DRUMMER GOES TO A FILMING

CHAIN REACTION

It didn't take much urging to drop in to see old friend Roger Earl when we were in Los Angeles recently. And who should be sitting in Roger's oft-photographed pad but Terry LeGrand, who had produced several of Roger's films, the notorious of which was "Born To Raise Hell." Sitting alongside Terry was John Krause, top L.A. photographer. Boy, did thay have a package for us. Roger whipped out over a thousand photographs of their new film, "CHAIN REAC-TION ", which was almost finished. Did we want to run a spread on it in DRUMMER? Bet your ass! Did we want to do a photo book as we did on "Born To Raise Hell," which was a phenominal best seller. Did we ever! But we also had a package for them. We had with us Ken Bergquist, Mr. Drummer '84 First Runner-up, who has just finished "SLAVES FOR SALE" for Wings Video. Did they want to use Ken in the final motorcycle gang scene in their film? They didn't hesitate any longer than we did at their offer. We now have the additional shots from John Krause of the last part of the pix, and after seeing the rushes, we were very impressed. Much of it was taken at "Chains", which was made over from the "Pits" in Los Angeles, much as "Born To Raise Hell" was done at the old "Truck Stop" out in the San Fernando Valley. The action is uniquely Roger Earl, very leather with a flair that few filmmakers can approach. The video version is to be released in November with plenty of advance orders already. The photo book is on the boards and will probably be out at about the same time. On these eight pages are a few well-chosen John Krause shots to tantilize you. "CHAIN REACTIONS" willbe released through VCA. Ken Bergquist, after sweating out the 110 degree Southern California temperatures during the filming, headed back to San Francisco. His next project will be for Trophy Video. The story concerns itself with leathermen's fantasies. It encompasses a number of leather-

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What'd I Do?

What did I do to deserve this? Patient night hurry to dawn and end this pain. Rope-enclosed body's still. Bloated bladder cries for relief. Throbbing cock begs to cum. What'd I do?

-Auggie Camelli

"I know you guys haven't seen a white woman for many months and some of you are getting pretty horny, but … fellows. Hey, fellows!"

Three Haiku

A hundred lashes. The first just a satin touch Hinting at the last.

Silently I wait Kneeling at his command. My Face bent to the floor.

The torn Levis, Inviting my hand to help, Lay in the corner.

-Aubrey Sparks

BLOOD<br>TIES by<br>Tom Nova

Yeah, I know. Friends told me that I'm the way I am—getting even with the world for that time when I was 17 and my dad came home drunk and beat the living shit out of me and forced me to suck his cock and tore my asshole to shreds so that I bled for days before I had enough strength to get the hell out of there.

It didn't take me long to find out that guys were interested in my cock and would pay to suck it or to get fucked by it. Hell, I found that out quickly. The ten fat inches that all the guys made fun of in high school was a desired piece

ILLUSTRATED BY OLAF

I had been a top for as long as I could remember. I was good at it. Give them what they wanted and needed and then some—that was my motto. Stretch them to the limits and beyond. They ain't supposed to have limits. Treat them as scum—that's what they are. Let them know who's the man. I did it all. You name it—I've done it and then some. But always it was my cock getting sucked and fucking ass.

of meat. Be sucked and fuck-that's all I did. I was tall and muscled enough to make sure that nobody was going to do nothing else.

My activities got me three years in the state pen. Some shit thought he'd get me after I fell asleep 'cause I'd too much to drink before. The first touch of his cock trying to enter my mouth landed him a one-way trip in the hosital and me in jail.

Things had opened up once I got out of there and I found the leather world and bars and all kinds of guys who wanted what I could give them and do to them. Had a few I met with on a regular basis who paid for my services. That's the way I'd been

supporting myself. Then…

It was two-maybe three-maybe four months ago. Who counts anymore? I was siting on a bar stool in my favorite hangout when this guy comes over to me and starts a conversation . I was turned on to him. He looked like one of those executive types decked out for the evening in levis and crap and looking to have someone take control of him. Blond hair trimmed and styled and very soft-spoken. About 5'8" and on the skinny side. Well—maybe not skinny, a wiry build. Said he was 27. Hell, he had a baby face and I knew he had to be lying about his age.

After talking a bit and having a couple of drinks, I figured he was about ready to ask me to go for some action. All he did was

hand me an envelope and got up and left.

The bastard! I shoved the damn envelope into my back pocket and got down to the business of finding a bottom for the night. Whoever he was, that bottom would have all hell to pay. I was mad. Nobody starts to get me hot and walks off and leaves me!

I was so mad that I walked over to this guy I'd had once and told him, let's go. He didn't want to come with me. Said I was too rough. The hell with what he wanted. I just grabbed him and headed out the door. He struggled a bit, but he soon settled down and knew I meant business. Man, I worked him over that night in a few short hours. The bar wasn't even closed when I deposited him naked out front, bruised and battered with cum dripping out of his bleeding asshole. He wanted it—I know! He deserved it. He got it.

It wasn't till the following morning that I found that damn envelope in my levis. I wadded it up and threw it in the corner and left. The thought of the guy made my blood boil.

Hell, I don't know how many days passed before I noticed it. What the hell, I thought to myself. Read what the bastard has to say.

Whether you know it or not, I am your Master. you belong to me and I intend to claim you. You will have a good life with me and I am able to take care of all your needs. There will be nothing that I cannot and will not do to you and you will be willing for me to castrate you, cut off your cock, or even to kill you if I so desire … I know you will fight all that I have said and written, but it will happen and it will happen in the not too distant future. It will be in that same bar. I will come up to you late in the evening when the action is heavy in the place and I will take control of you as is necessary for you. You will follow my orders at that time and you will end your present life only to begin a new life as my slave, my cunt, my dog or whatever I choose for you to be. Know that the time is coming soon and be prepared for it.

That was it. The dumb shit. No way! I wadded up the paper and threw it into the trash—that's where it belonged. I set out to find him every night after that. I went to different bars. I became obsessed with finding him. No, I wasn't going to kill him. The only thing I knew was that he was going to be near dead when I finished with that bastard. That was for certain. I hated him. Nobody says to me what he said and doesn't pay for it.

naked body. "My wallet," I said. "My ID." "Don't worry," he said. "I've got it." "My clothes," I asked. I sure as hell don't know why I asked

I didn't find him. he was a piece of chicken-shit—hiding out. For a couple of weeks or so, lots of guys suffered my anger and rage. I talked about it with my friends. They kept telling me to

forget it—to ease up. I was hurting guys—giving a bad name to all tops. I couldn't. I couldn't help it. Someday I'd find that bastard and he'd have all hell to pay.

Trouble was that the whole damn bit unnerved me. As the days passed, I went from raging anger to wondering out loud with my friends if something was wrong with me. Hell, I was even entertaining the thought of going with the guy whenever he showed up—seeing what he thought he could do—and then beating the living shit out of him.

Then I got another note from him. This time in the mail. How'd the bastard know my address and my name? What was he? What in the hell was going on! It was a short note:

It won't be long now, my slave. I have taken the liberty of giving a two-week notice to your landlord . I thought you might forget that. I know that you've been fighting the inevitable and I do understand . I know that it is not easy for you, but it has not been easy for me either. I have searched for you for a number of years. Now that I've found you, I cannot let you go.

What was he talking about with that bit about searching for me? Giving notice on my place? Who in the hell was he? Why was he so confident of himself? One thing was certain. The bastard was going to have all hell to pay when I got my hands on

It didn't stop me from wondering about him even more. What was the connection? I even found myself wondering just how he might be hung. Damn him! He was destroying my life.

Then it happened. I'd gone to that same bar again for the first time in a long time. I don't know why. I was in a mood that night. Several guys had come over and wanted to take me home with them, but I refused. I sat there drinking and smoldering inside.

It was after midnight when I heard a soft voice behind me. It was him.

"Don't turn around," he said. "Strip naked. Hand your clothes to the bartender. Everyone's watching you. When you're naked, get on the floor on your hands and knees. Do not look up. You'll be able to see my boots. Follow them.'

Hell, I don't know why or how or anything else. I did as he said. I couldn't believe it as I did it. The place was totally silent. You couldn't even hear any breathing going on in the place. I was brilliant red all over. I could feel it. I stripped and got down on the floor and crawled after him.

We got to the door. He stopped. He turned around. "Lick my boots," he said.

I licked them. A loud gasp was heard from the others there. He reached down and put a collar about my neck and fastened a leash to it. He put a blindfold on me. He tugged at the leash. "Heel," he said. Dammit, but my cock was hard. I didn't understand it. He tugged on the leash. I followed. I left the bar with the sound of laughter and whispers of "I don't believe it" ringing in my ears.

He led me to a van and ordered me into it. I couldn't believe that I just laid there as he bound me hand and foot so that I could not move. He fastened the leash to something so that my neck was stretched almost to its limit. "Relax," he said. "It'll be about a 10-hour drive." I wanted to cry out and ask where the hell he intended on taking me. He answered before I could ask. "To Iowa," he said. "Iowa isn't a long way from Chicago. you'll like it there. Remember, you grew up there.'

I don't know why, but his last words sent a shiver through my

that. All I had were a few and the damn place I rented was furnished if you could call it that.

I got an answer, "Don't you remember?" he said. "I wrote that in my first note to you. You won't need clothes, You're never going to have need of them again. You will be naked for the rest of your life."

Somehow I managed to fall asleep in the uncomfortable

position I was tied in. Don't ask me how it happened. I don't know. My mind was going a mile a minute. My heart was thumping in my chest. I couldn't believe that this was actually happening to me. No! I couldn't believe that I was letting it

happen to me.

Hell, I have no idea of when we arrived or where I was at. I knew I was wherever it was I was supposed to be. "We're home," he said as he woke me. He unfastened the restraints binding me and tugged at my leash for me to follow. For a momentary flash I had the urge to overpower him-to take off and run. I wanted to. I couldn't. Don't ask me why. I just couldn't.

I followed him on my hands and knees into a house-still blindfolded. I was on some type of carpeting. He dropped the leash and I remained there waiting for a few moments. I heard his command. "You may take off the blindfold." I did. He was standing naked before me. I couldn't help but gasp. He was wiry and tightly muscular. My gasp wasn't about that. It was his cock. It looked almost exactly like mine, though out of place on him. No! It wasn't like mine. It was thicker. It was longer by a good inch or so. It was a weapon. It was dripping with pre-cum.

Slowly he walked towards me. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. He paused for a moment, with his cock six inches from my face and mouth. I was shaking all over. "Please," I whispered. "I don't suck cocks." He said nothing. He slowly moved forward.

My mouth opened. His cock entered.

I gagged a lot as he slowly pushed it in deeper and deeper. I pulled back several times. "I can't take it," I told him. "Yes," he said. "You will. You must. All of it. Relax. Let it happen. It's

going to happen. We both know that.'

Don't ask me how or anything else. All I know is that it did happen. In spite of everything else, I wanted it to happen. He pulled it out until only the head was filling my mouth and let loose with a load of cum that filled my mouth and throat. I was loose. I was free. I couldn't believe I was not stopping him or resisting.

And I couldn't believe how sweet his cum tasted. I'm no expert, especially since I'd only tasted cum once before in my life-my dad's. It frightened me to think what I was thinking

He pulled out of my mouth and commanded me to my feet. He then began to touch me-to explore my naked body. I gasped and tightened as he pulled and pinched and twisted my tits. He stooped down to look at my cock and balls. He pulled on them. He squeezed them. He slapped them with his hand. I stood motionless. It hurt like hell.

He spread my ass cheeks and looked at my puckered hole. I jumped as he touched it with his finger. "In time," he said. "In time."

Why? Why didn't I just deck him and take over. I asked myself that question again and again. Somehow my arms and my naked body would not move. It was like I was glued in place. He was in control.

"I'm going to shave you now," he said. It wasn't a question. He just stated it. He led me to the bathroom by my leash, permitting me to walk upright. He took clippers and removed some of the hair with it. I groaned an "Oh no" as he ran it over my head. Still I did not move. I stood there as he applied the shaving cream and used a straight-edged razor to remove the remains. Dammit! My cock remained hard and wouldn't go down. I couldn't understand it.

He finished shaving me and I never felt more naked in my life. I still wanted to run—to get away from him—from his strange power over me. But I couldn't move.

"To your knees," he said. "I've got to piss." No, I cried out within myself as I fell to my knees. His piss flooded my mouth.

"Don't spill a drop," he said. "Drink it all." I did.

"You've had enough for today," he said. "Tomorrow we start your further training. I'm going to fuck you, you know that. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but I'm going to fuck you. You will beg me to fuck you. When I do, there'll be no spit or grease or lube. You'll want me to enter you dry, and you'll beg

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helpless cock only brought more pain and hurt to me. My tits ached and I thought they were bleeding. My balls felt numb and hurt like hell.

me to do it to you hard."

"Never," I said under my breath. Never will you fuck me. He took me to a room with a nice bed and told me to rest and sleep well. He left me with nothing but the collar about my neck. I couldn't understand. I could run. I could get away. I didn't move. I slept.

"Do you want it now?" he asked. "I want to fuck you, but I want you to beg me to do it. It's all up to you."

"No," I cried out. "Never."

The morning came. He woke me with his cock pressing at my mouth. His piss was bitter and hot and smelling. I gagged a couple of times. He did not hold me. "Drink it," he said. I did.

Shit, I have no idea how long it was, but I suspect it wasn't that long. Soon he released me after continuing to whip me some more-including my cock and balls. He took everything off my body except for the collar about my neck. He pushed me down on the floor before him and shoved his cock into my face. "Kiss it," he said. "Once you do, turn over on your back and lift your legs and look into my eyes, because I'm going to fuck you."

It began shortly afterwards. I didn't fight him when he fastened me spreadeagled to the floor and ceiling. I cried out as<br>the whip first hit my body. "Please," I cried. "Anything! But don't whip me.'

He did not stop. The whip landed again and again, I braced myself. It hurt like hell. I relaxed. It hurt like hell. My ass—my thighs-my back-my chest-my stomach-the front of my legs. It hurt like hell! I'd done it so many times to others. It was happening to me.

I couldn't believe that I did it. I kissed his cock. I rolled over to my back. I lifted my legs. "Say it," he said. "Say it," as he looked

into my eyes.

I barely whispered the words. "Fuck me. Please fuck me."

I can't even begin to describe what I felt as he drove his hard cock straight up and into my asshole. My whole body jerked and spasmed. I opened my mouth to scream out. Nothing came out. He stopped after he entered. He bent down to my face. He looked in my eyes. "Tell me again what you want," he said. He must have read only the movement of my lips. It hurt so bad. Yet I was able to move against him. I just couldn't. "Fuck me," I mouthed to him.

He stopped just when I felt I could take no more. I was crying. Hell, I was sobbing. "Please! No more!" It was almost like a whisper coming from my throat at that point. I'd screamed myself hoarse.

He changed his tactics. I fought against my bondage as he placed those damn clamps on my tits. Shit! They hurt like hell! I'd done it so many times before. I didn't know they hurt like that!

Fuck me he did. Hard. Long. Savagely. It flashed through my mind, the way I'd so often fucked others. It couldn't have hurt like I hurt then. It was worse than anything I imagined. I didn't remember my dad fucking my ass hurting so bad.

My balls! He tied them down in their sac and hung a heavy weight to them and let it drop. I twisted and jerked and screamed out. I thought he'd castrated me. His hands began to rub softly and slowly on my chest and stomach. "Relax," he said. "You want it. You know you do."

Hell, I don't remember when or where it happened. It just did. I was reaching out to him and telling him to fuck me harder. I shot a load of cum. My ass tightened about his cock and he shot his load deep within me. He pulled out and presented me with his cock. It was covered with traces of my own shit. I couldn't believe my own ears as I said to him, "Please, Sir. Please, let me suck your cock." He brought it to my mouth. I

I'm not sure I knew it, but my cock must have been standing straight out and hard. The next thing I felt was a whip or belt lashing across it. "No!" I screamed out. "Anything! I'll do anything! Don't hurt my cock!"

He didn't stop. Every motion of trying in vain to protect my

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The next few days were worse than I imagined. No, he did not bind me or keep me in restraints. "Spread your legs," he would say. I spread them. I lay there as he brought his knee or his foot crashing into my balls. "Assume position," he would say. I'd bend over and he'd ram his big cock straight up my dry asshole. "I've got to piss," he would say. I'd open my mouth to receive it. "Come with me," he'd say. I'd follow him to the bathroom. "My ass needs cleaning," he'd say. I'd bury my face in his ass cheeks and start licking away.

I couldn't believe myself-what was happening to me. He put me in restraints or bondage only on occasion. Otherwise I was free with only the collar about my neck. He went to work during the days after that first week and I was left at home alone. "Do not touch your cock or balls or your asshole," he told me.

I called some of my friends. I talked with them. I told them what was happening. They could not-they would not-

Things got worse, if they could do that. He began to whip me while unrestrained. "Spread your legs," he would say. I'd lay on my back and spread them. The belt or whip would come crashing down on my cock or balls. I'd scream out in pain and my legs would spasm and curl. "Keep them spread," he'd say. I did.

One night he took me to another place—about a two or three hour drive. I asked no questions. He led me into the house there naked and on my hands and knees. Fifteen, maybe 20 guys were there. Nothing was said. I sucked and was fucked. I licked assholes. I drank piss. I was even fisted.

The next night, I was at home with him. I'd come to call him Sir or Master. Both he and I were naked. He'd just gotten home from work. He walked up to me and removed my collar. I was puzzled and confused. What was happening?

He sat down and looked at me. He called me by my name for

"You don't understand," he said. "I'm David."

I said nothing further. I didn't know what he was talking about.

Then he began to tell me the story. I couldn't believe my ears. As I said, I'd left that night long ago. My mother and dad died shortly thereafter. I didn't know and they couldn't reach me. I vaguely remembered having a little brother. Hell, he couldn't have been more than ten years old when I left. No, it couldn't be! No!

Grandma and Grandpa had raised him. They died while he was in college. Their last request was that he find me and bring me home. I guess Grandpa knew what had happened, for my dad told him. My dad died a broken man.

Maybe it's just in our genes or something, but David took early to the scene, first as a bottom, then as a top. He paid his dues. During all of that time, he kept searching for his lost brother.

I tried to find words to say to him as he spilled the whole story out to me. He was crying. I was crying. "Why did you do things this way?" I asked. He told me he'd learned about me. He knew was bigger than him. He knew he couldn't take me any other way. He figured it to be the only way.

I still didn't understand. My whole body ached and hurt from the whipping-from getting fucked-from all the things he'd used on me. I owed him. I told him that. "I suppose you do," he said. "If you do, I won't try to stop you. Just remember one thing, though. If you do, you'll never see me again."

"Why?" I shouted out. Dammit! I was older. I was the top. I

couldn't stand being a fucking bottom or slave.

"Tom," he said, "that's just the way it's got to be. You think about it. You have until tomorrow to make your decision. Come," he said. "Let's go to bed."

He took me into his own room and to his own bed. There, slowly and tenderly he made love to me—to my entire body. I'd had a lot of guys lick my body and suck my cock and balls to give me pleasure before I fucked them, but never did it feel what I was feeling then. He drank my cum and got me hard again. He kissed me long and hard and passionately. I'd never been kissed by a man before in my life. I couldn't resist him. I couldn't stop him. I slowly turned him over. "I'm going to fuck you," I said. "Yes," he said. "Fuck me." I did-but for the first time in my life I fucked slowly and easily—entering him the same way.

We lay on the bed entwined in each other's arms. He spoke to me again. "You've got to know," he said, "that what happened tonight will never happen again. It cannot and it will not. If you stay, you've got to know that your cock will never again fuck another ass. You've got to know that you will never know again the pleasures of a mouth on your cock. You've got to know that the only way that you will ever cum is by it happening automatically , for you will not be jacked off or be permitted to jack off. You've got to know that when and if you ever cum again in your life, you will be punished severely for cumming.

licking up my own cum. I couldn't believe it.

"That's no excuse," he said.

I did not answer him. I couldn't speak. Hell, there was no way I could stay with him under any circumstances. I didn't want to lose him again, but I had no choice. I couldn't live like that.

I waited until the middle of the night. He was sleeping soundly as I eased out of the bed and made my way to the living room. Shit. What was I going to wear? I spied a pair of his levis in the corner. They wouldn't be long enough, but it appeared the waist would fit-I'd cut them off into shorts. A tee-shirt was lying there—that'd do. I saw a pair of gym shoes. I'd stuff my feet in them even though they were too small.

Oh, shit! He'd cut my foreskin off.

I threw them all together on the sofa and went to take a piss. I'll leave just at daybreak, I told myself. I'll be gone a good hour or two before he's up.

I returned to the living room. The damn collar was laying there on the floor. I kicked it aside and didn't watch where it went. I sat down in his chair to wait.

"You did that for me?" I asked.

I awoke to hear some movement in his bedroom. My heart started pounding. How in the hell had I fallen asleep? I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to tell him face to face that I was leaving. Oh, shit! Everything was so screwed up.

Don't ask me why. I don't know. All of a sudden I was down on the floor searching and hunting for that damn collar. Why? My mind kept telling me to get up and run—to get out of there. My hands kept reaching under the furniture. I found it. I put it about my neck.

He entered the room and stopped dead in his tracks. He looked surprised. Tears welled up in his eyes. "I thought you had gone," he barely whispered. I looked into his eyes. Hell, my eyes started to tear up too.

He walked forward to me. "I've got to piss," he said. I opened my mouth and drank it. He got dressed for work and left. As he walked out the door, he smiled at me. "I see you gathered some of my clothes together. I'll have to punish you for that when I get home," he said.

That was it. He left. I don't know how many times I reached up that day to remove the collar and still leave. My hands never got further that just touching it. Get out of here, I'd tell myself. you can still leave. I stayed.

That pile of clothing still sits in the corner of the sofa where I'd thrown it. Punish me? He sure as hell did. Not only that night. Hell, it's every night. It's been a few months now since I've known what it felt like not to ache and hurt-not to be marked and bruised.

Table scraps or dog food—dry or canned—that's what I eat. Always there's his piss to drink-my own piss to drink. I curse and swear at him when he's gone. I keep telling myself I'll get even. I reach to touch my cock and balls—to jack off at least. My hand always stops before I touch. They're not mine to touch. He's told me that. He trusts me not to touch them. I don't. I don't understand why, but I don't.

cried. "Daddy, I love you. Please love me!"

When he walks in that door after work, my eyes well up with tears because he's home. I get teary-eyed when he leaves in the

morning, I don't understand. I tell him that I love him. He whips me and fucks me for saying it. He always ends up saying it too-right after he's reduced me to crying and begging him to stop. I shake all over-I shake my head. I don't understand myself anymore. I beg him to punish me some more.

I don't know how long it was before I shot a load of cum again-maybe two days or three. He'd fucked me hard after he'd whipped my ass. I was untied. He'd commanded me to stand at attnetion. I stood there. He whipped my cock with a belt. It hurt like hell. I could feel it boiling up in me. It shot out. A huge load. I screamed out. It felt so good.

He commanded me to lick it up. I fell to my knees. Hell, I was

"To the kitchen," he said. I crawled in there. "On the table," he said. "On your back." I obeyed. "I told you I'd punish you if

you shot a load of cum again." "I'm sorry, Sir," I said. "I couldn't help it."

He held up a knife. I started shaking. "Take your punishment as a man," he said. He grabbed my cock. "I've got to do this," he said, as he looked into my eyes. I didn't know what to expect.

He grabbed my cock. I screamed and passed out.

When I came to, my cock was bandaged. I looked at him. His cock was bandaged. I didn't understand. I looked up to his neck. He had a chain there that wasn't there before. He saw me looking at it. he reached up to touch the little round bulb hanging from it.

"It's your foreskin," he said. I cringed deep within myself.

"Reach up," he said. I felt something added to my collar. It was a lock and another piece of something. He smiled. "My foreskin," he said simply. "We're a part of each other now. You can't leave me now, even if you wanted to, you can't leave a part of you behind anymore than I can ever leave you, for I can't leave a part of me behind."

He laughed at me. "Don't be stupid. For a big brother, you're awfully dumb. You passed out the moment I put the knife to your cock and pressed the tip to your foreskin. A doctor friend of mine came over and did the job right. We'll be sore for a couple of days or so. The doctor says my cockhead will toughen up from use after a bit. Your's probably won't, since it won't get any use. You'll like that, because every time I barely touch that sensitive cockhead of yours, you'll know that you belong to me totally. When I whip your cock, you'll know you've been punished."

He calls me slave or shithead or anything that comes to his mind. A couple of times he's slipped and called me Tom. Last night was one of those times, only this time it wasn't a slip.

"Tom," he said. "All these years you never knew what it was like to have a father who loved you and cared for you. Sure, dad did something crazy to you back then. I know that you and him never got along before that either. But I grew up with grandpa as my dad. He was a stern man, but I know that he loved me. I had my share of whippings from him, but I always knew he loved me.

"I know it sounds crazy to you, and may be it is. But that's what this is all about. You need to have a real man over you, and to experience what I did. You need to know both the discipline and yet to know that there is real love there also. Someday you might understand what I'm doing and why I'm doing it."

Damn it! I got all choked up and started to cry. He was crazy. I was crazy. I crawled over to him and sobbed into his crotch. The words came out suddenly. I don't know how or why. "Daddy," I

He reached down to grab my head and pull it back. I thought he was going to kiss me, and opened my mouth in a sob, but instead he pushed my tear-streaked face down on his hardening cock. "It's alright, son," he said, as I choked on his stiffness and my whole body shuddered. He reached for his belt. "Everything's going to be alright now. It's got to be. After all, we're family.'

by Chip Archer

They called him "Cat." Don't ask me why…or what the derivation of the name is…cause I don't know. And I don't care. The only thing I do care about is the guy who was called "Cat." He was something else … still is probably, but I wouldn't know. Don't hear from him anymore. Long gone. Probably married some silly bitch. Maybe he's a father…teaching his little ones how to play baseball, and lacrosse. And generally horse around. He was an expert at horsin' around. He had himself one mega-sized horse cock. Maybe that's why they called him "Cat." His fuckin' dick was about as big as a cat…always leapin' out at you and sprayin' its shit all around. Leapin' out at you like it was furious with being tied down to his body…This big mean cat-size dick that wanted to take off and have a life of its own. Instead, the poor motherfucking' prick was a slave to his body. And his mind. That's the problem. It was his mind that was sick. Always lookin' for trouble. That's how we met, come to think of it. He was lookin' and I was trouble.

It began at this school my Dad sent me to so that I wouldn't get in no more trouble. Only problem was, since everyone there was a troublemaker, I had to kind of overdo the antisocial behavior. I had to prove something, you know? Like no one could make me do what I didn't want to do? If I wanted to shove my big fat pecker in some nun's tight-lipped mouth that's my business. I don't know why they all made such a fuss out of it. She didn't bleed or anything. What made it so exciting for me, man, was when she was suckin' on it, I kept calling out "Suck on the crucifix bitch…that's Christ in your mouth- …don't choke on it, bitch, that's your savior in there.'

She didn't find it too amusing, I'll tell you. So, when the queenie priest came in and discovered us, it was decided that I better go to the Claptrap Reformatory, a school for wayward boys. That's me…wayward. I thought it was going to be a big motherfuckin' bore…until I met Cat.

I met Cat outside the school gym. He was about 5'11" and 175 pounds of sheer rock-hard muscle. He was one good-lookin' stud. He had this kind of wild long hair that resembled a wee-pin' willow when it rains. And he always wore these torn leather vests…like he had been caught in a meat grinder and the only thing that came out straight was his prick. Everything else was crooked…torn…ripped and tattered. In short, he was a wild mess…a rebellious bushel of tumbleweed. He was known for lifting weights (as well as anything else he could get his hands on). And he had these big powerful biceps that were as fat as fresh hams. He had big tits that hung like canteloupes from a vine. No shirt was big enough for his chest. But he was one mean looking dude. A smile was about as rare on his face as a cunt that didn't smell.

I was fixin' up my bike…I'd stolen it off a traveling salesman who'd offered to suck my dick. I took the bike instead. Left him stranded on a highway with only a boner in his hand. Should have seen the look on his face as I tore off with the wheels. He jumped up, completely nude, and started running down the gravelly highway. Then he hit a pot hole, slipped and came crashing down on the hard tip of his cock. That must have hurt. Yeah…that must have hurt real bad.

Anyway, I was greasin' my wheels when this dude that I knew was Cat came over to me. He was wearing sunglasses that were as black as a Nubian's butthole. So I couldn't see his eyes. All I could see was the sneer cross his face and the spit begin to rise from the corners of his mouth. Angry son of a bitch.

'Where you get that bike, kid?" He growled.

"I stole it off some fairy," I answered slowly, making sure I was out of range of his spit.

"Nice looking machine. What he want…to suck you?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?" I replied.

"I'm no fool, kid. Whenever I want to get my rocks off, I head on over to the highway and let some trucker suck my dick." With that, he grabbed at his leather pants and squeezed a large section of the front fly. I could see something surge and expand underneath the skin-fabric and his grip tightened along the protruberance. He groaned and threw his head back like a neighing horse.

"Shit, fuck! I am getting pretty fuckin' horny looking at you grease up those wheels!" Cat knelt down and rubbed his black-gloved hand along the chrome of my bike. I could smell his man odor and it was pungent and sweet. Brut. Joe Namath's smell.

"So you're Cat?" I blurt out. Hoping he'd approve of me and accept me in his group.

Cat leaned down and looked at me…and still from a distance of three or four inches I couldn't see his eyes. He smiled.

"I dunnon…Cat…it's just that I've heard you're a pretty mean motherfucker and I'd like to join up with you."

"What you done to deserve being my friend? Kill anyone?" He touched my knee.

"No." I replied. "Not yet. But I did rape a nun."

"Terrific, kid. Not bad for starters." He didn't take his hand off my knee. "She like your cock in her?"

This was the in I was waiting for. "You bet, Cat, 'cause my cock is pretty fuckin' huge and she loved having it stuffed right inside her. Let me tell you it was not an immaculate conception."

Cat laughed and reached over to my groin. He stuck his gloved hand along the ridges of my jeans and felt the ripples of

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my cock as it strained within the confining cloth. I dropped one leg from my crouching position and my dick stretched and yawned along the inner seam of my jeans. His hand was there to meet it head-on and he squeezed the top half of it. Then he pushed me hard in the stomach, knocking me flat on my back. Both of my feet were now under the bike and Cat leaped on top of me, his knees pressed hard against my shoulders. I could smell the leather of his pants, especially in the hot crotch which was poised like a basket above my chest. Then in a horrible moment of muffled silence, I heard the click of a switchblade.

I looked up and saw that Cat had removed his blade from his back pocket and had released the steel. It glimmered in the afternoon sunlight.

"Hey, Cat…don't! I didn't mean anything! I just thought we'd be friends…what's the knife for?"

But he wouldn't listen … he flickered the knife in the sun and then brought it down along the area of my jeans where my belt was buckled. He slipped the blade underneath the leather of my belt and quickly tugged it up, cutting through the leather like it was butter. My cock ballooned out deeper into the recesses of my jeans, fear being the catalyst of my shame.

Then Cat took the blade and scrawled his initials in the faded fabric of my jeans, puncturing the cloth just above my balls. He pressed the blade deeper into the cloth and began to tear an opening. I could feel the cold steel as it tugged at the cloth and now and then darted along the hot skin of my sack. I was afraid. Afraid that he would plunge the dagger in deeper and stab right through my scrotum. Cut off my balls without mercy and wipe the blood along my face.

Instead, he finished cutting open a hole and then with both hands he ripped the fabric open further, revealing my big hairy balls. I could feel the wind blow through the hole and the little strands of hair on my testicles waved in the breeze like they were brandishing white flags of surrender to the enemy.

With a final cut he ripped open the fly on my jeans and tore my pants off, pulling them down along my muscled thighs. My ass scratched along the roots and dirt underneath my back and I could feel the leaves crackle. My cock jumped out and stood poised at full mast like a dagger itself. He took the knife and gently rubbed the flat-edge of it along the shaft…cold metal against hot flesh. I was terrified that he might slip and cut off the fat thick rod of flesh. But he was slow and assured and moved like an expert surgeon in an operating room.

"Shit, that is some fuckin' mean lookin' pecker, kid. Maybe I should cut it in half…much too big for a little sucker like you!"

"No, Cat! Don't…please don't! I'll do anything you say! I promise! I'll be your best friend…I'll kill for you! Whatever- … just don't cut it off!" I cried out in a hoarse desperate voice.

"Don't worry, kiddo. I ain't gonna cut it off. I'm gonna suck it off."

With that, he leaned over and took the straining head of my rigid pole and placed it against the ridge of his lips. Then in a swift and well-practiced hand, he slipped the cock past the lips and deep into the recesses of his throat. Three inches in … then four, then the full eight, past the wall of his soft palette, past the uvula, deep into the throne of his throat. I could feel the mucus of his esophagous cling to the head of my cock. Swallow it in deeper and moisten it with his deep spit. Then he pulled the pecker out slowly and licked at the shaft with his flickering tongue. I could feel the blood pound inside his head as he maneuvered the hard muscle inside his mouth.

He removed the cock and started to rub it up and down with his gloved hand…I could feel an orgasm of tremendous proportions surge through my sack. But I held back and let him suck on it harder. This hot stud who looked like John McEnroe on a good day was praying over my cock, sucking it deeper and deeper into the vessel of his head. He was manhandling my fag-pole, slapping it back and forth, whipping it into a frenzy. I could feel the froth bubble and boil in my balls…only a moment and then Cat shoved the hard tool deeper into his mouth, pressing his cheeks against the coarse pubic hair, sucking up the balls like his whole head was a Hoover, and my sex 36 DRUMMER was the dirt on the carpet. Then he took both of his hands and pulled down on the tight skin of the shaft and I couldn't restrain myself, the lava was molten and it was brimming, bubbling, boiling. The fucking load shot out of my cock and landed splat on his face, then another shot, and another!

The burning embers of my testicles sent wave upon wave of the boiling man-oil onto his prickly cheeks, more onto his jaw and a few triumphant splatters onto his elusive sunglasses. They coated the blackness of his lenses. He would have to take them off. When he did, I felt a thrill go through my body. He had the most incredible, clear, green eyes. The eyes of a predator…the eyes of a cat.

I lay there, exhausted. My balls felt like someone had squeezed them. Hell, that was a great orgasm. I looked up at Cat. He was smiling, and his cool green eyes shone in the afternoon light.

"You like that, boy?" he demanded.

"Turn over. It's my turn," he brusquely said.

My head spun. What did he say? Turn over? What did he mean by "it's my turn?"

"Uh, I got to get going, Cat…" I said, trying to get up on my teet.

"Wait a minute, man!" he shot back, a determined glare in his eyes. "I said it's my turn. Roll over." He poked the switchb-lade at my butt.

I did as he told me. I rolled over on my stomach, my skin pressing hard against the rough dirt underneath me. My ass was unprotected.

"Shit, that is some nice ass you got, boy," he said through clenched teeth. "Such a hot, tight ass!"

I squirmed on the ground. I didn't like the sound of his voice. Then I heard him spit.

He leaned over me and placed his spit-coated forefinger against the hot opening of my butt-hole. I could feel how thick and warm his spit was. It felt creamy. Then he dug the tip of his finger inside the tube of my ass. For a second it toyed with the lips of my man-hole, then, roughly, he shoved it all the way in.

'Ahhh, yeah, whoooee! Tight male pussy. Hot male pussy!"

Cat intoned.

He poked his finger deeper inside me. Man, it hurt like hell. But he didn't just leave it in there. He slowly moved it in and out, turning his finger around so that the soft tip of it massaged my prostate gland. I felt like I had to take a wicked dump, but the more he stroked that spot the more my own cock started to grow and stretch.

I heard Cat get down to his knees. He placed both of his gloved hands on the sides of my ass and pulled it towards him. I felt a fat, hard, burning round thing touch my ass cheeks. I jumped away as fast as I could. I turned around and looked at Cat. In his hands he was holding his prick. It looked like the leg of a child. So stiff and long. The head of it was round and blunt, bigger than the shaft. He stroked the length of it with both hands, pulling on the skin of it so that the hole on the end of it opened up real wide. I thought if I looked closer I could see inside his cock all the way to his balls.

"Get back here!" he barked.

"No, Cat! I can't! It's too big! Please!" I cried back.

"I don't like spoiled sports," he said. "I did you, now you do me. Come here and lube this tool."

"1…l can't…

"I SAID COME HERE!" he shouted. Fury racing through his body like a bullet. His cock stretched and ballooned out at its head.

I stepped closer to him. He immediately grabbed my hair with his fist and pulled me over to him with my head.

"Suck it, shithead!"

I didn't have much choice. The only way to calm this monster down was to relax him by doing what he told me. I stared at the huge thing he held in his hands. I didn't even think I could get my mouth around the head of it. He pushed me down so that the tip of it pressed against my lips. I relented and the swollen

head passed through my teeth into the cavern of my mouth. It felt like I had a roll of paper towels shoved in there. But it tasted salty and sweet at the same time. I could feel the big blue vein on the bottom of his pecker pass along my tongue.

It was undulating like a snake. I brought my tongue around to the top portion of his mammoth rod and licked at the edges of the corona.

Cat leaned into me and forced the rest of his hose deeper into the confines of my throat. I gagged as the head of the battering ram hit the opening to my esophagus. I pushed it out of my mouth.

"It's…too…big!" I blurted out, choking.

"Spit on it!" he ordered.

I spat a big wad of saliva onto the head of it and rubbed it along the shaft with my hand. Holy shit, his cock felt like two dicks in my hand. I started to rub it up and down. I brought both hands up to it and pulled and tugged at the thick flesh. It felt fantastic.

"You do that good, kid. You like feelin' how big it is, don't ya!" he gritted his teeth again. I had never felt a cock so hard in my life. I could tell by the way that he threw his head back and let it roll on his shoulders that he was gettin' real hot. He was gonna blow any second.

"On your knees, again. Do as I say!" he shouted.

I got on my knees, like in the first position in wrestling. This time he didn't even wait to poke his finger into the furnace. He grabbed onto my hips and with a gruff heaving sound he pushed the gigantic prick inside me. I screamed with the pain as the entirety of it was shoved in. But he didn't stop.

Suddeny, I felt like a bomb went off in my butt. Each time he brought the head of his dick back out to the tight opening of my ass, I felt my head go faint, and my prostate gland shudder. Sparks flew through my brain like gunfire. My heart pounded. My back arched as if his cock had become my spine. He lifted my ass up off the ground with each successive thrust. I was

Thwack!

I felt his hand slap my buttocks. A brilliant red light flashed before my eyes. A brilliant, warm glow emanated from the skin of my ass. Every nerve in my body seemed to respond to his every move. The unbearable pleasure of his pounding pud in my male box; the blinding shimmers of delight that sprung from my heated flesh; the palpable pull of my balls as they screamed for release…again.

"I'm gonna shoot my load in you, you bastard!" he hollered.

"Go ahead, Cat … fill me up with your juice!"

"Ooh, yeah, tell me you love it. Tell me it hurts so much you can't stop begging for it!'

"Fuck me, Cat! Fuck me! Shoot your cum in my ass! Fuck me!'

With a grimace and a holler, Cat dug his nails into my back and arched his back. His cock was shoved as far inside me as possible. The head of it stretched my insides to the bursting point. Then I felt it. I felt the fireball of his cum shoot inside me, burning its way along the walls of my rim-chute. Splash after splash of the heated liquor!

I reached underneath me and touched the tender tip of my own pecker. Just the touch caused the top of it to explode in a frenzy of creamy white bullets, blasting out of me like shrapnel.

Cat collapsed on top of me and dropped his head to my neck, biting me in ever gentler bites. Finally, he pushed forward and pulled my head back to reach his. He dropped his lips down onto mine and sucked my tongue into his mouth. We both opened our eyes at the same time. In the reflection of his green irises, I saw my own eyes wild with passion.

We didn't say anthing for a long time. Then Cat lifted himself up and began to pull his cock out of me. I clamped down real tight on the thick head of it, making it impossible for him to pull

"Hey what're you doin'?" he cried out.

"Just shut up, you motherfucker, and keep fucking!" I demanded. He did as he was told.

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PLAYING TO VIN

BYSIMON

most of the men surrounding the pool table and the look was returned briefly by each of the men. The look was not an invitation but merely an acknowledgement of the surroundings . Then the light would dim in his eyes and fix on another person. The look always returned to Jason.

Jason was a regular in the bar and part of the group that played pool into the morning hours. The bar to him was a social club rather than a pick-up place. He was good looking, sought after and never had trouble attracting attention to himself. Chances are that he would make contact with someone before closing time or, if not, on the long walk home along the waterfront . He was a sexual experimenter, interested more in chance encounters in unlikely places with unlikely people. He prided himself on the fact that he could fit into any role that was to his liking at the moment. His buddies began goading him on about the stranger, for they too had seen the looks passing between them. Jason was certainly curious but resisted the temptation, preferring to set his sights on a good game of pool. As he crouched low, aiming his cue for a rebound shot into the corner pocket, he noticed the man smiling at him. The ball banked the corner and came to rest far from its target. The game was lost and Jason went for a beer in a sullen mood. The stranger had gotten to him after all.

When Jason returned, the crowd had thinned out and the pool table was free. He picked up a cue and silently held it out towards the stranger. The man accepted the unspoken challenge and took his first shot, breaking up the triangle of multicolored balls and sending them careening across the green felt, scoring one ball in the process. The game proceeded silently and expertly with the two men matching each other point for point. Soon the deciding ball, black eight, was all that was left. The stranger retired to the shadows as Jason carefully set up the shot. He realized he was nervous and the tingle of competitiveness was a stronger emotion than he usually had to deal with. There was something more than a piss-ant game of eight-ball at o stake. The eight ball was resting against the rail only an inch from the side pocket. There were limited choices with a shot like that. He decided to hug the rail with the white ball, gently nudging the scoring ball into the pocket. When Jason felt the contact of the cue with the ball he knew it was too hard to keep it up against the rail. Sure enough, the white ball rebounded at a slight angle, passing the black ball by a hair. The game was over.

Jason stood hunched over the padded rim of the table for a long time before he turned around to the stranger. His eyes searched the shadows and stools, but the man was gone. The cue had been placed back in the rack and the area was deserted. He gulped down the remains of his beer, picked his jacket up from the stool and headed for the damp night air.

The man sat in his car on the darkened street smoking a cigarette as Jason left the bar, crossed to the river bank and walked towards home. He started the car and slid into the thinning traffic. Further along the road he pulled into a parking area along the river. He lit another cigarette and waited. He could see the shadows of men cruising along the walk but none of it appealed to him. As Jason stepped into the pool of light from the street lamp, the man opened his door and swung his booted feet onto the pavement. He stood there, his back to the sound of the oncoming footsteps, waiting. Jason passed the car and turned to look at the stranger. A match flared in the man's cupped hand, illuminating his face briefly, but long enough. Jason turned and walked to the car.

"You want to stand around here all night or would you rather go somewhere and fuck?"

"Get in the car." The stranger smiled for the first time as he spoke.

They spoke haltingly during the journey. Jason noticed that all the small talk was cleverly steered away from anything personal . He was lost in these thoughts when the car pulled up to a small building in the warehouse district. The first floor was all garage space and the car neatly pulled into one of the vacant slots. They entered through a side door and walked up to the second floor. The apartment appeared to be one huge room divided by low walls and tiled platforms. The tiled area ran the length of one wall and contained the kitchen and, behind the low partition, the toilet facilities, all overlooking the large main room.

The man took Jason's jacket and casually flung it to a corner of the room where it was swallowed by the shadows. Jason began to protest this casual treatment of his property but the man had pulled off his own coat and treated it with similar disdain. Jason thought, "Oh well, when in Rome," but there was a lingering hint of danger in his mind.

A large rectangle of padded leather dominated the room and Jason positioned himself seductively on it, his long legs stretching apart to reveal the bulge in his levis. The man joined him, handed him a beer and sat next to him. A joint appeared and was passed between them. Jason relaxed his guard a little as music began to play and all the lights went out except for the spotlights on the platform. The rest of the space receded into darkness.

"Get up and take your clothes off…slowly," the stranger commanded—the first complete sentence he had spoken all night. As Jason stood, a bit unsteadily, he realized that the grass was having the desired effect. He took center stage as the man moved to the farthest corner to watch. Jason pulled his boots off and neatly positioned them in a corner. With a wise sweep of his foot, the man kicked them into the darkness. Jason's shirt came next and he tossed it aside, exposing his tanned, muscular chest. He began to move in time to the rhythms of the music. He flexed his arms, putting his hands behind his head. The sweat glistened under his arms and along the small patch of gold hair on his chest. He unbuttoned the top of the jeans, exposing the darker hair that covered his stomach. Turning his back to the stranger, Jason undid the rest of the buttons and slowly lowered his pants. As he bent over to free his legs, exposing the crack of his hairy ass, he saw the man inch forward to get a better look. Jason, confident of the power in his body, abruptly turned to face the man. Wearing only a jock and some sweat socks, he walked closer to him and began to massage the bulge in the pouch. Soon the thick cockhead appeared over the elastic band, the shaft pushing out the pouch. He lowered the jock and began to run his hands lightly over the thickly veined rod. A booted foot appeared between his legs, forcing the jock to the floor. The man stood up and moved closer, his dark eyes fixed on Jason's.

"Get all those clothes in a nice, neat pile right here," he said, as he forced Jason to his knees in the middle of the platform. The stranger disappeared into the darkness and when he came back, holding two more beers, Jason was kneeling on the platform with his clothes neatly arranged between his legs. He took the beer from the stranger and watched fascinated as the man began to undo his pants slowly. Still fully dressed, the stranger pulled his prick through the opening and let it hang in semi-hardness from his pants. The cock was uncut and the head was slowly beginning to emerge from the foreskin. He let the meat dangle a short distance from Jason's face as a trickle of piss began to drip onto the pile of clothes. Jason bent forward to take the liquid but the man pushed him away. By now, the trickle had turned into a heavy, golden stream that saturated the clothing and filled the boots. As the man gulped down the remaining beer, he directed his rod to all the remaining dry spots on the clothing. Jason, hypnotized by the light catching the golden stream, slowly became aware of the soggy clothing at his knees. With a thud of fear in his stomach, he realized that he had fallen again under this man's silent power. Only this wasn't a good-natured game of pool.

He moved to push the clothing away but the man stopped him. He grabbed Jason's wrist tightly as he poured the remains of his beer can onto the already soggy pile. Jason felt that he could overpower him if necessary, but the look in the man's eyes told him that this could become a knock-down drag-out fight. Jason pulled his wrist free and waited. He was caught off-balance as the man's boot caught him lightly in the chest and sent him backwards. The man approached and placed a

cautionary boot on Jason's heavy groin. He rubbed the foot up and down, feeling the hardness beneath. The pressure continued as Jason winced in discomfort and tried to pull away. The stranger relaxed the pressure and bent forward as if to say something-but instead he spat in Jason's face.

Jason's patience had reached its limit. He wrapped his bare leg around the man's and pulled forward. Toppling backward, he loosened his foot from Jason's groin. Taking advantage of the moment, Jason leapt forward, pulling the man down. The man, panting heavily, began pulling the black leather belt from his dungarees and Jason noticed for the first time that the man's cock had grown hard. He reached for the belt and forced it free of the man's hands, sending him sprawling onto his stomach.

Jason was mad and wanted revenge. He took the belt and looped it around the man's neck. With a firm grip, he jerked the belt upward, bringing the man to his knees. With a forward tug, Jason had the man's face buried in his dark, sweaty pubic hair.

"Take that cock and get it good and hard again, mother-fucker ," Jason commanded, his voice hard with hatred. The kneeling man winced and drew back, but a hard slap across the face made him more accepting of his fate. He took Jason's soft, thick cock in his mouth and slowly began to stroke it. He gently took the head between his teeth and began to tongue the piss slit. Jason forced a few drops of piss onto the man's tongue. Soon it became a thick stream flowing down the man's throat. He pulled his cock out of the hungry mouth and let it flow freely into the man's beard and down onto his clothing. The man let the yellow stream drench his body as he reached for his thickly veined cock and began to pump away.

"Why you stupid cock-sucker, that's what you wanted all the time, isn't it?" Jason shouted. The man nodded his head as he cupped his hands, filling them with piss and licking it greedily. Jason felt the hardness coming back into his rod as he let the last few drops of salty piss fall on the man's waiting tongue. He stroked the cock until the veins stood out on the shaft and the head became red and then shoved it down the man's throat. His hatred of the man eased up as he became more involved in fucking his face, but he didn't want to lose control of the situation. He loosened the belt from the man's neck and brought it down with a thud across his back.

"Bring me another beer, cunt-mouth!"

The man nodded and obediently went to the kitchen, soon to return with two beers.

"Are those both for me?"

"I wanted one for myself."

"I'll give you all the beer you want," Jason yelled as he popped open the can and sprayed it over the man.

"Take off that fuckin' smelly shirt!"

The man obeyed and Jason took the wet shirt and wrung it out, dripping beer and piss into the man's mouth. Jason leaned over and picked up one of the wet boots and emptied that into the mouth also, all the while stroking his heavy meat, his ball sac bouncing up and down, inches from the man's face. Both men were now pumping their meet in unison.

"Get up and take off the rest of those clothes, asshole!"

Jason took a long sip of beer as the man rose, dropped his jeans to expose a hairy, sweaty ass. Jason, amused that the tables had been turned, flicked the belt out at him, leaving a small red welt. The man responded with a low, inviting moan and jutted the hairy cheeks out further. Jason accommodated him with another stinging blow. As the third blow hit the ass, the man spun around, grabbing the belt. Jason was momentarily caught off-guard and they wrestled to the ground, each man unable to firmly grasp the sweaty, piss-covered body of his opponent.

"You stupid fuck, I'll show you who's boss!" Jason bellowed as he threw his body on top of the man's, pinning him down. His dick was at complete attention as it slid down the hairy crack and poised itself to enter the man. Jason knew that he didn't want to play any more games tonight. He held the man by the shoulders and positioned his groin over the man's hairy legs as he spread them apart. His dripping dick was knocking at the door when the man forced his hand free, but only to reach for

Dear Larry,

I was amused to note in your last column that you tried to answer that clown who did the dumb article in Mandate about the evils of being devoted to leather. I agreed with you, as far as you went. But you missed the most importnt point by not picking up on the asinine remark about our trying to achieve a "leather lifestyle."

Now, I'm about as much into leather / SM as it's possible to get. I'm in my forties, have been a slave and am now more or less of a Master. I always wear leather to the bars or clubs, and I hardly ever have sex that isn't at least symbolically SM. But I also work a good job, own a home, drive a decent car, and have an active social life that includes dining out in some "better" restaurants, going to shows and the opera, etc. When engaged in these activities I don't wear leather, nor does anyone else I know. So, what's this leather lifestyle shit? Maybe you've got one, or the guys who put out Drummer do. But if someone doesn't make his living in, by and for the leather crowd, how the fuck can we have a

"leather lifestyle?"

Living with no lifestyle, CT

Dear Living.

I was hoping no one would ask me this one, because some guys I'm rather fond of have already put their foot in it by claiming this elusive "Leather Lifestyle." And they have exactly the same problem you have-or I have, or any of us have. However much we may enjoy leather and SM sex, there are some times and places where the costume and attitudes are inappropriate. The problem becomes even more apparent if you try to analyze the leather group, as I did with the survey in Handbook II. Although this was not a scientifically controlled sampling , the figures I obtained were so lopsided , they have to be at least somewhat indicative of "who's out there." I came up with about 40% advanced university degrees in my sample group. Less than 4% had failed to at least graduate from high school, and a comfortable majority were college graduates. This group of men are nearly all in their 30's and up, so it would be logical to expect that they would (as a group) be doing well financially . We might also expect a fairly high level of social awareness, diverse intellectual interests, along with business/ professional activities that preclude their "living in leather." Still, many of us consider ourselves to be "leatherguys," regardless of whatever else we have to do in our lives outside the area of leather / SM. For this reason, then, I think "leather lifestyle" is a foolish term to use, simply because it implies an exclusive condition that very few men are able to achieve. And don't ask me to define what it should be. I'm not that much of a masochist.

Dear Larry,

I would like to comment on "Sincere & Willing, VT" (Drummer 75), and relate my own experience in placing an ad in Drummer, with the heading "Pig Wanted." I received a potpourri of approximately 80 responses: 15 from England and Central Europe, one from Australia, 20 from Canada, and the rest from the USA. Several were from guys who lived a great distance from me, but just wrote for the joy of acknowledging another pig out there. Because of where I live, many wrote that they would be passing through. I was shortly able to distinguish which were the serious letters (i.e., those which were legible and not stuck together). Surprisingly, only six guys totally understood the ad and responded accordingly. Only five did not receive a response from me. Others received a letter and photo, thanking them for their interest. For whatever reason , only 25 contined with any correspondence , thus indicating our mutual seriousness.

I fully enjoyed responding to all these guys, but also realized that it was becoming very time-consuming and a bit expensive. So, on the basis of my experience , I think VT had a very good response to his letters, and think he might have been expecting more than any series of letters could achieve. Contacts don't always work out in the bars and clubs; why expect it to be any different with Drumbeats?

D. LePorc, Vancouver, B.C.

Dear Porker,

Your responses were quite interesting . I'm glad to see that the Drumbeat ads are drawing so well. I guess in any such situation there is going to be more chaff then wheat. But, as "they" say, it only takes one-unless you're a real pig, and then maybe it takes two or three…or four…five…20?

Dear Larry Townsend.

To become a complete slave to a Master , to comply with all his demands, and to do exactly as he commands, and still maintain a semblance of one's own mind so he can continue to work and assist in support of the Master-How does one become trained to do both? Is there a good course to be taken? Try as I may, when attempting complete servitude I find I tend to lose my presence of mind, which I require for my job. Do I have to wait to retire to be the complete slave I desire to be?

In Brotherhood, Mianu

Dear Brotherhood.

Since your servitude to your Master presumably takes place in a different time and place from your work situation, I don't see why this should be so much of a problem. Most gay men learn early on to lead a sort of double life, and this is not necessarily exclusive to us. There are many hot workers who take a lot of shit on their jobs, working as low men on the company totem poles, but who still remain "masters" within their own fami-lies once the door of their homes close behind them at night.

You may be living the reverse of this, but I know a lot of guys who sit in a seat of command in the office, aware at all times of their true status because their Master's marks can be felt on their asses, even as they issue their commands. I suppose this is more difficult for some than for others, but as you get used to the idea it should become easier for you to carry it off. Just remember that, even as you perform these seemingly unrelated tasks in your work space, you are actually carrying out the commands of your Master.

(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.)

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DRUMMER 45

INTERNATIONAL LEATHER SCENE

76 DRUMMER

SCHOOL'S OPEN

Gay Male SM Activists of New York, one of the country's leading groups in the movement toward formal education and training in SM practices, recently published its "fall semester" series of meetings and workshops. General meetings are held on the second and fourth Wednesdays of the month at the Gay Community Center, 208 West 13th Street, first floor, at 8:30 P.M., with a door donation of $2 (members) and $3 (nonmembers ). Special meetings are sometimes scheduled for other addresses and sometimes require an additional admission charge. Of special interest in October and November:

Temperature Torture" (Oct. 10, 208 W. 13th): "Candles, ice cubes, hot oil, cigarettes, cigars…etc… items can be used in remarkably sophisticated and even artistic ways to create exquisite feelings of pain and pleasure," notes the GMSMA brochure. The program leader, an MD, will explain physiological aspects, give advice on avoiding injury-and even show slides.

"Workshop: Temperature Torture" (Oct. 13, time and place to be announced). Putting lessons into practice , as GMSMA members have "the opportunity to use and / or feel the effects of a wide range of devices exploiting temperature extremes." Hot? You bet.

"School for Lower Education" (Oct. 20, Mineshaft, $8 nonmembers, $5 members). GMSMA members will demonstrate their own special techniques in public: "Safe, sane, spectacular SM."

"Historical Perspective on Consensual SM" (Oct. 24, 208 W. 13th). GMSMA asks, "What was the Marquis de Sade really like?"—and other burning questions—in a backward look at historical SM, complete with slide show.

"Water Sports, Scat, and Other Raunch Scenes" (Nov. 14, 208 W. 13th). A taboo-bursting program on "dirt"- mud, oil, sweat, piss, shit—why it can be so exciting, and how to make it as safe as

If this kind of in-depth, reflective but hands-on approach to SM hits your spot, you can get more information on Gay Male SM Activists and their various programs by writing: GMSMA, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

MR. SPIKE

One of New York's most famous leather havens, The Spike, announces its search for Mr. Spike, to culminate in a

contest on Oct. 21 at 9:30 P.M. The top man will be The Spike's entrant in the Mr. Leather, New York contest (a benefit for the Gay Men's Health Crisis) being held on Oct. 27. Requested admission to the event is the purchase of at least one $1 raffle ticket benefiting GMHC. Contestants can ask for contest details at the bar, and must register at The Spike (120 Eleventh Ave. at 28th St.) by October 17.

MEN IN UNIFORM

If you've got a thing for men in uniform-and who doesn't-you're likely to shoot a load in your pants the minute you walk in the door of the American Uniform Association's 7th Annual Review, being held this year over the weekend of Oct. 5-8 in Denver. Polished brass, starched collars, blinding navy whites, and lots of leather, from Sam Browne belts to full regalia, will be on hand (and maybe on all-fours) when AUA members and other men into uniforms come together for a weekend of partying at establishments all over the Mile-High City.

To announce the event, the AUA has released a specially-commissioned poster that's a definite knock-out (and available to art and pec lovers for a measly six bucks, postage included, from Review Coordinator and artist Leon Marfell.) For information on the American Uniform Association and its Annual Review, or to order the poster, contact: Leon Marfell, c / o Review Headquarters, 5 E. Bayaud, Denver, CO 80209, or phone (303) 778- 6993.

And even if you can't make to it Denver for the festivities—take a soldier to lunch.

DRUMMER 77

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1087 Manzanita Street at Santa Monica & Sunset Los Angeles, CA 90029 (213) 664-1189

"Jason's perception is as positive as his message; his understanding is as welcome as his honesty; his invitation for living is its own reward … It is essential reading for all of us who wish a positive reinforcement for our being."

'You are encouraged to read all of Down To Earth. You will be richly rewarded! It is of the highest quality — comparable to the Seth material."

-Ralph Walker, Editor The Loving Brotherhood Newsletter

Relationships, Human Sexuality, Death, Abortion, The Natural Male, Health Marriage and Friendship are just a few of the down-to-earth topics discussed by the spirit Jason with Bob Fogg. Ron Goettsche is the trance medium for these remarkable messages of daily living from the spirit world.

Mail to Synergy Publishers P.O. Box 18268-M Denver, CO 80218-0268

"WE ENJOY SHAVING"

Latest on the special interest club scene: the formation of an organization called WES (We Enjoy Shaving). The group was offically organized this summer and already claims 50 members throughout the US. Based on an extensive mailing campaign, WES expects three times that number by summer's end.

The WES newsletter, Stubble, features club news, offbeat news, clippings, head-shaving photos from here and there, fact and fiction.

Interested parties can receive a membership application by writing to: WES, Box 6316, Reno, NV 89513. Considering the foamy response to Robert Payne's "Slaveshaving" in Drummer 75, we figured you'd want to know.

DADDY'S BOY II

Upcoming: the second annual Leather Daddy's Boy Contest, a benefit for the SF AIDS Fund, to be held Oct. 21, 3-6 P.M. at the San Francisco Eagle. The prestigious panel of judges include Sonny Cline, Mr. Drummer '84; Christian Heran, San Francisco's Leather Daddy '84; longtime leatherman Paul Mayer; and not one but three holders of the International Mr. Leather title-Luke Daniel (also Mr. Drummer '82), Colt Thomas and Ron Moore. Last but certainly not least on the panel: Al Parker. For more info, see the bartender at The Eagle (12th and Harri-son Streets).

GERMAN PANTHERS.

Tenth year anniversaries seem to have been the order of the day all over Northern Europe this summer. Kicking off the autumn is the Ten Year Anniversary celebration of MS Panther e.V., the notorious Panther motorcycle club of Cologne, West Germany. Members of the European Confederation of Motorcycle Clubs (but not, apparently, exhausted by the ECMC's own ten-year anniversary celebrations this summer), the Panthers will be holding their own festivities October 26-28, with events ranging from a welcome in the Coconut Disco to sight-seeing in historical Cologne and a ride on the "Kaiser Carriage" suspension railway in Wuppertal.

The Panthers can be contacted by writing : MS Panther Koln e.V., Postfach 5163, D-4620 Castrop-Rauxel, West Germany.

VASM IS TWO

Over the past year, International Leather Scene has published a number of items on Vancouver Activists in SM (VASM), a progressive group dedicated to safe-and-sane principles of SM with a burgeoning reputation all up and down the Canadian and US West Coasts.

Word now arrives of VASM's Second Anniversary Weekend, scheduled for Oct. 6 and 7 in Bellingham, Washington; organizers expect to have almost fifty Activists in attendance. International Leather Scene extends best wishes for a weekend of wild action, administered with the steady hand of safe-and-sane discipline mastered by the Vancouver Activists.

MR. LEATHER, NY

A small postscript and correction to our item in last issue's International Leather Scene about the Mr. Leather, New York contest being held Oct. 27 at Alex's Disco Bar. The full, correct contact address for Interchain, sponsor of the event, is: Box 410, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011. (We published only the box number-but the street address has to be included as well.)

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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!

GERMAN SLAVE

This 40-year-old Berlin bootslave, into uniforms and leather, begs permission to please American Masters who appreciate good tongue service.

You can contact this West German Tough Customer by addressing correspondence to TC No. 1084. (Enclose 40 cents for forwarding to West Germany.) 84 DRUMMER

J / O SEX SLAVE

This 22-year-old slave and his 6'4" Master live in Southern California and enjoy bondage, leather, oil, jocks, uniforms and prolonged, sizzling, sleazy, overpowering fantasy scenes. Hot, confident parties may respond to TC No. 1083.

CHICAGO SUBMISSIVE

This 30-year-old uncut slave in a red bandana wants his fantasies turned into reality-namely, being shackled and abused (TT, CB, Hoods, Toys) by a leather / uniformed Master (or two). He's blond and has a fantasy of being in a porn flick. See his Drumbeats ad under Illinois , or write to TC No. 1086.

GREASY, SWEATY ACTION

"Pleasure is having some guy's greasy asshole in front of me and opening it up with my cock, my fist, or whatever else I've got handy." Wade cruises Hollywood . See his Drumbeats ad (under International) or write to TC No. 1085.

DECEMBER OF CHORES

11) H

ITALIAN BRASS BALLS

Tinto Brass is no second-string director of iron-bra historical epics, but his following is as cultish. In America he is chiefly known, if his name is known at all, as the director of Caligula, where his name is overpowered by the media-conscious likes of Bob Guccione and his directional vision clouded by the appearance of Peter O'Toole, Malcolm McDowell and Sir John Gielgud in what can only be described as the most lavish porn movie ever made.

But Tinto Brass, responsible for 95% of the awesomeness of Caligula, is no stranger to erotic nightmares. In fact, it was his 1975 film, Salon Kitty, that con-

Salon Kitty, directed by Tinto Brass, starring Helmut Berger, Ingrid Thulin; 1975 (film), 1984 (video), VCL (Media Home Entertainment); 120 minutes, rated X, VHS / Beta, $69.95. vinced Guccione, the publisher of Penthouse , that no one else but Tinto Brass could bring off such a controversial and ground-breaking film.

Salon Kitty was, in a word, a sleeper. Revolutionary for its time, perhaps too much so, it was lost in the wave of sexually explicit mainstream movies of the post-pornography period; while not hard-core, it rode a frenzied line between art house acceptability and outright repulsion from "serious" film critics . Only Screen International had a handle on its importance, calling it "an epitaph to the work of Tinto Brass, an insight into the erotic nightmare of his mind." But even SI was premature in its judgment that Salon Kitty was any kind of cinematic plateau-Caligula was yet to come. Perhaps SI thought Brass had gone, in Salon Kitty, about as far as he dared.

In truth, no Italian director outside Pier Paolo Pasolini (Salo, The Canterbury Tales, Arabian Nights) has gone as far in exploiting sexuality; although Pasolini is usually praised for doing it by the same milktoast critics who trash Tinto Brass.

Salon Kitty is one of the most infamous Nazi era legends; the high command installed pure Aryan female agents posing as prostitutes in bugged bedrooms to ferret out information and indiscretions from its own myriad corps of officers and officials. While the hookers thought the authorities were depending on their written transcripts of the night's proceedings and conversations, the rooms were monitored, via hidden microphones . Seems no one really trusted anyone, not even card-carrying Nazi whores.

Salon Kitty was a famous erotic estab- 86 DRUMMER lishment in pre-war Berlin, run like the finest European bordello, featuring highly-charged, if insular to the times, public entertainments, staffed with the finest love goddesses (and a few tres gai attendants) available. This is not the cartoon-cabaret atmosphere of Cabaret, but a true erotic nightmare, where the most perverse tastes warranted nothing more than a slightly higher fee.

Helmut Berger plays the Nazi officer in charge of the operation (and he makes a much better Nazi than he does a Dorian Gray); Ingrid Thulin is the "Kitty" who first resists, then collaborates with the scheme. The rest of the cast, mostly completely unknown locals, is a spectrum of classic Germanic faces and bodies—in an inspection scene early on, when the hookers-to-be are being drilled by selected German soldiers in the refinement of sex, you'll note that the 20 or so Nazi studs are all uncut. There is the occasional drag queen, a rash of effeminate salon attendants, and a few unusual types that defy description.

But it was Brass' intention to carry his film to the very limit, sans pulled-punches , and in the raunchier episodes (a hooker forced to sleep with a hunchbacked dwarf, for instance) no compromises exist.

This story would be a quagmire of perversion on top of perversion (and some will argue that is the apt description) if two sub-plots did not completely take over.

The obvious conflict arises when one of the Nazi hookers falls for a German pilot who is beginning to question his country's intentions. Through his daily visits to the whore / spy, he begins to unwind and disclose every anti-Nazi sentiment he has heretofore kept buried inside. When she begins altering her reports to protect him from the masters of this clandestine game, you know what's coming. Remember that, unbeknownst to the prostitutes, the rooms are being monitored.

The second conflict comes from Berger's attraction to the same woman, and he, of course, knows she's lying in her daily reports. Berger is a bundle of sexual frustrations. It's hard to figure if he likes to watch (he makes the whore get it on with his wife / girlfriend), is sexually impotent (he never tries to screw her), or suffers from some psuedo-homosexuality a la Tinto Brass (he keeps making her crawl across the room and give him head), or has the ultimate clothing fetish (he makes her watch him dress up in uniforms outlandish even for the overdressed Nazi era).

Suffice to say, she doesn't know that he knows what's going on between her and the flyboy.

Salon Kitty is filled with visual surprises, from the whorehouse singer who is dressed half as a man, half as a woman, to the waiters in skirts who dance the cancan and throw up their petticoats to reveal their genitals. Tinto Brass went after a combination of classic Nazi symbology and period interiors to fashion a

sleek, relentless voyage that may be more routine in the narrative than one would like, but never fails to assault the eyes with images that repulse as easily as they seduce. His closing moments may well be the ultimate image of the results of the thousand-year reich.

Reproduction is average for a main-stream title, a dark film-in places-that is annoying dark in the beginning. All in all, a perverse treat for those unafraid of the politically and sexually incorrect.

THE SLEAZE FACTOR

Remember back when nothing sexual was sacred? When the question wasn't "What will you do?" but "What do you like?"-the assumption being that, in certain circles of the huge sub-strata of gay, there were no more taboos, just the right situations.

The endless nights of crawling around on the filthy floors of subterranean sex clubs experiencing nirvana are but a

One Step Beyond, directed by Dave Nesor; Slave & Master Video, 1984; starring Leather Rick, Snip, Dr. Bob; 60 minutes, direct video, Beta / VHS, $85 plus $3 postage / handling, signed statement required.

Fisting Ballet, directed by Dave Nesor; Slave & Master Video, 1984; starring Leather Rick, The Tantric Master; 60 minutes, direct video, Beta / VHS, $85 plus $3 postage / handling, signed statement required. Slave & Master Video, 1349 N. Wells, Chicago, IL 60610. memory in many hearts and minds; to be relived through the daring of those few filmmakers and actors (I used the word advisedly) who still engage in acts currently off 90% of the public's list of do's.

Two new videos from Slave & Master Video, both directed by in-house wun-derkinder Dave Nesor, harken back to those days of unbridled exploration: One Step Beyond and Fisting Ballet.

But first things first: One Step Beyond, emotionally, goes beyond anything S&MV has heretofore released. The action might look familiar—water sports, clothespins, bondage, candles-but the underlying cartharsis of the prey indeed speaks to an absolute sincerity unlike anything you've probably ever witnessed . This boy was in pain.

Fisting Ballet rightfully takes its place as the most original, most exciting, most beautiful—in a way only fisting fans will appreciate, to be sure—work of its kind. It stands head to head with the classic Erotic Hands, and stands with its head held very high.

One Step Beyond is an extension if not a refinement of the series of original videos that include The Pain Down Below, The Terrible Trilogy, and Down & Dirty. Like these, it centers around a single set of characters in a single situation, exploring a connected set of activities, sans plot, sans characterizations, stripped to the barest essentials of sadomasochism. The bottom (the main

VIDEO BRIEFS

It bills itself as a newsletter but it's really a sales brochure, but that's quite okay, because The Insider, an irregular 4-page promotional sales item from Award Films, is so packed with information you won't mind that every film mentioned is for sale from the publishers.

Award Films caught public attention when it went after and got the video cassette rights to a handful of important gay-oriented films that traditional video houses had overlooked as being too strange, too sexy, or much too specialized. Titles like Eloy de la Iglesia's provocative look at post-Franco homosexuality in Spain, El Diputado; Philippe Vallois' evocative and moving story of a WWII German soldier befriended by a French peasant, We Were One Man; and Jean Dellanoy's extraordinary story of pre-gay love in a French Catholic school, This Special Friendship.

With the latter, Award has actually preserved a lost film. First shown in 1963, it shocked polite French audiences. American theatrical versions were gutted (the McGraw-Hill 16mm version accredited to be complete was not), and the original 35mm composite master was gathering dust in a New York warehouse. After two decades, Award Films has issued what is only the second possible look at the uncut version (I know these are French boys, but no pun intended).

The Insider is filled with tidbits of information, tends to go after films that feature undraped adolescents or deal with coming-out themes, and occasionally falls into some strange descriptions, like calling Tom Cruise's baby-fat physique "muscular" in All The Right Moves. However, they hit the nail on the head with Caligula: "a monument to all that is commercially crass, perverse…and eminently watchable." A sample copy of The Insider is available by writing: Award Films, 525 N. Laurel Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90048.

Good news for Christmas (or anytime), Arthur J. Bressan's newest, Juice, starring Michael Christopher, set for yuletide release. A work designed around hunk Christopher ; it is alleged that sterling director Bressan has pulled a performance from the popular actor unlike anything his fans have ever seen.

-John W. Rowberry

one) in One Step Beyond was the subject of the enema in the "Through the Flood" section of The Terrible Trilogy. Here he is horizontal over the same bathtub, his cock and balls chained and stretched, his torso tied down with only a minimum of thrashing. The application of physical blows, the instruments used on him, the taunting of his endurance all give way to prolonged episodes of his being used as a urinal-by the top, Leather Rick, and two non-related men who are engaged in other activity slightly outside the edges of the video frame.

Then it's on to clothespins, applied in a sultry, steady, effortless road, outlining every tender crevice of flesh until his body is as captive of the bite of the wooden pins as it is of the sureness of shackles and chain and rope.

Because the sound is live, the intensity of pain grows until, at the peak of the clothespin section, it is an unvented wail of agony. And although the pins are removed, they continue to smart. When Snip is finally nude of his wooden torments , Leather Rick begins applying small lit candles-the kind you find in churches—and transforms the unwilling flesh into an altar to a pagan and equally unforgiving god. The candles melt, the wax runs down the sides. In this holiest of secret ceremonies, the degree of pain equals the degree of redemption.

Fisting Ballet forms the first part of a trilogy, with enough sacred ritual that perhaps it should be called a trinity. Filmed at the legendary Mineshaft in New York (a palace of perversion that, like the rest of us, has passed from the days of its most intense exercise of the heedlessly carnal), this amazing combination of mid-air aerobics and to-the-elbow fisting is unlike anything you've ever seen. Unique and uniquely pure, there is nothing to watch except the powerful fists and arms of Leather Rick plunge into the completely accessible rectum of the Tantric Master as the latter commits one gravity-defying move after another.

There is no "Lay down and take it like a bottom" attitude to either Rick or the Tantric Master. Arms and legs fly as adeptly as Christopher Reeves did in Superman I, II, and III. The Tantric Master is a master of the airway, and Leather Rick is a fist-rider not apt to lose stroke or fit as the two engage in what can only be called a ballet.

The movable scenery that forms a backdrop to this erotic dance piece are unacknowledged men who drape their dicks out their flies, or shuffle around the edge of the impromptu stage like cattle. Never does the camera lose sight of the premiere dancers in this tableau, sacrificing everything that might have distracted from the performance.

Fisting Ballet is superbly captured, superbly edited; as a dance film it rates a 9.95; as a fisting film it scores a perfect 10.

OUR GAY TOWN

If you don't know about Madison, Wisconsin-it's a college town and a hotbed of liberalism in the traditional blue-collar Midwest. It isn't really in the midwest, as a look at any map will tell you, but it's politically in the Midwest mindset, especially in an election year. You might therefore expect a rather conservative gay community. Wrong.

Men on Tour: Rod's in Madison; Male Entertainment Network, 1984; documentary, color, 30 minutes; VHS / Beta; $30., $1. postage and handling, M.E.N., 1 United Nations Plaza, San Francisco, CA 94102. Brochure available.

The center of activity for gay life in Madison is a place called Rod's, a business that seems to serve as a community center, out-patient clinic, club house, and community theatre. Rod's is probably a legend in Madison (if not throughout Wisconsin), and Men on Tour illustrates why.

I think this gay video travelogue covers a year in the life of Rod's-although irony would probably have it that it only covers a month. There is an excess of activity. Let me briefly list some of it: A Parts Contest, where the contestants are judged on specific body parts (yes, Virginia , those parts, too!); a staged camp ver- sion of something like Gone With The Wind; a Magic Picnic-where the finest local hunks engage in some silly, but funny, events; a weenie roast (you remember weenie roasts, don't you?) where some of the weenies are raw; an outdoor dance; an indoor dance; a visiting disco diva; all packaged into a moving montage of Midwest masculinity mixed with the occasional gay woman and the de rigueur hair-dresser-type; narrated by a man who must be Rod himself.

If you've ever wondered what a gay Our Town would be like, this is, unquestionably , it.

Fast-paced, innocently delightful-and graced with the occasional set of Midwest genitals-a different sort of stroke from what you might already have in your video library, and a refreshing one at that.

Male Entertainment Network is prolific little organization, and this particular tape fits in a wide spectrum of subjects, from local contests to mega-events like the New Orleans Mardi Gras, that the company has consigned to video tape. As is usual with M.E.N., the quality is far above the standard.

—John W. Rowberry DRUMMER 89

ANOTHER GUY

"Everyone under 18 is either a pinko or a pansy.

-Guy's stepfather

By the early 1930s, England's upper crust was crumbling at its base, behind the walls of the public school "the Queen's Prison," that hide-bound, boy-boarding institution that did everything but actually breed on the spot the next generation of John Bull's empire-builders and keepers. Well, bureaucrats with life tenure, anyway. Not a few of the money / class / privilege batch who entered with the romantic ideals of Tom Brown's School Days (clean tags at Latin and rugby) were leaving with the ironies, vices and blighted hopes of Brideshead

Revisited. "We all know what goes on in the scrum when the ref's not looking."

At least four of their elite number would be blotting the British estucheon for the next five decades-turning their country's secret pockets out of their turned coats, and flat into the paws of the Russian Bear. Philby, Blunt, Maclean, Burgess…Guy Burgess-traitor, defector , homosexual-was the charmer of the lot. The end of the tale is fictionalized first in Alan Bennett's play, The Old Country (1977), and then in his BBC screenplay, An Englishman Abroad (1983), directed by John Schlesinger and starring Alan Bates and Australian actress Coral Browne reenacting her real-life chance encounter with an aging, moul-dering , oddly unsullied Burgess in Moscow in 1958. The "roots" were disinterred by playwright Julian Mitchell in Another Country, now an Orion Classics film release. The film has an impressive production pedigree for dealing with counterculture and outlaw / outcast without looking up to or down on their subjects: producer Alan Marshall and many of the same staff did Midnight Express, Fame, and Pink Floyd The Wall.

Guy "Bennett" (Rupert Everett's stage and screen role), like his friends and ene-mies , is young and sure, ambitious and selfish in his last term, competitive, careless and without a coarse thread. It all falls apart, but not before he pulls great chunks of the ivied walls down with him. Just discovering his permanent proclivi-ties for men, his primary relationship with his best buddy, the straight, up-and-coming Bolshie, Tommy Judd (Colin Firth), sharpens mind and tongue. Contumacious and detached-if Guy will be "a contemptible sycophant in the service of the bourgeoisie," Judd's dialectic is questioned: "In spite of your talk, you still believe some people are better than others because of the way they make love!" Both Communism and homosexuality were to have been a passing phase—you got your rocks off and your rhetoric out of the way without impregnating the locals with precious blue sperm or taking Marx to heart, showed proper discipline and discretion by not getting caught (especially not with someone from another house), and then rose through the school ranks of limited responsibility and unlimited power from "fag" (such a fine old Anglo-Saxon noun, that, for a junior servant cum slave) to "perfect," to "god"-the come de la creme-by straightening up for graduation and burning your britches behind you. Or got sent down. Or committed suicide (the pathos of a 16-year-old hanging himself in top-hat, morning coat and striped trousers).

Most keep their lavender leftward leanings permanently within the bounds of the circumspect old-boy network. Guy broke the rules by taking seriously first one, then the other. He sends mash notes to young Harcourt (Gary Elwes) of the blond moustache penumbra, carmine lips, tousled hair and jet wet eyes ("winsomely framed in the tumescent archway") and proclaims his infatuation with dangerously public purple passion ("there's a hollow at the base of his throat that makes me want to pour honey all over him and lick it off").

The discovery earns Guy a thrashing before his upperclassmen peers by his greatest rival-a brutal and sustained beating, topped with ther humiliation of an obligatory handshake with his sneering enemy. Guy's "education" is complete . If school was a microcosm of the world (and they firmly believed it to be) he has learned the lessons of injustice, betrayal, espionage, inconsistency, cruelty, dissimulation and hatred.

"Treason to what; loyalty to whom?" asks the cadaverous, petulant, stern old faggot, 50 years later in another country. "Fame or infamy-what's it matter: I shan't be forgotten."

All fiction, of course. Just a movie.

BOOKS DRIMMANORDIV

DIGGING DEEP

Once I had a trick in a bathhouse who slapped my ass. (Yes, this would make a rather unpromising start for a beat-off story, but bear with me-this is reality, and there's a point to be made). I'm not sure how he ended up giving me a mild butt-warming; it was a strictly vanilla encounter, but I suppose, one way or another, and without words, I got the point across that the touch of his hands on my ass was quite welcome, but some steady slapping, hard enough to leave a handprint, would be even better.

He was willing enough, but mainly because he enjoyed seeing my reaction; the slaps were kid-stuff, and never entirely unhesitant. Afterwards, he asked me in a friendly, curious way: "But why do you like to have your ass slapped? It can't feel good."

I don't remember what I answered, but whatever I said didn't satisfy his cur-iousity or my own hard-to-explain but unquestionable experience that yes, it did feel good. Not just psychologically good, but physically pleasurable-in spite of, or because of, the pain.

If I'd had a copy of Geoff Mains' Urban Aboriginals: A Celebration of Leathersexuality (Gay Sunshine Press, Box 40397, San Francisco, CA 94140; 187 pp., $8.95/$9.95 postpaid), I could have handed him the book, told him to read chapter two ("The Flowers of Pain"), and given him at least a partial answer. One of Mains' major achievements in Urban Aboriginals is his explanation of the action of the opiods. The opiods are natural narcotics, produced by the body and released in various critical contexts-one of these being, as Mains suggest, in the height of ecstatic "pain /pleasure," that intense sensation probably best understood, at a gut level, by those into SM. Mains lays out a chemical basis for that mysterious trasmutation of "pain" into "pleasure"-a process which many people, never having experienced it, believe to be impossible or entirely without a physiological reality. When you slip into a high from the kiss of a whip, it's not "all in your head."

Mains, who spends his time between Vancouver and San Francisco, is a biochemist by education, a leatherman by avocation. He approaches his study of SM from a viewpoint that is decidedly academic and West Coast. The result is a book full of unusual and well-informed ideas on the leather subculture, examined in a theoretical manner that's never been done before. Serious readers, open to the idea that man is an animal stimulated by chemical balances and susceptible to powerful instinctual urges toward ceremony and role-playing , will find much to ponder here-if they can get past the turgid prose. Mains' writing is afflicted by the very worst kind of academic tongue-twisting , and frequently ties itself into knots on the way to making an interesting (and ultimately simple) point.

Those who don't share Mains' sociological curiosity, for whom sex is an urge to act rather than to reflect upon, may find his book irrelevant. Others may find his wordiness not worth the effort of wading through, or his approach too obscure. (As a down-to-earth New Yorker remarked to me after reading the book, "You West Coasters are too much.") Nonetheless, Urban Aboriginals is an important book, and a close reading-a task requiring considerable patience, and perhaps best performed upon a Master's command-will yield considerable rewards. Self-knowledge is a powerful tool, and the greatest weapon we have in carving our own identity out of an often mute and hostile landscape ; Geoff Mains has added considerably to that arsenal.

—Aaron Travis DRUMMER 91

BUT NOBODY BOTHERED TO TELL HIM. FOR SALE

FEATURING: THE CONSTRUCTION WORKER THE STOCK BOY THE COP THE SURFER THE BODYBUILDER THE BUSINESSMAN THE MECHANIC THE MALE STRIPPER

VIDEOTAPES 1&2

64 PAGE MOVIE STILLS PHOTO BOOK

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.

WINGS VIDEO

960 FOLSOM STREET SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94114

☐ CHAIN REACTION (79.95). Send tapes in ☐BETA ☐VHS. ☐ Chain Reaction Book (9.95); ☐ Slaves For Sale Book (9.95)

Enclosed is $_

Charge my □VISA □MasterCard Card No. Exp. Date._

Signature: (I am over 21 years of age) Name

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FROM THE MEN WHO GAVE YOU "BORN TO RAISE HELL", "GAYRACULA" AND "MEN OF THE MIDWAY"…

"CHAIN REACTIONS answers your questions about what leathermen fantasize about. Roger Earl has very successfully put those fantasies on the screen."

Robert Payne DRUMMER

MARATHON FILMS

PRODUCED BY TERRY LE GRAND DIRECTED BY ROGER EARL

STARRING KEN BERGQUIST DANNY CONNORS DWAN LES PRICE with

LEE STERN HARLEY ANDREWS DAVID MC NEIL

MEN OF CHAINS Special Guest Appearance by DANIEL HOLT

DUNE HANOVER as The Bartender and INTRODUCING

RYDAR HANSON

A VCA FULL LENGTH VIDEO

64 PAGE MOVIE STILLS PHOTO BOO

TO BE RELEASED NOV. 1—RESERVE YOUR COPY NOW