found out about his little trick and were shocked. He wanted to know how many people were discussing the manner in which the humiliated couple had coped with details of a decidedly personal nature.'

"What interests me," Hitchcock himself once said, "is the drama of being handcuffed. There's a special terror, a sort of 'thing' about being tied up, haven't you noticed?" Apparently, for Hitchcock, part of that "thing" was the exposure, vulnerability, and humiliating lack of privacy inherent in bondage, as well as the possibilities for cruelty, intimidation-and fantasy. According to Spoto, the only way for the director to get throught the unhappy filming of

Jamaica Inn in 1939 was "to indulge in his own fantasies at key points in the narrative ; thus he instigated the appaling exaggeration of a sadistic scene in which the deranged Charles Laughton, protesting how much he is in love with Maureen O'Hara, binds and gags her.'

In The Lodger (1927), a detective, promising a wedding band, places handcuffs on the heroine-mimicking a picture on the villain's wall which depicts a woman in bondage tied to a stake for punishment. "Psychologically, of course, the idea of the handcuffs has deeper implications. It's somewhere in the area of fetishism," Hitchcock acknowledged. "and it has a sexual connotation. When I visited the Vice Museum in Paris, I noticed there was considerable evidence of sexual aberrations through restraint.'

Hitchcock was, in fact, fascinated by all manner of "sexual aberration." In the 1950s, after interviewing a prostitute for an aborted film project ("she recounted some rather bizarre stories-sexual sadism and masochism and all sorts of strange specialties"), writer Samuel Taylor reported back to Hitchcock, who "insisted I tell him everything in great detail. He adores all such stories.' including those concerning necrophilia. "Hitch was fascinated by this specialty," Taylor recalled.

But throughout his life, as Spoto clearly details, "Hitchcock was singularly intrigued by the act of strangulation"- especially when coupled with sexual overtones. Murder by strangulation is described, implied, or shown, by Spoto's count, in 17 of Hitchcock's films-most graphically in the shocking rape-strangulation scene in Frenzy (1972), over which Hitchcock labored with intense enthusiasm; advisers on the set talked him into cutting a segment showing saliva dripping from the victim's tongue. As Francois Truffaut observed, Hitchcock filmed scenes of murder as if they were love scenes, and love scenes as if they were murder scenes.

"I always believe in following the advice of the playwright Sardou," Hitch-cock once told the press. "He said, 'Torture the women!'…The trouble today is that we don't torture women enough!" Speaking to a group of Cambridge students , he once suggested that "mass hypnotism would be a nice idea for the theatre of the future. You buy a ticket and choose what character you want to be. If you want to be the villain, you have a good time being the villain, and if you want to be the tortured woman, you can suffer.'

His favorite seems to have been the water torture-not a slow drip, but repeated immersions. In The Skin Game (1931), for a scene involving a young woman's attempted suicide in a garden pool, Hitchcock required actress Phyllis Konstam to be "hurled into the stage-set lily pond no less than ten times." Spoto notes: "For the first of several times in his career, he enjoyed watching while his assistants repeatedly tossed an actress into water." Kim Novak was given the same treatment 16 years later, during the filming of Vertigo. Novak was far from the director's ideal actress, but, as he later recalled, "at least I got the chance to throw her into the water.

More serious was Hitchcock's treatment of his helpless protege Tippi Hed-ron on the set of The Birds in 1962-a week of shooting was needed to capture the very real bird attack on Hedron, as the creatures were repeatedly thrown against her body for hours at a time. Hitchcock's pathetic attempt to seduce Hedron while making his next film, Mar-nie , is the saddest and most startling revelation in Spoto's book.

Like the hypnotized audience he imagined, Hitchcock played out his sexual fantasies on the screen, through fictional surrogates. The Dark Side of Genius is a story of passions repressed and twisted, and of genius in bloom. Sitting in the dark, watching Hitchcock's films and playing witness to his obsessions , will never again be the same.

-Aaron Travis

DECONONOES

ROPE TRICKS

1948: Who would turn down a part in a Hitchcock film? The Hitchcock film. His first, after decades of successful movie-making , with full production control; his first in Technicolor; his chance to try a daring technical experiment by photographing in uninterrupted ten-minute takes which would set the pace in natural time and allow prime acting exposure. There were three major roles—Brandon, Philip and Rupert.

Farley Granger accepted Philip, presumably without a whimper But Cary Grant and Montgomery Clift turned up their respective patrician noses at Rupert and Brandon, for the sake of their reputations , and the parts went to Jimmie Stewart (whose Honest Abe image was so deeply grounded that he could afford to be cast against type) and John Dall (whose reputation never recovered.)

The reasons for the rejections were not publicized at the time and no one spoke aloud of the scandalous relationship inherent in the main characters. The 1984 press materials from Universal still gloss over the subject. While they could have overlooked Vito Russo's synopsis of Rope in his Celluloid Closet ("pretentious homosexual lovers who on a whim murder a former prep school classmate "), they're unlikely to have ignored the one in Spoto's definitive biography, The Dark Side of Genius ("homosexual lovers who murder a friend for the intellectual experience of it"). Thirty-six years after the fact, you'd think a film could be looked at squarely, if not straight on.

Philip and Brandon are not only male pair-bonded, as they say in pop-psych circles, they are long-time SM playmates who had been influenced by a Nietzsche-admiring housemaster, Rupert, in their salad days. The stereotyping of the effete, snobbish, intellectual , idle, wealthy, woman-shy, amoral weakling psychopath is simply the British public school type trans-Atlanticized. Having to hide the body and not declare the act is "like painting a picture and not hanging it"-or having fulfilled a passionate love affair, in a very dark closet. How else to justify a thrill killing? They've gotta be queer, and more.

The Russo and Spoto quotes are not true synopses; they are scene-setters. The (rope) strangling occurs almost on top of the opening credits. The body of the film involves the failure of nerve and conviction on the part of the murderers and their unwitting instructor. The bulk of the action-the extension of the suspense-lies in the presence of the victim's loved ones who have been invited to a party at which the corpse is the unknown guest. Rupert's dawning realization that his preachings have been put into horrible practice puts the final knot in the noose and draws it tight.

The pecking order is, like the camera. in constant motion. Dall's Brandon is the nervy elder, taller and brighter of the two young men, a dangerously amateur "top" who stutters in the presence of his former mentor-not just because he might be found out. He's the one that wants to hide in the dark at the end but was all braggadocio ("Pity we couldn't have it with the curtains open in the bright sunlight") at the start. He dominates only when he's not flustered.

Granger's Philip is a natural (badly trained) bottom, begging for it-in a sense, directing his own torture-without knowing his limits or anyone else's. The final "sir" is only a breath away when he says, "You frightened me. May I have a drink now?" His "artistic temperament" as concert pianist, in contrast to the bookish Rupert and tennis-playing Brandon, allows the power of a true masochist to come through. After cutting his hand badly, he insists on playing , even when Rupert starts up the metronome and increases the tempo in time to a vicious interrogation. He tells barefaced lies and sticks to them. He rebels.

A petty argument ends with Brandon's contemptuous backhand slap across

Philip's face—what follows is what in any other Hitchcock film would be the Big Kiss, clutching each other close-up, Philip's ineffectual open hand trapped between their bodies in surrender.

The opening minutes of Rope are an exercise in erotic tension, a miniature parody of the sex act from psychological foreplay to gasp-and-grunt orgasm, to the post-coital cigarette and demurrer: "Not just yet. Let's stay this way for a minute." As Brandon later describes it: "I don't remember feeling much of anything until his body went limp, and then I knew it was all over. Then, I was marvel- ously exhilarated." The rope itself becomes a sex toy, used again and again to titillate and torture. It's a setup calling for punishment, not for taking a human life, but for the crime of indulging and enjoying sexuality. The sexuality with the heaviest taboos, at that.

The audience is treated, besides being strung up on a thin wire of who's gonna get who next, to incessant insults to accepted conventional behavior; they are disciplined, mentally ragged, humiliated in being forced to observe; laid about with guilty thrills in voyeurism, sexual innuendo and visual parlor tricks without a shred of redeeming social value. Aside from Stewart's questionable curtain speech, the "boys" get away with a hell of a lot.

-Penni Kimmel DRUMMER 87

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5

ST WE TAKE OURSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY, OUR BELOVED RT PAYNE POKES A JAB OR TWO AT LEATHER'S BIG NIGHT. Photography by anybody who happened to be around. ROBERT PAYNE POKES A

(upper right) Just as with Miss America, the Drummer finalists ica, the Drummer finaliss are carefully watched over by a D.I., lovingly referred to as "Mother." He knows who has been bad and who has been good and, probably, who has been great. Prebedtime anti-masturbatory hand binding

(lower right) (lower right)

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