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YOU SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO, BOY, AND FOR THE FIRST MONTH YOUR VOCABULARY CONSISTS OF "YES, SIR!"

HOUSEBOYS ARE MADE AS WELL AS BORN AND ONE WITH A GOOD ATTITUDE CAN BE A JOY FOREVER

Dear Drummer,

I want to thank you (whether or not you know you did it) for finding me a houseboy. He answered my classified ad, sent me a picture and we corresponded for a few weeks as well as kept in close touch by telephone. He wanted to move to the city and we wanted someone to take him over. Finally I told him he could come and he called to announce that he would arrive at the bus station on a Friday afternoon. I sent one of my employees in the truck to pick him up. Since they (nor I) had never seen him, I instructed the kid to put his shoes and socks in his backpack and I would tell the driver to pick up a young fellow standing in front of the bus station barefoot. There couldn't be too many of those. And that is the way he was presented to me about a half hour later.

"Your new boy is here, sir," said my man, and in walked (barefoot) a strapping, darkly handsome Italian type, who stood at my desk with his arms properly held behind his back, looking down.

"Come over here, boy." He came around the desk and stood before me. "Drop 'em." He did and about nine inches of meat stood straight out at me. I had instructed him about a week ago that he was not to beat off until he got here, that I wanted him horny at all times and to show himself just that way. He had followed my instructions beautifully.

"Strip, boy." Off came his shirt and he stepped out of his jeans. Good legs, flat belly, broad shoulders, deep chest with two erect nipples surrounded by a nice pattern of chest hair.

"You think you can be a good houseboy?" "Yes, Sir!"

"I need someone to take care of my house, the cars, to cook and clean and do heavy yard work." I looked him over. With a few months on a strict gym routine, he would be a showpiece, one to keep to oneself except for a tightly controlled debut among a few friends, I vowed.

The excitement of being in the city, the fear of being completely under the control of another man, the thrill of having his longtime fantasy suddenly come true seemed more than he could absorb in such a short time. I told him to get down under my desk and to stay there until I was ready to leave. He did as he was told and, as I worked, he lay his head on my knee and would occasionally lick my hand if I put it anywhere near his face. I glanced down occasionally and noticed his big prick standing at attention. It was hurting him not to be allowed to touch it. He would have to learn whose cock came first, last and always and the highlight of the afternoon was having him sucking my cock while I had a couple of callers sitting across from me talking computers. If I was looking glassy-eyed while they were telling me of the merits of the new IBM compatible hardware, it wasn't due to the sales pitch, which I barely heard. Then the little devil started licking my boot while I was trying to answer the men's questions. He pulled it off along with my sock and started on my foot. He sucked my toes, licked my bare sole and ankle and began up my leg. I kicked him in the groin and he stopped. But I got even very soon. I had had a couple too many cups of coffee during the conference and needed to pee. Guess who was handy and who took every drop.

Finally the afternoon was over and it was time to go home. I took my letter opening scissors and cut the legs off his jeans. His big thighs looked great exposed below the ragged edges of the cutoffs. And that is the way we walked to the car, him following me, stripped to the waist, barelegged and barefoot with a collar around his neck, connected to a leash which I led him by. He carried his backpack, my coat and briefcase. I flipped the door lock. "Get in," I said and he put the armload of items in the back seat, then closed the door.

"Open your fly and let it hang out, boy."

He did as he was told without hesitation. And I noticed that his hands never went near his raging hard cock. A good boy.

We arrived home and he carried everything up the stairs. When he walked in the apartment, he automatically pulled off his cutoffs and handed them to me. I showed him through the place, told him where every-

thing I could think of was. Then I told him to get to work.

He straightened the leftover mess from breakfast, made the beds, put the accumulated clothing away, took the dirty clothes down to the laundry room in the basement (as fast as possible since he was wearing only his collar) and started fixing dinner. I was pleasantly surprised that he did so well in a strange kitchen with such a weird assortment in the refrigerator and in the cupboards. He quietely announced dinner and I came in to eat while he knelt at my feet. I slipped him a bite occasionally, then as I took my coffee, told him he could eat. He fixed himself a plate and continued to kneel at my feet as he devoured it. I stroked the back of his neck and he almost purred. He straightened up the kitchen and dining area and reported back to me in the bedroom. "Get on the bed, boy."

It was time for his nighttime chores. He lay on his back and I told him to draw up his legs and hold them up to give me a good picture of his underside. His buns were tight and firm, his asshole smiled up at me from his upraised rump. I wet my forefinger in his mouth and stuck it in his ass. Tight was the word. Whoever had trained him had taken very good care of that ass. And I intended to do the same.

But there was a lot of hard training to be done, starting with his toilet training for instance. Now, any houseboy worth his salt knows that he doesn't use the toilet seat at any time, but how many are shown the proper way to pee? Usually they don't even use the toilet bowl but are trained to lay in the shower on their backs, legs up the wall of the shower which puts them in the position of looking down the barrel of their own cock as it unloads itself. And being in the shower makes it handy to clean up the mess. It is excellent training and it makes for good character. I recommend it.

As the weekend progressed, the house settled down to a degree of normalcy, although most households don't have a nude young houseboy rattling around in marine shackles; but their noise told me where he was and that he was busy.

It wasn't until that Sunday night that his horniness began to get out of hand. I let him get in bed beside me and, while he certainly knew better than to touch himself, he was lying on his belly, hands tied behind

him. (Maybe that was why he wasn't considering playing with himself.) I noticed he was quietly humping the mattress, rubbing that big hard prick back and forth under him. It took a few well-placed strokes for the belt on his ass to bring the motions to a halt and when I told him to turn over, he was not very quick about it. A stinging blow across his thighs made him obey and I saw the reason. He had shot all over himself and the bed. Whether it was the belt or the bedrubbing that did it, I couldn't say. He slept on the floor that night.

But he has been a welcome addition to my household. He is no more trouble than is my dog or cat, which he takes good care of. He is learning his way around the city now, even if it is only from seeing it from the floor of the truck, or as he walks (runs) barefoot to the market.

He is learning to drive, which will be helpful since I don't really like driving. For long trips it will work out very well. He can do the driving, is handy if I have to pee or if I get horny enroute. Just pull over at a rest stop and put him to good use. I had a leather sheath made to fit his dick, which when laced up keeps it up and out, doesn't allow him to masturbate but doesn't interrupt any other bodily function. He drives with it sticking up and out, like a gearshift.

I may put him in school this fall. A boy should complete his education whether he wants to or not. This boy is going to get his degree and his grades had better

be damned good or he is going to spend a lot of time in the woodshed.

The boy, at twenty-three, is bright and energetic. He is developing beautifully. He has gotten used to being not only nude all the time at home but is getting over being embarrassed being naked in front of other people. He has been taught how to make them welcome and submit to whatever handling they want to do with him as long as it is under my supervision. If a guest wants to "finger" him, as the old slave dealers used to call it, he knows now that he is to stand there and let them check out his balls, his meat and his ass. Nothing goes in that, however, except an occasional finger. But he will bend over and spread for them and stay in that position as long as nobody tells any different.

He is learning a lot too, about cooking and buying and managing a household budget. His own money is put away in trust and he has to account for every penny since he isn't allowed to have access to anything other than buying errands.

Just as if he were in boot camp, his ego has been stripped down to the essentials, now it has become time to train him. If this boy were my own son, I couldn't be more proud of him. To have had as little training as he had when he started, he has successfully put his ego in its proper place and seems to be devoting himself completely to serving and pleasing his man.

My houseboy is becoming a man.

RAPE AS PUNISHMENT:

Random Notes from Different Eras and Different Cultures by Adam Starchild

Homosexual rape as an organized form of punishment is a little talked about phenomenon that has actually been quite common across many centur-ies and many cultures.

Today, it seems conventional wisdom that one is very likely to get raped in a juvenile detention home. But what about the older days, when the traditional punishments were the pillory and the stocks? Everybody has seen pictures of a person standing in the pillory with his head and wrists locked into a wooden bar, or in some models, bent over from the waist, with the head and wrists locked, an even more uncomfortable version than the stand-up model.

But have you stopped to reflect upon the rest of the story?

Today, embarrassment keeps many prisoners from admitting they have been raped, and the problem is compounded when looking at an era when people didn't talk about sexual things much. But there was a conventional wisdom among the youth even then that arrest could mean rape. While little was said amongst the adults, these fears and experiences were typical of the teenagers in many towns. A few were daring enough to leave comments in diaries or pass along stories to their sons.

A typical sentence in the pillory might range from three hours to three days. According to one of my own ancestors, the boys in his town often took advantage of the situation. Particulary common with the stand-up pillory would be smaller boys running by during the day and dropping the pants or their helpless victim, who would be forced to stand exposed in the public square until someone was willing to approach and pull his pants back up for him. Sometimes one of the local "tough guys" would deliberately try to get a few hours in the pillory

Adam Starchild travels the world as president of Minerva Consulting Group, a New York-based international business consulting firm. His negotiations and social contacts with lawyers and foreign government officials often give him access to reports of strange occurances that don't make the official reports. as a way of getting the girls to know "what he had."

But none were so willing to try the stooped pillory. The implications of that were often much more like our modern "jailhouse rape." The bent-over position made one less vulnerable to the young depantsers, but an overnight sentence could leave one much more vulnerable to rape. More than one local boy was known to have asked his friends to stay up and guard him through the night.

Since the victim could be approached anonymously from the rear, an unpopular boy, or a particularly attractive one, could be raped several times during the night. More than one young man was willing to take the minimal risk of getting caught at a sneak rape during the night.

A boy with enemies might well find himself the victim of a gang rape, if the local boys disliked him enough that they didn't mind their friends knowing they had been involved. Since the victim could be blindfolded from behind, these gang scenes sometimes included being forced to take it by mouth as well. This was considered even more humiliating than anal rape. The local boys didn't think of it as homosexuality; it was simply sex, and there was no stigma of homosexuality attached to the rapist.

If the victim was particularly unpopular , he might be left with his pants down after the rape, which was pretty much a signal to the townspeople entering the square in the morning that he had been raped-and added considerably to the humiliation. Bad enough being raped in a modern jail cell, but imagine everybody in your community knowing it and seeing your bare ass the morning after! During a three-day sentence, it might also be an invitation to more attacks, since a few who might have hesitated at first wouldn't mind taking advantage of someone they perceived as having already been "used."

While such activities were pretty much confined to the local teenagers taking advantage of each other, sometimes an unpopular older man would become the victim. And God help the man arrested for indiscretion with the farmer's daughter-the farmer might well decide to come to town and let the man service him as well, especially if he didn't think the sentence was harsh enough.

The tradition of rape as punishment in Turkey and the Arab countries goes back many centuries. Captured soldiers were frequently raped during The Crusades, although strictly speaking this wasn't orgnized rape as a form of punishment. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, when the British were present in large numbers throughout the Arab countries and Turkey , rape was quite common. There is a story repeated in some reports that alleges that Lawrence of Arabia was raped, and one reference in one of his diaries that vaguely confirms the existence of a rape, without confirming the details. The most elaborate story is that after capture he was brought before the sultan, who raped him before his court, and then allowed the palace guards to take turns raping him while the sultan watched. When they were done, he was allegedly then turned over to the slaves to have their "fun." Whether or not this actually happened to Lawrence, the pattern is known to be true.

In all of the Middle Eastern countries, rape was the accepted form of punishment for a man caught in the harem-usually by turning him over to the slaves to rape.

But avid readers of history books may not realize that the pattern of deliberate rape as punishment still exists. In the early 1970s there was much publicity in the British press about the condititons in Turkish prisons, because a number of young Brits were being arrested in Turkey on drug smuggling charges, and a lengthy sentence given to a 14-year-old British boy (who later escaped) fueled the publicity even more. To try to calm the fears of the British public, the Turks invited a British Broadcasting Corporation television crew to film a Turkish prison to show how modern and humane it was. The British were still using solitary confinement with bread and water as a punishment for infractions of prison rules in British prisons, and the Turkish warden interviewed made much of the fact that Turkey didn't follow this "barbaric " practice. They showed a picture of

Since the victim could be blindfolded from behind, these gang scenes sometimes included being forced to take it by mouth as well. This was considered even more humiliating than anal rape.

a young prisoner, lying in bed reading a book, with one ankle attached by a four-foot chain to the frame of his bed. The explanation was that he was on restrictions for the day as punishment for an infraction of the rules, and that the only punishment was being restricted to his bed in this way so that he could not go out to the exercise yard when the dorm was opened for the day. They emphasized that the punishment was only for one day.

Later, I had the opportunity to meet a young Turk in London who had seen the program, and who had been in a Turkish prison. He laughed and said, "they really suckered the British people with that story." He explained that the whole point of the punishment wasn't restriction from the exercise yard, but rather that the prisoner was tied down so that he could be raped in turn by all of the men in the cellblock. In the course of the day he might be raped as many as 50 or 60 times. The punishment was simply a modern version of the traditional Turkish rape.

On our side of the Atlantic, the government of one of the larger Caribbean islands had an organized rape scheme operating on American prisoners arrested on drug charges. The particular government is no longer in power, but the scheme operated for several years. In this case, rape was definitely part of the punishment, but not the real motive for the scheme, which was designed to raise revenue for the government.

The young American caught taking his load of marijuana out of the country would first go to a local jail. The government would quickly check out the financial strength of the family, and pre-trial communications were prohibited by law. Bail would always be denied, and the victim would be transferred from the police jail to the prison. In each case they would make sure that there was one white prisoner to each overcrowded cell of 20 or 25 local black prisoners, and the inevitable multiple rapes would occur.

By the time the trial came up, the court would impose a high fine and deportation , but always a fine within the financial reach of the family. The first communication between prisoner and family was allowed at this time, since the prisoner was no longer awaiting trial. Naturally, he would be thoroughly horrified at the multiple rapes, and beg the family to pay the fine and get him home as quickly as possible. (If the fine wasn't paid within a few weeks, the government would usually deport the prisoner anyway, as they didn't want to waste money on keeping them.)

One high police official even remarked privately that the government DRUMMER 19

MALE RAPE: On the Rise

From clinical reports, stories that make the rounds of hospitals, and comments from gay rights groups, professionals know that men are rape victims. However , they also know that statistics about this issue are almost impossible to obtain since men are unlikely to report that they were raped. "Men are afraid or ashamed to report that they were raped," comments one rape crisis center staffer. "We are very limited in what we know.'

Knowledge may be limited, but male rape is not without fact or incident. Many professionals indicate that men may be at the same point women were ten years ago on the subject of rape-more assertive , willing to talk, and beginning to realize that the victim is not the criminal.

Most centers have no hard-core statistics , although many are now conducting surveys on the subject. All admit that they see male victims, from children 20 DRUMMER through middle age and crossing all sociological boundaries. One staffer in the Deep South admitted to seeing ten cases in four months, while another reports three to four cases a month. Most admit reporting it is on the rise, but reserve judgment as to the increase in actual instances of male rape. The San Francisco Trauma Center reports a 4% increase in a two-year period. (There have also been cases of men sexually assaulted by women). In New York City, there were no hard statistics, although one center has two males on staff to counsel victims—one homosexual and the other heterosexual. The victims are given a choice of counselors.

From all indications, the aggressors appear to be identified as heterosexual men, although sex in not the issue in rape. "The aggressor, it appears to me, thinks the most humiliating way you can degrade a man is to demand him sexually . It is a question of power, not sex," commented one staff director. (The same comment is also frequently made about rapes in prison.)

There have aslo been instances of homosexual rape (where both aggressor and victim are gay) reported, but all were quick to point out that those instances were miniscule. Several gay rights organizations around the country found the subject of rape a very serious issue among gays.

A major difference of female vs. male rape is that instances tend to involve two or more aggressors. But similar to female rape victims, most victims are selected "off the street," where they are isolated. Generally, men do not report the incident unless they have been physically injured-and it tends to be that men are both physically and sexually abused. Men are more "roughed up," as one counselor put it. Reports of child molestation are more frequent. Parents usually bring them in.

had hired a psychologist to determine the optimum holding period before trial, and that he decided on three weeks as being enough to insure multiple rapes and a feeling of horror. The psychologist recommended not allowing a longer holding period, because after three weeks a feeling of acceptance and resignation would begin to set in, and the victims had to be at the peak of distress when they met their families in court. This same police official remarked that the provision of a white prisoner to rape was also considered to be a reward in the prison, and that they hadn't had a riot since starting the scheme.

Rapes in American prisons are usually not such a formal means of punishment, although the statement is often made that prison administrators do use the

A lawsuit by a prisoner in a county jail in Tennessee a few years ago did allege an organized rape. This prisoner, a very small white boy from Wisconsin, claimed that after being rowdy he was taken out of the main cellblock and placed in a restricted cell with four black prisoners who were awaiting trial on charges of having raped two other prisoners in the jail. He says that he was left in the cell for several days until he was raped, and then placed back in the main cellblock.

A different horror story was told by another small white prisoner in another southern state, after he was sentenced to a roadwork gang for a traffic violation in the late 1960s. In his lawsuit, he said that on the first night he was placed in the middle of the chain of prisoners, all of whom were black. During the night he was fondled by the prisoners on each side of him, but nothing else happened. The next morning the trustee supervising the roadwork approached him and started telling him that he knew how horrible it must be to be in the middle with all those smelly bodies around him and the fear of assault. The trustee told him that if he would sign his $5 jail pay for the week over to him, he would get the guard to move him to the end of the chain that afternoon.

He was moved to the end of the chain as promised, but that night learned how he had been tricked when he discovered that by being on the end the prisoners could all move down the line and rape him one by one, while in the middle he could only be reached by the prisoners on either side of him. During his multiple rape by the other nine prisoners, the guard sat by the campfire holding his shotgun and laughing.

In the last few years there has been a trend in over a dozen states to pass what are called "shock parole" laws. The object of these laws is that the judge sentences a first offender to a long sentence in the state prison, and then brings them back to court unexpectedly sometime within the first sixty days, and commutes the sentence to a long-term parole instead. In theory this parole is supposed to come as a complete surprise , and the shock of seeing prison first-hand is supposed to reform the person's behavior.

One must wonder, however, if this isn't a subtle form of the coming of organized rape as punishment in America . The judge must be very aware that sending a young first offender to a state prison for a few weeks almost guarantees that he will be raped.

From a preventative viewpoint, there is probably nothing one can do to avoid being raped in a situation where organized rape is being used as a form of punishment . Survival is more a question of the proper mental attitude. The American cultural hang-up on the horrors of homosexuality and male rape makes Americans psychologically more vulner- able than men in many other cultures. Of course it is a horrible experience, but if one can avoid getting a psychological hang-up about losing masculinity, the physical aspects of the situation, barring serious damage, are transitory, after all. Having a penis (or even many penises) stuck up your ass for a while still isn't as bad as being beaten up, having a broken jaw and / or broken ribs, having one's face cut, or any of the other horrible things that could happen to a prisoner in such a situation. The scars and horrors of rape are much more in one's own mind, and having a positive attitude about the situation is the first line of defense.

During the Vietnam war there was an incident at the Naval Training Center that was reported in Time magazine, about a drill instructor who was court-martialed for being abusive to his trainees . Amongst the charges were forcing the recruits to eat live lizards, and forced oral sodomy. Truly a horrible experience, and one that a recruit shouldn't have to go through. But some years later I met a Vietnam veteran who had such an experience in his training, and later was a prisoner of war. He said that, although the forced oral sodomy by his instructor had been the worst experience of his life at the time it happened , he silently thanked his D.I. for it when he was a prisoner and was forced into just such a situation. With the initial shock of having a penis shoved in his mouth out of the way, he was mentally prepared for the experience as a prisoner . Although in great fear, he said he was able to detach himself from the incident while it was happening and think to himself "I know I can handle this." He wasn't gay, and these were the only homosexual experiences he had ever had, but he didn't come out of it with a hang-up.

In dealing with an increase in reports of male rape, many centers were conducting surveys on the subject, compiling data and information, seeking funds to add male staffers to handle victims, and addressing the subject in their printed matter, public service announcements and outreach work. And some centers, founded during the "women's movement," have or are changing their names-typically by dropping women from their titles.

Leaders of the gay community in Atlanta have joined forces with the Grady Rape Crisis Center at Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta to pressure the city to allocate funds for public service announcements (PSAs) that address the subject of male rape. They are also seeking funds to establish a position for a male counselor to deal with this problem . Mr. Frank Scheuren of Dignity Atlanta, a gay rights organization, acted on the issue following the gang-style rape of a young homosexual man who had sought medical care at the emergency room of a private hospital and met with an unempathetic response. "The kid had been badly beaten and abused by his drug-induced roommate and several of the latter's friends," said Scheuren, "and when he went to the hospital (not Grady) their attitude was that all homosexuals are into SM and drugs and that the victim got what he deserved.

"We (the gay community in Atlanta) realized that there was no awareness of the issue of male rape or even a place where men who have been raped could go," Scheuren said. That led Scheuren to a meeting with Peg Ziegler, director of the Grady Rape Crisis Center. The largest and most successful rape crisis center in that sun-belt city, Grady is funded by both the hospital and the city, has five staff members-all female. "We have male volunteers," said Ziegler, "but no male staffers." Jointly, the Grady Rape Crisis Center and Dignity Atlanta are asking the City for funds to add a male counselor an Grady. Scheuren had volunteered his services in the interim. The center also hopes to re-do and / or add PSAs so that men in the community know that they can be helped "as soon as we can find the money," Ziegler told us.

(Although the commonly used term "rape" has been used in this article, the term "sexual assault" has been used by some professionals to define "those sexual encounters in which a man or boy has been forced to participate involuntarily in undesired sexual activity under threat of physical violence or while physically restrained." They do not use the term rape because this term is generally associated with women. Eleven states plus the District of Columbia still have statutory rape laws which define the crime only in terms of a man and woman.)

—Peter J. Cipollini DRUMMER 21

ROBERT PAYNE

22 DRUMMER

I wasn't exactly a ninety-seven pound weakling, but I wasn't cover material for "Strength and Health" either. A friend of mine was telling me about a new gym that, according to him, really made you work and they guaranteed the results. The latter part appealed to him but the earlier part didn't. He liked to sit around the gym he belonged to (when he went) and cruise and shoot the shit with the other clones. I used to go with him there but I didn't seem to accomplish very much. The guys bored me and the instructor was so full of attitude I couldn't stomach it. I even tried a straight gym but that was a whole different ball of wax. So I kept toned up by playing handball at the 'Y' and working out a little at home when I was in the mood. However, making yourself work out on, a regular basis, all by yourself at home takes more will power and discipline than I could scrape up. It was like dieting.

So I don't know what made me go by The Gym (that's all the name it had) and check it out. It wasn't easy to find and I certainly didn't happen to be in the neighborhood. I seldom hit South of Market before midnight and here I was strolling down Folsom midafternoon. I found the place and went up the stairs to where I could hear the metallic clank of the weights and the heavy puffing. But one thing I heard very little of was conversation . No laughing, certainly no giggling , and no yelling across the place. I walked in and looked around, first at the guys, naturally, then at the place. The guys were wearing jockstraps and that was all. And they were working like their lives depended on it. But in the center of the big room stood the reason. A big guy, well over six feet tall, in shorts and a t-shirt that said "I AM IN CHARGE HERE" with a look that said the very same thing.

Now, in many gyms you can wander in and if you look like you know why you are there, or even if you don't, nobody will bother you. His dark eyes spotted me immediately and he just said, "Yes?", which sounded more like a statement than a question. I approached him and started to say something, anything, when he turned to a somewhat overweight guy who was doing pushups.

"Ten more times, '58', ten more times and you can shower."

The guy didn't look like he could do it one more time but he certainly was giving it the old college try. He hesitated and the yardstick The Man had in his hand popped the guy on his bare rump. There was a lot more enthusiasm for the rest of the ten. The Man then gave me his undivided attention.

"Yes?", he asked / said again.

I had had no intention of working out at gyms again and was somewhat startled to hear myself blurt out, "I want to work out."

"Why?" he asked, without a trace of

emotion.

I started to say, "Because I want to, asshole," but that didn't sound like an answer one would give to this man. So I went into how I needed to redistribute some weight and thought I would feel better. That seemed to satisfy him, at least he didn't challenge it. He told me to come into the office. Who could say no to this guy?

"Strip," he said simply, and strip I did. My body isn't bad, not bad at all. In fact there have been times I get admiring glances here and there. But in front of this stud, I felt like the illustration of the guy that gets sand kicked in his face.

"Turn around." I did, desperately hoping he hadn't noticed that my prick seemed to have a mind of its own. He started measuring me and writing everything on a chart on his clipboard. If he was going to measure my cock, I hoped he waited until it got where it seemed to be going. He ran his hand over my back and asked me why I was broken out there.

"Diet and sun," he said and there was no further discussion.

He measured my thighs and calves and I noticed he didn't indicate any written change in their shape like he did on my upper body.

'Couple of inches on your shoulders, three on your chest, inch and a half on your biceps-you'll lose a couple of inches on your waist. The top of you needs to match the lower half." I guess that was a compliment, at least for my legs. "You ready to start now?"

I wasn't, but I was sure it was a little test. Sort of like when you are hired for a job and they tell you to go to work and you tell them you have to do some personal things first. Right away they can tell what kind of employee you are going to be. So I said, "Yes," then added, "Sir," for some unexplainable reason. He nodded and handed me a jockstrap.

"Here is your uniform. You will report three days a week and will work out for a full two hours. If you don't live up to our expectations, we will refund the balance of your money and send you home.'

Here I hadn't even paid for my membership and he was talking about drumming me out of the corps. Suddenly I wanted to live up to what this man expected of me and what I instinctly knew he could do for and with me. I started to ask "where I changed," and realized that was silly. I was buck naked. He had seen everything there was to see. I pulled on the jock and padded out to the main room. He went with me and stuck with me like a mustard plaster. Together we went through the exercises with me doing the work, of course. He noticed immediately when I faked it or when I wasn't really straining. By the time the session was over I had little red stripes all over most of me and I felt limp as a rag.

"That was good for a light breaking in," he said. "We'll really get down to business day after tomorrow." I went to the showers.

But instead I stuck it out and every week or so I'd get a new chart with either heavier weights or more repetitions. The results were beginning to show. My pants were too big and my shirts were getting too small.

That wasn't the only result. I was beginning to attract attention. I was standing at the bar one Saturday evening and up walks someone I had admired from afar for a long, long time. He is an older guy, at least a lot older than me. Wears his keys on the left of his leather pants and his well defined torso is thinly disguised by a straining t-shirt.

"You're looking good, boy. Where you been keeping yourself?"

"Working my ass off at The Gym," I thought to myself. But I said something vague about being around. I smiled my sweetest and most innocent without actually fluttering my eyelashes and said in my deepest voice, "You're looking

But later I broke down and told him about The Gym and how effective it had been in my young life. As we stood and talked, he reached over and began unbuttoning my shirt. He opened it and looked at my exposed chest. I wouldn't have complained if he had stripped me right there on the spot.

The long and short of it was that he took me home and then he did strip me. He looked me over, not unlike The Man In Charge had done, felt my flanks, my back, my legs and shoulders and, of course, my ass. Then he took me off to the bedroom. I have never been the same since.

I live in his house now and I wear just about what I wore that night, which is nothing. He works me hard out in the back yard and in the basement. I get punished and / or rewarded in the garage.

But the biggest change in events was my new friend's going to The Gym and taling to The Man In Charge. It must border on competition class because I now work out every day, upper body one day, lower body the next. I may have been happy with my legs but it was decided they needed improving. Now, it doesn't matter, I guess, that none of my clothes fit me since I very seldom wear any. I am beginning to be pretty big. Even my leather collar had to be let out a couple of notches.

The Man In Charge knows my status, of course, but it really isn't too different from the one I enjoy at the gym. I do as I am told and I do it good, fast and complete . So far I have lived up to their guarantee of how much I was going to gain or lose within a certain time. So The Gym has never had to refund any money to my master, which is just as well since I would get it at both ends that way.

The two of them are casually talking about entering me into some light competition . I have no way of knowing how I would do, but I know I had better do well or there will be hell to pay.

At one point my master asked The Man if he thought I should be switched to a more high-powered gym if I was to be entered in some serious body building. The decision ended being no, obviously, since I am still working out half days every day at The Gym. I go home to do my chores and by nightfall I can hardly move around but that doesn't affect the demands of my master on me at night.

He says I need to conserve my energy so I haven't been allowed to come since I can't remember when. In spite of my tiredness, I get awfully horny sometimes but in all truth I don't miss that morning jack off session. I am more concerned about my master's cock and his being satisfied. Mine seems to be always hard but I haven't had any wet dreams for quite a while. I guess I am using up all my energies with the workouts and the hard work.

My shoulders are really broad and I have the pecs of death. You wouldn't believe my belly or even my legs that I used to be so proud of. They, by my old standards, are awesome. My arms are about like my legs used to be. My lats are as wide as my shoulders were and, while I can't credit The Gym with my nipples, you should see them. My master has taken a special interest in them. I think back on my old existence and I seemed only half alive. Two guys somehow came into my life and I will never be what I was before. But maybe the biggest change is in my attitude. I could walk into most bars and take my pick of anything standing around. There are plenty of guys wanting even a master and, looking at myself in the mirror (which I do occasionally ), I could even fit the bill physically . But that is not my schtick, I know what I am and I want to be the very best I can to please the two guys I owe it all to.

Every once in a while The Man In Charge seems to almost have a smile on his face when he takes my measurements and puts them down on the charts. He is undoubtedly proud of himself and probably proud of me. It makes me sort of glow inside and I want to get down on my fucking knees and lick his tennis shoes.

My master made me take everything off to show his friends how I was developing . I did a few poses that The Man had showed me and I guess they were impressed. At least my master seemed pleased.

So here I am, on the threshold of being a competition body builder to please the man in my life. If The Gym is looking for a testimonial, baby, they've got it.

DRUMSTICKS

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

ECSTASY & STRENGTH by Tim Barrus

Illustration: Tom of Finland

He was a black man. A virgin. His eyes were the eyes of ecstasy. His muscles were the muscles of strength. He was a virgin. He was pitch beautiful black. Black as seduction. His eyes begged me to fuck him. But he was a virgin. His blackness satiated my torment. His blackness was as black as New York on another captivated night of dark, ravished indulgence. Eyes as black as grievance. He begged me to fuck him. Ecstasy. I held him like a child in the palm of my hand. Strength…

I no longer go to the Mineshaft for sex. I no longer believe in sex. The things I have learned to believe in at the Mineshaft have nothing to do with sex. Nothing to do with seduction. Fuck sex. The chagrin of rapture. I believe in amusement. I believe in luxury. I believe in the luxury of sucking on a tongue after it has just licked the bottom of my boot. I do not believe in sex

Mineshaft. A reign of painless felicitous prepossession. Amusement. I go to the Mineshaft for the fascination of being fascinated. It is an outburst of raving delirium to be fascinated with anything whatsoever. It is the last place left on earth with the capacity to satiate me. Allure. And I am indulged with its ecstatic ability to ultimately amuse my gnawing boredom with life. Strength.

Of course I met him at the Mineshaft. Where else? Black. Yes, it was definitely the first thing that attracted me, although "attracted" is the wrong word. I am no longer attracted to

I would find it ecstatically delicious if some full-leathered bastard would shove a nauseatingly unendurable full-leathered fist up this little boy's eager black hole… anything, I was intrigued. Amused. He was luxuriously black. He was out of his element. He smiled at me. No one smiles at the Mineshaft. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to say, "You are in the wrong place. What are you doing here?" But I said nothing because that which does not know its place, that which does not fit, is what inevitably interests me the most. I would find it ecstatically delicious if some full-leathered bastard would shove a nauseatingly unendurable full-leathered fist up this little boy's eager black hole…or gag it down his throat. Leather and intrigue.

His black eyes wanted me to fuck him. "Do you come here

'I cannot fuck you," I said, "I no longer believe in sex."

"What?" he asked.

"But I'd be glad to watch someone else fuck you. I'm sure that there are many men here who would do it.

He just stared at me. I had broken the rules. And he needed time to consider what to do, what to say next. He now knew that he was in a place that either had no rules or else had its own set of unrelieved conciliations. Or both. Small talk was mournfully useless. He looked around the room. He stared at my leather.

"I like leather," I said.

"Are you gay?" he asked. He was serious. It was a question I had not been asked in some time. Years. Decades. Now I was the one who stared. "No," I said.

"Everyone in here looks gay," he said.

"Some of us are simply bored. We are bored. If you are bored you can't be gay. You can be 'gay,' but you can't be, you know, gay. I am too bored to be gay.

"Would you like to fuck me?"

"No. I'm too bored to fuck anyone. You need someone gay to fuck you. Have you ever been fucked before?"

"Not really," he said.

I was intrigued. In my world you had either been fucked or you hadn't. And in my world everyone had been fucked. Twice.

"What do you mean…not really…"

"Well, not really. But I've been around, you know. I'm in here, aren't 1?"

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Old enough."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I am old enough. Me. I'm not sure what you are yet, but whatever it is, it isn't old enough. Not yet. You are very pretty. I'm sure there are a thousand men in here who'd give up a weekend with Boy George to fuck you. I am too old to fuck anyone. Don't ask me to fuck you.'

"Fuck me."

"No. I don't fuck eighteen-year-olds. Virgins. There is nothing more boring in life than a virgin.'

"You sound like another jaded New York faggot."

"Do tell."

"Fuck me."

"No. You have to beg for it, and you wouldn't know how to beg for it."

And his eyes begged for it. His coal-black eyes ruefully exacted a commitment from me that I did not want to give. I do

"I have a young black hole that'd just suck your white cock into it, man." I just looked at him coldly as he talked about his ache, We all have aches. I was bored with ache. New York is soaked in ache. So many men with ache have licked down the smooth stink of my accumulated leather that my leather smells like a mixture of ache, plague, and cum. I no longer believe in ache. I believe in luxury and satiation. I believe in plague and cum. I do not believe in little boys, black, beautiful, or otherwise . I believe in the Mineshaft. I am very New York.

I just turned away from him and left him standing there. I was bored. I was not going to fuck him. Not if he had begged for hours. He didn't know the meaning of the word. Beg. Ecstasy.

Beg. Strength.

I left the Mineshaft. It was cold out on Washington Street. It is always cold out on Washington Street. I walked toward Cristopher . The sun was rising and sending the tiresome message of its disheartened day like a quitely bewailed lament. Day is always a bowl of cheer on Washington Street. In the pit of my stomach I knew I was being followed. I could sense it. I did not turn around to look. Fuck him. I wanted a cup of coffee.

The coffee shop was full of last night's pretty-boys trying to summon up the caffeined energy to find a cab, go home with whomever they were with, and finally get themselves fucked. The coffee shop was fevered with the thick blueish smoke from a thousand cigarettes. He sat down beside me. He was very beautiful.

"Fuck me."

"I don't fuck virgins."

"Fuck me."

"No."

I ordered a cup of coffee. One cup of coffee. One. He did not go away. What I wanted were four black russians. What I had was a very strong cup of coffee. He sat there and just looked at me. I lit a cigarette. I just looked back at him. I finished my coffee. I left. It was cold. I could see my breath.

"Why are you following me?"

"Where do you live?"

"In an apartment. Go away."

"Fuck me."

"No."

We came to my building. It looks like two million other buildings in New York. Everything after a while in Manhattan looks the same. I let myself into the building with my key. He just stood there in the cold, kind of jumping up and down for warmth, his hands in his pockets, his breath looking like smoke in the cold. He was very beautiful. He mouthed the words fuck me through the glass. I mouthed the word no back.

I woke up at exactly noon. One tends to wake oneself when one's doorbell rings incessantly. I looked through the ridiculous little peek hole on the door. Shit. It was him. He was standing there with a bag of something and what looked to be

two cups of coffee.

"Good morning," he said. "I thought you might be hungry by now." And we ended up sitting at my kitchen table, which was cluttered with empty beer cans, filled ashtrays, and books, eating pastry and waking up. "Fuck me," he said.

"No."

"I could really get into doing it with you."

"No."

"You don't like me, do you?"

"I think that you're very beautiful. And very young. Very young. Too young. Why don't you just sit on my couch over there and jerk off? I'll watch you. Now, won't that be a thrill?"

"And you'll watch?"

"I'll watch. Now, won't that make you feel better?"

"Can I have something of yours?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"Anything that would have your smell." I found him an old jockstrap. I no longer believe in jockstraps.

So I sat there and watched. Yes, it was a very big cock. And, yes, it was quite black. Very dark meat. An immense head. He'd pulled his jeans down to his knees. I wasn't sure I was going to allow that, but what the hell. And, yes, he put the stinking jockstrap to his face and lips while he jerked his big meat until he moaned out a rabid stream of thick jiz. A black little rectum peeked out from inside his crack but I had seen it all before. It didn't take him too long. He didn't waste too much of my time. Two cigarettes. "Fuck me," he begged as he started to come. "No.

I made him leave then. Her looked as if he could seriously start complicating my life. I didn't need any complications. I didn't need any relationships. I didn't need anything or anyone. Fuck it. I let him cock himself off. I watched. Okay. It was over. Goodbye. Get the fuck out.

That was when the letters started coming. One, sometimes two every day. Long letters. Letters describing in great detail how badly he wanted me to fuck his black shit hole. I was unimpressed.

"Oh, daddy. I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you to drop a wad of your precious sperm down my black throat." Etcetera. Etcetera. It was all very drool. And very boring . I stopped even opening the letters. I'd just chuck them. I no longer believe in sex. I believed in boredom and only boredom.

And then it came. It was simply a small package wrapped in brown paper. It was marked "fragile." I opened it. There was no return address. It was a bottle. I just kept it on the table looking at it for some time. A bottle filled with dark red blood. Suddenly I was somewhat interested. Beg.

I opened it. It smelled like blood. I put my finger into it, just touching the tip of the finger with the thick red mixture. I put the wetness to my tongue. Blood. Beg.

He sent me his blood. I was intrigued. I was amused. I had his address. I would find him.

In all of the time I have lived in Manhattan I had never been to the Bronx. Not once. It is much too far away from the Mineshaft. But he lived in the Bronx and I was going to find his ass. His black ass. There's a lot of black ass in the Bronx.

My cab traveled up Broadway to 225th. At a light an old fat lady with extremely bright orange hair crossed the street and almost fell on her face at the curb in what looked to be a drug induced haze. The Bronx is the center of charm in the universe. Everyone should move to the Bronx. The building he lived in almost looked to be abandoned. The top floor windows were all broken. I waited across the street in a side alley. I knew that he would have to emerge. The time of fun and game was over. It took him two packs of cigarettes.

He came out of the building at dusk. It was definitely him. He looked like he might be heading down toward the subway. He passed by the alley I was standing in, and I yelled out, "Hey, you." He peered into the darkness of the alley and smiled.

"Is that you?" He asked. I was so bored with innocence…his innocence…any innocence…Ecstasy.

The rape didn't take long. I came more quickly than I had expected. Maybe because it was a rape. They say that rape is an act of violence, that it is not ultimately sex, and they, whoever they are, must know what they are talking about. Of course it wasn't quite what he'd had in mind. He thought that we'd just end up all cuddly in my bed or something. He thought that I'd fuck him and tell him how much I loved him. That we'd disenchant our sperm into the other's bowels…that's what he meant when he said that he wanted me to fuck him. Kiss. Kiss. He did not mean that he ever wanted some strong bastard dressed in leather to push his black face into the cold concrete of an alley in the Bronx while his shit hole was stretched and soured with a storm of alleviated resignation. Rape. Ecstasy. Strength, Sperm, I fucked his black hole. It was that simple. And, ultimately, if rape is anything it is simple. I could feel the warm wetness in his rectum which had to be blood. I put my face down to his ripped asshole and tasted his ass-blood. Yes, it was, indeed, the same blood I had tasted in the bottle. Beg. Well, he had begged. He had gotten what he had begged for. Ecstasy

I left him there in the alley, face down. I was through. I had gotten what I had come for. As I walked away I could hear him softly crying. Bronx tears. Fuck him. I told him I did not believe in sex. I believe in rape. Strength.

I stopped hearing from him. I didn't expect to hear from him.

"Oh, daddy. I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you to drop a wad of your precious sperm down my black throat."

And I certainly didn't make any contact. I no longer believe in contact. I believe in the Mineshaft. Everyone should move to the Mineshaft. Fuck the Bronx. The amusement of the malcontent . Soreness. A thousand shit holes a night begging to be eaten. At the Mineshaft I am always able to find one kind of amusement or another. Ecstasy.

One particularly luded night I found the black man they were all fisting to be most amusing. I think that perhaps I didn't recognize him because of the piercings. When I knew him he had had nothing pierced. But now his cock held out a golden ring of sexual defiance through its piss slit with galling sexual rage. The rings through his agonized black tits were pulled on by an all too discontented leathered animal who brought the black beast's lips to his. Ravished. I didn't realize it was him. Not until he asked the animal who was sucking on his lips to fuck him. Then I knew.

"Get up." "What?"

"I said get out of the sling."

"Is that you?"

I turned to the man who wanted to fuck him. "He's with me." And the man left.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, man? He was going to fuck me."

"Get dressed. You're coming with me."

"Where are we going?"

"My place. I'm taking you home now."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Shut up."

And I took him home to fuck him. I fucked him gently. Passionately. Slowly. He was no longer young. And I wanted him. Captivated black turbulence. One flushed frantic black asshole. He did not rip. A furor of sperm. His blackness was provocative. Wild. Pierced. Muscled. The animal was mine. Ecstasy.

Preliminaries

In our introductory correspondence, when the cowboy first used the term, it turned me off. Boot slave. Hell, I craved boots, leather and bondage-even rigid bondage-but somehow I preferred the image of "prisoner " or "convict," not slave. The gay connotation of "slave" was, well, too slavish to suit me. Homosexual slaves, it seemed, served their masters voluntarily, wimp-ishly , without genuine compulsion. Conversely, prisoners and convicts pulled time involuntarily. Strong and defiant in their chains, they were victims dignified under duress. I would never be his boot slave.

But then I met him, and from his cowboy hat to his levi jacket, to the black leather pants on his long lanky legs and the pointed two-tone boots on his feet, he stunned and impressed me. He was "cowboy," and his shit-kickers somehow accented the whole. Blond hair, a win- ning smile and friendly manner completed the package. In previous months, our torrid fantasy correspondence had already made us nearly intimate, but I was not prepared for the deep, almost instant feelings that seeing him in leather and flesh produced. Here was a man I could love. Worship?

The few days that followed cemented these initial sensations. Though he was slow to accept me in the role, I found I wanted to soothe him, and serve him in many ways-wanted to hold and massage his lean, firm body, to see him in his leathers. I enjoyed the role of taking off his boots (especially his tall aromatic engineers) whenever he changed outfits. Got a rush one morning when he spread-eagled me to his bed, and stood on my chest in those elegant towering oil-tanned black beauties.

A bootmaker by trade, the cowboy had acquired over the years a huge collection of boots. Footgear of all descriptions filled closets throughout the house and in the dark basement-cowboy styles, engineers, lineman and police types. He almost seemed to live for his boots and for the attention others might give them.

The night before I left, we shared a relaxed evening at the local spa, and I slowly disrobed him before we went to the pool-a subordinate rite, lingering long at easing off the engineers. Later that night, before retiring, I asked him to let me take them off again—nothing slow or ritualistic this time, just a simple gesture by one friend to another. He had hoped I would do that, he said, and seemed touched by the simple act. Off his long legs, the boots were warm, and smelled friendly.

We parted the next morning, and I fought my emotions . I wanted him soulfully-had invited him to live with me. But slave? Would any man in his right mind consent to such denigration in any permanent sense?

But then I mused upon several analogies—the way women self-effacingly slough off their name to take on their husband's; the exchange of rings symbolizing mutual possession (the "ties that bind"). Idealistically speaking, don't all people in love give fully and freely of themselves to each other-in one way or another? In the ferment of my emotions, "slave" and "spouse" and "lover" became jumbled terms. Besides, I did crave bondage . Permanent bondage with a man I loved seemed less and less bizarre.

Commitment

I am now a boot slave-his boot slave. Much later, after months of sharing and evolving, I finally and apprehensively consented to that role, but only on one condition: The arrangement must be made irreversible—I would in fact be his prisoner , under his literal physical control at all times, unable to renege on the deal. Proud to the end, I knew I could not live a

In searing pain, I moaned and reflexively struggled against the ropes and gag. He hugged me-told me I now wore his initials. life of subordination, even to one I loved, if I had to humble myself daily, hourly, voluntarily-like a sniveling peon.

Instead, I chose to submit once, for good—dramatically, with dignity. I would surrender my body and gain a partner. In a solemn and private ceremony, performed at the remote mountain cabin we'd selected for my prison, the cowboy vowed to possess me totally but inflict no permanent physical damage, to love me, to sustain and comfort me in my bonded discomfort, and—to prevent escape. In turn, I vowed to accept him unconditionally as my keeper and bondmaster, to honor and cherish him—soul and body—to make his environment one of warmth and ease, and to forgive any occasional wanton cruelties on his part. I did not vow to obey him; he would have to restrain me to exact that constant behavior. Nor did I vow never to attempt escape; that would have made restraints superfluous, silly. I would be his boot slave, but only if he saw to the fact—carefully 50.

Yes, we exchanged wedding bands, but not your usual adornments. After I knelt and kissed his tall, spurred cowboy boots, I fastened two light boot chains round each ankle—and 30 DRUMMER kissed them (not for the last time). The bootmaster then lifted from the floor a wide, heavy iron belt, which was connected to the back by a long chain leading to a ceiling beam. He gently but firmly clasped the cold band round my waist, closed it as snugly as possible on my muscular midriff, then aligned the six small holes where the two bars overlapped at the front. I was ready to be riveted into the belt. He reached for the hammer, and picked up the rivets—puny devices, I thought, to guarantee lifetime bondage-to irrevocably bind a relationship. Then he turned the gaze of his friendly water-blue eyes on me, and asked once more if I were truly prepared to become his unconditional possession. I said nothing, but knelt again and kissed his boots and boot chains. Whereupon he kept me to the floor by roughly propping one of his boots on my neck, his spur scraping my chest, as he hammered the rivets into the belt-quickly , solidly, with authority-like an expert blacksmith. The metallic sound was conclusively final, good to the ear. The cowboy's boot and sense of weight and power felt good on the neck. Done, he lifted his boot, knelt and inspected his work, then filed down the head of one rivet that protruded too much. Done again, he smiled broadly—almost devilishly—and helped me to my feet, my new belt chain clanking. He slapped my leathered ass hard, and wise-cracked, "Boot slave, how do you like it?" I liked it-especially the way he slapped my ass.

Later that night, after many drinks, he consummated our vows and ceremony, and confirmed my new status, in a way unanticipated by myself. First, he bound me firmly, hand, foot and torso, then blindfolded me. I heard him building a fire at the cabin's hearth. Minutes passed, and he plied me with more libations, and soothed me with touches. Then, suddenly, he gagged me tightly and without warning branded me on the shoulder. In searing pain, I moaned and reflexively struggled against the ropes and gag. He hugged me-reassured me-told me I now wore his initials. After a few moments, he released the gag, kissed me, held me, said he loved me, said I'd make a good boot slave, said he'd make a good bootmaster.

Seven Years

It's dawn at the cabin where our partnership was consummated some seven years ago, and here I am, still wearing that tight belly-belt. My leathered, iron-belted torso lies spread-eagled onto a large bed piled high with used boots—cowboy boots, engineer boots, logger boots, tall boots, short boots, clean and dusty boots, black, brown and tan boots-you name it. The rawhide securing my outstretched arms and booted feet is pulled tight, so those boot heels beneath my muscular frame made for uncomfortable sleeping during the night. But damn if the aroma ain't great, musky, smelly, oily, from all the guys who've molded the shitkickers. No real shit left on these "bed boots" though; the bootmaster likes his boot slave better than that.

Before he left last night, after our usual late intimacies, he prodded my nose with his own tall cowboy boots-let me bite the toes, taste the leather. Then he smiled his handsome, angular smile, took the boots off and rested their tops over my nose for better inhaling of that exciting, musky, sweaty odor. Then he tied them both round my neck, a cradle for the head. Thus, during this long night, of all the tough boots near me, under me, his I smelled and savored first and most. I thought of him, as the boot leather creaked when I strained to shift position slightly, tried to get more comfortable. He also left another 'personal memento" for my sake—one of those boot chains I fastened to his ankle seven years ago, now adapted as a bit for my mouth, cinched tight and padlocked at the back of my heard. All this: standard operating procedure by the bootmas-ter for his prisoner.

Any minute now, his lanky frame will amble through the door, his body fully leathered like mine, his legs and feet encased and swaggering in brawny footgear-probably tall cowboy types again, with clanking spurs. He'll saunter to my bed, and playfully roll the spurs over my chest before kissing my ear, then easing out my bit-his bit-kissing my lips, giving me

water. Sometimes, if unhurried and particularly affectionate, he'll hand-feed me breakfast, while leaving me spread. Then he'll massage my muscles, untie my hands and rub the wrists where the bonds have bitten pretty deeply, kiss the indentations , or bite them softly. When my hands are fully free, I'll hug him even before my legs are released—ask him never to let me go

A damn stupid remark, that—considering the rivets, belt and long chain. I haven't left this comfortable cabin for nearly 3000 days now. Boot slave that I am, I spend my days servicing the broken-down brogans that come to the cowboy at his boot shop in town. Got all the necessary equipment here to re-sole, stitch and repair all the boots west of the Mississippi. More than anything, I dig just cleaning up the fuckers—shining the dress types with pungent waxes, working to a mellow polish; oiling and waterproofing the work boots with earthier-smelling liquids , renewing them for more sweaty work by lusty guys. Nearly every day, the bootman throws a couple dozen new prizes my way, and every day I refurbish them. Occasionally I foul up, or get sullen and lazy, and get a whipping for recompense. But that's happened only six or seven times in all these years. I'm too damn good at my work-I like my work. And despite appearances, the cowboy's no sadist. He's both bootmaster and soul brother.

No sadist maybe, but damn if he don't crave heavy bondage—just like his prisoner. After breakfast, I'll pull on the boots he's picked out for me that day, then he typically clamps huge heavy shackles on each ankle-stops to admire the shackled result, rubs the leather, maybe smells and licks them a little, then yanks the connecting strand to keep me off balance, literally. Often, he'll continue by threading a heavy additional chain from one boot up through a hasp on the side of my iron belt, on up to my neck, which he'll encircle two times if he's feeling ordinary—three times if he's feeling horny—then down my chest through a hasp on the opposite side of the belt on down my leg to the second boot. He'll padlock the ends of the chain to both boot irons, of course, and then fastens the biggest padlock of all to the loops of neck chain-staring at me happily as he forcefully pushes in the shackle, leaving me a huge, ponderous pendant dangling down on my jacket. One whimsical day, he laughed as he chiselled my initials onto the padlock—B.S.

On those spunky days when he loops that third ring round my neck, he'll usually add manacles for my hands too—or even handcuffs (ever try shining boots with cuffed hands?). Occasionally , he'll load down one or both ankles with 50-pound balls and chains, to slow my day down considerably. When he's finished, he always slaps my ass, tells me I'm looking good, tells me to work that good ass off during the day, or he'll find his dusty whip. Yep, the cowboy's a heavy metal man.

On those days when the morning dawns softly, when our breakfast talk has been especially warm or raunchy, when he's feeling really aggressive, macho and lusty, that's when he hauls out the "heaviest metal" of all-a massive iron head cage, complete with detachable metal bit-gag. He always kisses me slowly and meaningfully before he locks it , roughly, on my neck, then forces in the bit, and locks it too. The weight of the cage tortures on my already chained neck, and the bit-gag chafes my tongue and mouth cruelly. But this boot slave still manages to do his good day's work with the old dusty, dirty boots. Seems I'm happiest in that cage, really. Wearing it shows we're still soul brothers, the main man and me. Still exploring and developing.

On "light metal" days, the cowboy might leave me free except for the belt and ceiling chain. Or frequently he'll content himself with locking his boot chain bit back into my mouth, so that all day long I'll be grinding my teeth on my "wedding gift" to him, thinking of him and his smelly boots as I work at my bench. Give me long enough, and some fine year I just might bite the damn thing all the way through—either that, or wear my teeth down instead.

At the end of each day, I line up all the boots I've cleaned and repaired for inspection, stand at attention and salute when the bootmaster makes his grand entrance, stomping heavily in his own brogans of the day. He struts and grins in his easy masculine way, gives a perfunctory look at my consistently good work, maybe facetiously complains about a blotch in the polish here or there, then comes close and wraps me his his creaking leather-jacketed chest-two leathermen enhancing each other—and asks how the day has gone. If I'm locked into a bit, out she comes so I can answer—and kiss him. Then comes lots of touching, and—usually—removal of any "heavy metal." Then supper.

After supper is my most relaxed time. If the cowboy's busy, I'm almost always left free to read, watch TV, listen to music. Often, we share the full evening together, sometimes in company with reliable friends selectively invited to our rustic retreat-small parties, really. I serve the beer and snacks, but

The weight of the cage tortures on my already chained neck, and the bit-gag chafes my tongue and mouth cruelly. more like a co-host who happens to wear an iron belt than like a slave. Sure, the cowboy sometimes trusses or chains me up for the benefit of the onlookers—maybe for hours—but even then he brags on me, shows me off, shows no disrespect. And he lets none other touch me-not ever.

My favorite times are poker nights. A gambling boot slave? Yes sir. The boss pays me a modest piece-rate for my labors, so I always have a little "boot money" put aside-mainly for gambling , but also for personal items such as replacing the levis he frequently knives through in order to get to my ready rump when he's really horny and in a hurry. Sometimes, when the cowboy's strapped for cash but obviously has a good hand, I urge him to raise the ante with my body—release me if I win. "No deal," he grunts. Other times, when my pot's gone, I try to raise the ante by promising my body to him sexually in some particular way. No deal there either, naturally. And he'll pull my belt chain to emphasize the point one more time.

There are bad times, too. The cabin has windows which afford serene views of the distant mountains. I miss the out-of-doors , and often get depressed for that reason, especially when

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my waist. Then he led me hobbling out of my cabin prison of seven years, moving slowly across the corral to an adjacent barn. There he escorted me down a long narrow stair, turned, made a proud masculine bow, waved a jacketed arm grandiloquently , and invited me to step through a cell door into a small dungeon.

The room was dimly illuminated by one small window near the high ceiling, and the floor was strewn with straw and dozens of old musty boots-"a fitting mattress for my favorite boot slave," commented the cowboy approvingly, sincerely. Moving with dispatch, he took the end of my shortened belt chain and spot-welded it to a large ring bolt in the floor. Visibly excited, he turned his gaze on my bound figure, massaged my pinioned arms, already sore, rubbed my rump and crotch softly, and told me he'd always wanted to bring me to this special place and keep me here. We'd already made bondage history together, but now we'd explore the outermost limits. He promised to maintain his vows of partnership, still keep me in good health, comfort me in my bonded discomfort.

I was able to say nothing. I was excited as well as terrified. Instinctively, I knelt and kissed his boots and boot chains. In response, he lifted me, tongued my ear, gagged me with his boot chain-bit, tied his old pair of tall engineers round my neck, closed and locked the massive solid iron door, and left.

I was horribly alone in a new, permanent home. The same leatherman who, long ago, refused to become a boot slave—his boot slave-had come a long way.

Though he never exactly announced it, it became clear after a week or so that the bootmaster not only intended to keep me forever chained to the floor of this new home, but rigidly restrained as well. My gloved hands stayed in their wide manacles , secured high at the back below my collar; my bit-gag stayed tightly in place, day and night. Sometimes he left my shackled legs otherwise "free" so that I could, with effort, stand and walk a few metallic paces around the ring bolt. Other times, the main man clapped rigid bar-irons on my boots, keeping my ankles constantly one foot apart, and preventing any movement except a labored crawl. Other times, he hogtied my leg irons to my hands and neck, the tightest position of all. No, I'd never escape-my friend had kept that portion of his seven-year old vows for certain. I had become a hopelessly immobilized black figure, always "resting" on the floor of boots, always smelling the good old leather—cinched fast and waiting for my soul brother.

He visited his boot slave twice a day, mornings and evenings. Appropriately enough, as an unvarying first act, he released my mouth bit so I could lick and smell his boots for long, sensuous intervals-intervals that often developed further, much further, and made this helpless slave all the more eager to hear the bootman's boots on those narrow stairs each half-day. Once every two or three days, he released my arms from their manacles for a half-hour or so-for some painful stretching, flexing, push-ups, and gentle massaging of my biceps. But then he'd lock them tight at my back again, sometimes fastening the connecting chain-links even higher to the collar than ever-reducing the "slack," as he'd say, chuckling. Food and water I managed to eat, or lap, from floor bowls positioned between his booted foot so he could watch from high above, maybe guiding my head with one of his boots. The ultimate progression to ultimate bondage.

Or so I then thought.

In every situation, there are-there must be-compensations . The cowboy always smiled when he entered my dungeon, bragged on my endurance, admired my bound physique and leathers, fondled me affectionately, rubbed my aching and still-powerful but now impotent muscles, applied salve to the sores developing from my permanent fetters, lingered with me often, propping his boots on my encumbered torso while shooting the shit about the day's events outside my dungeon world. And, as always, he not infrequently made love to me-returning favor for favor. I was the greatest, he said, and I believed him.

One day this "ultimate bondage" reached its outermost limits . For reasons never explained, the bootmaster sent his new slave to feed me-a handsome young man, pleasant enough, but obviously one of those serfs who obey without compulsion (he dragged no iron). The peon could have abused me, and this vulnerability angered and disgusted me. I refused his food. When the cowboy next visited and released my bit, I cursed him for his betrayal of trust. In return, he instantly lashed my bound body with his wide belt, then punished me further by forcing a leather hood over my head-the type with detachable gag, air holes for the nose, but no eye openings. He laced and locked it so tight at the back it gave me an immediate headache. I'd wear it for a week, he promised harshly as he jerked on the laces. Though punished, I took satisfaction in that fact that his sniveling lackey came no more.

Chalk up one victory for this otherwise helpless boot slave,

He would now complete the envelopment, and encase me forever in sensuous black hide from head to toe. but one won at a very high price. For during my week of punishment, my erstwhile soul brother grew to like his boot slave in that somber, painfully tight black helmet. Apparently, my wearing it dehumanized me in his sight, made him feel more comfortable coming to my cell daily, seeing nothing but smooth glistening ebony from head to toe, my leather creaking, the chains clanking, but otherwise nothing but a quiet, robotlike object licking his boots or lapping water from the bowl between his legs. He had put me in hoods before, of course, but never in this conducive dark-world dungeon setting of ultimate bondage. Hooded, my eyes no longer connected with his, no longer softened him with love. The hood was a fateful catalyst for our final step in our long voyage together.

When the punishment week ended, he removed the hood as promised, applied eye-drops to my caked lids, held me somewhat tenderly by the shoulders as we sat on the floor. He smiled his incomparable smile, apologized for sending his new slave to feed me, and then added that he had bad news. In the leather hood, I turned him on—compulsively, obsessively—made him yearn for his morning and evening visits here, made him more

than ever want my tongue, reaching out from that mysterious black helmet, to service his dick daily, while he rubbed my smooth leathered head with his hands. Every night for the past week he'd tossed in his bed, nearly sleepless, consumed not only by these thoughts, but even more by the powerful and compelling idea of locking the hood on my head forever. I was already permanently enclosed in heavy leather from shackled neck to shackled boots. He would now complete the envelopment , and encase me forever in sensuous black hide from head to toe. And one thing more: To complete the metamorphosis from man to object, I was never to speak to him again, even when ungagged. He told me all this in a warm, friendly fashion, still holding me by the shoulder, and looking me straight in the eyes, wistfully. When done, he added softly, "Please forgive me."

A poignant picture—two buddies and lovers of long standing , both booted and garbed in sexy leathers, both in their physical prime, one full of life and in total command, asking his counterpart, bound or shackled hand, foot, waist and neck, for forgiveness. Not permission, Forgiveness, I searched his blue eyes for what I recognized would be the last time, fought my impulse to beg; also fought the impulse to forgive. I could not forgive. Nor could I hate, not even now. Instead, I shifted forward slightly from my seated position, my leather creaking and my neck chains making metallic sounds, and I brushed his neck lightly with my lips.

Dignity under duress? You bet your boots.

After my mute, ambiguous gesture, the cowboy's eyes momentarily mirrored a deep sadness. He stroked my hair fondly one more time, nuzzled my ear with his tongue one more time, fixed his watery blue eyes on mine one more time. The last thing I saw was the quickening glint of triumph in those blue eyes as he slowly and dramatically pulled the hood back down over my head-the final step. Then he laced it tighter than hell, padlocked it, bragged to me he'd lose the key, yanked my collar chain to the floor, kicked by bound ass hard. stood on me-and joyously proclaimed that I was the best damn boot slave ever—his perfect possession. Then he knelt by me, grabbed my crotch, opened my zipper, quickly helped me share the ecstasy of his triumphal moment. As he brought me to climax and maybe understanding, I felt him unloading his powerful driving force on my boots-my shackled boots. Spent, he then slowly hog-tied those shackled boots to my arms, put the gag into the hooded head of his slave, kicked me again, then clanged the cell door shut emphatically.

From that point forth, my world would be one not only of immobility but also darkness. Deprived of sight, speech and nearly all movement, I had, in essence, re-entered the womb. The only continuing sense remaining to me was that of smell through the small air holes which barely permitted me to breathe. In a short time, I learned to hone that precious skill to the point where I could, without difficulty, detect one pair of sweaty dungeon-floor boots from another. Even when my legs were hog-tied or otherwise heavily restrained (as they usually were, now that I was safely hooded and depersonalized), I managed to squirm around the dungeon a little, sniffing the boots, imagining how they felt to the touch, imagining how they'd look on the handsome guys who once wore them. I'd crawl as far as my belt chain permitted—that umbilical cord in this tomb and womb of darkness and constriction. A boot slave smelling boots on his narrow dungeon floor. Yes, this was ultimate bondage. A spectator viewing the scene from high above might well have imagined a smooth, dark, metallic-banded embryo, struggling spastically, worm-like, to find some elusive food within his uterine environment.

Can I long survive this tiny world of limitations? Can blind, mute and paralyzed men still live and love? When the bootmas-ter visits, I can still savor his resonant voice, still lick and lust after his aromatic boots, his leather chaps, his dick. Still get hard when he rams his member up my rump. Still relax to the many softnesses of his touches and massages. Does he still smile at me?

My sister watches with pained expression. Then he wants to fuck me. He laughs when it hurts. Things are no longer erotic. I escape, running slowly. The police arrest him. But even in the police car, he is very powerful. He tries to crush the chest of a policewoman. We have to drive very fast to get to the police station before she dies. He sneers at me as they take him to jail. I go back to his house, expecting to find my sister a bloodied corpse. But she is alive…

September 30:

I'm at a party with friends. Mostly gay, but there are also some rough hoodlum types. The hustlers are saying they'll go to bed with us for $2.50, but they'll kill us, "slide that knife right in" for 50¢.

I decide it's time to leave.

October 3:

Nazis enter a trailer that I am hiding in with some friends. We sneak out as they're putting bombs in it. When they come out, we hide behind some Volkswagens. The head Nazi sees me, but a look in his eyes makes me think he won't tell. He seems to like me. I was wrong. The others march off and the trailer explodes into flame. He attaches me somehow by my tooth to his car and drives off. I'm hanging on. He takes me into the woods with three other Nazis to "do a heavy scene." I hope he will let me go afterwards, but I am terrified he is going to kill me. He keeps saying, "I'm a very mean guy." Suddenly members of the resistance appear and shoot arrows through the throats of the Nazis.

October 4:

I'm wearing a plaid shirt and hitchhiking. A man in a jeep stops to pick me up, asks me if I like to suck. We part and smoke a joint. Three old ladies sit nearby. The police come; so we throw bags of pot out the window and drive away. He doesn't seem upset to lose so much pot.

Now there's three of us. The driver is talking about age. He's young and age matters a lot to him. We get out of the car and find a dark corner to have sex in. The driver has his dick out, pushes my head down on it roughly. Nice dick, just the kind I like to suck. I suck him for a long time, but quietly. He pushes me away roughly to keep from coming. I start to suck the other one, but he's paranoid because we're so close to a house. The driver doesn't seem to be paranoid about anything.

October 5:

In a hospital. Some kind of fight is going on between a blond Japanese and a fat guy. I think it's very funny, like an Abbott and Costello movie. But finally I step in and talk to the Japanese guy. His honor has been hurt. I tell him that in America we sue for money. This does not strike him as being particularly satisfying, but he says he will consider it. Then he fucks me. Then we're all in bed and several women also. Very peaceful and ideal.

November 9:

I'm with a group of guys exploring an old farm, stealing old David Carpenter books. One guy keeps flirting with me, wants me to fuck him. Then the dynamic changes and I'm sucking his big dick. He's tall and skinny.

November 10:

Racing in a big black car, 90 mph, with the police chasing us. We escape. Then get on peacock feather motorcycles and drive off. Wake up. It was a dream. I am in the back seat of a car. A straight man had the same dream. I am falling asleep on his shoulder. The dream seems to come true. We are smuggling something, but the people we are smuggling it to don't come to pick it up.

Meanwhile, one of our agents is being tortured. He jumps in the water to escape, but they have fed him pills that make him glow, so they can see and shoot him. They attack us, but we surprise them. Tie them up. I am playing with a straight man's ass. Make him suck me.

40 DRUMMER

Actually, he wants to …

November 11:

A man in a box, a hole cut out for his face and a hole cut out below. He asks me if I still like to suck big dicks. I say yes and he puts his dick through the hole below. It is huge. Funny, because he is so short. I get on it immediately. Then he comes out of the box and grabs me by the back of my hair and forces me down on his dick.

November 12:

Watching bodybuilders. First on TV, but then it's real. One little one drops his pants and shows his cock on TV. Then one with a HUGE caricature cock is revealed. They keep covering him up, but it's so big the covers fall off. He just grins. I get closer and closer. The bodybuilders know I am watching. They like it and are friendly to me.

November 15:

I meet two lovers walking down the street-Michael and Bart. Somehow I end up with Bart. Then we're in a car looking

I'm in jail in San Françisco. The cop who arrested me sits down beside me. He is utterly beautiful … he comes up behind me and presses his cock against my ass, mock-fucking me. for Michael. He refuses to get in the car. "Is he angry?" I ask Bart. Bart sighs and nods yes. "Well, why don't I get out?" I say. knowing it's jealousy over me. Bart says no, wants to be with me. We begin to kiss, very gently, very romantic. I kneel before him reverently. He unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. I look at it a long time before beginning to kiss it. At first I suck very softly and moan. Then harder, beginning to growl with passion, going crazy on his dick.

November 17:

I'm at some kind of camp, but I don't like it. While exploring I find a house with a man and his little boy. The man is gay, but divorced. We sit on a blanket while the man rolls a joint. I feel very peaceful and welcome there. The man keeps talking about how crazy he is about sex, how he can never get enough.

Sometimes he was an old man, sometimes in his thirties, and other times in his early twenties. I thought we were going to have sex and was wondering if the little boy was going ot be part of it.

Then a whole bunch of people showed up and were all sitting around making faggoty conversation about their last trip to Key West, the new bar that just opened, or how expensive something they had bought was. I felt rejected and alienated from it all. Then I noticed a path leading to the beach. The little boy and I left them to go play on the beach. We took off our clothes, rolled a ball back and forth, spashed in the water. The father got up from his friends to watch us, fondly I think. I call in sick to the

camp and they expel me. But I am welcome to stay with the man and his little boy, I think.

November 24:

In a 7-Eleven store, but can't get waited on so I leave. Now I can't find my car anywhere. I walk into a dark alley. There's a black man pissing. I stop to watch. He asks if I want to suck him. I say yes and he touches my lips with his cock. A second black man sees this and smiles knowlingly.

Later, a long-haired boy asks me to come visit him. I say I will. They he asks if I like to suck dick. I say, "Uh-huh!" very enthusiastically . He lights up, says "All right!" while grabbing his crotch.

I must be dreaming about sex so much because I'm not getting any…

December 12:

Went to a friend's house and sucked him off in front of two women who were also having sex.

January 9:

My first boyfriend is out of prison. We embrace briefly. I take him into my room and lock the door, put him on the couch and kneel in front of him. Gaze worshipfully at his fat cock, suck it down. Soon I've got the whole thing in my mouth. I reach up to play with his tits, not sure if he will like that. He groans and pushes his meat into my mouth again.

January 13:

I'm in jail in San Francisco. The cop who arrested me sits down beside me. He is utterly beautiful. We talk. I want to ask him if I can call him when I get out. I say I'm sorry to be in jail, but I didn't think I did anything wrong. I don't think it's automatically wrong when you break the law. He asks me to call him when I get out. I'm excited. He's sitting very close to me on the sofa. When I tell him how attracted to him I am, he gets up and says maybe he can get me out of going to jail. I feel a little guilty as if I'm using sex to manipulate him, but I'm not really.

I stand up at a table trying to fill out an application, but the words keep changing. Meanwhile, the cop is on the phone, apparently not having much luck in getting me released. Then he comes up behind me and presses his cock against my ass, mock-fucking me. I'm real uptight about doing this in front of so many people and pull away from him. I tell him I'm afraid that if I can't get out, word will get around in prison that I'm gay. He says he can't negate my sentence, but he can sneak me out a back door. He says my absence won't be noticed until tomorrow . We go to my place and pack my things.

"Where will I live now?" I ask.

"At my place," he tells me.

January 31:

I am in the back seat of a car with a friend. The two guys in the front start having sex. This gets my friend hot; and he starts humping me. At first I'm real turned-on, but then I notice a Metro bus behind us and people watching. My friend dominantly commands me to wiggle my ass, move it up and down over his hard crotch. He's going to fuck me, but we have our clothes on. I'll start to get into it and then get self-conscious again about the bus. I'm leaning over the car seat with his hard cock at my ass.

Then we're in my apartment. The other two guys are fucking in earnest, using my lubricant. Suddenly four winos appear demanding their bottle of wine back. I hand it to them; and they sniff it suspiciously, as if they think we were putting it up our asses. "Goddam faggots," one of them mutters. They really look down on us. I escort them out the door. One comes back in; but my friend throws him out. Then he takes off his pants and I notice he has a HUGE hard-on. I go down on him and he comes fast. At first I can't even get much of it in my mouth, he's so big, But I finally do. We lay in each other's arms.

Feels like home:

THROBBING ACTION AS AVE MEETS HIS MASTER

HULE

A slow day at the bookstore turns into an afternoon of slavery and submission when Scott ("The Biggest Dick in San Francisco") more than meets his match in super-hung superdominant Ed Wiley! The blistering text by Robert Payne matches the explicit action, photographed on location at the notorious Folsom Gulch. Get on your knees and order it today

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Mr. Townsend, Sir:

I have this small problem. I'm a real Daddy's boy. As a youngster I always fan-tasized about older men and my father's friends, so I know it's my place. The problem is, whenever I meet a hot "Dad," I always end up Top. I'm 19 years, about 5'11", a pretty stocky build and I've been told I'm very handsome that I carry myself well for someone my age. According to Drummer articles I'm a blue collar man (auto painter), so I always learn something new from your great mag. I plan on going to Southern California this summer to look for work and to live, and hopefully find a tough, hard-ass , hairy Dad who knows his place on Top. Where do they hang out?

R.R., AZ

Dear R. R.,

Boy, you guys sure know how to ask the difficult questions! You can't get into a California bar until you're 21, but you probably wouldn't find your Daddy there, anyway…except that you might meet someone, who would introduce you to someone, etc. There are a number of leather clubs and bike clubs which have meetings, runs, etc., again with a 21 year age rule (all of them, to the best of my knowledge). So, now I've told you where you can't go. Your best bet is probably to frequent places with lots of gay patrons, such as stores and restaurants in West Hollywood, Silverlake, etc. Try to make friends with some other young guys, first, and go from there. Once you get settled with a place to live, a job, and some routine to your life it becomes a matter of encountering the right guy. No one can tell you where you're apt to find him, or when. You merely increase the odds in your favor by meeting more people and cultivating more friendships.

Dear Larry,

You've answered travel questions for other guys, so I'd like to ask if you've ever heard of "The Heath" in London? Is it a bar, or a private club? If the latter, is it SM-leather, and how does a guy get recommended for membership? From the little I've heard, it sounds real hot!

Jake, Detroit

Dear Jake,

You must be referring to Hampstead Heath, which is neither a bar nor club. It is a large (800 acre) wooded park in northwest London. It has long been a very popular cruising ground, with all types, all sizes and shapes to be found. The action can get quite heavy from time to time, depending on who happens to meet whom. It is also somewhat dangerous , because the place is so big and so dark it is easy pickings for the local punks. Police patrols are a less potent threat, but you have to be on the lookout for them, as well. The biggest problem in getting to and from the Heath is the irritating English custom of shutting down all public transportation by midnight. Especially on a weekend night (the busiest , naturally) you really should rent a car unless you want to stay until the first trams start up in the morning. You'd also be well advised to look over the lay of the land in daylight, preferably with a native guide to show you which areas to frequent.

Dear Larry,

I just read an article in the August Mandate called "Macho Delusions," that says some pretty dumb things about Drummer and quotes you several times. The guy seems to be trying to put down leather and SM and everything to do with it, but at the same time he claims to be into the scene himself. In case you haven't seen this bullshit, I'm sending you my copy, torn out of their mag, because I'll never want to refer to it. I'd like to see your response, Sir, as I'm sure you could flush this guy away.

H. C., Baltimore

Dear H. C.,

I don't know that there is too much to flush away in this article. It reminds me a bit of something you might see in the

National Enquirer—big headlines promising a grand expose, but little of substance in the copy. The main point Rutledge seems to be making has to do with the elitist attitude on the part of many leatherguys. He claims it's become "that dreaded social phenomenon-a lifestyle." Then he wanders off on several other tangents, never explaining what's wrong with a lifestyle, and generally hedging each subsequent statement until the sharp edge is gone. There follows a series of half-baked references to self-righteousness, reincarnated Nazis, and out-of-context quotes from Luke Daniels, John Preston, Yours Truly, etc. I would try to answer this, but I couldn't find a thread of logic leading to any justifiable conclusion. The article does a good enough job of disproving itself that no one else needs to try. I think, as lea-therguys , we have developed a certain sense of community; and because there have been so many new adherents over the past few years, many outsiders may perceive us as threatening. Why a guy who claims to be into leather should respond this way, I really don't know. Maybe he's as confused as his article.

Dear Larry,

Though Pat Califia and I have had our disagreements in the past, I agree totally with her letter in your column in Drummer 74. It has always been a mystery to me why some gay male SM bars will not admit a woman who by her appearance and demeanor shows her understanding of the SM scene, but will admit a disco boy in Lacoste shirt and Jordache jeans who is coming to the bar as if to view the inhabitants in a human zoo. Women such as Ms. Califia have more right to be in the Mineshaft and similar establishments than many of the guys there. I know I have more in common with an SM-minded woman than with a vanilla man. In SM, gender (like sexual preference or age) is of secondary importance. I think anyone who is seriously into SM would agree that SMers have found something incredible, something that enriches all aspects of life. Let not gay male SMers discriminate against people, men or women, who are into other phases of SM (straight, lesbian, etc.). We all can learn much from each other.

T.R.W., NJ

Dear T.R.,

Your point is well taken, but I'm sure it will stir up a male chauvinist or two. This is a subject on which we'll never achieve a consensus, but it's always interesting to savor the arguments pro and con.

(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.)

42 DRUMMER

Th but dian In ei bette

LEATHER GYM BAG

Not at all like those dinky little bags you usually see at the gym. Eureka Leather's roomy all- leather gym bag doubles as a carry-on for those weekend excursions, or a toy chest for the heavy-duty player. Superb streamlined styling and very masculine looks. In black only.

7995

LEATHER RUNNING SHORTS

Eureka Leather designed these form-fitting leather shorts with the jogger in mind. Slash side pockets and thigh notch make for a smooth, but serious fit. The waistband is leather-covered elastic , so order in small, medium or large.

5995

STUDSTOR for our hot new catalog

B&D SPECIAL

The finest dildo ever made, firm but pliable, 10" long with a 21 / 2" diameter for penetrating pleasure. In either fleshtone or brown. This is better than the real thing! Order by name and color.

THE POUCH

From France comes the new wave in jock designs: Emilio's The Pouch cut from double-faced black cotton with thin white pin stripes, mounted on black elastic bands, Severe, but extremely supportive , strictly moderne. Small, medium or large.

STUDSTORE"

960 Folsom Street San Francisco, CA 94107

Name ___

City, State, Zip

Method of Payment: <math>\Box</math> Check or M.O. <math>\Box</math> VISA <math>\Box</math> Mastercard

Signature _

□ Leather Gym Bag (79,97) □ Leather Running Shorts (59,95) □ B&D Special Flesh (9,95) □ The Pouch (7,95) □ The Pouch (7,95) □ Our hot new cafalog! ($3)

Amount enclosed (add $1 postage / handling):

California Residents add 61 / 2% Sales Tax.

MAINSTREAM THEY AIN'T DRUMMER. NO WAY A COPY OF ANYTHING ELSE.

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

MACH. DRUMMER'S BIG BROTHER.

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

MANIFEST. AMERICA'S HOTTEST GAY MAGAZINE BARGAIN.

TWELVE ISSUES

At a buck-ninety-five, you get the biggest gathering of personal classified ads around. More pictures of more flesh along with bright articles and fiction. It's what you've been waiting for, priced at about half of anybody else. Take advantage of us while we're young and

ONE-HANDED READING AT ITS BEST

ALTERNATE PUBLISHING

964 Folsom Street / San Francisco, CA 94107

☐ Send me DRUMMER in a plain brown envelope. $40 a year (outrageous!)

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ALL TIED UP

ZEUS' CORD BRIGGS SUBMITS TO THE BONDAGE MASTER'S DELICATE TOUCH

HOT MAN-TO-MAN CONTACT FOR A COOL 50¢ PER WORD!

NATIONWIDE

MODELS

Drummer is looking for leather / uniform men willing to model. (415) 864- 3456

MISSING ON ISSUE 5

Of DRUMMER to complete collection. Will consider reasonable $ for good condition. H.S.G., 692 Washington Blvd, Baltimore, MD 21230.

HOT STUD

36, travels world yearly. Wants sleezy, hung contacts. Your picture gets mine. Jerry, 633 Post St., No. 366, San Fran- cisco, CA 94109

STILL UNCUT?

Holding out for the right scene? Tell the Sarge all about it. Send description, photo (not necessary) and circumci- sion fantasy. All get replies; the chosen get clipped. Box 3433.

ANIMAL SUITS

Seek others ito animal costume, transformation scenes (gorilla, pig. bear, monster, etc). No beastiality. Serious only, please. Box 4171.

JOCKSTRAPS & RUBBERS

J / O freak wants to correspond with other dudes into raunchy jocks, rubbers, military interrogation scenes. Steve, 220 9th St., No. 006, S.F., CA 94103

PROSPECTIVE SLAVE

This 35 5'11" slim hairy slave into SM & BD & TT wants to give almost virgin ass into FF—Seek daddy leathermaster in 30's up with hairy chest hung / please Sir teach me total mental body control in degradation humiliation. I need to serve, respect, obey & worship a master . Awaiting your command Sir. Can travel USA. Box. 20648. Atlanta. GA 30320

TELEPHONE NUMBERS

DRUMMER and MANIFEST will now accept verified telephone numbers in personal ads. Please add $1 to the cost of the ad if a telephone number is included in the ad copy. If necessary, please indicate to us the best time(s) to verify the number. Commercial ads (Services, Models, Travel, Resorts, Employment, For Sale, etc.) may have telephone numbers included in their advertising provided that advertisers can provide a business card, letterhead or other printed material on which the phone number to be used appears. There will be no exceptions.

SLAVE WANTED

Two professional, caring, dominate GWM's mid 30's have position for obedient full-time slave. Application w / photo gets reply: MSTRS P.O.B. 50286 WASH. D.C. 20004.

CLASSIFIED ADS ARE A BARGAIN!

WANTED-YOUNG MEN TO 35

For live in work at motel. Job involves light maintenence & learning desk duties. Must like dogs & know how to or be willing to learn how to give good massage (to owners only). Reply with photo & address & phone # if possible to Gary Seitz-3945 W. Houser, Eloy, AZ 85231

WANT AN ENGLISH SLAVE? Thank you Sir for reading this advert. My body, mind, and spirit need to be tamed and then used and abused as you wish. Am visiting States shortly and am willing to relocate and never return home. Te

ATTENTION SLAVES!

White Master, 30, 6'4", seeks houses- lave properly disposed for permanent life of mental domination with leash, shaving, buzzcuts, and servicing Mas- ter anytime. No FF / scat. You will be mine. Submit application with photo. Master B. Porter, 8116 Buchta Rd., Angleton, TX 77515.

SLAVE / SON 21-35

If you seek total subservient existence. hard work, German Daddy master, 37, will own your body and mind and provide permanent position for healthy, dedicated, obedient boy Apply with photo, complete address, and phone to: Sir, 156 Bradford St., Provincetown, MA 02657. Must relocate.

BIG, HEAVY, HAIRY, TOPMAN NEEDED Thirsty GWM, 30, 6', 230 lbs, wants large, hairy topman to service while you fatten this pig up. Box 3883.

I AM A SADIST l am safe, sane and very experienced. Is your body worth my effort? Write w / photo. P. Breeme, Box 148, NYC, NY 10016

QUEBEC CITY, CANADA WM, 34, 5'8" 170 lbs wants to make friends in Central—U.S.A. and on the friends in Central—U.S.A. and on the West Coast where I'll bike in '84. Interested in SM, CBT, TT, boots, BD, assplay. Mainly M looking for top friend. Also interested in contacts with same from N.E.—U.S.A. and Canada. Box 3984

W / SLAVE WANTED by W / Mastew, 36, LL Club Vice President. Slave must be into B&D, Fr / AP, Gr / P: T&B torture, 100% servitude. Must relocate, Letter and photo to: Box 752, Sandusky, OH 44870.

GERMAN LEATHERBOY NEEDS FIST Blond / Boyish, 31, 9½" Cock-uncut tight ass, slim body, needs fists by real Macho-Muscular-Types, (no S&M / no pain / no dirty). Travel USA / Sept. 84— visitors in my SLING also welcome. Foto must—get mine. P.O. Box 15 709, NL—1001 NE Amsterdam Netherlands.

VIDEOPORNFREAK

With tastes that run from the bizarre to the downright disgusting wants to correspond and swap with other video-pornfreaks , either format, with similar, or more extreme tastes. Interested in rank-amateur homemade tapes and explicit correspondence. Write first. Box 3963

FIND DADDY HERE!

HOT HORNY WHITE MALE

Versatile (Top or bottom) seeks others into fucking, fisting, w / s, rimming, S&M, more: Am 29, 160 lb, 5 ft. 10 in., brown hair / eyes, bearded, Bridwell, Box 7686, Atlanta, GA 30357-0686.

PROMISCUOUS?

Healthy? Group! Looking for masculine multiple outlets & senuality? Need makes of all interests to take part in Private Group. Must be clean & healthy & be able to locate in Houston-so self & equipment are readily accessible. Have facalities available if you desire and are accepted. If your discreet, responsible and have some interest send confidential letter as to your preferences—active, passive, versatile, training needs and experiences, to additionall details. Only mature (over 30) any race, but no drugs or drunks. Learn, experience and expand together. Beginners welcomed, Versatile W / M—5-11—180#. Box LF3329.

964 Folsom Street / San Francisco / CA / 94107

CLASSIFIED ORDER FORM

Anyone corresponding with advertisers must comply with all local, state and federal laws. of / the / control [×11+] included at the end of all classified ads in parentheses. No advertisements accepted from persons under age 21. Alternate Publishing will not knowingly accept fraudulent, obscene, offensive or questionable advertising

NAME:

STATE:

HOW TO REPLY TO A DRUMBEATS BOX NUMBER

Answering a DRUMBEATS box number is easy, but the few rules we have are hard and fast. so observe them or else. 1) Seal your letter in an envelope on which you have written the box number in pencil. You can write the box number on the back flap of the envelope 2) Put of / the / call [×10+]

☐ I am using a telephone number in my ad. Funderstand that this number must be verified by DRUMMER. I have added $1.00 to ad price for phone verification.

I want to use a DRUMMER box number in my ad and have you forward all my mail. I have added $1.00 to ad price.

CALCULATE THE COST OF YOUR AD HERE

A. Total number of words in ad-

(Multiply by 50¢ per word)

B. Cost of single insertion: (Enter number of times ad is to

C. Ad cost times insertions:

D. Phone verification (add $1)

E. DRUMMER box number (add $1)

TOTAL COST OF YOUR AD:

AD CATAGORY SECTION HEADING

BOLD HEADLINE (26 LETTERS & SPACES MAXIMUM)

AD COPY (PLEASE PRINT)

"Gripping, Brutal, Erotic!"

The New SM Masterpiece by MASON POWELL

The time is the close of the Vietnam War. The situation, for a Petty Officer who is also a conscientious objector, is hopeless. In a desperate attempt to escape the mindless brutality around him, this innocent young sailor steps into a nightmare world where his masculinity is stripped from his frame, layer by agonizing layer. Before he leaves The Brig, he will be broken… completely.

In The Brig, Mason Powell outlines a military gone mad with power, then fills in explicit, provocative scenes of punishment and discipline unlike any you have read before.

"The Brig is the first new SM novel I've read of the caliber of Mr. Benson . It is a gripping, brutal, erotic trip—government style."

-Robert Payne, Drummer

ALTERNATE PUBLISHING 964 FOLSOM / SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94107 Send me ____ copies of THE BRIG. Enclosed is $8.95 per copy plus 50 each for postage & handling. California residents add .58 sales tax. Enclosed is $ _____ or Charge my Card No. _____ Exp. Date ____ Signature _____ NAME ____ ADDRESS _____ CITY STATE, ZIP

ARE YOU READY

To live the piquant reality of hard driv- ing, relentless servitude under two strong, horny, intense, Stable, hand- some, topmen? We've been together and into leather for years and know how to train and direct any slave, w is ready, to the total surrender of body and mind. You should apply only if you are serious and imaginative. No lazies, ego heads or coldfeet. We expect you to be ready and willing; we will make you able. Slave's ass must be prepared for intelligent, heavy S / M, boot shine, white glove perfection, long term, no bullshit, relationship. We're both experienced topmen into bondage, beating, verbal abuse, enforced humiliati and giving orders. It is now time for us and giving orders. It is now time for us to train and develop a slave for our care and pleasure. We're 62" 175 lbs. blue blonde uncut with good body. And interchain member # 879 55" lbbler / L brown with 9's log. Both 39 and to be trained. If you are not ready for complete servitude don't waste our time. Address your humble resume with photo to MASTERS LARRY & MIKE PO. Box 1104, Sandy, Utah 84091. LF4088.

GOOD HEAD 60 y / o; 6'2"; 190; blue eyes; white hair, reddish complexion, Handsome & excellent definition had Lg. nipples; tal- ented hole; expert mouth. Desires Master who commands sexual servitude & S / M. Bald cigar smokers a + (not required.) SM groups OK. Can travel. P.O. Box 90110 West Station Nashville. TN 37209 (LF3986).

HORSEMEN WANTED

Leather / Levi tops into riding w / access to horses sought by GWM, 38, 5'8", 136 lbs., tight body, good bottom. Photo, phone gets mine. Box 4130.

SLAVE WANTED IN RENO

For leather action, SM, C&B&TT, B&D, more. I'm hung, trim, 33, GWM, You're similar but submissive and obedient. You want frequent attention or a permanent Master. Live-in or nearby required. LF4015. Write: Box 20835, Reno, NV 89515.

YOU CAN NOW LIST YOUR PHONE NUMBER $1 VERIFICATION

ARE YOU MY MASTER MY LOVER AND MY SLAVE?

Creative, intelligent, booted hotman 35, 61" 175, mustache, need the right guy to share his life and leather with. I offer my mind and body totally to the man who can dedicate his to me in return. If you require and can give discipline, service, obedience, training, respect, worship and submission, then write me real rast, fucker. I will make a present of my nutsack to my ballkeeper demanding his ass as the other half of the contract. The accent is on mutually supportive deep masculine love and loyalty, with the knowledge that this will be strengthened and enforced with punishment, whipping and pain when necessary. Are you man enough for a longterm heavy-duty commitment, is your able to be a real top and bottom); are you ready for true responsibility of owning my body and soul and the humility required to become my property, to do with as I see fit! If you know how to wear boots and need rough malesex for your body and heavy involvemen involvement for your mind, then jump to it, man. Box LF3755.

ALABAMA

HELP WANTED We are two men in our mid-30s who are stuck in the South among the peaches and similar fruits. We happen to like playing with men—real men! We are (1) 62°, blonde / blue, bearded with 8° uncut too! (2) 61°, brown fur and 7° uncut protrusion. We are looking for men living in the South for mutual visits or visitors who would like to get it on while in the Mobile area. If you think while in the Mobile area. If you think you can handle two male-starved men, drop us a resume of what you have gotten into and would like to get into along with a recent picture (returnable) that shows your assets. We will

BOTTOM SEEKS TOPMAN (Daddy) 21-45

To take charge of the situation verbally and physically. Me: Prof., Blk, 40, 5'11", 148 lbs, masculine; discretion expected and received, P.O. Box 1772, Montgo-mery , AL 36104.

ALASKA

HOT BOTTOM

Hot bottom man into hiking, camping, backpacking. Would like to meet hot top men for fun in Alaska. I'm 5'10", 172 top men for fun in Alaska. Im 5 u. 1 / 2 lbs, 42, br 1 / r, moustache, masculine, good build, hot buns. Would like to meet men 25-45, masculine, well-built, not fat, well-hung, who know how to take charge of the action. Write

ARIZONA

TWO GUYS SEEK YOUNG (19-35) Dude for 3-way action. Top or bottom. We have private black room. Box-holder , Box 9484, Phoenix, AZ 85068.

NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

MUSCLES Well-defined, firm bodies only, bi or straight, to explore bondage fantasies with Latino weight lifter. (415) 569-7649. Safe. Discreet.

WANTED: DADDY / MASTER

W / m, 22, 5'9", 130 lbs., looking for big daddy w / beard, 35 plus, to train and discipline me. Will relocate for right man. Barry, Box 4244, S.F., CA 94101.

OLD FASHIONED

Bend over, pants down apanking, give or take, Call Dad (415) 626-8705.

HEY, BOY!

You Daddy is looking for you! (916) 391- 9755 or write: Box 22402, Sacramento, CA 95822.

BULLWHIPS

Topman, 33, seeking guys who need it bad. Also seeking other tops to compare notes and maybe team up. Ton 495 Ellis St., No. 399, S.F., CA 94102. Tom.

TWO LOOKING FOR TWO

SF BAY AREA Or four, . . #1 S, 40, 130, 5'4", #2 MS, 30, 180, 6'1", Both w, hot w / o attitude and like rough sex & old standards. No han- gups about sex except fear of AIDS. We want to form a 4 or 6 way closed sex partnership with 1 or 2 stable couples. You should be: GWM under 50, in good shape, healthy, not looking for a lover. Into hot sex and able to keep closed partnership commitment. If interested lets meet & look one another over. Write Box 3937.

TALL MELLOW TOP

Wants an easy going, independant Buddy with a healthy hairless body and a hot fuckable ass. Photo, letter, and phone to Box 3767.

THE DRUMMER SHOPPER

IE DRUMMER SHOPPER

GUS'

BOTTOM WITH A COCK!

"I'm 23, and there is nothing I have not heard of, been in, or seen! I'm a bottom with a COCK and I want a top with a COCK!" We've got a feeling that this Illinois Tough Customer with an urge to have his big balls bound is going to find what he's looking for. Write to T.C. Box 1082.

This Florida T.C. is "ready when you are." Looking for Drummer Men, dominant or submissive, experienced or novice, looking to explore and expand limits. Can travel or host. See his ad in Drumbeats under Nationwide, or write T.C. Box 1080.

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!

LONDON RUBBER

"As usual, any guys coming to London will be made welcome by my friends and me." Interested rubbermen can write to this waterproof T.C.: Mr. B.R. Welch, 20 East Point, Avondale Square, London SE1 5NS, England.

MOUNTAIN GOAT

38-year-old blond (5'10", 145 lbs.) with uncut tool, recently moved from Florida to the Pacific Northwest, looking for Drummer-type mountain goats for heavy games in the forest. Write to T.C. 1081.

BODY WORSHIP

This 32-year-old bodybuilder (5'10", 160 lbs., 45" chest, 161 / 2" arms) requires total body worship from older, submissive slaves, who'll be rewarded with his thick cut dick. Write to Mike Delaney, Box 585, Palisades, NY 10964.

FIREPLACE DECORATION

Slave Danny is just hanging around, waiting for some heat from his Master. You can find out more about this Southern California slave by writing to T.C. Box 1079.

GERMAN LEATHERMASTER

This 34-year-old Teutonic stud invites Leatherboys to a hot weekend in his "Actionroom." Some English spoken, and plenty of French and Greek. Send a photo to Joe, Postbox 330 A34, D-5400 Koblenz-33, West Germany.

DRUMMER'S HOT SPOTS

GET 'EM OFF

AT THE ZODIAC SOCIAL CLUB

1117 Pike Seattle Wa.

The Best Stop in Philadelphia!

206 S. Quince Street (215) 629-9448

OADING

WHERE MEN MAKE THE DIFFERENCE

1702 INDIA ST. (AT DATE) SAN DIEGO, CA 230-1361

733 Fourth Ave. 2820 Lytton San Diego (619) 231-4776

1310 East Union St. Seattle (206) 325-3882

2222 Broadway Denver (303) 292-4040

(513) 721-9007

326 EAST EIGHTH STREET

CINCINNATI, OHIO 45202

Connection =

IF YOU LIKE HOT MEN. TORNLEVIS THE SMELL OF LEATHER. 14,000 lbs. OF DIESEL POWER

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Pittsburgh's - NEWESTI MAN'S Bar

WE'LL TAKE A DOZEN, MIXED

In our last Tough Shit, we ran an item on a program in West Germany encouraging civilians to play host to navy men. Now a reader in Canada informs us that "you don't have to go to Germany to Dial-a-Sailor." Seems that each year Van-couver , British Columbia, hosts a Sea Festival , with visiting ships from Canada, the U.S., New Zealand and elsewhere—and a neighborhood paper (in a primarily gay area of town, according to our source) shows its community spirit by matching sailors with locals. We love that line about "Sailor preference, if any, and how many?" But is one blank line room enough to fill in all the unlisted activities we'd like to do with our salty dog?

DON'T SCREAM-LIGHT UP!

Great Britons have always had a thing for whipping, flogging, caning, etc.- both giving and receiving.

Our regards to SMART magazine of London, which first uncovered this antique gem.

West Inder Past Inder present

SEA FESTIVAL DIAL-A-SAILOR

Registration Form

Bring in this form or call 682-0686 between 9 and 5! 1035 DAVIE STREET VANCOUVER, B.C. V6E 1M5

TEXANS LOVE DISCIPLINE

Sheriff John Vance of Rockwall County, Texas, has lost his star and been sent to prison for the riding crop whipping of a young prisoner—but the townfolk of Rockwall still love their ex-sheriff.

The incident occured when Sheriff Vance took a riding crop to Richard V. Williams, a 15-year-old suspected car thief. Ultimately, Vance was charged and convicted of violating the teenager's civil rights, and received a one-year prison sentence and a $1000 fine. During the controversy, Vance proclaimed his innocence and continued with plans for re-election , but eventually resigned a week after pleading guilty to avoid state charges that he had lied to a grand jury.

The people of Rockwall stuck by their lawman, however, and a week before

Vance's prison term began they organized a $5-a-plate appreciation dinner with a Western theme in his honor, held in the Rockwall High School cafeteria. More than 1000 people showed up to eat barbeque, listen to country-western music, and bid Vance farewell.

Friends and supporters of the deposed sheriff called him a respected law enforcement officer and cited an unblemished record previous to the whipping incident. (It was not remarked that the victim's ass was probably unblemished prior to the incident, as well.) "I'm not a lone ranger," Vance said. "I'm just a good old country boy with a lot of friends." And a riding crop. And a taste for whipping teenagers' asses…

DRUMMER'S HOT SPOTS

145 BROADWAY • 733-1812 DENVER'S FOREMOST BAR PARTY when you have MEN on your mind!

1724 East McDowell Rd. Phoenix 85006 (602) 254-0231

DRUMOMORDIA 111) 3(11)

"WHEN THE MUSIC'S OVER … "

Jim Morrison predicted the death of the counter-culture while it was still in its infancy; he foretold the final co-option of the peace-love generation, the radical women's movement, sexual liberation, pacifism, and the outlaw societies of bikers , druggies, and flower children. When

Steve Soderby Presents: Daddy Does a Video & A Dinner Party; Oz VideoVision, 1984, directed by Steve Soderby, features entire cst; 30 minutes, color and sound, Beta / VHS. $39.95 plus $3 postage / handling; signed statement required. Oz Video, Box 14744, San Francisco, CA 94114. the end came, Morrison envisioned it eased out of existence with one last, lingering whimper—not framed by violent, cathartic convolutions.

Steve Soderby Presents: Daddy Does a Video & The Dinner Party is that inescapable whimper of dissolution, deceptively breathed through the finest state-of-the-art technology; an irrevocable dying of the last bastion of the cultural revolution : Pornography.

It is a conclusion not lightly reached, but equally impossible to avoid. All that is important in the sexual politics of pornography is rendered into all that is insufferable about the new gay political left—itself the fragment of a subculture that, as John Rechy puts it, holds as its badge of honor the ability to set a proper table. What was once the uncompromising posture of social anarchy, the homosexual acts themselves, are reduced to the medocrity of mass-consumption, laced with a pacifier of insular humor, served up in a dish as bland as salmon mousse.

Oz Video aims itself at men who are "upwardly mobile, socially as well as financially"…a target reached through the use of "men who are contemporaries of the market group in scenarios arising out of realisitic, everyday situations. That translates to this: Steve Soderby Presents proposes to use the group to appeal to the group, a strategy that, while it may work well for American Express, runs counter to the very face of pornography , which has as its First Law: to create a world identifiable but slightly out of the context of the viewer's everyday experience. At its most simplistic level, pornography is the representation of sexual fantasy. We do not tend to fan-tasize about accessible sexual situations and conquests, but rather we exercise an ability to embrace an abstract sexual experience through pornography.

In Daddy Does a Video, what could have passed for terminal cuteness emerges as extraordinarily ordinary: true to its premise of reflecting a certain, if all-too-conventional, sexuality. According to the storyline, what happens is this: Daddy comes home and plays around with his "son." What you see on the screen is this: two ordinary men having ordinary sex. The "son" does not act out the semiology of a biological son. The "daddy" exists in his role only by the physical inference of his age in relationship to the age of the "son"-and then only by a matter of degrees, since their ages are not significantly polarized. Calling this "Daddy Does a Video" is as relevant as titling a film of clouds moving across the sky "Clouds Who Thought They Were Bicycles.'

If the exploration of the daddy-son theme is not the structure of the narrative , and if this episode of Steve Soderby

Presents only intends to use the subtext of a daddy-son relationship, where the emotional ramifications of such a coupling is utilized, then what is lacking is a context for this subliminal extrapolation of psychological dependency.

If Daddy Does a Video is to be viewed as an abstract sexual experience, which is, I think, to give the video more weight than it can support, then it could be argued that it succeeds in establishing a primary text through a number of assumptions: that the men are engaged in a role-relationship that transcends the ordinary (visually, they are not); that the sexuality of the participants is altered by their role-relationship to some heretofore unacknowledged degree (visually, it is not); and, finally, that the exploration of their sexuality in the video under-

DRUMMER 87

scores and broadens, for the viewer, his understanding of the subtext itself—the emotional level of the relationship (as a pornographic catharsis, it does not). It could be argued, but there are too many assumptions necessary to guarantee such a visceral conclusion.

While Daddy Does a Video fails to evoke itself, A Dinner Party 2 falls into another category, and succeeds-in being sexually counter-revolutionary.

Two things happen in A Dinner Party that work at cross-purposes. The narrative is a small party given by the "daddy" and "son" of the first segment of the video for what we must believe are their peers-undistinguished upwardly-mobile (socially as well as financially) gay men. The setting is simplisiticly austere, as was the case with the bedroom in the first segment, mainly the dinner table itself and the immedaite environment of the room it occupies. Dessert, when it is announced, is two naked men who climb on the table and have sex together while the party-goers watch. These two elements , the formally-dressed dinner guests and the naked sexual performers, are presented visually as a contrast that almost goes without saying. The subtext lies in the implication of this situation, personified by the conversation that happens around the table. Only a token consideration is given to the performers by the guests-conversation rambles into other areas. Some guests look at the performers with fained amusement, some with the everyday glance of the commonplace, a little awe here and there (but not much, and not nearly enough given the uniqueness of the situation).

The level of the conversation varies with the regularity of a group of people semi-distracted by some external event: like people in a restaurant where there is a floorshow that does not demand their undivided attention, or the kind of chatter you might find in a beauty salon where involvement is displaced by waiting.

There is an invisible wall between the performers on the table and the men sitting around it—the wall is never breached by a touch from either direction ; a firm class-sonsciousness is established.

Eventually the men on the table reach respective orgasms. The entertainment is over.

The narrative line is nothing more than a cliche, and were it used in a larger context-where the characters sitting around the table were allowed to be fleshed out in correlating situations-it could easily work as a motif or even as a tableau where the relationship of the performers to each other, ot to the men in the room, or of the men at the table to the performers had some overriding significance . But it is used, in and of itself, as the main text; so the conclusions 88 DRUMMER

VIDEO BRIEFS

If the often-misquoted adage 'from a little acorns big oak trees grow" is true, then May 16 of this year may someday be remembered among the most die-hard gay trivia fans as the actual date the Gay Producers Association of America was formed. The GPAA, designed as a national organization of gay filmmakers, distributors, and related gay video honchos, elected its officers and board members and set its agenda on that date. For posterity: President is Terry LeGrand, director of such well-known titles as Men of the Midway, Gayracula and the soon-to-be-released Jobsite; Vice-President is Tim Wohlfemuth, co-founder of Award Films; Secretary is Paul Galle, an independent producer; Treasurer is Don Davison, of Rod & Reel Films; Board Members are Jim Ball (Major Studio Productions), Tod Johnson (Rod & Reel Films), Hal Newhouse (Video Company of America), Joe Tiffenbach (independent producer and director of such titles as San Francisco Orgy), and Steve West (Catalina Video). The no-nonsense group is taking on video pirating as a top priority, and also looks to establish annual Gay Film Awards, which will recognize excellence in the production of gay motion pictures.

Joe Gage fans can hold their breath just a little longer…the master of the jack-off montage has a new title just about to break (probably mid-to-late September), titled simply 501. But bet your button-fly jeans there will be nothing simple about it. Joe Gage (one half of the Gage Brothers, who made such classics as Kansas City Trucking, El Paso Wrecking, and L.A. Tool & Die) has a bent for large groups of anonymous men dropping their pants and working out their frustrations—501 sounds like nothing less than the perfect setting. Coming from VCA.

From Hellfire via Sandmutopia / Desmodus (lost yet?) and Slave & Master Video comes Ropeworks, due out for fall release, and hyped to be definitive instructions in the finer art of tying erotic knots.

Remember White Horse Video, the company in New York that tried to make you believe you were going to get 10 full-length gay video cassettes for $99 when in fact what you were going to get was a preview tape with scenes from the ten advertised titles? Well, they've changed their name—but not their game. New brochures under the company handle Reset Inc. and the same GPO box number are hyping the same deal—different titles—and it's the same scam. No one is going to sell you a porn cassette for $9.90, regardless of how many you buy. This is another preview tape, so read this "deal" with your eyes wide open—because you won't have any recourse if you fall for it.

Steve Scott's third project this year, already well into production, is set in the world of construction workers. Titled Built, and with physiques like that of Eric Stryker in the cast—rest assured this is going to be a stacked cast. Trophy Video, which will release Built to the home video market, is still basking over the the success of both of Steve Scott's 1984 releases, Non-Stop and the Lee Ryder feature, Screen Play. The theatrical version of the latter is set to play in San Francisco in September-when Ryder will make a personal appearance to sign copies of the video cassette at The Studstore. But the biggie is that Ryder will be wearing the infamous sweat-shorts from Screen Play, which will be auctioned off on the spot; the money going to an S.F. Aids project. The lucky high bidder will get to literally strip the shorts off the young star.

-John W. Rowberry

become more pointed and specific.

Return to the intention of Oz Video and examine the result as witnessed by this segment, which says that class-distinction among gay men is a preferable social trait, that sex between gay men has a commodity value which supercedes its emotional value, and the sex act is best employed as a social entertainment.

Were the context of the sex act used differently, had the two performers been sexual serfs to the men at the table, employed to physically stimulate and relieve them, then the dynamics would have been different-in the most one-sided master-slave relationship there is still the breath of human warmth; but this is a cool and subsequently detached observation.

A Dinner Party does not, however, represent middle-class values. Were that the case, there would have been the patina of dirtyness attached to the sex act on the table, like you find in the lascivious presentation in a heterosexual strip tease. Here everything is spotlessly regarded, not even the evidence of a single man lusting in his heart for the cock and balls that bounce on the table before him.

The contrast between the performers and the audience goes even further (and the performers are hardly from the group Oz Video is aiming at); extraordinarily superb specimens of modern gav gym men countered by the exceedingly mundane look of the semi-well-heeled. None of the men sitting at the table could, if he undressed, hold a candle to the physical grace of the men on the table; reiterating historical stereotypes about what sort of gay men can afford the favors of the very beautiful.

When groups like Harry Hay's Fairie Gathering were established, it was under the concept that all men are beautiful, that beauty transcends the physical-an axiom derived from the entire counter-culture of the late '60s and early '70s. I this dinner party had been placed in that epoch, the men around the table would have shed their clothes along with their inhibitions and joined the performers on the groaning board. It is the immense distance between the Fairle Gathering and A Dinner Party that reiterates the sexually counter-revolutionary aspects of the latter. Photographed with the finest resolution I have ever seen in a gay video, Steve Soderby Presents looks uncomfortably like the look of tomorrow-when form finally wins out over content. Each frame is as sharp and clear as the Six O'Clock News, each image in breathtaking-and perfect-focus , each camera move so well calculated it would be easy to accept that the entire video was computer-controlled. You've never seen a video as well executed , technically, as this-nor as shallow , emotionally.

FAT TUESDAY: WE'LL PAY THE RENT

Rio has its Carnival and New Orleans has its Mardi Gras; while these two events have divergent historical roots, their face is the same, an around-the-clock citywide street celebration in which public inhibitions are discarded and flights of fancy take on radically

Mardi Gras '84, Male Entertainment Network , 1984; documentary, color and sound, 15 minutes; Beta / VHS, $30. (plus $2. postage and handling). M.E.N., 1 United Nations Plaza, San Francisco, CA 94102. concrete terms. But to try and impart, through words alone, the sweet madness that is either is a task doomed to near-complete failure. Male Entertainment Network's Mardi Gras '84 does with images and music what words can not-pay homage to one of the two most extraordinary public events of our age (the other being the annual San Francisco Gay Freedom Day Celebration).

Divided into three equally diverse sections, Mardi Gras '84 is a whirl of outrageousness, in costumes, in situations . If you've never experienced this unique event, this tape is bound to have you on the phone to your travel agent.

Strictly top of the line production values packed into a seamless, fast, constantly explosive whole that vibrates with a sense of documentary and titilates with spontaneous voyeurism. Some nudity, loads of eroticism; this is the first gay rock video.

-John W. Rowberry DRUMMER 89

11 / 10 / 10 H 1)

DARK CORNERS

As a writer of erotic fiction, perhaps the most telling thing I can say about Mason Powell's The Brig is this: I am envious of just how spectacularly his novel succeeds. I can't go so far as to say that I wish I had written it myself-to have conceived this harrowing story, to have imagined its every detail and to have followed it through from beginning to end, must have been almost as psychically draining as actually experiencing it.

But first things first. I was a bit hesitant to chose The Brig for review in these pages-after all, it's published by the same outfit that produces the magazine you're now holding in your greasy little hands. Is there a conflict of interest here? Not really-no one gives even a whisper of advice about what I chose to review or how I review it, and I've developed the irritating habit (so some disgruntled publishers and writers have told me) of saying exactly what I think. If The Brig were a major disappointment, I might feel some trepidation in cataloging its faults in this particular forum-but that (far from it) is not the case. And in any event, The Brig is a major work of SM fiction. To ignore it in a book review column that purports to serve the interestsof readers of gay SM would be the real failure-there are so few titles of this calibre, quality and orientation in the course of a year.

So there. Now that I'm warmed up: The Brig, by Mason Powell (Alternate Publishing, 167 pages, paperback, $8.95; mail orders add .50 postage). The title is not a reference to any famous leather bar of the same name; the brig here is the military kind, and before Powell's story is over, it becomes a word to inspire considerable fear and loathing.

The Brig is in no way a standard jerk-off novel of sadomasochistic fantasies. It is compellingly erotic, to be sure-but it is also brutal, disturbing, complex, challenging to the secure psyche that imagines a world of dominance and subjugation to be a safe, secluded playground where even the most intense exchanges never leave scars, either physical or mental.

The Brig is a novel of dark SM. Its setting , once the hapless narrator has been ripped away from his role as a naval petty officer and thrust into the bowels of the Brig, becomes increasingly fantastic and severe. His offense: technically, walking off a watch-but the real reason for his persecutions are his classification as a conscientious objector (his background is a Catholic seminary, the time is the close of the Vietnam War) and a belligerent attitude toward military authority. 90 DRUMMER

His sentence: confinement in the Brig.

This is a novel of punishment and degradation . Structurally, it is extremely impressive, geared toward a slow seduction of the reader into a relentless escala-tion of erotic cruelty. The narrator's descent begins with simple fear and dread. The initial punishments are harsh, but bearable-for a while. Only gradually , and with sadistic logic, do they build until the young petty officer reaches his lowest ebb. To simply catalog his torments would be to reduce the power that Powel invests in them; suffice to say that the outer limits of phallic subjugation , dog slavery, bondage, pain, betrayal, humiliation and the Cult of the Marine are all here—with a vengeance.

Significantly, the book of which The Brig most reminds me is George Orwell's 1984. Imagine the torture of Winston

Brig, in exploring the images of authority that give us dangerous dreams, is not politically correct. It peers into the dark corners where we are constantly reminded, by our peers and enemies alike, never to look. It makes us ponder long and hard about the perverse appeal of self-debasement, the seductive quality of evil, the strange, twisting pathways of existence. This is fearless. This is art, with an erection-and a mind.

UP & COMING

Gay Sunshine Press (PO Box 40397, San Francisco, CA 94140), which began publishing outright erotica a few years ago with Boyd McDonald's Meat, is now turning some of its efforts to leather and SM. Geoff Mains' Urban Aboriginals: Celebrations of Leather Sexuality (excerpted in Drummer 75) is now availa-

Smith with an erotic component. Imagine in Big Brother's neutered and neutral space a Marine officer, dark, muscular, derisive, offering his big cock for nourishment, withholding ecstasy, exacting punishment. Remember the psychological explanation of masochism as a solution to the unbearable, a way of finding something positive, something pleasurable in the midst of suffering.

Powell's story eventually takes on the dimensions of a fable. He is ultimately aiming at archetypes (as revealed in the narrator's hallucinatory dream of the Inquisition). This is ambitious, far more ambitious than most novels that also aim at producing a hard-on. His narrator becomes a potentially classic figure of suffering. His tormentors-the Dark Corporal, the Redhead, the Sergeant-became larger than life, figures to be alternately lusted for, feared, hated. The ble in paperback; it'll be reviewed here next issue. Upcoming is Jack Fritscher's anthology Corporal in Charge of Taking Care of Captain O'Malley-if the title rings a bell, hunt up your copies of Drummer 22 and 23.

Also erotic and upcoming from Gay Sunshine: The Great American Porno Novel ("sexual adventures of several all-American boys") and Juice, the fifth in Boyd McDonald's anthology series from the come-smeared pages of STH.

Not necessarily erotic, but of interest: Pretty Boy Dead, an early murder mystery by Joseph Hansen, originally published under a pseudonym; and Hadrian, historical fiction by Joel Schmidt, in which "Roman Emperor Hadrian relates his life and famous love for the adolescent Antinous"-boy, will Marguerite Yourcenar be pissed!

-Aaron Travis

DESTINONORDY

GIANT IN AGONY

There is a positive side to the release of director John Huston's "comeback" film, Under the Volcano-a singularly bloodless, colorless, gutted version of Malcolm Lowry's psychological and symbolic novel of Anglo expatriates in Mex-ico , reduced to no more than decent performances by Albert Finney, Jacque-line Bisset and Anthony Andrews. The film's publicity has served to focus the spotlight back on Lowry himself. And that's a far more intriguing story than either of the others.

A biographical documentary, Volcano : An Inquiry Into the Life of Malcom Lowry, has been resurrected from that limbo reserved for Academy Award nominess (1977) to prove much the most exciting of the three. It erupted in 1976 under the control of Donald Brittain and the aegis of the National Film Board of Canada. It seines wide and dredges deep, sweeping a fine net to catch the character of a man compelled to write through and beyond his ability to live in deep waters.

"Everything in his life he put into the novel," says an old Cambridge crony. And as his publisher remarks, "There was only one way his demons could be exorcised-he could write them to death." But he began killing himself young, and finally made a thorough job of it.

Lowry is characterized as a patrician misfit, an adventurer, a paranoid depressive and a pretender to madness, a dedicated alcoholic "sober an hour or two a month," a remittance man, a product and a victim of Victorian values and morality , "gentle, delicate, polite" and able to "fart the vamp in 'Hindu Bay.' " "Slouching and sloppy" and "studiedly picturesque with an impressive chest, he was a man of physical courage and sexual insecurites, "muscle-bound and chronically constipated," a great writer, a great one-book writer, an impotent sensualist, a recluse (in his own exaggerated words: "blind, constipated and a cripple after 25"), an animal-lover, an opportunist, a loyal if importunate friend, and a truth-teller-"definitely a man to be denounced at borders.'

The biographical remarks are extraordinarily candid and for the most part discerning , unlike, for example, the outrageous biodoc cover-up perpetrated on Montgomery Clift and his public . Volcano has far more than facts to deal with. It is a life-graph, flexibly structured and multi-tiered to highlight not just the main events but the ambience of each. The continuing fascination arises from the film's construction: its dramat-rizations out of chronology (begins with the 1959 funeral), relevant location settings for interviews with his intimates in which talking heads become talking hearts, frighteningly unrevealing photographs of the subject, and Lowry's luminous prose excerpted from the novel and letters-when correspondence was still an "art"-spoken with sublime underinflection by Richard Burton.

The almost-stately home of his English birth. A Hollywood hotel room. A cabin on a Canadian Lake. And Mexico. Again and again, the film returns, as Lowry did, to Mexico. And to the "hellfire" he made of Cuernavaca and its inhabitants, specifically of a loaded day-in-the-life of himself and his novelized Consul: All-Souls Day. The Day of the Dead with its grisly paraphernalia, spun-sugar skulls and religious rapture. Evoked in graphic mood and loving detail-here, in this relatively small film and not in Huston's failed opus with all its fabulous funding and Gabriel Figueroa's cinematographic genius-here is the heart of the man, wide open and pumping for air and sunlight.

The novel didn't do its exorcism job: no four-score-and-ten for Lowry; no happily ever after. Brittain's film researched thoroughly enough to show why, as self-analysis, it couldn't. Still, for almost the same reasons, there are minute gaps in the celluloid net where some known facts glide out and the corner strands aren't as tightly knotted up as they seem to be: There was violence done by Lowry as well as to him; there are facile, long-outmoded explanations of "homosexual guilt" for "occasional homosexual indiscretions" on what is obviously (I infer only what is implied) a fundamental and fatal closeting of his life.

Lowry is not the only one to be denied a place in gay history at the same time he's pushed onto the library shelves. Like so many others of the English literarti of the early part of this century-Forster, Waugh, Maugham-the word "gay," much less "liberation," in that context of period and place, would be louder and potentially more suicidal than Lowry's "noise of the unbandaging of great giants in agony."

Lowry is captured, layer by layer, in all his possible and impossible dreams—and the audience is the intruder. You feel you've gone almost too far, not just beyond the borders of good manners without the clinical authorization (the excuse) of the prying physician, attorney or priest, but all the way to knowing of someone, in key ways, more than he knew of himself. There is discomfort and frustration in thinking that Lowry's flights from "civilization" and "normalcy" were necessary only because of a fluke of birthdate (1909), class and geography. Or that the brutalizing nannies, the involvement in the death of a classmate, or "the fags on his tail" in New York would have produced a less active guilt and morbid imagination today. A pertinent reminder, if not an answer, is the highly "now" Terence Davies Trilogy which, though out of the opposite of Lowry's privilged environment, speaks of identical horrific fears and desperate needs in an indifferent-to-antagonistic culture.

The last spoken line of the novel "hero" is the beginning and end of th film: "What a dingy way to die." B you'll note there is no denial that it wa spectacular way to live.

-Penni Kim DRUMMEr 21)

SLAVERY WAS ABOLISHED IN 1865 BUT NOBODY BOTHERED TO TELL HIM.

MEET THE MAN WHO IS DEDICATED TO CARRYING ON THAT AGE OLD TRADITION

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It was done a hundred or so years ago, you must admit. It was done thousands of years ago. It is being done in this Robert Payne fantasy that will hold your attention while you hold on to your seat—or whatever.

This tape, in two one-hour parts, includes MR. DRUMMER '84, MR. ROCKY MOUNTAIN DRUMMER, and stars MR. SOUTHEAST DRUMMER as the Dungeonmaster. It is an exciting concept and a breathtaking tape. Release August 15. 59.95 EACH.

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THE PHENOMENON GROWS.

"From the earliest that I can remember, I have always had a hard-on for my father. The very first erection that I can remember was while he was playing pony with me …

DRUMMER DADDIES

In Search of ObDER MEN

The Search for Older Men begins! It started in Drummer, when we put out a call for Daddies and their sons to share their personal case histories—and did they ever! Pretty soon it was clear that we'd discovered a genuine sensation, and the phenomenon grew too big for even DRUMMER to contain it—and DRUMMER DADDIES was born!

DRUMMER 2 In Search of ObDER MEN

The Search for Older Men reaches fever pitch in DRUMMER DADDIES 2, the only possible follow-up to the first DRUMMER DADDIES! We explore the phenomenon in greater depth than ever before-new case histories, new fiction, new photography, and exclusive new artwork, including stunning never-before -seen masterworks by Olaf and Rex!

Like its predecessor, DRUMMER DADDIES 2 is cover-to -cover excitement with no advertising.

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DAIDDIES In Search of ObDER HEN

As you'll discover in DRUMMER DADDIES 3, The Seach for Older Men continues at full throttle! A recent call for more true-life Daddy / son tales brought in a shit-load of horny reading—and some of the hottest fiction that's ever singed our presses! Plus new art and photography of the kind you've come to demand from DRUMMER DADDIES, all in a great new package of the hottest in older guys and the happiest of younger guys, as the beat goes on…

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