JOYS OF SELF

A HARD COCK MAY HAVE NO CONSCIENCE, BUT IT NEEDS EXERCISE JUST LIKE OTHER PARTS OF A MAN'S BODY.

In these times of SafeSex, we who are blessed with occasional erections during the day, may pause to wonder what on earth to do with the offending member between our legs. And for as long as man, this man at least, can remember, the remedy was to simply take one's meat between one's hands, preferably in private, and whack it off until it was safely unloaded, and then go about one's business. Everybody did it although very few were honest enough to admit to it.

I remember when I was a teenager, the doctor asking me if I masturbated. Instinctively I blushed and said, "No." He nodded his head and went on to the next question. We both knew differently.

Later, if one admitted to jerking off, one was admitting to the fact that he couldn't find a partner. Or to being juvenile. Or being an onanist, Even during the good old days when you could get crabs or the clap or even syphillis by sticking your overeager dick into some strange new hole, it was considered preferable to beating one's meat. Which was still something that a real man didn't admit to. Or even those less than manly. A meat beater? Might as well be known as a bed-wetter.

Now along comes the plague. And the prevailing theory is that you can get something incurable from plowing or being plowed by the wrong person. Once again your hand has become your second-best friend. Your best friend is still your third leg, but it can really get you into even more trouble.

There are groups organized to share the phenomenon of mutual meat beating (Drummer 71). But they don't meet every night or sometimes even every week. You will often find yourself left to your own devices. And all it takes really is some energetic arm action, considerable imagination and an occasional prop or something to light your fire. An old copy of Drummer, Playboy, Playgirl or Popular Science? Whatever turns you on. From there your imagination can take over. Video tapes are helpful and audio tapes are probably even better since they leave your imagination so much room to move around in. Some of the finest moments

of my sexual life have come in my own company. There is no one there to say the wrong thing, to be turned off when I am turned on or vice-versa.

I remember fondly Charles Pierce's line describing the perfect lover: "The perfect lover is one who, at four o' clock in the morning, turns into a pizza!" After your fire dies down and you have cleaned up the mess, there is no one still hanging around to get dressed for and take back to where you found them. Or to wake up to the next morning and wonder why you brought them home in the first place.

And I also remember Michael's line in "Boys in the Band": "There's a lot to be said for masturbation. At least you don't have to look your best." 12 DRUMMER

But getting back to your equipment. Along with the obvious, you may always want to have on hand some lubricant, a cockring or cock harness, a hand-tinted photo of Mr. Right (for nostalgic masturbation there is always a class yearbook, anybody's class, any year), and turn the same imagination you used to employ while listening to "I Love A Mystery," or "Jack Armstrong, The All-I-I American Boy," on the Philco, create your settings, situations and cast. Then whack away.

The next loveliest memory in my storehouse of eroticism was Doing It With A Buddy. This was even more forbidden and, while not always satisfactory , gave one memories to treasure for a lifetime. Every one of us can

CHORUS-LINE MEATBEATING TOGETHERNESS IS A NEW APPROACH TO THE CLASSIC CIRCLE JERK… remember the first time or two we Did It with the boy next door or the captain of the team or the free-thinking cousin who was always the black sheep of the family. And it was usually simply mutual masturbation. An exchange of body fluids was inconceivable at that stage of one's life. And who needs it at this stage?

But, getting back to techniques, there are as many as your imagination can concoct. With absolutely no need of my itemizing all those I can think of on these few pages. Why should I tell you how to jerk off? You can undoubledly tell me a thing or two.

But there is a technique I should put you in touch with. It may seem a bit strange to bring it up here after this moving pitch for meat-beating. However , I must. And it is-abstinence! Not being able to get your hand wrapped around your meat. That too can be a tremendous turn-on, but it requires, shall we say, an attitude on the part of every body concerned.

One of the most delightful and exquisite of tortures in the continual manipulation of a man's cock almost to the point of ejaculation-without actually ejaculating. As the time goes by, the subject will beg and cry and increasingly plead for release. It takes a skilled manipulator and is best done with the subject bound, I think preferably spread-eagle. It is excellent training for both slaves and masters, the slave not having been allowed to cum for a least a week prior and the master can test his skill on almost bringing his man to a boil without allowing him to boil over. The slave is guaranteed to promise anything to be allowed to shoot.

Taking that concept a bit further, binding someone's rock-hard cock to his thigh with an appropriate harness or simply leather thongs can be stimulating . He spends his active day aroused, with it inaccessible, and able to pee mainly by putting his leg in the toilet. His excitement of this self-help session can last all day and doesn't even require that he ever come. It is our theory that he eventually will involuntarily , which leaves him not only with a wet, sticky leg but a delightful punishment session to look forward to.

14 DRUMMER

THERE IS NOTHING MORE SENSUALLY INTRIGUING THAN THE FORBIDDEN— ESPECIALLY YOUR OWN COCK!

Cocks can be taped up against a belly (shaved is best) or simply bound with fabric, rubber or leather (see title illustration). Then there are chastity devices that may or may not be 100% effective but certainly will be stimulating . And they don't require getting poked in the ass or mouth with a body fluid producing cock. While we are on the subject of being poked in the ass, a butt plug can be very effective in tandem with whatever is going on up front. And nobody ever got pregnant or caught a disease from a clean one.

Now, cock and ball torture is an acquired taste like oysters and avocados . Anything non-injurious you can do to this area as a turn-on in lieu of exposing it to what is going around is definitely a step in the right direction. A friend of ours makes his houseboy leave his jeans unbuttoned and keep his cock and balls hanging out at all times as he works around the house. He finds it more of a turn-on that when the fellow was ordered to work bare-ass naked. It is a good indication of his immediate mood, receding when he is occupied with other matters and in full bloom when he is turned on to what is happening to him. But forget his being allowed to touch it.

Another helpful hint: Instead of making your jack-off buddy drink your semen, which is definitely a no-no, make him take his own. It should not be wasted and he certainly can't catch anything he doesn't have from himself. (Run that by me again?!)

Yes, friends, there is something about a proper release of all that gism stored up in your aching balls. You have picked the time and place, the atmosphere and the fantasy. Nobody you could meet could live up to what your mind and hand has produced. Now, it is over, your little heart has stopped racing, you are laying back prior to trotting to the bathroom to clean yourself up. You can think about other things, like getting a good night's sleep for instance. Your abused friend is lying lovingly in your hand with a smile in its opening, promising to bounce back for more fun tomorrow.

What pleasure you two have in this time together. And your friend certainly won't say anything to anyone if you don't.

DRUMMER GOES TO THE CMC CARNIVAL

AC CARNIVAL'84 PIER 45 SUNDAY II NOVEMBER NOON-8PM TICKETS! OR YOUR FAVORITE BAR 12 AT THE GANGPLANK HOTLINE 821-3637

Leather has two big weekends in San Francisco each year. In the winter it is the CMC (California Motorcycle Club) Carnival, which in the past has attracted in the neighborhood of up to 4000 guys on a mid-November Sunday afternoon. It used to be held at Seaman's Hall back when there was one, then it moved to a multi-storied parking garage near the Tenderloin. Last year it was at the smaller California Hall in the Polk area. But this year CMC thought big and rented Pier 45 for their 29th annual bash. Deep in the heart of the Fisherman's Wharf tourist area, there was maybe a little too much space and the sight of leather-clad and unclad men gave the tourists an extra treat. Most of the leather bars contributed bartenders and a goodly amount was raised for various charities. The title of Mr. CMC Carnival was vied for by five contestants who solicited money as votes from the crowd. Small wonder there were only five contestants, although some years ago Mr. CMC Carnival was the hottest title around.

Jim Cvitanich, together with Mark Abramson (Mr. Northern California Drummer promotion) booked Pier 45 the night before for a Disco party called Pier Pressure which attracted a similar crowd.

Three swabies took the poster (below left) seriously and dressed for the pier. Below are the contestants who yied for the Mr. CMC Carnival title. Winner was David Stoll (S.F. Eagle), second from right.

DRUMMER GOES TO THE CMC CARNIVAL

In the entertainment area, comedian Danny Williams, the Barbary Coast Cloggers, the Skip Barrett Ramblers, the Tap Troup and the Gay Men's Chorus all did their best with an inadequate sound system. While at the other end there was discoing to an overwhelming sound system.

In between there was gambling, intrigue, commercialism and booze, along with some poontang in the dark corners of the place. But mostly it was an affirmation of the camaraderie of leathermen from all over. The Carnival is a huge undertaking and comes off as smoothly as it does only through the hard work of the CMC members.

The Carnival has become a leather institution with perhaps the largest attendance of any such event in the country, but surprisingly has little national recognition other than by word of mouth.

CAPTIVE SUBJECTS A Nina Glaser Portfolio

"People either love the work or they hate it… I want to cut through and see beyond the foundations of our morality, our politics, our lifestyles."

Over the last five years, Nina Glaser has emerged as one of San Francisco's most exciting and controversial photograpic artists. Her photography of the male nude, ambitious and ambiguous, found first acceptance in the gay community, a group "that in every city," she says, "is the one that is a step ahead of its culture-more open to new ideas, new images, new things."

The photographs here—suggesting concealment, constraint, bondage and ecstatic emergence—are from her new book of images, Outside of Time (Beaux-Arts Press, 808) Post St., Suite 1106, San Francisco, CA 94109; $17.95 paper, $27.95 cloth).

Glaser's newest project: Video. When these images are released into movement, will their mysteries be revealed, or merely compounded?

RUMSTIC

Loan-Out

Four o'clock Tuesday morning. In the corner, your contented breathing. After a weekend of loaning out You came back changed: a new piercing, a fresh black / blue blotch, a show of more respect. Loaning-out is lonely for me, Learning for you. You'll never hear it, You'll never know How much I missed you.

-Auggie Camelli

A burly truck driver sauntered into the bar in a mean mood, obviously looking for a fight.

"Everyone on this side of the bar is a no-good dirty bum!" he shouted. "Anybody wants to make something of it-just stand up!

Nobody stood up.

"An' everybody on that side of the bar is a fucking cocksucker…

No one moved, then suddenly a guy on the first side stood up.

You wanna fight, asshole?"

"No, dear. It's just that I think I'm on the wrong side of the bar."

The handsome young thing has had a beer or two too many. Finally the time of the evening comes when he has the courage to walk up to the strong, silent type in leather and chains standing at the end of the bar. He walks up to the fellow, flutters his eyelashes and asks, "Would you care to go home and fuck?"

The leatherman smacks the kid across the face with the back of his hand, belts him in the belly and shoves him down the full length of the bar.

The kid picks himself up, goes back to his stool and belts downs a few more beers.

He walks up to The Man again and says, "Then I guess a blow job is totally out of the question?'

"Shit, it's still fucking early. I think I'll catch me a few more winks," Big Al said, scratching absent-mindedly at the crotch of his soiled boxer shorts. The fly gaped open and Malory caught a glimpse of a fat worm of a cock nestled in a bush of thick, dirty blond pubic hair. "On second thought, maybe we'll just proclaim a little holiday today. Here, take this and hang it outside and lock the door when you come back in." Big Al picked up a Closed sign from a stack of old newspapers and thrust it at Malory.

half-way to your fucking knees.

"Yes, Boss," Malory said and started toward the door.

"And don't get any bright ideas about running away. If you're not back here in thirty seconds I'll come after you and make you sorry you eyer had any ideas at all," Big Al warned, scratching under the spaghetti strap shirt that clung to his beefy chest.

"No, Boss," Malory said, running for the front door and slipping out into the cold morning air and setting the sign up on one of the pumps and then running back in and locking the door behind him. He moved back through the office, if it could be called that, to the garage space where he had left his new boss. The garage space was empty. He looked around, confused.

"Back here, asshole," Big Al's voice boomed out. Malory followed the sound back to a doorway leading to a tiny room barely big enough for the cot on the far wall where Big Al lay stretched out on his side. He had removed his underwear and was holding the blankets up and patting the small section of mattress beside him. "Get your clothes off, asshole. You're my bedwarmer now."

Malory stripped his clothes off and padded across the cement floor, feeling very naked as Big Al looked him over. When he got next to the cot, Big Al reached out and grabbed his dick, giving it a good feel. "Not bad, not bad. Got a nice piece of meat on you, kid. Turn around and let me see your ass," he ordered, pulling Malory around by his dick. Malory felt himself blushing all over as the big man ran his hands over his buns and then made him bend over and pull his cheeks apart so he could see his anus.

"Nice hole, kid. Yessir, that is one of the prettiest little holes I've seen in a long time."

Malory almost lost his balance as he felt the blunt tip of a finger run over his tightly-held pucker. "Kind of jumpy, ain't you, kid? Had much dick run up here yet?" he inquired, pushing his fingertip right at the hole.

Malory jumped, making a little squealing noise, and then remembered his manners. "No, Boss, I haven't had anything up there."

"Nothing? You ain't shitting me, boy, are you? I don't take kindly to being bullshitted by anyone.

'No, Boss, I swear."

"Well, well," Big Al said thoughtfully. "I got me a virgin boyhole here. This deserves a little immediate attention. Stay bent over, asshole. I'll tell you when you're supposed to move from now on.

I'm sorry, Boss," Malory whimpered, feeling a litle dizzy in

his bent-over position. "I like your manners, asshole. I think we're going to get along real well.

"Thank you, Boss," Malory said, looking backward between his legs as Big Al sat up on the edge of the cot. He spread his beefy thighs on either side of Malory's sturdy legs as he continued to run his hands over Malory's ass. Malory saw that Big Al's fat worm was starting to grow, inching its way out from its nest of pubes. He noticed that his own prick was sticking out hard, too. Big Al reached down between his legs and gave it a little tweak that made Malory squirm as he held his ass cheeks apart.

"I like the way your little honker sticks up, too, boy. I like to see my boys happy. Gonna get this hole opened up so it's real happy getting stuffed full of whatever I want to sitck up there. A happy hole makes for a happy boy, ain't that right asshole?" he chuckled.

"Yes, Boss." Malory gasped as the big blond man gave his balls a tug, causing a sharp sensation—something like pain that also felt something like good as the big hand kept pulling at his nuts, forcing them back down in his sack.

"Nice balls. Gonna work on these balls. Get them hanging

"But first we're gonna work on your asshole a little. My dick wants a taste of that boyhole, but I gotta get you loosened up a little first. I don't want to rip you up too bad just starting out."

Malory appreciated this sentiment as he saw the way Big Al's fat worm was no extended out, looking more like a boa constrictor , though his mind boggled at how any amount of loosening up was going to make it easy to take that big shaft up inside him through his butthole. A tremble went through his body at the thought.

"Just hold on to yourself, boy," he heard Big Al say in a surprisingly reassuring tone. "I ain't ever gonna hurt you too bad for you to take. I take good care of my boys, so you just relax.'

"Yes, Boss," Malory said, and then did anything but as he felt the first rough swab of a tongue over his asshole. The sensation was so intense he thought he was going to jump out of his skin, but Big Al's strong hands held him firmly in place as the man buried his face between the tender asscheeks.

'Aw, mighty sweet ass," he heard the big man murmur, and felt vaguely pleased at the compliment. The man's unshaven cheeks scratched as he pushed his face between Malory's buns, but the tongue swabbing over his hole and then digging further into the circle felt incredible. Malory found himself instinctively pushing back against it, opening himself up to get more of that wonderful, wet, warm sensation.

It crossed Malory's mind to wonder if he was clean back there, but that passed and all he could think about was getting that tongue futher inside him. He wanted to feel it all the way up him. His legs were trembling as he tried to relax himself more.

"That's right," he heard Big Al mutter. "Open it up. Open it up all the way." Something harder than a tongue was pushing at him now and he realized the man was shoving his finger into his hole. It hurt. He tightened up. It hurt more but it kept pushing and Big Al kept licking around the edges of his hole, making it feel good, and pretty soon the finger slipped in and he had it inside himself. It felt sort of good, he realized. He flexed his butthole around it a little and it felt real good.

"That's right. Work it around. You're gonna have a damn hungry hole there when I get you trained. You're prime fucking material. I can sure as hell can tell that," Big Al chuckled behind him, driving that finger in all the way and working around

Big Al caught him with his other hand and pulled him backwards onto the cot, keeping the finger buried up his ass as he cuddled Malory down next to him, pushing his face up to his hairy chest, guiding his mouth to one of his big brown nipples.

'Suck on it, boy. I'm gonna play with your hole for a while till you're so hot for something bigger up there you can't stand it. So chow down on my tit while I'm doing it. You make me feel good. That'll make you feel good. That's how it's gonna work. I dig having a boy suck on my tits. I dig having a boy's mouth all over me. You're gonna know the taste of every inch of my body and you're gonna start right here," he said, pulling Malory's face tight against him.

Malory opened his mouth and spread his lips over the brown circle and sucked at it like he was told, pleased at the rumble of pleasure that welled up from the man's chest. He sucked harder, feeling the flesh tighten up into a firm cone in his mouth. Big Al held him hugged in one arm with the other tucked between his legs, moving that finger in his butthole. Malory started moving his butt around, helping that good prodding feeling inside himself. He liked it, especially when it started moving over something inside him that felt like an

"Okay, fucker. Up we go," Big Al said, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him off the cot as easily as if he were a baby, then lying down himself so that he was holding Malory above his upstanding pecker.

electric buzzer going off. He chewed harder at the nubbin in his mouth, getting more excited every time that button-thing inside him got rubbed. His legs were quivering against Big Al's hairy thighs.

Then he felt Big Al shoving another finger up his hole, stretching the circle out even more, and he started shaking all over, unable to control himself. He hardly even noticed the roughness with which Big Al shoved his mouth over to his other tit. He just sucked it in hungrily like the good little sex toy that Big Al was turning him into. Now it felt like there were at least three fingers jammed up his hole and he was grunting like

"Aw, that ass feels hot now, baby. That ass feels hungry for a big dick up it," Big Al groaned. Malory felt the fingers pulling out of him and suddenly the big man was lifting away from him, leaving him alone on the cot for a second, and then he was back with a grease gun, sticking the nozzle between Malory's legs. Malory felt the cool hardness of the metal touch his ass lips and then part them, slipping up inside, and then Big Al worked the handle and there was a soft pooping pressure deep inside him as the grease was discharged far up the tight canal. His dick jumper harder at the thought of his ass being lubed up for the man's big cock, making the way easy for him to be filled with Big Al's manhood. Slowly the nozzle was pulled back, Big Al keeping up a continuous pressure on the handle until Malory could feel grease oozing out of his butthole as the nozzle popped out

"Okay, fucker. Up we go," Big Al said, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him off the cot as easily as if he were a baby, then lying down himself so that he was holding Malory above his upstanding pecker.

"Now, you're going to do all the work, asshole. You're going to squat down and screw yourself onto my dick and make your boss feel real good or I'll make you sorry," Big Al ordered him, his voice turning rough again.

Malory looked down at the huger pecker throbbing under him and got nervous again. It looked so fucking big he was afraid he might not be able to take it. He looked up at Big Al's face and saw no sympathy.

"Sit on it, boy. Sit your ass down on it and make it feel good. That's what you're here for."

Gingerly, Malory eased his ass down until he could feel the head of the cock touch his ass lips. The knob felt like a baseball. He closed his eyes and tried to push down and felt a burning pain as his ass lips stretched around the flaring bulk.

"Please. I don't know if I can do it."

Big Al's hand shot out and slapped him across the face. The sharp pain so startled him that he fell back and the huge head popped into him, and he gasped at the explosion of sensation that tore through his body. He cried out, trying to rise, to get off the ramrod, but Big Al grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him there, pushing him down, forcing him further down on the impalement. He could feel the giant thickness moving into him, rearranging his insides, stretching him far beyond what the fingers had managed.

He cried out as he struggled, but Big Al's hands held him firmly astride the throbbing rod and then Big Al leaned for-

ward, catching one of his tits in his mouth and chewing hard on it with his teeth. Malory howled and slipped down the rest of the way. Feeling Big Al's bulging nuts nuzzled against his ass, he realized that he had the whole fucking piece of meat up inside him. He could hardly believe it.

"Hot damn!" Big Al exclaimed, taking his mouth away from Malory's tenderized tit. "That is one fucking hot piece of ass, boy. Oh yeah, my dick likes that ass, boy. Oh yeah!"

Malory felt good hearing that. It made him feel like he was doing the right thing and he forced himself to relax, forced himself to accept the stuffed feeling, and pretty soon it began to feel good a ain…then Big Al laid back with a grin on his face and took hold of Malory's tits with his fingers.

"Now, we're going to play, boy. I'm going to work you like a little toy and you're going to make me feel real good. You're going to move around on that dick just like I tell you, get you real used to taking orders like the little toy you are. That ass is mine now, boy, and I'm going to make good use of it."

His words excited Malory as felt himself surrendering his hole up to the man, giving it over for his pleasure. He was a fuckhole for the man's dick and he knew it, and it make him feel more excited than he would ever have dreamed possible.

"Move it around a little, not up and down, just around. I want to feel my dick poling around in your guts. Do it like I say."

And Malory did like Big Al said, moving his stretched asshole around in little circles that made the cockhead buried up inside of him move around in bigger circles, opening him up more.

"Oh, yeah, fuck it around," Big Al moaned, squeezing harder on his tits, pulling them out and twisting them as the naked youth squatting over his cock rubbed his ass around.

'Now start moving it up and down," Big Al ordered, and Malory did that, too, panting at the sliding friction of the thick stalk against the sleeve of his ass. He saw himself reflected in the dark pane of the window on the far wall, saw himself naked and rutting on his haunches over a man's cock, maneuvering his ass for the big man's pleasure like the sex toy he was being trained to be. His hair was sweaty and hanging over his forehead. His eyes looked glazed and wild. His tongue was hanging out.

He looked like a sex-crazed animal. He was a sex-crazed animal. All he was thinking of was satisfying that hot hardness inside of him. The vision of himself made him so hot he twisted his ass harder and faster. He bucked wildly, feeling the hardness slam against that button inside his ass that the fingers had found and activated earlier. Up and down he humped, growling in his excitement, thrusting his chest forward so his tits could be pulled harder.

Big Al groaned and dug his nails into Malory's tits and Mallory slammed himself down on the prick harder than ever, making himself ache inside, the most delicious pain he had ever felt, and then he was exploding, cum jumping out of his prick and shooting over Big Al's head. Every muscle in his body tightened, clamping down hard around the entire length of the thickness buried to the hilt inside him, and he heard Big Al yell. In the dark window reflection he saw the sweaty wild studboy being shot full of male cum and he jammed his ass down harder, feeling the flooding wetness deep inside him and wanting all of it that he could get as the throbbing pressure at his ass lips

forced his nuts to pump dry until he slumped forward on the man's chest, his ass still distended by the softening thickness. His ass lips quivered around that mass as Big Al pushed his face into one sweaty armpit.

"Lick, boy. Relax for a few minutes and lick up my sweat. We'll give it another go in a while. You're a good asshole, boy.'

Malory stuck his tongue in the smelly pit and started to lick contentedly at the moist dark hairs. He felt very good, better than he had ever felt in his whole life. He flexed his asshole around the softenting thickness and felt the deep rumble of Big Al's moan and felt even better, and licked some more.

Malory Gets Swapped

Malory was unaware of the two men watching him. The muscular blond eighteen-year-old submissive was naked, wearing only a pair of heavy work boots with grey sweat socks rumpled around his ankles. He was cleaning up the back room, straightening up the sheets and blankets on the cot where he spent so much time training to service his boss.

His prick was half hard, fatly swollen—as was the case most of the time now, at least when it wasn't rip-roaring all-the-way hard, the way it was when his boss had his swollen ramrod jammed up there, making him take it and love it, which he did now, feeling an itch deep inside whenever he looked at his

As he pulled back the rumpled bedclothes, the smell of sweaty, pissy bodies wafted up to him. On implulse, Malory dropped to his knees on the cold cement by the side of the cot and buried his face in the soiled wrinkles, breathing deep, filling himself with the heady fragrance of hot dick and assholes.

"Look at the little bastard. He just can't get enough of it," he heard Big Al chuckle.

Malory turned his head around to see Big Al standing in the doorway with someone else behind him, looking over his broad shoulder. Malory started to get to his feet, but Big Al stopped him.

'Stay down there, boy. I want to show my friend here a few things," he ordered, stepping into the room, followed by the other man.

Malory had a brief impression of the other guy being somewhat younger than Big Al, with a lean wiry build and short cropped sandy-brown hair. Then he was distracted by Big Al sitting on the cot in front of him.

"Let's show my buddy what a hungry little mouth you got, cocksucker. Watch this, Mike.'

Malory shivered as Big Al worked his fly open and pulled out his fleshy rod. Yeah, he was always ready for more of that dick.

"Whoa, he does look hungry, all right," Mike said, moving around to the side and hunkering down so he had a good view of the action.

Malory hesitated, seeing the guy's dark brown eyes so close, staring at him so intently. It occurred to him that he had never done this with anybody watching before.

'Oh, damn, that's good," Mike groaned.

Big Al saw the hesitation and laughed. "Don't go all shy on us, cocksucker. Show my buddy how much you love that dick. Plant a big sloppy kiss on the cockhead. Make it a big, smacky one, cocksucker.

Slowly Malory leaned his head forward, pooching his lips out, aware of the guy beside him watching as he planted his mouth on the upstanding head of his boss's now fully-extended pecker, smacking his lips noisily on the swollen knob as Mike whistled in excited admiration.

"Damn, he does that good," he exclaimed. "He does everything good," Big Al grunted, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the base of his cock, holding it up and grabbing the back of Malory's head in the other hand, guiding his mouth right where he wanted it. "Lick it," he ordered the submissive young male, "Stick your tongue out and lick around the head of it. Show my buddy how good a cocksucker you are. Show off, asshole."

Malory felt his own dick jump up stiff as he stuck the tip of his pink tongue out from between his lips and lapped around the rim of the flaring corona, watching Mike from the corner of his eye, getting off on being watched by another big guy as he lapped dick down on his knees naked, a slaveboy trained to service hot male meat whenever and wherever he was ordered by his boss. A drop of his boss's juice bubbled up at the slit of his dick.

"Lick it," his boss ordered. "Show my buddy how much you like the taste of good hot ball juice, cocksucker.'

Malory licked at the milky oozing and slurped it into his mouth, sighing at the warm musky taste. He did love that taste. He loved every taste of his boss' body.

"Damn, that looks good," Mike said, groping his own crotch as he watched.

"It is good," Big Al agreed. "One of the best I ever had," he added as he directed Malory's mouth down over his shaft, planting it deep in the cocksucking slave's throat, holding him down there and gently rocking back and forth on the edge of the cot, enjoying the deep clenching action of Malory's throat muscles. "Like a fucking velvet glove."

"Damn, I wish I had me one of those," Mike said.

"What are you complaining about? You got Nick," Big Al grunted, starting to slide his cock back and forth in the hot channel of Malory's throat.

"Aw fuck, you know Nick. Sometimes he wants to play and sometimes he don't feel like it."

“A slave who you let say he don’t feel like it, ain’t a slave. He’s a fucking pain in the ass.'

Big Al's breath was coming faster now as he worked the cocksucking head up and down on his rod.

"Damn, it's getting me hot watching him. Can I have a little of that when you're done?"

"Climb on his backside. We'll fuck him from both ends. He ought to love that."

Malory glanced over and saw Mike fumbling with the fly of his jeans and pulling out a hard dick that was more slender than Big Al's and a little shorter, but every bit as hard. He felt the itch burning in his butt as the wiry guy shoved his pants down and moved around behind him.

"Wait a second," Big Al said. "Let's slick it up a little first. He's still pretty tender back there." He pulled Malory off of his rod, a trail of saliva dripping down the boy's chin as his head was twisted around and forced down on Mike's shaft, then jerked up and down a couple of times.

"Yeah, this is as good as it looks," Mike exclaimed. Then Malory was pulled off his rod and shoved back down on Big Al's, and he felt the other guy nudging up behind him, poking his hardness at his ass.

He missed the hole at first and Malory groaned in frustration, reaching around and pulling his buns apart, spreading his lips so that on the next try Mike's dick slipped up in him, sliding all the way home on the first shove.

"Told you, asshole. Let's fuck him on down." The two of them moved on Malory together, filling him from both ends, reducing him to a piece of trembling meat with two fuckholes.

They worked him over for a long time, slowing down whenever they got too close. Then, when they were ready to take it all the way, they pumped at him hard till they were both at the edge, ready to shoot.

Then Big Al reached down and grabbed Malory's throbbing dick and balls and squeezed so hard that Malory's whole body spasmed with the ache, a deep shuddering spasm that popped the gism right out of the two cocks sheathed deeply in him, filling him full of their milk.

"Oh, God!" Mike gasped as his shot finally ebbed down to a few last dribbles up the submissive ass. "That is incredible. I got to have me some more of that."

"Tough shit," Big Al grunted, giving Malory the last of his load. "This piece of meat belongs to me."

fucking bullshit."

Malory felt Mike's dick soften and then slip out of his butt,

leaving only a good ache.

The brown-haired guy was silent for a few minutes, rubbing his hand caressingly over Malory's ass. Malory liked that. He wiggled his butt a little as he held his boss's dick deep in his throat, still warm and firm and good-feeling to him.

"You know this fucking place is falling down around your

ears, man," Mike said finally.

"Well, construction's my game, right?"

Big Al was silent, but Malory could feel his body shift, considering the words with attention.

"Maybe we could work out a little swap…"

Malory Meets a Jealous Slave

"What's that?"

"It's a slave, Nick," Mike answered impatiently. "Have you

forgotten what a slave looks like?"

The guy called Nick looked Malory up and down, his sullen dark eyes lingering a moment at Malory's cock, bobbing fatly at his crotch as he shifted his booted feet uneasily in the rubble of the construction site.

Nick had dark hair cut military-short with a stained red sweatband tied around his head. His body was tanned copper, lean and tight with a spray of dark hair between his flat pectorals. His nipples were firm and distended, standing out at least half are inch. The right one was pierced by a gold ring. His dusty jeans rode low on his slim hips, so low it was plain that he wasn't wearing anything under them.

"I know what a slave looks like," Nick said. "I'm a slave, for

Christ's sake.'

"When you feel like it, you mean," Mike retorted.

"I got my rights," Nick protested. "I'm sick of your fucking rights."

"What's that around his neck?" Nick demanded, stepping close to the blond boy and eyeing the band of leather that Mike had fished out of the glove compartment of the truck and buckled around Malory's neck on the drive over.

"What's it look like, dickhead?"

"Hey, that's my collar! You can't put my dog collar on somebody else."

"You never want to wear it. It might as well be put to good use

when I've got the chance."

"I wear it. I let you put it on me a lot. I just don't want to wear it out here where everybody can see me. I don't want everybody to think I'm a fucking freak. It's my collar. He can't have it!" he exclaimed, grabbing at the leather and starting to unbuckle it.

Malory coughed as the band was jerked against his throat. Mike jumped forward and grabbed Nick by the shoulders,

"Listen, you dumb piece of shit. A real slave don't give a fuck what anybody but his Master thinks of him. A real slave does what he's told any time, no matter where he is or who's looking."

"I suppose that's a real slave," Nick sneered with a defiant toss of his head toward the naked Malory.

"A real salve, huh? We'll just see."

"Goddamned right he's a real slave, and I'm going to have a good time with him."

"Are you throwing me out? Is he taking my place?" Nick bleated, his voice suddenly anxious. "You can't throw me out. I got my rights.

"No, I'm not throwing you out," Mike said, releasing his grip on Nick's shoulders. "I ought to. I swear to God I don't know why I'm still putting up with your shit, but I'm telling you I'm getting real goddamned tired of it."

"You're tired of me?" Nick said, his voice losing all its

defiance.

The two guys stared at each other for a long moment. They seemed to have forgotten about Malory.

"I'm tired of your shit," Mike said finally. "Not you. Just your

Mike turned wearily away and picked up a length of chain from the tool box. He walked over to Malory and hooked one end to the collar around Malory's neck, then led the naked eighteen-year-old boy to an exposed electrical conduit. He hooked the other end to it, securing the slave.

"I've got to meet with the old man, so I'm leaving him here for a while. I'll be back in a couple of hours and take him home. Keep an eye on him." He turned to leave but then stopped and, without looking back at Nick, added, "I've only got him for a week. I swapped with Big Al, him for a week in exchange for some rebuilding on Big Al's place." He turned around and looked directly at Nick. "Maybe you can learn something from a real slave.'

Nick flushed angrily but said nothing. Mike turned again and left.

"A real slave my ass," Nick muttered. "I don't need to learn shit from some punk kid." He glared at Malory for a few minutes and the stomped over to him. Malory backed up a step and hit the framing behind him. "Fucking chickenshit." He stood glaring at the blond boy several minutes and then surprised Malory by unhooking the chain fron his collar. Malory looked at him questioningly. "Why don't you run away, fuckhead, run back to Al's place? We don't need you around here.'

"I can't. My Boss ordered me to stay here, Sir," Malory said quietly.

"What a dumb shithead, calling a slave Sir. Some fucking slave you are. What the fuck am I supposed to learn from a dipshit like you?" Nick snorted. He saw Malory staring at his elongated nipples. "Like those tits, huh? They make yours look like shit. My Master worked on those tits. He made them stand out like that. He put that ring through it, too.'

Nick's voice was getting raspy and uneven. Malory looked

and saw that the taller boy was staring at his lips.

"Want to see what a real slave's tit feels like, kid?" Put your mouth on it," he ordered, his voice breathy.

Slowly, Malory leaned his head forward and took the fleshy little tube into his mouth, sucking on it, feeling the ring click against the back of his teeth.

"Oh yes, Master," Nick groaned, closing his eyes and letting<br>his head drop back. "Chew your slave's tit. Make your slave feel

Suddenly he smashed his fist into Malory's belly. Malory fell backwards against the framing, gasping for air. Nick stood, glaring at him a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Malory could see the red marks of his teeth around

"Fuck you," Nick snarled, taking the chain and hooking it

Then he went back to work, ignoring the blond slave for the next half hour or so. Finally, dripping with sweat, he stopped and took his work gloves off and stomped past Malory, saying curtly, "I've got to take a piss. I'll be right back."

Two more steps and he stopped, turning back to Malory, a calculating look in his dark eyes.

So saying he came back and unhooked the other end of the chain and pulled Malory after him on the leash.

"Come on, slave," he muttered, leading Malory over to the portapotty at the edge of the site and shoving him inside, closing the door behind the two of them.

The small compartment was dark and hot as a sweat box, smelling of disinfectant and excrement. Nick forced Malory down on his knees and stood over him, fumbling with the buttons of his fly.

"We'll just see how real you are, slave," he mumbled as he pulled out a chunky piece of meat. He immediately jammed it into Malory's mouth and then grunted, the muscles of his tight belly standing out in relief as he strained.

It took a few minutes, but then Malory felt the first drops of liquid trickle into his mouth. He started to pull back. Nick

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touch the tender pink flesh of his hole.

lunged forward, banging the back of Malory's head against the wall, trapping him with his mouth full of the now sputtering cock.

"Drink it," Nick snarled. "Drink my fucking slave piss, you asshole. Show me what a real slave can take.

The hot fluid gushed into Malory's mouth, surprisingly sweet. The quantity was so great he choked, spraying the yellow stuff on Nick's jeans.

"Not on me, you fucker," Nick cursed, slapping him across the face and shoving his spurting dick back in, holding him

Malory gulped as fast as he could, finally getting the hang of it and managing to take most of the gushing stream. It was warm inside him as he felt his belly filling, turning him into a toilet for the other slave.

"Oh, that's good," Nick gasped above him, expressing approval in spite of himself. "Yeah, that's real good. Take it all, slave. Take it all."

When he was done, he stepped back, pulling his dick out of Malory's mouth and staring down at him. "Real thirsty, weren't you, slave?" he sneered, and then his eyes narrowed. "Maybe you're hungry, too. How about that," he said slowly. "You hungry too, slave boy?"

Malory was confused. He didn't know what to say. It didn't matter. "Lie down," Nick ordered. Malory hesitated. Nick kicked at him. "Lie down, shithead. Get your fucking ass down on that floor."

Malory slid down on the floor, looking up at the other boy. He felt sweat trickling down his sides and under his balls. Nick undid his belt and pulled his jeans all the way open. He stepped over Malory, placing his booted feet on either side of his head. Malory flinched, closing his eyes.

'Open your eyes, shithead. I want you to see what's happening ," Nick ordered him.

Malory opened his eyes and saw Nick pushing his jeans down over his lean hips, down his legs, pushing then all the way down to his ankles where they stretched between his boots. Malory could feel them rumpled against the top of his head. Up above his he could see Nick's cock and balls and the cleft of his ass, hairy and dark.

"Let's see what we can do for a hungry slave boy," Nick said quietly, lowering himself slowly, squatting down and pulling his buttocks apart so Malory could see where the dark hairs circled the pink rim of his ass.

Malory had never done this before. He felt a sense of revulsion and then all resistance seemed to leave him as he stared at that pink hole. He couldn't take his eyes away from it as it came lower, close. It was as if it were an eye hypnotizing him.

"You like my hole, don't you slave boy?" Nick murmured seductively as he squatted over the blond boy's face. "You like my shithole, don't you boy? You can hardly wait to get a taste of it, can you shithead? You're just aching to give my hole a big, fat, juicy kiss, ain't you, slave boy?"

Malory shook his head slowly.

He reached down between his legs and pulled his cock and balls aside so he could keep watching the blond's eyes. He saw a glazed look come into them as they focused there at the crack of his butt. He saw the boy's mouth drop open as his breathing became slower, deeper.

Without thinking, Nick continued on, surprised at the words as they came out of his mouth. He had never done this before. It was one of the things he drew the line at with Mike. He was surprised at himself, surprised at the ease with which this was happening.

"Yeah, that's right, slave boy. Get into it. Let yourself relax and let go of everything. That hole is everything to you now. That shithole is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. It's your whole world, boy. It's all that's important to you now. It's all you're thinking about. Just that hole, that beautiful asshole that you're going to kiss and lick and eat …

His voice broke off as he lowered himself all the way and spread himself against the blond boy's lips, felt those warm lips

As he gasped at the contact, the blond boy's eyes met his, locked with his and it seemed to him he had never seen a blue as deep as that before. They were joined now, asshole to mouthhole.

Time slowed as the top moved his butt around slowly, feeling the warm tongue push into him, opening him. The air in the compartment was thick as water and silent as the bottom of the ocean.

Now Nick knew he was no longer in control. He was giving up everything, as much as the asseater beneath him. Their eyes stayed locked as they merged and the tongue pushed further into him, relaxing him deep inside, opening the second sphincter.

He felt the movement inside him begin, felt the sliding bulk move closer to that juncture, pushing over his prostate, like a prick inside him but going the other way. There was a ringing in his ears as he saw the blond boy's eyes widen and felt the mouth moving under him, accepting, eating.

Nick was so excited his cock shook in his hand, not coming in jerks, but emitting its load like a stream of running water. He grunted, a loud groaning sound, tightening every muscle in his body as he expelled everything into the completely passive receptacle beneath him-and then the tongue was licking at him again, cleaning him as those deep blue eyes kept staring into his.

Nick became frightened, glimpsing for the first time in his life what it might mean to be a real slave. He jumped up hurriedly, almost falling over again, his knees were so shaky. He pulled his jeans up and turned his back to Malory, still sprawled out on the floor.

"I'm going to get rid of you! I don't want you around. I never want to see you again. There's got to be a way. I'll tell him you ran away. I'll tell him I left you alone for a few seconds and when I came back you…"

His rushed and tumbled words dissolved into gulping sobs as he started crying.

"I'm sorry, man," he blurted, his face buried in his hands as he stayed turned away from the wondering Malory. "It's not your fault. It's mine. I'm not real. I know it. He doesn't know it, but I do. And if you stay, even if you're with Al, he'll see you. He'll see how you are and he'll know it.'

The dark slave stopped, silent for a moment, breathing deeply, getting himself under control. Then he turned, looking down at Malory, a hard look coming back into his reddened eyes. "I ain't having that." He stared at Malory some more, the hard look changing to wonder in his eyes. "You don't belong to Al, anyway, do you?"

"He's my boss, Sir," Malory said quietly, confused by what was going on.

"No, he isn't. You're a real slave. You don't belong to anybody . Does that make any sense?"

"Fuck, I don't even know what I mean," Nick snorted derisively . Then he sobered up. "But you will know. I can tell that. I don't know how, but I can." He took a few deep shuddering breaths and then added, "Maybe I should just think of this as helping you on your way. Yeah, that's what I'm doing. I'm really just a good-hearted bastard after all." He started laughing, but it ended abruptly with a choked-off sound and he turned quickly, pulling the door open. "You stay here. I got to call somebody.

He slammed the door behind him and Malory heard his footsteps crunch over the gravel to the pay phone a few feet away. There was the jingle of a coin being dropped in and then the punching of the buttons, and then he heard Nick's voice, still a little shaky.

"Hello, Mac? This is Nick. Yeah, I was calling about that load of TV components you were talking about. Are some of those still available out the back door? Good. Why don't you bring your truck over here. I think we can work out a trade…"

(To be continued)

ne Diek

Detective Dick takes on his most dangerous case. Could this be curtains for the best dick in town?

by August Smith

The kid had tits like putty. At first they were hard round knobs stuck fast against his chest. Soon they dangled from his hairy pectorals like fetal appendages, long and grotesque, pink and shiny white.

He had nice balls, too. They had spilled out of his shorts and settled along the bar stool, two pronounced nuts nestled in

Another call. "How is he?"

drapes and folds of a delicate pink pouch.

"I want to meet you."

I had kept him in my sight all morning. He wasn't a bad kid. . Well-built, tan and muscular, short brown hair, deep green eyes. He looked like a son in his laceless sneakers and tight white shorts.

"No!"

I made my move. The kid didn't stand a chance. I'm a stud. I approached the kid. I plunged my hand in my crotch, arranging my wet prick and fat balls to their best advantage.

I withdrew my hand. The head of my prick came out along with it. The kid stared in disbelief. My prick has that effect. It sprang from my trousers like a shark, its oozing hole open wide.

"Thank you," he said. "Twins?" I asked.

My hand was slick. I slipped it into his. "Can I buy you a drink?" I invited.

So we sat in an empty bar over a couple of beers. I can't say that I wasn't enjoying myself. The kid was getting hot, too.

Then the telephone rang.

I flipped the bartender a quarter for the use of the phone and scanned the street through the windows. I do that automatically when I'm on a case.

You see, I'm a dick, a private dick, Detective Dick, the best dick in town. I was working, indirectly, for the kid.

"Hello?" a frantic voice whispered. It was the same voice that had asked me that morning to protect the kid. He told me he didn't want the kid to know about it. He had told me no more.

shoot juice all by itself.

I figured tailing the kid would be conspicuous. I decided to cruise him, instead.

"Yes," I answered. "Is he okay?"

"Yes," I answered. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. Tell me-"

The line went dead. He had hung up.

I tried to puzzle it all together, but realized I had only one piece. Then when I turned around, the kid was gone.

the butler and the elderly woman.

I found him late that night at the city dump. Whoever got him from me worked him over pretty good. I pulled the drainpipe from his asshole and cleaned him up a bit. The coroner determined death by asphyxiation.

I felt pretty small walking back to the bar. My kid was dead

"He's-dead." I said it slowly and bluntly. I interrupted the resulting silence with my pitch. "He's dead. You're probably in danger. Will you let me find out why?"

"An hour," he said finally. "The bridge in the park."

An hour later I was mystified. There on the bridge stood the kid again, waiting. He seemed to recognize me and started toward me. There was something different about him, though. It was as if his green eyes saw out of a different soul. They were brothers, I realized.

"Yes." Suddenly he was sobbing in my arms.

I held him for a while. He had the kid's tits and his balls were a little bigger than his brother's. I decided to proceed with the case.

We drank beers at the bar. He told me the whole sad story. He and his brother ran here years ago to seek fame and fortune. He told me they were a couple of Stables' boys.

I arched my eyebrow in interest. Stables' place was high on a hill just out of town. Stories about Stables' place made my cock

Nigel Stables inherited a good deal of money at a tender age. His only living relative, an old aunt, became his legal guardian. By day Nigel was an upstanding young man in the community. By night he admitted unfortunate derelicts through the kitchen door. In exchange for food and money they submitted themselves to Master Stables' imagination and perversity.

As Nigel prepared for his day of emancipation, a stranger appeared on the doorstep of the old mansion. He succeeded in gaining an audience with Nigel after short interviews with both

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The Dick (continued from page 33)

A handsome man, Nigel thought. His suit fit well in the formal halls, as carefully tailored as the room itself. He didn't, though, fit his clothes, Nigel thought. His forehead was high, his hair short and curly, his features broad and heavy. A trim black beard framed his face. He looked less like a businessman and more like a-

Then Nigel recognized him, or so the story goes. He had come often to the kitchen door, miserable and filthy. His name was Otis.

One night Nigel had chained the beggar Otis to the wall like Prometheus. He sucked the man's tits until they were huge and pierced them with great gold rings. He chewed on the man's foreskin until it hung like a long hunk of half-digested meat, and pierced it too. He attached to the beggar Otis' balls a smooth heavy weight that almost touched the floor.

Then Nigel unleashed his god. Nigel forced the man to crawl around on his elbows and knees, his tits and prick scraping the floor, his hard purple balls dragging the weight behind him. Nigel fell and clung to his back and slowly fucked the beggar Otis as he crawled.

Now that same man stood before him again, but in the light of day and carrying a briefcase.

'Good afternoon," Nigel offered with a gulp. The man said nothing.

The old lady stood in the doorway. "Auntie dear," Nigel said carefully. "I'm sure I hear that baby crying again upstairs. Will you check on him, please?" The aunt, a nearly senile thing, muttered something under her breath and left the room.

The stories about what happened next continue in some detail. Otis didn't carry briefs in his case. The subjugation of Master Stables began and had its moments all over town. Otis abused him openly, publicly. I have heard the same delicious details from several reliable sources.

The thugs that once huddled and shivered outside the kitchen door at night soon had free reign of the place. They became the "stable" that most people thought of when someone mentioned Stables' place.

And this kid, I thought, was one of them. The other one, too. These elastic tits and outrageous balls belong to Nigel Stables and the beggar Otis.

I took the kid home for a little interrogation. I figured it was due

My place is a tenement. A third-floor toilet with a drain in the floor and a bed. It serves.

"Who are your babies?" I asked her.

I connected the kid's ass with the faucet and turned on the water. I pumped him for information.

"Who wanted your brother dead?"

"I don't know!" he gasped. "Someone at Stables' place?"

"I don't know!"

I turned off the water. I stuffed his ass with my thickest plug. That's all they wear, I hear, at Stables' place. It's the uniform. They wear their tight skin, their humpy muscles, and long thick plugs. Stables' boys have holes as open as all-night diners.

I pulled out the plug. A burst of liquid shit splattered across my handsome face. I stuffed it in again.

"Who wanted your brother dead?" I demanded.

"He said he knew something. Something about a murder. Oh-h-!"

I pulled out the plug again. The shit began to swirl out of the kid's ass like ice cream from a machine.

I was in heaven. The kid had known too much. They shut him up for it. I had to find out what it was.

I hopped a wall and scrambled through the brambles. The kid let me in through the kitchen door. We hurried down a hall and into an empty sitting room.

So this was Stables' place. The grounds outside were sad and overgrown, but the interior was as clean and rich as a compulsively kept little museum.

The kid told me I would be thoroughly inconspicious if I stripped and walked around with a plug up my ass. He pulled his out slowly, a long pliant latex wedge.

I don't much like to talk about myself, but when I caught a reflection of myself in a mirror across the room, my tall hunky frame bent over just a little, my handsome face screwed up in sensation, my shark of a prick biting through the air, and that kid feeding my ass with more and more and more of that giant plug-whew! The kid kissed me for good luck and left the room. I was on my own.

The main room at Stables' place was high and vaulted. Its tall windows were shuttered hard and heavily curtained. Fireplaces burned brightly in each of its four walls. The rugs were deep, the furniture fine and gleaming.

Sprawled all about on the floor and couches scores of hot studs were sucking and fucking with gnawing teeth and reckless thrusts. Sweat and skin glistened in the firelight.

Several studs stood fettered in the middle of the room. One of them writhed, his balls isolated on the other side of a wooden stock. They worked over his balls with leather straps and paddled.

Another one lay on a table with his hands tied to his ankles and his head tied between his legs. His ever-available hole was in constant use. When one of them finished fucking him, a sluggish stream of clotted fluid began to flow from his open hole until the next prick filled it up again.

I hadn't made it a foot across the room before I fell into that sea of flesh. Everywhere I looked I saw a distended tit or heavy ripe nuts. A red-haired kid rolled over and sat on top of me, securing himself with my prick deep within his guts. He lolled his pretty cock in my mouth. Without warning he began to piss. I wasn't expecting it, but I drank it. Then I flung him over and fucked him hard for it, my stiff angular shaft in and out in quick precise strokes. His moaning and screaming filled the vaulted hall.

I yanked it out just before it would have shot. I began my investigation in earnest. I had to be cocked and ready for whatever lay ahead.

I climbed the stairway. I walked the halls of Stables' place. At a turn in the hallway a statue of a peculiar old woman came

At a turn in the hallway a statue of a peculiar old woman came to life before my eyes. She was a pitiful sight, her white straw hair in disarray, her skin yellowed and wrinkled. She wore a rumpled misbuttoned expensive silk gown and a tiara.

"You're not one of my babies," she said to me, bewildered. "Who are you?"

She burst into tears under my scrutiny. She closed her eyes and wailed to herself. "So many of them are missing!" She held her hands to her eyes and drifted down the hall. "One of them is crying, and I can't find him!"

I heard a groan from behind a door. I opened it cautiously and peered into the room. Another group of naked studs stood around in a ring. On a cushion in the center lay an exquisite creature. He arched his back and raised his lithe frame from the cushion. He licked his red lips. His eyes were milky and delirious . His insatiable ass enjoyed an implement of exaggerated proportion. The tool was pulled from him and with it a thin sleeve of bright red tissue stretched out from within his remarkable hole. It peeled back along the shaft and eased itself into a puckering crown around his ass.

So this was Nigel. My prick began to nod with appreciation. The device plunged into him again. He rolled his head and groaned again. It was exhilirating and obscene. This was Master Stables.

I wanted to introduce myself to my host. But the shark would have to wait. I was working for the kid.

What did I know? Again I walked the halls, holding my erection against my side lest anyone see me coming around a corner or through a door. Boys were missing, yes.

There were footsteps behind me. I stepped into an alcove and watched several studs walk by. Then another few came

along. I followed them. Others followed me. I became part of the group. The kid was one of my companions. He did his best to ignore me.

We headed toward a door and fell silent as we entered a brightly lit room. Behind a desk stood a man I recognized immediately as the beggar Otis. He was massive. His muscles buckled like steel girders under his skin. His face was broad and deeply-lined. His great cock lay splayed across the top of the desk like a pet slug, the gold ring gleaming from its head.

confessed. He was quitessentially male.

He was definitely an arresting man. No one said a word.

He looked at each of us. He consulted a clipboard. "You!" he barked. He pointed to a stud. "Cowboy action." The young man left the room through an inner door. Otis pointed to another one. "Heavy jock.

The process continued. Each one of them received his instructions, then went through the inner door. One by one they returned in appropriate attire. The first stud looked hot in his boots, chaps and hat. Two goons took an address card from

through it. I tried to assay my situation.

Otis and hustled the cowboy out the door.

Aha! It was the perfect setup! Most of Stables' boys were of the kitchen door variety. None of them could object to a little action on the side. They had it too good. Over time, they more than paid for it. I thought about the lunatic aunt. I thought about the nephew with the world up his ass. Otis was a very clever man.

He stood looking at the kid. He seemed to think for a while. I didn't like the expression on his face. He pointed to him. "Elderly professor." His eyes crinkled with malice and satisfaction.

I was next. "Dungeon slave."

Once in the dressing room I took a ragged sack to the uncomprehending kid. I myself donned a tasteful set of corduroy. When Otis turned his back on the door we made for our goons who hustled us out the door.

Otis had something in mind for the kid. I was on my way to find out what it was.

The goons delivered me to the door of a plain two-story brick townhouse. A funny little man opened the door, exclaiming "Very good!" and handed one of the goons a small packet. He invited me to enter and shut the door behind us.

head. I looked around for my captor.

The furnishings in the rooms were modest and serviceable. There was a mustiness to the air. The walls of the rooms were

lined with old books.

"Ordinarily," the professor began, "I would ask you to enjoy a cup of tea with me." He frowned. "Under the circumstances, however, I think we'd best get on with it."

I heard a faint howl from the room above us. The professor gestured in exasperation. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he shouted in thin

thoroughly incapacitated.

He led me up the stairs. We stopped in front of a heavy door, The professor unlocked it with a key from around his neck. "He's in here," he explained, opening the door.

Suddenly an odd instrument flashed from a holster at his side. He fired it into the dim room. I heard a startled cry and a heavy thump. I looked curiously into the room. The professor shoved me inside and to the floor. The door slammed with finality.

I quickly gained my feet and found the switch to the light. How long I stood frozen in terror I do not know. At any rate,

It was a man, clearly. He spread seven-feet across the floor. He was so clearly a man he looked more like an animal, a beast.

His face was long and wide and rugged. His body was an obesity of muscle, his chest and shoulders freakisly overdeveloped , his waist rippled, his legs thick and angular. Coarse brown hair grew all over him in straggled patches.

His face began to twitch. It screwed into a malign, pained expression.

expression.

His animal prick began to stiffen and grow. I became alarmed. I thought it already terrifying in its proportion.

Detective Dick. It pays well. And it-

He stood up. His erect prick dangled heavily between his legs like the prick of a bull, mottled purple and pink. A continuous

rush of creamy fluid trickled from the hole in its ill-defined head. His huge nuts sat busy at either side of his shaft, hugging his abdomen.

Even in his crouching posture he towered over me. He stomped his foot. He howled. He circled me.

He was technically a "physical distillate," the professor later

He tripped me with his foot. He pinned me to the floor with his sheer weight. He cudgled my face with his animal prick. The heafty shaft slammed against the ridge of my nose. I felt the warm sensation of blood.

He reduced me to insensibility with his long bludgeon, then held my head at arms length and stuck the creamy slick head of his prick into my mouth. Soon he lay over me with the entire length of his formidable prick buried down my throat.

I tried to keep a cool head. It was difficult with his prick raging

I felt a strange set of ridges near the base of his shaft. My teeth fit easily into them.

He fucked my face. He fucked it like an animal with his animal prick. I tried to relax but panic surged when the room began to spin.

Again my teeth feminto the ridges when he returned his entire length to me. Aha! Yes! I thought. They were the marks of others in the very same situation. They had tried to bite it off. His balls rolled over my bleeding nose like a wet sponge and sealed my nostrils. Death by asphyxiation! Yes!

Everything edged into focus. I had solved the case!

The "missing children" had all fallen victim to this monster, the pet of the funny little professor. Otis knew, but he kept sending boys anyway. The first kid suspected it, and soon thereafter met his fate with the same shaft down his choking throat. Had his brother come there that night as Otis had intended him to do, he would have met it, too.

These thugs were no match for me! I had the goods on them! I also had a two-foot prick trying to work my ass from the inside out. I gasped for air I didn't find. Finally the room went black.

I came to a short while later. I tried to shake the fuzz out of my

He sat huddled in a corner of the room in a great white puddle. He grasped his prick with his long fingers, as if the pressure soothed his shaft. His face betrayed his excruiation. His animal prick convulsed every few seconds, sending out a long stream of juice. It wouldn't stop. His nuts were small and purple-white trying to keep up the supply.

I rose to my feet. He did nothing but look at me. He was

I broke through the door to the hall and called for the professor. After a while he made a nervous approach. He seemed startled that I should be summoning him.

He looked at his pet. "Oh my! Oh my! What have you done to him?" He rushed out of the room, then returned with a black

bag. He gave the ejaculating thing a hypodermic.

I had been too much for the beast, poor thing. He got so turned on fucking my face that he couldn't get it turned off. His animal prick stuck on "on."

The injection had its effect. He was soon resting peacefully. I rounded up Otis and took him and the professor to the local precinct. The boys were glad to see me. They had a string of unsolved cases.

Well, that was that. Cases closed. Just a few loose strings.

I returned to Stables' place. As I suspected, he had been heavily drugged for some time. I dismissed his boys. I called for a hospital to attend to the nephew and aunt.

I went in search of the kid. I found him in the cellar of one of the better homes in town. The little dungeon was tasteful and chock-full of interesting toys. The kid refused to leave.

Me? Well, it was just another couple of days in the life of

Oh, excuse me. There's a howling and stomping coming from the next room. I've got to go. It's feeding time.

REALITY by Mako

Sledge Hammer was in trouble. He knew it through every square inch of his muscular 165-pound high school wrestler's body, and especially in his virgin asshole-which was at this very moment still straining to eject the thick butt plug recently shoved through its sphincter by his laughing conqueror.

Sledge could feel his ass weakening and beginning to accept the new situation, could smell his own shit worked free by the plug and the piss that had sprayed him liberally, and he could see the end of the plug positioned as he was bent almost in half with his legs up and over his shoulders, tied to hooks in the wall by the torn remnants of his nylon tank suit and jock, augmented by ropes for his arms and neck to hold him eternally in the position of defeat and submission.

Sledge wallowed in his humiliation. He had always been the victor, he had given the pain, held his opponent to the floor to the cries of the crowd and felt his foe's strength fade from him before standing with hand raised and cock rising. Now he was vanquished, helpless, his face burning from the feel of hot piss, tasting the shit from the man's asshole, remembering the commands and taunting:

"Suck ass, punk! Make that blond mop pump over its Master's hole …

His heart sank as he remembered the terms of the match and how eagerly he had agreed to risk his freedom against the rich faggot's thousand dollars. He had taunted the man, this forty-year -old faggot who weighed at most one hundred and fifty; how could he really expect to beat Sledge Hammer?

But he had, and it hadn't even been close. Now Sledge lay the slave to a faggot, which meant he had to give in to everything a sick mind could come up with, without even enjoying it…yet his cock was hard, as hard as he had ever seen it and dripping a little bead of precum.

Then his heart began to race in time to the sound of footsteps approaching. His Master was returning, perhaps alone or maybe with the little punk from next door, the one Sledge had always pushed around—the Master had threatened to bring him, so the whole school would know. The floor creaked, the doorknob turned…Sledge fought his bounds but they were too strong, the plug in his butt was becoming too pleasureable, the taste of shit in his mouth too strong…

"Look, Harry," the thin man in the doorway said. "I got tired, let's just go to the Allegro."

Harry Brown, formerly Sledge Hammer, groaned in frustration , his cock shaking. "Damn it, Joe!" he moaned at his room-

Joe knelt beside him, knelt very carefully so as not to get dust on his slacks. "I know Babe," he whispered gently. "But good for you, not me.'

Harry lay back when released, and massaged the cramps from his somewhat flabby forty-six-year-old body, regretting the muscular body he had just assumed and once had lived in.

"Oh-ohh," Joe singsonged, recognizing the mood. "I guess I'd better go on ahead." He got up but turned at the door. "Coming by?"

Harry just scowled at him. Joe sighed, but it was Saturday night and he had things to do. Harry got up and went to his closet to dress.

"Reality," he grunted angrily. "Just once I'd like to have some reality in this scene!"

He was still muttering as he headed up Spruce Street for the Cell Block. He was dressed now in fatigues with keys jangling to the right of his web belt, high jumpboots a-shining.

"Reality," he muttered again.

"I can show you reality," a voice interrupted.

Harry turned and saw a hunched old street person perched on a vent, covered by dirt covering layers of clothing unraveling into a new psuedo skin, but feeling good because some partier had given him half a bottle.

"I don't think I can stomach that much reality," Harry told him. The old man cackled and Harry walked on, feeling better.

Soon he was marching to the clomping of his boots. A street hustler, more than a bit high on crank in preparation for the evening's employment, drew himself up and saluted.

"Yooh, Joe!" the kid cried at GI Joe, marching by to fight the enemies of international capitalism…

And Joe Montane, Vietnam Vet and mercenary extraordi-naire , marched up the street to his secret rendezvous in a bar called the Cell Block. His entire rock-hard body was a weapon, his steel-grey eyes took in his surroundings at a glance—no one dared get in the way of this fighting machine.

All eyes fixed on him as he entered the Cell Block—hard eyes of hard men that would as soon spit at you as talk to you, men who fought for fun and wore leather or uniform in a world gone to polyester. All these eyes quailed before those of Joe Montane but for one man: his contact.

Joe acted casual; he was no virgin at this game…Hell, after the NV regulars had gotten through with him he wasn't a virgin at anything. He stepped to the bar.

"Tequilla, straight!" he ordered.

"Sure, hon," the bartender sighed in falsetto.

Joe ignored him. He was used to making contact in such places, the better to avoid the agents of Russian Communism; the Russian's kissed but they left fucking to their slaves. Joe laughed at their qualms. There were times when his ten-inch dick of death opened lips, figuratively and literally, better than any weapon, like that time during Tet…but his contact was coming-and what a man! Six foot six inches of iron-hard muscle, lean and tough from hard training; scarred from hand-to -hand combat, chin not afraid to jut, crew-cut hair, dressed inconspicuously in black jeans and logger shirt. The recognition signal, keys to the left side, jingling as he walked.

The man looked Joe over just as openly. "Good-looking recruit," the man sneered.

"The toughest, Sir!" Joe shot back, keeping the man's gaze, smiling assuredly and daring him to give him a chance to prove it.

"My boys have to be," the Mercenary leader warned.

"Try me," Joe offered. "Put me through your toughest exercises ; any discipline allowed, any penalty for failure, any initiation or test of loyalty welcomed!

The man liked what he saw. "Captain Rogers," he said, and began to leave.

'Joe Montane," Joe returned and followed. It was the beginning of a new adventure. Maybe the time for men like Joe Montane was passing, but he wouldn't change. He lived for the risk, the sacrifice, the bonding together of like men into a force that would do anything for each other, risk anything for the rush of the challenge. And as Joe watched the muscular body of Captain Rogers, which was certainly just an assumed identity, he knew he had found a man he would follow anywhere.

They went to Rogers' hotel room, an inconspicuous site for first testing. Joe's quick glance showed him that Captain Rogers was skilled at maintaining a cover, for the room held only the attache case, pile of papers and plain suitcase of any ordinary salesman; there was even a framed photograph of Captain Rogers with wife and daughter, a clever touch. There was a set of handcuffs, some rope, and a few interrogation devices in plain site on the bed, but Joe knew how little a big city hotel worker would think of such common sights.

"Strip, maggot!" Captain Rogers barked, hands on hips as he stared at his recruit.

"Sir! Yes, Sir!" Joe barked back and began to strip, feeling the officer's eyes boring through him.

Joe soon stood nude and at attention. Captain Rogers just sneered, picked up his swagger stick and walked around his recruit. He pinched his nipples and kneaded his pecs searching for fat or pain; squeezed his balls until Joe's face was red, yet no cry of weakness escaped his manly lips. Then he brought the crop savagly across Joe's taut buttocks and got only a gasp of surprise. Captain Rogers was well-pleased, but he didn't allow himself to show it.

"On the floor, maggot!" Rogers ordered. "And give 'em till you collapse!'

Joe hit the floor and gave pushups, his iron-hard muscles pistoning him off the floor.

"You got a sweet ass, faggot!" Captain Rogers yelled at Joe, and began to time the exercise with strokes of the switch, bringing out long lines on the recruit's twin globes.

Joe gave him every ounce of his strength and then collapsed onto the floor under the merciless bite of the leather crop. He thought of escape, but his macho personality wouldn't let him accept an escape a pussy like Harry Brown might take.

Suddenly there was a respite. Joe lay panting, he heard the rattle of chain, then his exhausted arms were yanked behind his

'You been captured before, soldier?" Captain Rogers sneered down.

"Yes, Sir," Joe said quietly, keeping cool, waiting to see which way this thing was heading.

Captain Rogers sat on the bed, placed his combat boot on the side of Joe's head, pushing it down to the floor and to one side. probing with his toe at the mouth.

"You're captured again, American bastard!" Rogers laughed triumphantly.

The old feelings, the old shameful feelings came back and overwhelmed Joe Montane, even after years of killing Commies to try and destroy the terrible memory of the things they had made him do. He remembered the laughing of the guards as he crouched bare-assed, always bare-assed at their feet, the taste and feel of their cocks, the scent of their piss and, more and more, he felt his cock regaining its old aching hardness as it had in those years.

He could not help himself. His tongue came out. Damn it to

Hell! he thought, but it was his tongue running along the boots of Commie Rogers.

"Please Sir," Joe panted, spreading his legs to show the asshole he'd give, feeling again the shame of being used as a woman. He knew he'd have to have complete humiliation. Halfway was not enough.

"Please Sir," he moaned again between swipes with his tongue. "Piss on me."

"What, maggot?" Rogers barked.

"Piss on me, Sir!" Joe cried.

Rogers laughed. "After the boots," he promised his broken prisoner. "See, I came on them in a video booth. And who knows what all I was standing in!"

Joe licked eagerly, forcing his tongue into every crevice, widening it to suck at smooth sections until he could taste nothing at all but leather. He writhed about on the rug, on his hard cock, to get his tongue to every possible angle.

Finally Rogers was satisfied. "Alright, worm!" he smirked. "Crawl into that bathroom and stick that shithead where it belongs!"

Joe crawled, arms locked behind him, pushing himself along with shoulders and knees; his cock, balls, and nipples teased by the friction of the carpet, heating up and then teased even harder by the cold slipperiness of the tiled bathroom until he was prostate before the porcelain altar.

The toilet lids were down and sealed with a strip of paper. Harry Brown would have been relieved it was clean, but Joe

Montane was somewhat disappointed.

'Open it, pig!" Rogers commanded, then hit Joe across the ass with his own garrison belt.

Joe groaned, levering himself up the toilet and bit the paper off, tearing from side to side like a dog. He pushed the lids up with his nose, heedless of the discomfort they caused.

Rogers grabbed Joe, spun him over and pushed his head down into the toilet until Joe was supported only by his wedged shoulders and toes, his hair floating in the toilet water, his head bobbing like a huge piece of shit waiting to be flushed.

Captain Rogers sneered down, pulled Joe's cock up and then let it flop down hollowly against Joe's stomach. Did it again, accenting how hard it was. "You really are a pig, boy," he sneered.

"Sir, Yes Sir!" Joe cried.

Joe watched his Master take his time in straddling him, felt the better man's knees digging in at the base of both sides of Joe's rib cage, and watched hungrily as Captain Rogers brought out his huge, uncircumcised Commie cock, pointed it down at Joe's face.

"Please, Sir!" Joe begged.

"Keep that mouth open, Toilet Breath," Rogers demanded huskily.

Joe could feel the man's thighs contract as he worked the piss free; even a Russian barbarian had trouble pissing in unusual circumstances, toilet training being a universal language. But he knew it would come.

Rogers began to laugh. It was coming. He was relaxing and was going to enjoy this.

The phone rang! Rogers looked back over his shoulder, glanced back, but it rang again and he went.

Joe lay still a few moments in disbelief; it had been so close. Then he fought back his disbelief with the knowledge that it had to have been someone high up in the Party to bring such rapid obedience from a man like Captain Rogers. He thought for a moment that he should spy, but his own erection told him the truth; he was no longer a fighting man but a slave, a toilet. He'd do as Captain Rogers desired, for the rest of his life.

He sagged out of the toilet to rest on his sore ass, toilet water running down his face, his cock aching most of all until Captain

Rogers came to use him.

Captain Rogers walked in quietly and turned him over, surely to punish him for having moved, and Joe was so broken that he actually raised his ass into the air-but there was only a minute

DRUMMER 41

jingling and two clicks as the handcuffs were removed.

Joe groaned in gratitude and moved to suckle the cock of his benevolent ruler, but Rogers pushed him away.

"It's my wife," Rogers said, his voice weak and worried. "My daughter's sick; I got to go home.'

Harry Brown grabbed for his cock but it was too late, it was already flaccid. He stood nude and watched the salesman pack. "Can I use the room?" he asked.

"Why not?" Rogers asked, and threw the keys on the bed. He hurried out saying, "Sorry."

Harry took out his wallet and threw his clothes into a closet. He counted his money to be sure he had enough and checked the number before dialing, then pulled on his cock as the phone rang.

"Hello?" the cautious voice said.

"Mark, it's Brad Pelt," Harry said. "Is Biff available?"

"Hi Brad," the head of the escort system said. "He had a client earlier…let's see." Mark dialed the other number.

"Yeah?" George, aka Biff, was lying in bed beside his lover. "Biff, it's Mark," Mark broke in quickly, wanting his commission . "Here's Brad Pelt."

"Wait-" George started to say, too late.

"Biff," Brad moaned hungrily, "I need you so bad…Sir!" Fuck, Biff thought, but he needed the money. "Been a while, punk.'

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Brad said. "I've been busy."

"Too busy with your Ivy League Faggots for your old Construction Worker Father," Biff accused him, using his free hand to stiffle the giggling of the boy sharing his bed. "Maybe Dad- dy's too tired for you!" "Please, Daddy," Brad cried. "I have the money you loaned me…"

"The hundred fifty?" Biff asked, thinking of the next day's casino trip.

"Well, the hundred anyway," Brad said.

Biff thought for a moment; it was comfortable in bed and he'd probably lose anyway. "I don't know, boy," drank a lot, maybe I don't feel like getting it up." he said. "I

"That's okay, Daddy," Brad moaned. "I don't deserve your beautiful cock anyway, just your piss…please, I've already been punished!"

"You let someone else beat Daddy's boy's ass?" Biff accused. "I hope it's damn sore because it's going to be sorer, you little whore! I'm going to give you half an hour of my time."

"Thank you, Daddy," Brad said, letting go of his cock, lest he spoil the whole thing. "I'm in Room 1802 of the Market Holiday

Inn."

"1802," Biff repeated. "And you better be my hairless little

"I will be, Daddy," Brad said, looking down at his pelt and knowing he'd need time. "Daddy, I'm registered here under Mr. Rogers.'

"Ashamed of my name?" Biff accused. "I think it'll take me ten minutes from now to be blistering your conceited ass!'

"Oh no, Daddy," Brad pleaded. "Closer to forty.

"Okay, Son," Biff agreed, and hung up. "That John's got more names than a phone directory!'

His lover groaned. "You really going?"

Biff just rubbed his fingers together as if feeling money. He was looking for his other engineer boot.

Meanwhile, Brad had pulled on an outer layer of clothes and was heading down to a convenience store for razors. It was ten minutes before he stood in front of the bathroom mirror lathering up his hard cock and groin and began shaving.

It took a lot of maneuvering, but he was a smoothly-shaved little boy by the time he heard the knocking on the door. He turned the safety latch and Biff came through, pushed the boy roughly onto the bed and grabbed the wad of bills on the television.

"You pretty little punk,"he sneered at Brad as he counted the 42 DRUMMER money. "Think you're too good for your Old Man, but you need my money, don't you? Don't you?"

Brad got off the bed and knelt humbly on the floor. He had to admit it, despite the Ivy League school his father had worked so hard to put him through, despite his rich friends, he still needed Daddy's guidance and Daddy's money.

'Yes, Sir," he cried.

Biff crumpled the money into his pocket. "Look at you, boy!" he demanded "Squatting there with your whore's ass all marked up, letting any fag use you. Have you no morals at all?"

"Help me Daddy," Brad whimpered, knowing he had done wrong and was helpless to improve without the strength of his

Daddy.

Biff grunted and sat on the bed. "Position," he said, and Brad got up and drapped himself over Biff's lap, his ass up and facing Biff's right hand.

"I'm sorry, son," Biff said. "But you can't be a man until you learn basic obedience."

"I know, Daddy," Brad said.

It was a hard spanking, delivered without rest to all areas of Brad's ass and upporthighs, continuing until Biff had to hold Brad down to keep him in place and tears ran down Brad's cheeks. Then Biff stopped and spread the boy's cheeks apart, examining the asshole.

"You been letting somebody else use my hole?" Biff asked threatenly.

"Yes, Daddy," Brad cried.

Biff pulled him up by the hair. "It's for me and my friends only," he warned to boy. "We don't want any diseases from your dirty faggot hole!"

"Yes, Daddy," Brad agreed.

"Well, you're not getting it today," Biff said. "Go get in the bathtub.

"Yes, Daddy," Brad said, walking head down into the bathroom and laying in the cold tub, playing with himself, knowing he deserved what was coming.

'Look at you playing with yourself!" Biff cried in disbelief as he came into the room. "Well, I know how to satisfy you."

Biff stood over his son and aimed his cock. He'd had four more beers while waiting and his bladder ached, but his son wasn't ready yet.

"How?" Brad moaned, working his cock.

"By having another poker game," Biff said. "With all my dirty friends you're too good for, and you'll be our personal serving girl…with a little apron to hide your hard-on and nothing else..maybe nylons and a collar, and we'll fuck you, and you'll lick us, and drink our piss, let us tamp out our cigars in your mouth…

Brad rocked back, thighs and asshole clenching as the first burst of piss hit him in the mouth. He yelled in delicious agony and shot off across his chest as the stream continued, and then lay panting and covered with piss and cum.

Biff looked at his watch. Close enough. "You call soon," he

"I will," Harry promised, wanting Biff to get lost so he could take a shower and get out of the damn hotel room…

Harry got home at four a.m. and was surprised to see a light on. He opened the door and walked in quietly, in case Joe had brought someone home.

"About time, Sledge," greeted the hard voice of Coach Thompson as he stepped out from concealment, eyes flashing at catching his star wrestler sneaking in after curfew. A belt in his hand promised the type of discipline that made Coach Thompson's team the best in the state.

"Oh, Joe," Harry said. "Not tonight."

Joe threw the belt down in frustration and looked for his coat. "Damn it!" Joe cursed, as he marched out the door. "I wish I could get some reality for a change!

"Reality" is Mako's first fiction for Drummer since his novel Kickboxer was serialized in issues 55-59.

Dear Larry,

In regard to the letter you answered dealing with "Leather Lifestyle," I think it is important to note that there are quite a few of us who do live a leather lifestyle— far more than merely putting it on for bars, etc. Leather smells best when it is worn daily; otherwise it is no more than drag.

I made a major career change a number of years ago in order to accommodate this particular lifestyle-with most satisfying results. I am completely self-employed and wear leather when I feel like it. In honesty, there is one exception-when I perform chamber music, because some of the other musicians felt it inappropriate. As a sane-sadist I have freedom to take time, anytime, to chain a man up and do with him as I choose—and I do. My clients and students are well aware of my lifestyle and accept it, although I will admit I have lost a few. You answered that there may be times when a leather lifestyle is inappropriate . I would concede, otherwise; I would wear my chaps when performing Mozart. I am a long way from saving my lifestyle for those cherished evenings in the bar. I know it is often difficult for men to make the change, but believe me, it is worth it.

Rev. Paul, MN

Dear Rev.

I think you are saying very much the same thing I did, although you are trying to expand the limits of my logic. First, I did not say that there were times when the leather lifestyle was inappropriate; I said that there were times when the attire and attitudes (effect) were inappropriate . A true Leatherman is going to hold this orientation within him at all times. My argument is not with the ability of a man to be honestly committed to this way of life. Rather, I dislike the term "Leather Lifestyle" because it conjures up the image of a man who literally lives in leather. Even in your unique professional situation, you have to admit that you can't do this all the time; for a man who must earn his living in a situation where others determine the appropriateness of his dress and effect, the situation becomes impossible. We might also return to the old problem of defining the difference between a "Leatherman" and an "SMer." They are often synonymous, but not always, not by a long shot. Hence, my dislike for the term. I simply feel it is misleading and inaccurate. All of us who are involved in this scene carry the love or the lust within us for most of our waking hours-and sometimes in our dreams. But for many in our group the central fetish isn't leather; it may be ropes or chains or steel shakles, or simply a dominant / submissive relationship, wherein leather is a secondary consideration.

Dear Larry,

I am a steady reader of Drummer since Issue 1, and also long since into leather-and a native New Yorker. I am sick of people calling New York the AIDS Capital of the World, and putting down the Mineshaft. It's not NY; it's the tourists who come here and play with anything and anyone. The people of NYC are just like most people (who) watch out for themselves and are careful. The Mine-shaft is a bar, a place to socialize and engage in the fantasies of your choice. I was recently in San Francisco, and their AIDS rate was worse than ours.

Ron, NYC

Dear Ron,

I think AIDS is now such an international problem that it would be foolish to dub any specific area as the "Capital." NYC has a lot of cases, because it has a lot of people. It also has its share of irresponsible men. Still, AIDS does not seem to be very selective in whom it attacks. Many victims are guys who have been only moderately active, whereas others who have made real pigs of themselves are still healthy. As to the Mineshaft, it is a place where lots of things go on as they do in any number of other locations. People often feel the need to point the finger of blame, and the old MS seems to have the highest profile.

Dear Larry,

I am a 22-year-old living in the not-so-popular city of Detroit. I have had interests in SM since I first met my (now) ex-lover, even though at that time I didn't really think or know that it was SM. I have not led a very intelligent life. I've made a lot of bad decisions and have ended up regretting them. I even once was in the process of becoming a slave, and I fouled that up, too. My question is: should I try to become a slave again? I've been reading through the classifieds of a recent Drummer, and have seen a few ads requesting slaves and I have been thinking of answering them. I feel if left on my own I won't go anywhere. I need the training and discipline from someone else to straighten myself out. Can you give me any advice on what I should say and do to be accepted? I am fairly healthy, but do not work out. I also smoke. Is it conceivable that a Master can help me overcome my addiction to cigarettes? Any advice would be appreciated.

J.R., Detroit

Dear J.R.,

It has been my experience that very few guys are ready to become slaves until they have had fairly extensive experience as bottoms. Otherwise they don't know what they are getting into, either physically or psychologically. Even then, a genuine Master / slave relationship is only going to happen when the right two people come together. When you're ready for the ultimate commitment-which may still be a long way off-you should also be experienced enough to know it. At 22 you've got plenty of time, and you are certainly entitled to a few mistakes. Hopefully you'll learn by them.

Dear Larry,

I heard most bars in San Francisco were closed, that the leather scene is dead! I don't mean to be vicious, but New York is again Number One in leather. All those pictures of leather contests and stories of California are always in Drummer. Why not cover a story of what just happened in NYC, the big leather contest at Alex's in Wonderland and the others-23 in all, with over 2000 people in attendance. I do hope Drummer can up-beat a story from NYC, or are you afraid?

Shining in Leather, Brooklyn

Dear Shining,

As you'll see, Drummer has photo coverage of the "Mr. Leather 1984 New York City" event in this issue. As the Drummer editors have indicated before (and as I've reported in this column), Drummer is always looking for copy worldwide, and is open to submissions from reporters and photogs on the East Coast and elsewhere . Issue 79 had a big spread on the Mr. Europe Leather contest, photos of the Annual Review of the American Uniform Association in Denver, etc.

As for the SF leather bars closing, this is news to me. They were certainly packed when I was there a couple of weeks ago. I might add that you personally should have no complaint, since I have published more letters from you than from any other individual. You may submit them under different names, but I recognize the scrawl.

(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.)

INTERNATIONAL LEATHER SCENE

SECOND SEMESTER

Gay Male SM Activists of New York, one of this country's leading groups in the movement toward formal education and safe-and-sane training in SM practices , has announced its schedule of winter activities for 1985. General meetings of GMSMA are held on the second and fourth Wednesdays of each month at the Gay Community Center, 208 West 13th St., first floor, at 8:30 p.m., with a door donation of $2 / members, $3 / nonmembers . (Open to gay men only unless otherwise noted).

Of special interest in January and

February Anniversary Party (Jan. 19, 120 Eleventh Ave.): A celebration of GMSMA's fourth anniversary at the Spike. Details TBA.

Bondage Fashion Show (Jan. 23, 8:30 p.m., 208 W. 13th St.): Items in leather, rubber, canvas and metal, modeled live. "An evening bound to please."

Flogging (Feb. 13, 8:30 p.m., 208 W. 13th St.): Various whips, crops and quirts explained and demonstrated, with hints on safety and "how not to hurt (unless desired)." Joint meeting with LSM, open to women.

Flogging Workshop (Feb. 16, time and place TBA): A hands-on lesson, "your chance to flog, under the guidance of masters in the field." Joint workshop with LSM, open to women.

For more information, write to GMSMA, 132 W. 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

SPANISH LEATHER

Fall of 1984 saw the formal organization of the first jeans-leather-uniform-rubber Motor Sport Club in Spain, MSC-Barcelona. The group drafted its constitution in October, with an eve toward acceptance into the European Confederation of Motorcycle Clubs at the ECMC Annual Meeting held in Brussels , under the sponsorship of the Rurals MC and FSMC-Marseille.

MSC-Barcelona held meetings throughout 1984, frequently at Barcelona'a Driver Club and Bronx Bar. The group currently numbers 42 members.

COWTOWN LEATHER

The Top Man hands-down at the 1984 annual run of the Cowtown Leathermen of Fort Worth and Dallas last fall: The Master in Leather. The Master, well known on the U.S. leather scene (member of the Leather Fraternity, seen at this year's Hellfire Inferno), is also well respected on his home turf-so much so that the vote giving him the Leatherman Award at the Cowtown Leathermen run was reportedly unanimous.

An exclusive Top, The Master in Leather was given the award for being "most representative of the leather community and SM in Texas."

GOOD TASTE

The Sixty-Nine Motorcycle Club (SNC) of London will be celebrating its Twentieth Anniversary over the weekend of May 24-27 with their "China Run." To commemorate the event, SNC is creating an unusual souvenir (unusual, at least, for a leathermen's group)—a china plate. The plate features a cyclorama of coy artwork depicting scenes of bondage and flogging (including giant cocks sprouting out of nowhere), with a pastoral scene in the center of two leather-men pitching camp in the woods. Suitable for mounting on the wall, the delicate souvenir may not fare well on overland motorcycle runs.

Collectors may contact: Box Number SNC, London WC1 3XX, England.

DRUMMER 77

WHERE THE HELL?

A number of regular Drummer readers noticed that the Christmas issue for 1984 (Drummer 79) had no photo coverage of the annual Hellfire Inferno. A photo spread and report on Inferno had become almost an annual event in the pages of the Christmas issues. So where was it this time around?

The fact is, the powers-that-be in the Chicago Hellfire Club decided, for reasons of their own, not to allow publicity photographs to be taken at the 1984 Inferno. The event went on as usual-one of the most famous, or infamous, gatherings of Masters and slaves in the known universe-but without documentation by the cameras. Inferno has, of course, received an immense amount of publicity over the last few years, notably from Drummer and The Zeus Collection ; perhaps the organizers were beginning to feel a bit overexposed…

BALLING IN COLOGNE

No, this isn't an item on sex and perfume . Well, sex, maybe…

Two leading leather groups in Cologne (Koln), West Germany-MS Panther Koln, e.V and the Black Angels— have announced "Karneval 1985 in Koln," or Carnival in Cologne. Dates for the festivities are Feb. 16-19. The big event: a Saturday evening "Kostumbal" (Costume Ball) in the Casino-Gesellschaft , Marienplatz 14.

The Panthers and the Black Angels are expecting a huge turn-out, especially from other member-groups of the ECMC. This may be the big European leather event of the spring. Contact: MS Panther Koln e.V., Postfach 5163, D-4620 Castrop-Rauxel, West Germany.

MOLTO MASCHIO

At last, Italy has its own homegrown, hardcore, no-holds-barred magazine for gay men. It's called Maschio, and the premiere issue's just arrived at the Drummer doorstep.

Gay publishing is not new to Italy; in fact, the same people who put out Maschio have been publishing Babilo-nia , that bastion of Italian gay sensibility and good taste (see International Leather Scene, Drummer 76), for quite some time. What makes Maschio ground-breaking , and more similar to American gay magazines, are its glossy nude photo spreads, which include uncensored penetration.

Looking through the first issue, it's also apparent that Maschio doesn't have a lot of local material to draw from-or else believes that its readers prefer exotic (read: U.S.) men over homegrown hunks. Leafing through the pages is a little like looking through your own collection of American erotica-a cover photo from Playgirl, a spread on Kip Noll, a report on gay life in New York, some

old Colt shots of Gregg Strom in leather, some beautiful Tom of Finland artwork in full color.

So where are the Italian boys? Well, there's Colt's Joe Porcelli, who's at least Italian-American. Blond porn star Brian Hawks appears as Diavolo Rosso, "Blond Devil," and a man-to-man spread on Giorgio Canalli and Al Parker appears as "Giorgio & Mario"—we never knew that Mario was Italian for Al…

Obviously, most of Maschio's material comes from across the Atlantic, but there are a few things you wouldn't expect to find in U.S. counterparts—like a feature on phallic art of the Roman Empire (statues and paintings with enormous endowments), classified personals you obviously won't find elsewhere, and (gasp) a photo spread of Johnny Harden in uniform hard-dicking a Black chick. Well, it is macho.

Other plusses: Good printing, lots of color, and graphic sexuality. For a premiere issue, Maschio Number One shows a lot of promise.

To comact, write: Edizioni Moderne— Maschio, Casella postale n. 17160, 20170 Milano, Italy.

DAM HOT!

Greg Maskwa and Dimitrius (no last name) are the "Dam Boyz." They may not be able to spell worth a damn, but they do have their collaborative finger on something with DAM: Erotic Fantasy Art for Leathermen, a slick, 48-page magazine of Maskwa's unusual erotic art as photographed by Dimitrius and highlighted by a co-authored text.

Some of the 150 pieces are in color, most in black and white. Maskaw's style is somewhat crude—but then so is his subject matter, which ranges from lewd trucker fantasies to bizarre erotic landscapes populated by randy satyrs and centaurs. (Maskwa's mural work has graced the walls of The Arena and The Brig in San Francisco; details from those large-scale works are reproduced here.)

You can get hold of the DAM picture book by sending cover price of $8.50 plus $1.50 postage to: Dam Studios, 350 West 48th St., New York, NY 10036.

BOOTS IN BELGIUM

From a European correspondent well-versed in the Continent's leather scene, we recently received this hot tip on antics in Antwerp:

"If you're staying overnight in Belgium—that tiny country south of Holland , north of France, west of Germany and east of Britain—don't book a hotel in the capital, Brussels, but in Antwerp, 50 kilometers to the north. Antwerp is the only city in Belgium with a real leather bar. It's called The Boots and it opened about a year ago in an old warehouse not far from downtown. On four floors they have two bars, a disco, two backrooms and a golden shower room. One of the backrooms is in the cellar; and the only way to get in is to descend a ladder.

"They're open from Wednesday through Sunday, 10 p.m. to 4 a.m., closed on Monday and Tuesday. To get in you must be a member of the club. Membership for one evening costs 100 Belgium francs (currently under two American dollars). Drinks are also inexpensive.

Unique in Europe are their Golden Shower Evenings. There are five scheduled for 1985: March 30, June 29, Aug. 31, Sept. 28, and Nov. 30.

"The Boots is easy to find. Address: Van Aerdtstraat 22, B-2008 Antwerp. From the downtown Franklin Roosevelt-plein , follow the Avenue Italielei to the entrance of the traffic tunnel under the river Schelde (to your left). Van Aerdt-straat will be to your right.

"There are no gay hotels in Antwerp. For accomodations contact the Tourist Office VVV, Suikerrui 19, B-2000 Antwerp."

Our thanks for the tip. You know the saying: If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium—but remember that The Boots doesn't open until Wednesday night.

SUBMIT!

International Leather Scene is our effort to keep Drummer readers informed about what's going on with leathermen in the US, Canada, Europe, Australia and elsewhere.

Have you got an event or inside information we should know about? Send press releases, announcements, photos, etc.—as early as possible—to: International Leather Scene, Drummer, 964 Fol-som Street, San Francisco, CA 94107.

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BEST VIDEOS OF 1984

The best videos of 1984 represent a continuum: pornography explored within the confines of its most severe limits; pornography refashioned into art; erotica crafted as cinema verite; sex as a metaphor for the light of the heart; sex as the incarnation of the darkest reaches of the soul. It would be hard to imagine a single audience for the entire spectrum present here, and the most telling truth of this year's crop may well be that erotica is an infinite variable. This list is in no particular order.

Pleasure Beach

Arthur J. Bressan, Jr. (director), Richard Lawrence (producer, screenplay), stars Michael Christopher, Johnny Daws, Chris Burns.

This was Bressan's first full-length color erotic feature and the absolute mastery of subtle nuances that typified earlier works like Passing Strangers and Forbidden Letters literally blazes across the screen in the most striking love scene ever to occur in gay cin ma—the moment that climaxes this well-realized story.

Two lifeguards, one gay and one not, fill out the last days of what is probably their last summer together on the beaches of Southern California. Michael Christopher is the promiscuous and gregarious gay lifeguard, while Johnny Daws, in a master-stroke of casting, is the sensitive but unrelenting non-gay co-worker . Christopher's pursuit of his uninterested prey is one-part Lubitsch, one part Cocteau; his growing dissatisfaction with his fast-lane lifestyle counterbalanced with well-chosen and sexually powerful encounters. Daws' growing dilemma over his own sexuality crystalized in two heart-rendering scenes: one in which he physically fails his girlfriend; the other his last drunken night on the beach. The viewer actually yearns for these two pre-ordained halves to join, and when it does it's Mount Saint Helens all over again. A poignant resolution caps off a moving and romantic narrative; the super-hot subtext sex that surrounds it is pure gravy. No wonder this is Michael Christopher's and Johnny Daws' favorite film. VCA/ HIS Video.

Screen Play

Steve Scott (director), stars Lee Ryder, Jon King, Eric Ryan. Steve Scott understands how to tell a straight-line narrative perhaps better than anyone working in gay porn. He also knows now to wring production values out of a rock; his features tend o look more like mainstream movies. With great economy, cott has taken a simple situation, a minimum of locations, a 'ersatile cast and fused a universal story. Lee Ryder is the drifter vho has stumbled into the making of a porn film in the Southern California desert. Chatted-up and seduced by one of the rew, it's inevitable that he attracts the attention of the lirector—a modern-day Casanova (with a lover waiting back in .A.) who has a reputation for chasing anything in pants. Is it the Iltimate irony that the director (Eric Ryan) actually falls in love vith the drifter? Used to getting phone calls about every new lemi-scandal, the lover (Michael Braun) panics when the calls ecome frequent and explicit. He hops the first commuter ight to the desert location and confronts his footloose mate. he confrontation scene may well be the plateau of this story: raun uses a combination of reason, seduction, and anger to ırn this bitter tide in his relationship; played against an Eric yan who is evasive, aloof, almost callous. Desperate times call or desperate measures and Braun attempts to pull a trump card y arranging for Ryan to see Lee Ryder cavorting around namelessly. Happy endings are relative: happy for whom? Scott braves the traditional in a lot of ways, not the least of as they are mesmerizing. From Lee Ryder he extracts a performance that is unlike anything you've ever seen from this much-touted young superstar. And to make the power of Ryder's presence in the story believable, Scott has photographed him almost Garbo-esque. Extremely well-crafted, tightly controlled, and beautifully realized with sex scenes that are both visually provocative and highly erotic. One of the great gay films of all time. Trophy Video.

The Bigger The Better

Matt Sterling (director), Jon Summers (producer), stars Rick Donovan, Matt Ramsey, Brian Michaels.

Can a director hone his skill at creating one perfect sexual tableau after another until he gets to the point where he can assemble them in a loose framework and still come up with a feature that seems nearly seamless and holds the viewer's rapt attention from opening to closing moments? After such well-received projects as Like A Horse and A Matter of Size, Matt Sterling seems to have crystalized his particular erotic vision with The Bigger The Better and defined a strata of videography that may well become uniquely his own. The loose framework is this: Rick Donovan is a student who has to start each day by jacking off. It's hardly the deluge that douses the fire; given half-a-chance, he makes a play for one of his teachers (Matt Ramsey). This is the Rick Donovan sex scene you've been waiting for: Matt Ramsey is, passively, his match, and the encounter between them in the classroom is one of those moments when you wish you could have been there yourself.

But here comes the shift in narrative: the story begins to follow Matt Ramsey's character a he goes to work out in the gym and becomes entangled with another of his students. Then, the point of view shifts again, we follow the student to a different embrace, finally ending up with a set of characters, all students, with a mainframe narrative of their own. This roundabout narrative style recalls J. Brian's First Time Around (where a single character from each episode leads to another) or Steve Scott's A Few Good Men (where the environment and the

occasional reappearance of a character ties the knot). Sterling has tightened this device to its maximum without it becoming a traditional narrative, and he makes it look intentional. Each of the separate sex scenes is completely realized, and played for all its inherent worth. Beautiful photography, top-knotch editing, superb cast (and this was allegedly Matt Ramsey's farewell gay porn performance), sizzling sex. First Place Video / Huge Video.

Fisting Ballet

Dave Nesor (director), Intervision Video (producer), stars Leather Rick and The Tantric Master.

Sometimes being there is enough. I've often marveled that a number of Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs have been of particular moments in time when the proximity of the photographer to the event was the reason d'etre for the image. Perhaps after seeing Fisting Ballet, which has the emotional impact of the finest Viet Nam War photojournalism, that selection process is easier to comprehend. Here we have a director / videographer who has documented one of the more awesome moments in human sexuality: a fisting session between a leatherman (Leather Rick) and a bottom with gymnastic abilities (the Tantric Master). Is the art in the particular use of light, angle, and perspective? How much is the product of necessity: this event was captured in a single playing area of New York's Mineshaft with a finite choice of camera positions, etc. Is the masterfulness evident in the editing, in what was selected for the viewer as opposed to what was omitted? In truth, this work has a pre-set framework, 60 minutes, to fulfill an industry rather than an artistic standard. Why is Fisting Ballet one of the best videos of the year? Exactly because of all those things, combined with a singular lack of pretentions to any of the usual trappings that traditionally define "excellence." Like the photograph of the Viet Cong spy being assassinated in the street by South Vietnamese soldiers, if the photographer had not been there we would not know, and our own view of the world would have been less than in the not knowing. Fisting Ballet captures forever a specific act between two men that exists on its own terms, with its own definitions and reasons for being. It is not a vacuum preserved for posterity, but a significant event—and one with highly-charged erotic appeal—that in its possible replication would pale by comparison. This is not the first fisting video, simply the most audacious. Slave & Master Video.

Falconhead II: The Maneaters

Micheal Zen (director), stars Paul Baressi, Brad Mason, Rick Taylor, Blake Palmer.

Seven years ago, Michael Zen made his gay porn debut with a curious work called Falconhead that leaned heavily on visual symbolism and left a lot of its audience cold. Porn was, to that point, to have been purely about sex. Even breakthrough films like Fred Halsted's L.A. Plays Itself and Sextool had not changed that golden rule, even if they had breached it. Like Halsted, Michael Zen was infusing his film with his own erotic vision with little regard for the porn industry standards. Halsted never eclipsed Sextool; Michael Zen had taken his premise in Falcon-head to an even more dazzling plateau.

This is a gay mythology illustrated in contemporary terms. The roots of the myth are entwined with the foundations for all myths, and laced with Zen's personal vision of sex and death-or what passes as death in compulsive sexual terms. In the first film a mythological figure, the Falconheaded man, witnessed a number of sexual excesses brought upon men who gained possession of his magical mirror. In the sequel, in true Greek hubris fashion, it is the Falconhead himself who is victim: the mirror has captured the figure that is his salvation. His oddesey runs parellel to the mortal who descends, through the mirror, into a netherworld of sexuality that, a la Dante's Inferno, will lead him to some overwhelming revelation. The metaphorical image that permeated Falconhead, the naked man groveling at the feet of the destiny-making birdman, is transmutated in Falconhead II to that of the Falconhead himself in an idyllic setting (perhaps paradise?) tearing at the fevered lust that courses through his veins. Zen turns the tables, to be sure, but rest assured that there will have to be a Falconhead III if this elaborate mythology is going to be brought to any conclusion.

Mixed with dark passages of evocative mood are moments of nearly-pure beauty. Zen has worked in the non-gay porn industry for many years and has mastered an encyclopedia of styles and effects, almost all of which echo throughout this provocative and uncompromising work. The narrative demands the viewer's attention; the cast is—even if caught in an indecipherable environment—extremely competent. This was Paul Bares-si's last gay film before his retirement from porn. Falconhead II may also have the distinction of being the darkest view of sexuality ever attempted. VCA / HIS Video.

Raunch

Christopher Rage (director), Live Video Inc. (producer).

The notice that precedes the beginning of Christopher Rage's Raunch states that part of the reason the members of the cast of this original video agreed to participate was that there would be no cast credits. If that's true, then nothing is served by listing here the recognizable players in this experimental full-length work. Some have appeared in other porn films. Some never have. Even the particular acts in which these men engage, while shocking to a post-AIDS audience, and which include water sports, rimming, and fisting, end up as only the contents of what is a masterpiece of form and style.

While Rage has worked hard to establish his reputation as the "master of sleeze," and while he indeed goes much further in Raunch than even he had gone before, what ultimately happened was that in assembling this catalogue of both original

material and previously-rejected objectionable tableaus he crafted a video with a completely original and unique look and sound. In fact, sound has never been so creatively used in porn before, from audial perceptions that sometimes complement, sometimes run in counterpoint, and sometimes expand the visual reference. Rage has managed to wrench out of each of the episodes used their finest visual appeal; his format easy to digest but the ramifications being that "easiness" comes from a total understanding of how images merge, and how they can be made to create specific reactions from the viewer. This is not, however, conceptual videography, where any random material can be parlayed into stylized format, a la MTV. Raunch has its own specific meld of content, perspective and sound that, each time it is viewed, brings the viewer closer and closer to appreciating the extraordinary talent which fuses the whole. Moth-to -flame subject matter combined with a daring visual technique: Christopher Rage isn't resting on his laurels but is forging new ground. Live Video Inc..

Head Trips

Al Parker (director, screenplay), Scott Taylor and Al Parker (producers), stars Ed Wiley, Ryder, Tico Patterson, Al Parker.

Over the past year Al Parker has been paying his dues as a director, making a transition from the subject of erotica to the guiding hand behind it, and it's a transition that doesn't always work. With Head Trips Parker comes into his own: a well-crafted project, visually both artful and exciting, with tight sontrol and one payoff after another.

The setup is sublimely simple: a sexual fantasy machine, much like the 25¢ movie booth, that uses high-tech sensory-altering technology (sorta like Brainstorm with a hard-on) to let the user combine his own biological properties with a sexual fantasy scenerio. You sit in the chair, put on the helmet, drop a quarter, and punch-up a particular situation: father and son, firemen, restaurants, portre tars. Of the available options listed on the machine, those are the ones we see. Four different men use this machine, and each of them experiences his "ultimate" fantasy in which he becomes one of the participants. The restaurant episode combines cliches with some breathtaking sexual combinations; a couple sit down at a table amid a room full of diners and get turned on to each other to the point of getting it on right there on the spot, finally enticing the waiter to join them for a three-way on the linen tablecloth, while the rest of the diners go on with their meal. The second user of the sex machine punches the button for sex with a porn star and (perhaps not surprisingly) sees himself engaged in coitus uninter-ruptus with Al Parker. Even is you've seen Parker a hundred times, this scene is sizzling. User number three has a thing for firemen. Ed Wiley makes the sexiest, crudest-talking fireman you've ever had wet dreams over. The final user lusts after his father, and this closing scene is alternately clever and highly-charged as "dad" gives "son" a birthday present he'll never forget.

Simple setup (the machine that makes fantasies come true), superb execution, extremely-watchable cast, top-notch production values. Parker has established himself with a combination of elements that work, and that deliver on their promise to turn on the viewer.

Le Beau Mec (Dude)

Wallace Potts (director), Karl Forest (screenplay), stars Karl Forest, Cedric Dumont, Franc Chozal, Philippe Renaud.

When Le Beu Mec was first seen in American porn theatres in 1980, it was only the second or third full-length French porn film to reach these shores. Reaction was pretty evenly divided between those who disliked it (usually because it did not adhere to American porn principles) and those who saw it as light-years ahead of the standard gay porn bump-and-grind.

But Le Beau Mec was more than a foreign curiosity. It was breaking away from the cloying atmosphere of French films (and especially French gay porn films like Men Between Them- selves), including the celebrated school of the New Wave, and going after a narrative expression that was, at the same time, just coming into its own in West German works like those of Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Le Beau Mec bears a true kinship with films like Fox and His Friends and The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant. Le Beau Mec has auteurism with Karl Forest's co-producing, writing, starring in (and one feels influencing Wallace Pott's direction) an autobiographical pseudo-documentary about his own coming out and sexual development. Fashioned in a reliable-narrator style, with Forest's voice leading the viewer from early sexual awakening under the watchful eyes of the army, through disciplinary problems in school, run-ins with the police (and the concurring sexual fantasies Forest imparts), hustling, dancing in a gay club, developing his body and his sexual repertoire, and—once in a while—simply enjoying his sexuality on its own merits.

The overall story is a portrait of a young man in the modern gay world, if displaced from our immediate points of reference by the fact of its European setting. Although somewhat similar devices (the world through the eyes of a porn star) have been made in America (Casey, Nights in Black Leather, Johnny Harden & Friends among others), they have either been series of loops tied together by the presence of the personality, or vehicles for the "character person" to reiterate their sexual myth rather than expound on their emotional make-up. Le Beau Mec, like a real person, has moments of bliss as well as moments of unpleasantness; not everything Karl Forest says and does is admirable, but there are times when his countenance is both dazzling and desirable. As an in-depth characterization , with a nostalgic framework (the era of absolute sexual permissiveness), Le Beau Mec is hauntingly beautiful and almost painfully poignant. Le Salon,

Inside Eric Ryan

B. French (director and producer), stars Eric Ryan.

This is an unusual and unique piece of work, probably unlike anything you have ever seen, and most assuredly unlike anything on the commercial market. Inside Eric Ryan is the current leading edge of the new pornography: non-commercial, iconoclastic , artless, pretentionless, almost a documentary, actually cimena verite.

For an hour-and-a-half the viewer sees only two people, Eric Ryan and the director, engage in what is best described as an encounter. Eric Ryan hires himself out for a fee for private modeling sessions. The director has hired him. What we are witness to is unedited voyeurism. Ryan takes off his clothes, the director putts around arranging lights, props, whatever. They talk-about anything and everything. Sometimes they talk about sex (the director recalls a favorite scene from a non-gay porn film, Ryan talks about his favorite fucks); sometimes they talk about Eric (there is a memorable section where Ryan talks about his body and uses a long, skinny dildo to point out the various muscles in his back like a teacher instructing a class); they play around. Sometimes Eric seems to be paying little attention; he looks at himself in the mirror, fondles himself, poses, pouts. Other times he is so loquacious that you hear monologues perfectly constructed, thoughts that flow and ebb like the finest screenwriting.

As time passes, the relationship between client and model evolves. There is more playing around, Eric loosens up, so to speak. Ultimately what emerges is an unforgettable document that says everything about modern sexuality, from the idolization of porn stars to the very nature of prostitution. But be prepared for an "evening" that is less an entertainment than an undoctored look at reality. Unlike Le Beau Mec, the star does not have the luxury of reinventing himself. And unlike the Old Reliable VT Series, which Inside Eric Ryan most closely resembles , the subject is given completely free reign to express all aspects of himself. As a gay social document, this is one of the most important examinations of the nature of a controlled sexual relationship (in this case: model and client) you are likely to encounter. It is brazen in its attempt to redefine what is pornography; it takes a number of conventional pornographic narrative devices and strips away all of the decor to get at the heart of the subject; it does so relentlessly, and completely without regard for the current state of erotica. French Company.

Foreskin Fantasy

No director listed, Adam & Company (producer), cast unlisted.

Foreskin Fantasy proves that it is possible to take a single subject and extrapolate on it in such a way that the end result transcends the origins. This is erotic art at its finest. In one hour, using three separate pieces, Foreskin Fantasy establishes a set of works that, while they are of a piece, stand completely on their own. Partly this is due to the high degree of technical skill involved; this is the single most beautifully-realized visual exercise in many years. Partly its uniqueness is due to the way the three segments are played against each other, maintaining the focus of the subject matter without resorting to endless close-ups of someone's skin-covered glans, evoking a mood for each piece that, although each is different from the last, makes an effortless transition.

One: the reflection of a man sitting in a black chair seen through a mirror mounted on plum-colored walls. At the edge of these central colors are the white of his shorts, the transparent crystal fixtures that surround the mirror, the chrome of the chair. Established as an almost deco composition, the camera follows those dictates of shape and perspective as the man exposes his (naturally) uncut organ and masturbates watching himself. Two: A Japanese black lacquer table half in shadow, on which are a tied bundle and loose roses. A man in a black oriental robe moves in from the shadow and unties the package , revealing stark black-and-white photographs of various naked men. As he opens the robe we discover that he has a tattoo on his inner thigh, a bright red contrast to his golden skin, and a reiteration of the rose petals on the table. As he masturbates, he fantasizes another man in a stylized setting who urinates in a bright golden arch. Three: a dressed man sitting on a bare wood stool in front of a grey backdrop. As he undoes his worn jeans, another man enters, fondling him, until they are both half-undressed and engaging in stop-and-start random sex.

In all three cases, the videographers have used the concrete elements to complement and accent both the individuals and the particular way in which their solo turns are expressed. All things are made to work in unison without becoming static. This is the pure realization of highly-detailed conceptual erotica, and a great lesson in combining form and content. Adam & Company / 1985 re-release Trophy Video.

—John W. Rowberry

DESTINONORD

SM LIT: NOTABLES OF 1984

It was a very good year for readers and writers of SM, thanks largely to the growing diversity and good health of gay publishing houses from San Francisco to Boston and at least one main-stream house willing to take a big (if lucrative) risk. The mainstream publisher: E.P. Dutton, which in 1984 brought out the second of A.N. Roquelaure's exquisite SM fables, Beauty's Punishment. Among the gay houses, Alyson opened up new fields with I Once Had a Master, Alternate debuted The Brig, Perineum wrapped up its landmark seven-volume Phil Andros series, The Zeus Collection gave us a new Cavelo bondage-and-fantasy picture book, and Gay Sunshine entered the fray knee-deep with the nonfiction Urban Aboriginals and two titles by Jack Fritscher.

Looking ahead to 1985, the keynote may be High Fantasy, with Slaves of the Empire (gladiator stuff) and The Zeus Collection's Sado Island (science fantasy) soon off the press, plus the final volume in Roquelaure's Beauty Trilogy scheduled for June.

Below, a wrap-up on the most notable, if not always the best, SM books of the year gone by …

The Amazing Adventures of Phil Andros. A pretty amazing feat: Over the last two years, Perineum Press has brought back into print virtually all of the original erotic fiction of the inexhaustible Phil Andros (nom de porn of that erudite raconteur Samuel Steward; see Drummer 69). The two final titles are Boys in Blue and Different Strokes: Stories by Phil Andros & Co.; the first follows Phil's stiffening adventures as a San Francisco cop, the second wraps up the series with a potpourri of marginal material, new and old. All seven Phil Andros titles are easy to spot on a bookshelf, in handsome matching editions with Tom of Finland cover art. Congratulations to all concerned on bringing back some of the best erotic fiction ever written, with the style it deserves. (Perineum Press, c / o Subco, Box 10233, Eugene, OR 97440; paperbacks, each $7.95/$8.95 postpaid. A good-looking brochure—lots of Tom art—gives details on all seven books.)

Beauty's Punishment, by A.N. Roquelaure. Sequel to The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, prequel to the forthcoming Beauty's Release. Roquelaure's breathless ongoing erotic fable charts the fortures of Beauty and Tristan, hapless slaves in a quasi-medieval fantasy landscape of sadomasochistic absolutes . Its meditations on power and powerlessness echo de Sade; its scenes of punishment and debasement could burn a hole in your bedside table. The literary question of the year-who is A.N. Roquelaure?-remains unanswered. Reviewed in Drummer 75. (E.P. Dutton, New York; paperback, $7.95)

The Brig, by Mason Powell. Rough stuff: A straight young petty officer incurs the wrath of his Marine overlords, and the ordeal that follows—his spiritual and physical torment in the bowels of The Brig-raises erections even as it raises some pretty disturbing questions about the nature of politics, power and SM. Powerful, thought-provoking, and pornographic on several levels. Reviewed in Drummer 77. (Alternate Publishing, 964 Folsom St., San Francisco, CA 94107; paperback, $8.95/$9.45 postpaid.)

Corporal in Charge of Taking Care of Captain O'Malley and Leather Blues, by Jack Fritscher. Two long-awaited books from a former Drummer editor and the publisher of the short-lived but very nasty Man2Man. Corporal is a collection of articles and fiction laced with Fritscher's unique pornographic vision, a sometimes irritating, sometimes spectacularly successful melding of literary pretension and gutter raunch; Leather Blues is a brief, disappointing novelette about rites of passage and swallowing other people's spit. Both will be reviewed next issue (Gay Sunshine Press, Box 40397, San Francisco, CA 94140; paperbacks. Corporal: $10, Leather Blues: $5.95. Mail orders add $1.)

DeSade and the Musketeers, illustrated by Cavelo. A picture book for grown-ups who like costume dramas and crave mus-clemen in bondage. Like his previous Hercules and the King of the Manazons, Musketeers appeals to prurient fans of the Late Show—those of us who like to mentally undress vintage pirate movies and historical epics, who catch the latest Conan film on opening day and watch Steve Reeves movies with a jar of lube close by.

Consider it a bedtime story book; the plot's rather weak, but if you wanted plot you could read Babar instead. Reviewed in Drummer 74. (The Zeus Collection, Box 64250, Los Angeles, CA 90064; magazine-format, $8.50/$9.50 postpaid.)

I Once Had a Master, by John Preston. A collection of loosely interconnected stories tracing a leatherman's changing desires and sensibilities over a number of years. This is not the John Preston of Mr. Benson, but a more mature and self-conscious writer, striving to capture the subtlety and depth of real, not pornographic, passion. Master is laden with nostalgia, the most potent of aphrodesiacs; this is a book about memory and moving on, about desires defined in the flesh but never quite fixed in memory. A true portrait of many of our lives. Reviewed in Drummer 75. (Alyson Publications, PO Box 2783, Boston, MA 02208; paperback, $7.95/$8.95 postpaid.)

Urban Aboriginals: Celebrations of Leathersexuality, by Geoff Mains. I keep imagining this book as an ideal reading assignment for a cruel but wise Master to give to his slave; it will be a harsh punishment, but it might make a better man of him. If nothing else, Mains' turgidly written nonfiction opus has stirred considerable controversy, much of it on an East Coast / West Coast axis; the Old Guard and the New Age do not mix, even in leather. I only wish Aboriginals were better and more clearly written; some of Mains' ideas are genuinely important, but finding them among all the academic flotsam and jetsam is like reading War and Peace for the hot parts. Reviewed in Drummer 78. (Gay Sunshine Press, Box 40397, San Francisco, CA 94140; paperback, $8.95/$9.95 postpaid.)

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GAY FILM '84

It's torture. You're tied to the chair, stripped of will, ready to receive anything and give all. Anticipation makes you sweat and burn. Off with the lights. The machinery hums. For an average of 90 minutes at a time, you're forced to exquisite pain as the pupils are stretched from pinpoint to the size of Divine's behind, your ears assaulted. While cramped fingers scrabble blindly like a drunk with a Ouija board, the mind is boggled, burgled, bent and beaten. Not another film. Yes. One more night at the moo'in pitchers. Shut up and take it. You know you love it. All 230 of them.

To get 10 "bests" out of a year's worth (three dozen) of gay and observably gay-interest films is nothing short of a queer miracle. To have one of them (The Times of Harvey Milk) run up the critical flagpole and thumb its nose at the rest of the main-stream documentary contenders is heavy-duty queer. All films considered, this may be the peaking of a subgenere that created its space in the industry first and then proceeded to fill it. Gay filmmakers and gay-interest films (not necessarily wedded) have outgrown the art-house circuit—only to be stymied by the increasing unprofitability of the medium itself. Here's where the big boys take over-having at long last acknowledged, if only between themselves and the black marks replacing the red in the ledgers, the presence of a solid, discerning and reactive gay audience.

An Englishman Abroad is the littlest and in many ways the smartest of the lot, made by veteran director John Schlesinger with Alan Bennett's scrip for the BBC, from Australian actress Coral Borwne's true-life Moscow encounter with gay defector Guy Burgess (played by Alan Bates with an equal measure of charm and compassion). Flavored with a wry camp humor, the outwardly decaying Burgess is captured in a time warp of his own making, quintessentailly, consciously English and unrepentantly , cynically homosexual—a warm story of the spy who went from one cold to another.

Angel is a classic tale of classic values, the first from its country and the "at last!" of a culture tha codified the male ideal for the Western World. Not unexpectedly, it is overall a Greek tragedy, equipped with the satisfying catharsis to be gotten from a drama in which pity and terror are played out upon a background of man-to-man romance. George Katakouzinos pulls no punches dealing with Greece's trememdous repression on many levels; his "Angel" (Michalis Maniatis) is the innocent everyone is when they fall in love for the first time, faced with a powerful, brutal beauty like Michael (Dionyssis Xanthos) who is in love only with himself, and forced into a subculture of prostitution ("they dig boys but they hide behind our skirts") that asserts itself to no avail. The best story, scene, sound and fury.

Another Country is the thematic underpinning of An Englishman Abroad—an indictment of the British public school ethos and its hoary traditions of systematized bullying, sub rosa fag-gotry , intellectual rigidity, hypocrisy and elitism. The atmosphere is rich in everything but humanity, beautifully filmed and played for maximum mood. "Guy Bennett" (Rupert Everett) is the young Burgess coalesced into prototype, a rebel with a personal gay cause and some effect among the affectations. Produced by Alan Marshall (Midnight Express, Fame, Pink Floyd the Wall) it remains intimate even as it enters the realm of major motion pictures.

The Fourth Man is Paul (Spetters) Verhoeven's glossiest, most erotic production yet, part horror, part mystic romance. An unusual story of a novelist (Jeroen Krabbe) stumbling into a stranger-than-fiction situation, a day-mare, with fashionable, bewitching, thrice-widowed Renee Soutendijk and the rudely delectible (and seducible) Thomm Hoffman. Contrived for maximum psychic surprise and a memorable shock or two, it is threaded through with earthy, relieving humor and tied up in very slippable knots which are great fun to try unraveling after the picture's done.

Forty Deuce: Not so much slapped as smartly slammed together, a thousand words form Alan Bowne's tear-'em-up play are worth the Paul Morrissey picture—a sonic boom of a fart. The 42nd Street scene gets a going over by a pack of articulate lowlife hustlers centered on Kevin Bacon and played around a very young, very dead body and a complicated drug deal. The language is inventive (in some cases, invented), split-screen effects double the already swift pace and emotions run high—in other words, whether seen at noon or midnight (and it's a natural midnighter), it's for the wide-awake.

Improper Conduct ("Mauvaise Conduit") is famed cinematographer Nestor Almendros' and Orlando Jimenex Leal's gift to their Cuban homeland for making it impossible for them to live safely and work creatively there. Their choices of talking heads to represent the systemized repression and hatred of artistic and personal freedom are primarily and unapologetically (if not always proudly) homosexual, the ones singled out for the bottom of society and the top of the extermination list. There you have it: A self-made target with two bulls-eyes. If you can get past knee-jerk political argument ("expert" critics burrow like metal termites through both sides of the Iron Curtain)—and if any theatre-owner has the balls to show it again-the talking heads have good things to say for themselves on survival, courage , endurance and the plain persistence of being gay.

Privates On Parade: John Cleese (the lugubrious Python) plays straight man to Dennis Quilley's curved (Army) camp director in Peter (Joe Egg) Nichols' musical / military romp. Under the sugared vaudevillian capers there is a sour taste of post-WWII reality-wars, particularly those with long-standing guerilla outposts and established black marketeering, do not stop at the drop of a flag, and wartime lovers are still at risk. In the print cut for U.S. audiences, it jumps about more than it should and shows more plot gaps than even a musical should—but out with some bad-taste bathwater went a lot of background baby (a couple of heavy drag numbers and a touching scene of gay 92 DRUMMER motivation). What's left is low on empathy—true-story based— but still high on talent.

Rainbow Serpent ("Halteroflic") has the cachet of eschewing a "gay" ambience altogether for a subtler homoerotic New Wave style. In Philippe (We Were One Man) Valois' slick and punk-colored tale, a cop is hot to take off his plain clothes, bend over, shoot first and think later—all for a well-oiled bodybuilder who may well be a bloodthirsty murderer. Between the tattoos and the taboos, Rainbow flexes some new muscles and entertains mightily in between strong-arm tactics.

Sparkle's Tavern: Curt McDowell conceived, wrote, cast and filmed the footage way back in 1976 and it all came together on the editing table eight years later. In the only sex humor entry of the decade so far and probably the world's only pornographic melodrama, a brother and sister run the sleaziest of backroom bars and participate in pleasing the customers to the hilt, hiding the truth only from Mom (the redoubtable Marion Eaton). When fickle friends try a takeover, threatening to burst Mom's all-American-family dreams, their guardian angel in the unlikely form of a traveling salesman / magician (the inimitable George Kuchar) comes to the rescue and ecstacy writhes on the clean kitchen floor of the Great Midwest. Fantasy, nostalgia and the cleanest dirty fun around.

The Times of Harvey Milk: The times, they went on a-changin', blowin' in the wind—but the roots they went too deep to deny, touching Rob Epstein and Co. with enterprising genius. The enterprise part is in making a biographical documentary at all, much less of a martyred gay figure; the genius part is putting it across with flawless techniques (many developed specifically for the film) and effectively off-beat choices for interviews and use and mix of archive material. It's the most accessible gay film to the general public ever made and a provocative testament for faggots everywhere. Tears without sob story, thrills without brass, and sassy get-it-across gay pride—the meteoric rise and untimely fall of a period and spirit that did not quite outlive its subject. As the surprise hit of several major international film festivals, it is a mini-revolution in itself and an unadulterated pleasure for everyone, whatever their voting or sexual preference.

Gay-themed films also got out and about a bit further in 1984. They are coming closer and sooner, as the advertising tag goes, to a theater near you. Fourth Man, Another Country and Privates were first-run early in the year and have comfortably rolled over into one-night stands at the more reputable rep houses. Angel is traveling about with a Landmark Theatre (outlets in all major cities) gay-fest package and will open officially in early 1985 under Surf Threare aegis in San Francisco. Rainbow Serpent also debuts formally at San Francisco's Roxie in January—both should take off from there in the more ecletic art houses. New York City saw the first of Forty Deuce late in the year; it's expected, like Tavern (a one-print thorough undergrounder ) to run a more obscure cult circuit for which college towns are a good bet. If you missed Englishman the first time around on PBS, that's where you'll find it again (it played many festivals but cannot be shown commercially). The Times will also be pinched onto your smaller-than-life screen in 1985, but you deserve better…at least the first two times around.

The strengthening homophile film trend goes back to last year's list: Artie Bressan's Abuse, Patrice Chereau's L'Homme Blesse ("The Wounded Man"), Amos Gutmann's Drifting ("Nagua") and The Terence Davies Trilogy had formal theatrical opening in 1984—critical kudoes for Abuse and awards fo Trilogy. And the original gay doc, Mariposa Film Collective's Word Is Out (which you may recall from our gay-film childhood in the '70s), turned up on video tape, none the worse for wear and time.

Flay me with sprokets. Make mine enema of popcorn, well-buttered . Blind me with projector light. And I will thank you and beg for more in 1985.