MASOCHISM: TRUE CONFESSIONS

Interviews by Tim Barrus Photographs by Bill Bowers

The controversy started this summer in-of all places-Key West, Florida. The occasion was the 1985 Key West International Gay Book and Film Festival. Along with the film screenings and book promotions , organizers arranged for a photo exhibit at Key West's Outright Books: 15 photographs from a "show-and-tell" work in progress called Sadomasochism: True Confessions, a compilation of interviews by writer Tim Barrus and images by photographer Bill Bowers.

In some ways, the unexpectedly controversial collection of SM-oriented photos, a minor sidebar to a week full of special events, stole the show. Or at least stole the media attention. Was it the work itself that grabbed attention—or the taboo subject matter? Whatever the reason, the show drew heavy fire. Barrus and Bowers jumped right in, and ended up being interviewed by the Miami Herald and local South Florida television. What began as a discussion of art became a discussion of pornography,

Jack Sturdy, film reviewer for Miami's gay paper The Weekly News, took a look at the show: "Of the works displayed a handful are calendar perfect; desperately grasped Levi'd crotches, Scorpio tattoos juxtaposed against defiantly weathered belt buckles, and a studded harness with black leather chaps and conflicting cruising signals…" When the shit hit the fan, Sturdy applauded the stubborn exhibitors: "The courage of not only Bowers and Barrus, but also Outright Books owners Jim Jochen and Ron Hellickson, to not buckle beneath community pressure to 'take down' a handful of the show's more graphic prints reinforces the rights for which so many have fought and died." "What we have here," Barrus said in one of the TV interviews, "is a book about real people that artistically looks at the forbidden. Their true confessions are making not only sexual statements about the way in which they live their lives, but the confessions can often also be a political statement as well. We are looking at power and sexuality. And when you step out of the closet as far as these people have with their participation in this project, it gets everyone's conservative sensibilities shook up.'

Hype—or the hypnotic power of truths laid bare? The tempest in Key West has blown over. Meanwhile, Barrus and Bowers continue working on Sadomasochism: True Confessions. Barrus gives a list of dozens of interviews awaiting transcription and editing: "Interview with a Mummy. Interview with a Self-Abuser. Interview in a Whorehouse. Interview with a Fistfucker and Fuckee (takes place during the actual fisting). Interview with the Leather Nurse. Interview with a Tattoo Fetishist. Interview during a Multiple Piercing, Interview with a Man Having an Enema. Interview with a NY Cop…" And so on.

On these pages: a selection of Bill Bowers' raw real-life portraits (many of which did not appear in the Key West exhibit), and three of Barrus’ completed interviews—with a Biker Daddy from Texas, a psychologist, and an ex-hustler punk (the crucified subject in the photographs).

DRUMMER 5

The Biker

Name: Boss

Age: 42 (experienced)

Place of Birth: Galveston, Texas (offshore oilrigger)

Likes: Being the president of a Texas bike club.

Barrus: Describe yourself, Boss.

Boss: I'm a man's man. I'm gay, but in a lot of ways I'm still a little conservative, okay. I like being in control of a group of men who either do what I say or they take a hike.

Are you a Daddy? You look like a Daddy.

You could put me in that category because I am Daddy-but I'm Daddy to about six guys in the bike club.

It sounds more like a harem than a club.

It may sound like that but that's the way my men like it-it's a simple fact of life. Take it or leave it.

What does sadomasochism mean to you?

It's a brotherhood. A bond between men who know that they're men. It's SM-it means that if I piss in my slave's mouth he likes it because he's my slave. It's also a form of security in the leather scene when a man knows that there is a group of other men who feel the same way he does. The word I'm looking for is community. To me SM also means pride. For example, when we go on the bike run it turns into a celebration of our brotherhood. I'll invite you right now to come with us anytime you like.

And it gives you a feeling of power to be in charge of this.

Yes, but it doesn't just give me a feeling of power. It gives me a sense of dignity and pride that go along with being part of the leather community. I'm proud of the men in the club. And they're proud

to Texas. Sadomasochism came as natural as my big Texas hard-on. If a boy needs a spanking, this Daddy will give that boy a lashing on his tight buns that he won't soon forget, along with a good old-fashioned fucking in his hole. All my boys from time to time need a reminder of just who's in charge around here.

Do you use drugs during sex or any other time?

If I catch any of my men with any of that shit I throw them out. Period. No second chances. No drugs allowed. We don't need any crutches to be men around here.

Describe your most bizarre SM experience.

I was coming back from Palm Springs on my Harley. I passed through Laredo and a Texas Ranger pulled me over. He searched my bike, then he searched me. He felt my cock going boner. That was the night I fucked a Texas Ranger in the ass in a holding cell in fucking Laredo. The steak and eggs for breakfast was pretty good. I got grits, too. Texas Rangers have some nice lush shithole to fuck.

Do you have a philosophy of life, Boss? Live hard. Love hard. Cum hard. Be hard. of me. If you could see us all when we're traveling-see us on our bikes-then you'd understand.

How did you become involved in leather and SM?

When I finally got out of Vietnam I bought a bike in Texas and my brother and I rode to Los Angeles, where I discovered a whole other side to existence. I finally started living. (Laughs.) This is where I got my nickname "Lead"-they used to call my brother "Leather." Lead and Leather. We met a man who makes porn films on his ranch in Palm Desert-below Palm Springs. And he kind of took us in. He became my role model in a way. There's a lot of pride in everything he does. I learned from that experience. We became lovers for a time. But basically I'm a top and he's a top. So it had to eventually bite the dust. I hit the road. But I'll never forget.

Talk to me about what form sex takes for you.

(Long pause.) I used to fuck women. I was a sergeant in Vietnam during some pretty heavy-duty action. Vietnamese women were some of the best pussy. But I was really hiding what I wanted. Men. But it would have been impossible because I needed my men to look up to me. I hadn't yet reached the point where I felt that you could love someone and look up to them at the same time. It had to be one or ther other. And I thought that if someone fell in love with me-you should have seen the way some of those boys looked up to me-it could have gotten very messy as a lot of lives were on the line; my responsibility. I knew that my men were fucking and sucking. Men will be men. I don't care what anyone in the army tells you. Men will fuck and suck other men if given half a chance.

So I didn't start with men until later in life. I had some lost time to make up for and let me tell you I fucked every hole I could stuff it into from Palm Desert back

The Shrink

Name: Richard (Ph.D., Psychologist)

Barrus: These interviews are about people who are from all walks of life. Doctors , lawyers, blue collar workers. You're a psychologist. And perhaps you have some special insights into human behavior . What do you think of sadomasochism ? Is it good? Is it bad?

Richard: I can't arbitrarily slap a value

8 DRUMMER judgment on something like sadomasochism . For one thing, it's a very complex subject. Ironically, I find many sadomas-ochistic practices to be very-asexual. Certainly, it's not automatically something negative. Nor is it automatically going to give someone AIDS or any other disease for that matter. Nor is SM a disease itself. Far from it. And whipping someone isn't going to transmit anything . I'm sure that there are people into SM who are better off because they are into SM.

SM has been called a sickness many times. How do you respond to that?

That's like discussing, is homosexuality a sickness? I can see some parallels. The categories for psychopathology include those people who are something they do not want to be. A person can be very well integrated into his life, doing well, and just happen to have certain particular kinks. That isn't necessarily psychopathological . I don't think there is anything particularly wrong with that. I will say, though, from a clinically psychological standpoint, as a clinician, that there are certain people who are capable of a polymorphous schizophrenic kind of sexuality. And it isn't unusual to find people into SM who are, indeed, schizophrenic , and in a sense the way they handle their sexuality can be very much a symptom of their disease. But this is hardly the majority of people into SM, and the clinical studies in this area simply haven't been done. So what I'm giving you is my gut feeling.

Is SM an urban phenomenon?

I think so. People into the scene want to be around other people who are like them. And then you have to understand that there are people who do it occasionally . It's not all the time for them. I will say that I have never really had anyone ever come to me and say that SM was getting out of control for them, that it was in any way an emotional problem.

Is SM simply a stage that many people go through?

I would tend to say yes. A lot of people simply want to try something new. I've heard people say that after they go through certain experiences they could never go back to regular sex. For those people I assume that regular sex would be very boring after the intensity of sadomasochism.

What is it about the cycle of pain-and-pleasure that intrigues us? Why do people like pain?

Part of me has to look at this as a psychologist . Another part of me has to see it as a human being who isn't always analyzing . There's a whole body of psychology out there that would say that human beings are conditioned to like whatever it is they like. Behavioral conditioning. You can take a rat for instance and teach it to shock itself with electricity-and after a while the rat likes to shock itself. And if you let it, if you positively reinforce it properly, the rat will shock itself until it dies.

After a period of time the animal will associate aversive stimulus to something very pleasurable. This, of course, happens over a period of time for human beings. Years. And it's also possible that when the aversive stimulus—the pain—is turned off, it, too, feels wonderful.

A personal experience that I once had me in a position where I couldn't breathe. He was kind of choking me. Previously he'd shown me the bruises he had on his ass from a whipping. It was obvious he was into heavy stuffy, but I didn't know why he thought that I was. At any rate, what he would do that I found so intriguing-I was totally unprepared when he kicked me in the balls, let me tell you-was that he'd sort of fall on me, kiss me, hug me; he was fucking me, it'd feel very warm, very loving. Secure.

And then he'd sort of alternate back and forth. It was like a caressive sort of violence. And then when I felt secure, he'd switch, he'd go back to hurting me. Suddenly, without warning he would then start loving me. Fucking me. And I was entranced with the going back and forth. I was at his mercy.

He'd switch from being extremely loving to being extremely violent. I thought to myself: Maybe this is what this is all about, SM. It isn't just a matter of going from pain to pain to pain. There's an alternating to it. It's loving tenderness along with something that is very cold and aggressive. It seemed very calculated when I thought about it later on.

Does anything strike you as being too weird?

I'm used to anything and everything. Nothing is too weird. It would be really interesting to take a group of people, all of whom, let's say, wore dog collars around their necks, and walked around naked on all fours, slaves, let's say, and administer the same battery of psychological tests. I've never had the opportunity to do that. Nor has anyone. There needs to be a scientific approach to how we view sadomasochism…Maybe it doesn't affect the other parts of their life-maybe it just affects that which is sexual.

Why does sadomasochism elicit such an extreme response from people? Either you love it or you hate it. Why is that?

Two of the touchiest subjects we as human beings can encounter are sex and violence. SM pulls those two together. Driving instincts. Lifeforce. Deathforce. These are core issues. What else is there?

So you're saying that sadomasochism is very basic to life itself.

Like any other powerful tool, it depends on what you do with the power. DRUMMER 9

The Punk

Name: Jeff Age: 23

Place of Birth: Baltimore, Maryland Likes: Anything money can buy

Barrus: Describe yourself. Who are you?

Jeff: I guess I'm the kind of person who would like to think that there's some validity to the traditional idea of love, even though I'm very distorted about it at this point. I'm also the kind of person who has to be able to come and go as they please. Where I want, when I want. It's important to be free.

Would you say that you have a somewhat cynical outlook on life?

Why would you say that I'm cynical? There's an emphasis with you that has to do with having money. You talk about love as being something that's distorted. When you talk about what you like there doesn't seem to be too much room for love.

I think that there's quite a bit of love in me. Material things make me happy. That's my idea of love. I do believe in the 10 DRUMMER basic idea about falling in love with one person. Being happy. But I just don't think it is going to happen to me for quite a long time. I put my energy into things I want.

So you've given up on love?

No, but if it happens it happens. I don't worry about it.

When was the very first sadomasochis-tic experience you ever had?

I was…working as a male prostitute. And I was picked up by a gentleman. Very good-looking. Dark hair-mustache . Took me back to his apartment . We'd settled on a blow job, a little cuddling, fifty dollars, and some watching TV. Once I got out there he brought out the collar.

The collar?

(Long pause.) The collar. He said that if I would wear the collar he'd give me a hundred dollars. So I let him put the collar on me. After the collar was on he jerked me down to the floor. Made me suck his dick. He brought out a piece of rope and tied my hands behind my back. He had me get on the bed and he started smacking me around. He said he'd give me two hundred dollars if I'd let him beat me. He didn't really beat me hard. And I did get into it. In fact, I really got into it. I submitted to him.

It's important for you right now that the kind of sex you're having be hardcore?

Yes. Hardcore. How does one define hardcore? To some it's smacking someone up a little bit. It all depends on how much energy you put into something. A lot of people I know have to have some very heavy-duty scenes. Whips, chains, bondage. And they're very exact in their taste about what they want. I think I can relate to those scenes much more readily than I can with fumbling around in the dark. It's more ritualistic. You know what the outcome is going to be. You know that your orgasm is going to be at its most intense.

So there's an element to sadomasochism that for you is very orderly.

Of course it's orderly. One really has to be trained in SM. Not like you're following a book of rules or something. But a training in dominance and submissiveness . To be subservient is (pauses)—an art. You have to be strong enough in your own mind to know what you're doing, and to know what your limitations are.

What was the best SM experience you ever had?

The first time I was ever fucked. I finally totally gave myself to another person.

Physically or emotionally?

Both.

Is being either strictly a top or strictly a bottom being something of a stereotype ?

To a point, you have to have stereotypes . For me it all depends on the situation I'm in and the man I'm with.

How does it feel to be both—to be able to assume both roles?

When I'm a bottom, the emotions I feel are—first of all, in order for me to be a bottom, the man I'm with has to be bigger than me and older than me. I have

Not at this point, I don't think. No-I'm not. I think my limits are pretty defined. I'm into heavy ass play, water sports, and bondage. I'm not into fist fucking. I'm not into skin mutilation, other than maybe a mild piercing. If I'm playing bottom, I have to be so completely relaxed with who I'm with that I know they're in total control. I'm into them fucking me really hard. Putting their hands inside of me. Fucking me with a dildo. I have to know that they are aware of how far they can go-how hard they can go.

When someone puts his hand inside of you what goes through your mind?

That's fisting. What happens for you…

I totally relax. Sometimes growl. And I have to let the top know that what he's doing is really getting to me. Communication . It's something I would have to show you. It's not something I can describe in words. Your eyes kind of go back. You feel so secure. If my hands are bound, I like to pull on my hands to know that they're bound. I like to make the top think that he's torturing me. Very verbal. I like to talk trash.

It's a very intense kind of communication .

Of course it is. It's highly, highly energized . Even if it's fantasy. Even if you're just playing a role. Like in boot camp. Or the coach and the jock, you know.

You become the part.

(Laughs) Very much so. It relates to when I was a prostitute—at least it relates for me. Knowing what men want.

You have a really amazing story to tell because you were so young when you got into all of this.

I had my first lover when I was thirteen. He and I stayed together until I was sixteen . We knew we were gay. But we were also best buddies because we knew that we needed each other. We ran away to California and worked Sunset Strip together. And then I had another lover from age sixteen until I was twenty-one. But being a whore ruined that relationship.

How did you become a whore?

I was running with the right group of kids. I started in the bars with older men. I discovered, as many young men do, that you can make fifty bucks by letting some guy suck your dick. I did a lot of hitchhiking and I got picked up a lot. I was living with a group of people, and we had no real way of supporting our habits. Our night life. We looked wild as hell.

And we sold our bodies. Live fast, stay young, and die pretty.

How do you feel about all of that now? You pretty much survived that scene where a lot of people don't.

It's true. I've had numerous friends who've frozen to death in the back seat of cars they were living in-shooting heroin.

How do you look back on that today? I've always been a survivor. I know when to get out. I know when it's too dangerous. I reached this point where I had become something of a lounge lizard-literally a vampire of the night. People were dying all around me. Everyone I knew. It was change or die.

Are you in touch with how much strength you have as a person?

Yes. When you're a bottom like I am, basically, you have to be secure enough to be able to be humiliated—to be able to act out. To be able to sexually gratify yourself. And in all of this, SM is a very important sexual luxury.

DRUMMER 11

So you're saying that sadomasochism isn't really a lifestyle.

I'm saying that sadomasochism is a partner relationship. It's not something to be dealt with by the general public. It's very private. It is very much a lifestyle at the same time. A way of life. Very much like punk is a way of life, not just a way of dressing.

How is punk related to sadomasochism ?

It is all a bind between minorities. Every generation is supposed to get "better"-things are supposed to get "better." But that's not happening. So my generation has taken a very cold, negative view, and we wear leather and studs to simply protect ourselves. It's dog-eat-dog and the whole idea is to look like the most vicious dog. And by vicious I mean strong.

So you're saying that it takes a great deal of strength to be the kind of bottom that you basically are.

And yet I want someone in my life who will make it all stable and secure.

Is that a fantasy?

Not any more than finding someone with a big dick is a fantasy.

You've talked about the first and best SM experiences you ever had—what about the most bizarre experience?

I lived in a gay neighborhood and all the bars were about a mile apart. You could walk from bar to bar. I ran out of money, so I started to walk home past all the hookers-male and female. I was walking home. I wasn't working it, although I had worked that street many 12 DRUMMER times. All of a sudden this huge motorcycle went by with a man fully dressed in black from head to toe with a silver helmet on. He turned. And then he came by again. He stopped at the corner and I told him that I liked his bike. He asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. I said sure. It was difficult to hear once I was on the bike, because of all the noise. We kept riding around. Finally, after hours of this, we're way, and I mean way, out in the country.

I could not get this guy to stop and talk. I kept yelling at him, but he would not stop. Finally, I'm beating on his back. I can't even get his attention. And then we get off the dirt road we're on and we hit this mud trail. I jumped. I landed in the mud and slid, cutting my leg rather badly. He lost control of the bike and fell. I started getting really scared. As I'm laying there in the dirt, he lands on me and starts grabbing me by the throat and starts smacking me around. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he says. I could have killed us both, and I'm thinking that he is going to kill me. So I start screaming and begging for him not to kill me. He rips off my clothes and he fucks me right there in the mud. It was intense and I was terrified. And then we just kind of layed there…

In the mud?

Yes, in the mud. He took me home. He bandaged my leg, and we exchanged fifteen , maybe twenty words apiece. It was the most frightening and yet the most sexually exciting kind of experience, because I was in the hands of someone whom I did not know. I didn't trust him. Yet I will never forget that experience.

Sometimes I fantasize about it (laughs). Even though I was terrified. I was thinking that I really was going to die.

So there was a sense of pleasure and fear that became intermixed.

Exactly.

Where do you see yourself in the future with this kind of a now oriented existence? You and people like you don't experience SM peripherally.

It's an everyday thing because I'm looking for someone I can respect. You only live once. And you may as well experience as many things as humanly possible. I've packed enough experiences into the past twenty years to know that the next twenty are going to be even more exciting. I see myself doing it alone. I'm looking. Until I can find the

right sexual partner who's into the same things I am, you have to keep looking.

Do you experience yourself as being lonely?

Not at all. I am surrounded by people and life. All the people I'm involved with have a mutual bond. We run together.

How do you deal with the kind of thinking that finds sadomasochism to be a sickness?

I think that attitude is sad. It's ignorant. I like myself. I like my friends. I would have to say that my way of life is an intelligent way of life. Anyone who thinks that all SM is automatically sick isn't very informed. It's not for everyone because everyone shouldn't expand their minds. They don't have to participate. Everything I've ever done has been with my unconditional consent in that I take responsibility for my actions. I was the

Yes. At least it is for me. This is a positive statement, just by being in this interview . We don't fit into the mainstream of anything. But we're here. And we don't deserve to be persecuted, at least in the sense of being an outsider all the time. I don't have to conform to straight society's standards and it's usually the gay circles where I'm ostracized.

Are you tempted much to expand other people's sense of sexual awareness with sadomasochism?

Only if they seem intrigued or curious. Will you ever become primarily a top? Sometimes I do that, but I could never really ever find it a lasting thing.

Do you think that people have to suffer to really understand life?

Very much so. If you never experience suffering, how in the world can you even begin to think that you know life in the least?

What did it feel like to be chained upside down to the cross? It was very erotic to me. Everything from the black-

It was sacrilege. Shocking. And I place a lot of value on shock. Shock is usually truth. The whole physical thing about being chained upside down to a cross and used for sexual purposes was a complete giving…You have to give those people your complete trust. Behind all the excitement there was a sense of-you never know. What could they do to me? I'm totally helpless. It's very, very erotic. And there's a lot of voveurism to the whole scene. This is the place where a lot of people are afraid of SM. They are afraid of going beyond watching.

I remember that after a while you wanted down. But you never used the key words that were supposed to let us know that you had reached your limits.

That's because I never did reach my limits.

So you were in control and never really crossed that edge.

You have to have a great deal of control of your body in order to experience this kind of sex.

And for you sadomasochism revolves around issues of control.

Control is only the beginning of the adventure.

AVIEWOR OCHISM by don miesen

This article attempts an introduction to SM, or Sadomasochism . It is based on my own 15 years in SM, with about 200 personal encounters; on the stories of some close personal SM friends; and on the accounts of perhaps 400 people met through The Society of Janus (an SM educa- tion and support group). I have tried especially to answer the questions usually asked by newcomers to SM, as well as to offer my own ideas about what SM is, and its place in the order of human affairs.

Aspects and Examples

SM is the neighborhood kids playing cops and robbers, and the contented excitement of the victim-all tied up and the center of attention.

SM is when the belt hits-first it stings, then it's warm.

Sm is the woman doctor from out of state, whom you keep chained up all weekend, and your friends come to help you abuse her in every possible way.

SM is trying to piss in bondage, while your mistress holds your cock, and makes comments.

SM is the quiet typist by day who becomes a whip-wielding dominatrix by night.

SM is the sweat, and wondering if you're going to pass out, and finally letting go.

SM is Sunday brunch at an SM bar, and even though you're a straight couple, the leathermen know you're into it, too.

SM is a tiny pair of gold handcuffs on an expensive dress at the opera.

SM is putting your boyfriend into a French maid outfit, to serve lunch to you and your girlfriends, who are into women's lib.

SM is screaming "THAT'S ONE, SIR! THANK YOU, SIR!" at the top of your lungs.

SM is the gratitude, all your life, to the person who helped you come out.

SM is trying to explain the massive frame and eyebolts to your landlady. She listens with flat eyes and you know your lease is ending.

SM is finding the perfect pair of boots.

SM is your new slave, blindfolded, masturbating, and telling his secret fantasies, while you watch and listen to every marvelous detail.

SM is sleeping with your hands and feet bound, and the dreams.

SM is the man at the party who asks to try on your handcuffs, "to see how it feels."

SM is the proud African youth in National Geographic, with skewers through his tongue and cheeks, and knowing you both know the pride.

SM is forgetting to take off your steel cockring, and it sets off the alarm at the airport.

SM is how hot her ass feels when you caress the welts.

SM is putting up with a picky, uncertain submissive, novice-new , who doesn't know how to say what he wants to say; but finally says it, and takes your breath away with the magnificent totality of his submission.

SM is hearing people talk about how bad SM is, knowing nothing about it, and you want to giggle, because they're so serious.

SM is your slave holding up her hair, without being told, as you put on her collar.

SM is the perfume of sweaty leather.

SM is the anniversary when your lover has a gold ring put through your labia (and no anesthesia); then she holds you and says you're hers forever; and you'd do anything for her.

SM is Errol Flynn chained up by pirates.

SM is the uniform in your closet, waiting for Saturday night.

SM is being taken downstairs, and you see it's soundproof.

SM is hurting the one you love, just exactly right.

SM is wondering what the other executives would say if they knew about the welts and the sticky panties underneath your conservative suit.

SM is wishing you could afford one of everything at an SM shop.

SM is how warm and tingly your nipples feel when the clamps are perfect; then the little bite more, and how your nipples of the essence. With art, with deliberate fantasy and play, shelter becomes architecture; food becomes cuisine; clothing becomes fashion; speech becomes poetry—and, at least for some of us, the uncritical joys of vanilla sex may become the deliberate joys of SM.

Common Concerns—Uncommon Facts

SM is not trifling nor aberrant. Fantasy and play are universal, and SM is everywhere, in all cultures, all societies, all historical periods. I think SM must spring up spontaneously whenever people learn deliberate fantasy and play. Surveys show as high as 50-75% of Americans, both men and women, have SM fantasies or experiences (see the book SM: The Last Taboo, and the works of Nancy Friday, available in paperback). Probably the most SM occurs in the setting of conventional marriages-right at home.

SM is not sexist. Sexism tries to impose dominant-submissive roles according to our physical sex organs. SM lets us choose our roles according to our fantasies. Thus SM includes dominant women and submissive men. Many feminists

SM is spotting an ancient gay masochist on the bus: short haircut, polished boots, tattered levis and jacket, heavy chain and padlock around his neck, tattoos sprouting out of his collar and cuffs-quiet, upright, proud, centered and content. adjust to enjoy that, too.

SM is the humiliation of discovering that your new slave is far more experienced than you are.

SM is spotting an ancient gay masochist on the bus: short haircut, polished boots, tattered levis and jacket, heavy chain and padlock around his neck, tattoos sprouting out of his collar and cuffs-quiet, upright, proud, centered, and content.

Definition

SM is erotic play based on deliberate roles of domination and submission. SM is fun play and also serious play, because we consciously choose our roles of domination and submission according to our actual erotic fantasies. In SM, we act out, fulfill, and make real our erotic fantasies.

How does SM make our fantasies real? Domination and submission are reciprocal roles, in which each can be the reality for the fantasy of the other. When my outer role matches my inner fantasy, I manifest more energy; when my partner's role and energy affirm mine, our energy interacts and multiplies incredibly, and we create our own shared reality. SM is often called a power exchange. The energy is immense. You have to experience it to believe it, or to understand it.

SM is like vanilla sex (ordinary lovemaking) in that each excites and fulfills the other in a reciprocal interaction. But vanilla sex excites and fulfills our physical desires; it puts aside our intellectual faculties. SM excites and fulfills our fantasies; this stimulates our observation, analysis, and criticism.

SM is deliberate fantasy and play. As such, it belongs among the arts. Whenever we think what makes eroticism good, we naturally think in terms of anticipation, excitement, tension, relaxation, rhythm, style, surprise, sensations, textures, delicacy, power, imagery, relief, fulfillment, resolution, and so on. These are the analytic terms of the arts (and of the performing arts, at that). They are not the analytical terms of theology, medicine, science, ethics or nor politics-though all of these have clained sexuality for their domain. To be sure, all these other disciplines have important things to say about sex and eroticism; but they are in the nature of limits; they are not misunderstand and disapprove of SM. Yet nearly all sadomasochists support feminism as a movement towards honesty in relationships.

Some people think SM is wrong because they think people should be equals in sex. But that's simplistic politics and simplistic sex, too. We human beings are equal only in law; otherwise what's important is that we're all different, individual and unique. SM, like other good relationships, honors individuality by using the talents of each for the good of both.

SM is not mental illness. SM is deliberately chosen, controlled, shared, integrating and healthy because it reconnects our fantasies to real relationships with real people.

Don't be afraid of words like "sadism" and "masochism." Sadism comes from the name of Marquis de Sade (1740-1814). Masochism comes from the nale of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (1836-1895). Both men were positive, moral, and creative—and were highly recognized for it. DeSade was a first cousin to the king, and went to school with him. Yet he supported the Revolution, and was so respected that at one point his commune elected him a judge. His notorious imprisonments were essentially political; his scandalous ideas made him an embarrassment to both the monarchy and the Republic, and an easy target for blackmail and scapegoating. Despite his many years of imprisonment, he was never tried for anything. In 1883, a later France made von Sacher-Masoch a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, on the occasion of his literary jubilee.

About 1886-a century ago-Krafft-Ebing invented the words sadism and masochism. At that time, Western psychology was still embedded with Victorian prudery, and had another half-century to wait for Freud to divorce their sterile and unnatural union. DeSade was a bitter and scandalous social critic; he can easily be misread. But both he and von Sacher-Masoch were fearless in their erotic fantasies, and they can show us how our fiercest fantasies come from the same place as our most tender loves. They deserve honor, not blame, for opening this truth to us. Krafft-Ebing was wrong to take those names for sickness; moralists and too-ardent feminists are

16 DRUMMER

wrong to take those names for evil; and we sadomasochists are right to reclaim those names, and take them back again for something good.

SM is a loosely-defined subculture. Much SM is gentle, and many of the gentler practitioners prefer to call it "D&S" for "Dominance and Submission," or "B&D" for "Bondage and Discipline." They reserve S&M for pain and rough stuff. Another comment is "Shared & Mutual;" a gay sarcasm is "Standing and Modeling," and you will find other call letters. Check if you're not sure. But rough or gently and whatever you want to call it, it's all based on deliberate roles of domination and submission.

Isn't SM Dangerous?

Outsiders often see SM as bizarre and destructive. Some think sadists do whatever they want to masochists; and that masochists somehow enjoy suffering for its own sake. Beginners fear that SM can get out of hand and lead to mayhem. The media often like to sensationalize SM as immoral, drug-oriented and dangerous. The public loves all this. It sells papers. But it's not true.

The truth is that SM is highly communicating, supportive and safe. SM is fantasy-sharing, which can only be consensual. You can't share and develop fantasies even with someone you feel merely neutral about, because you won't be able to get the heightened energy and feedback and affirmation you need. The Society of Janus, for example, insists that "all SM can and should be consensual," meaning that no matter what you do in SM, both partners should be of one sensuality with one another.

SM can be gentle as a feather or rough as a crucifixion. But what games you play, how long, how hard, and how real—all that is up to you and your partner.

Real-life sadists and masochists are choosy about their ordeals and choosy about their partners. The kind of suffering a sadist wants to inflict says nothing about the masochist, but much about the sadist, who must accept the truth about himself. The amount of suffering is limited by how much the sadist can take responsibility for-including the masochist's post-party affections, when the handcuffs come off. So, behind explore for more patterns of erotic play. Some individuals learn about SM from spouses, lovers, or friends. Some read about SM, get turned on and start looking for it in real life. Some who feel guilty, inadequate or insecure are attracted to the security of SM role-playing.

How Can I Tell if I'm into SM?

There are two cases. If you often have SM fantasies, of having power over someone you desire, or of someone you desire having power over you, then you are a latent sadomasochist. If you often are in fact dominant or submissive in your loveplay, but without putting a name to it, again, you are a latent sadomasochist.

In either case, whether you are fantasizing dominance and submission without doing it or doing dominance and submission without naming it, coming out into SM means your conscious acceptance of domination and submission as an important key to your eroticism. Then you can begin to become yourself more fully and deliberately.

Some people-like me, I am a hardhead-resist accepting their SM. I once thought my fantasies were something separate from myself, that I created my fantasies at will. But one day it dawned on me that many other people would like to act out my fantasies with me, and that those other people were as valid and human as I was. Immediately I had to accept my SM fantasies as a valid and human part of myself. It was scary; I felt out of control; my fantasies were not separate from myself, created by my will; in fact, at their level, they defined and created me, and my "will" had little to do with it. But even so, I was happy—and I have never looked back. Now I think that for most people coming out into SM is not as hard as it was for me.

Isn't It Degrading to Be Submissive?

Yes and no. Humiliation is to the spirit as pain is to the body. Humiliation can affirm a healthy ego, just as pain or stress can affirm a healthy body. Religions use humility for spiritual development, just as sports use physical stress for bodily development. So likewise, SM uses humiliation to eroticize the ego, pain to eroticize the body.

Many masochists who eroticize pain reject and are offended

Outsiders often see SM as bizarre and destructive. Some think sadists do whatever they want to masochists; and that masochists somehow enjoy suffering for its own sake. Beginners fear that SM can get out of hand and lead to mayhem. our appearances, our fantasies, and the games we may play, SM is something that spouses, lovers, and friends learn to do together.

Some sadomasochists look dangerous. They're giving signals for rough games—which they know how to play and are ready for. If you're not ready, keep away. They take themselves seriously, and so should you.

Much of SM is easy fun and no more dangerous than driving a car. But, like driving, you must do it right. We always have a few who do SM drunk, stoned, or without knowing what they're doing. This is as serious as driving drunk, or without knowing how to drive. Most of us are careful and safety-minded. Outside the drug and heavy-drinking set, serious accidents in SM are rare.

How Do People Become Sadomasochists?

Some individuals discover it on their own-even in early childhood-playing their own games with pain, bondage, isolation and other stress. Some couples discover it as they by humiliation. Many masochists who eroticize humiliation cannot handle pain. Likewise, sadists seem to be chiefly into pain or humiliation.

Sadists think masochists are the most erotic people alive. So now it's your choice: dominate or submit. Would you rather have power over a highly erotic person (and what would you do with them?) Or would you rather be a highly erotic person for someone with power over you? (and what would you want them to do with you?)

Three thousand years ago, wise Homer sang, "Great joy it is to friends, and grief to foes, when with one accord man and wife together make a home…But they themselves best know its meaning." SM is like that. We create our own shared reality. The opinions of other people are not important there.

SM as Individualism Against Authority

In our human species the development of our frontal brain has given us conceptual thought and self-image. These are continued on page 100

DRUMMER 17

SM opens weird, scary and fantastic places in us, and makes them into erotic fountainheads for us and for the people we love. Many people want those places kept shut. They suspect human nature, that people tend towards corruption, and to get out of touch with reality. unique to humans and lacking in all other species. The sexuality of other species is triggered by specific mechanisms, such as odors, colors, seasons, chemistry, etc. while human sexuality is triggered by associations of our developed brain, and is remarkably varied. Human sexuality is often tied to our self-image ; our selection of mates says much about who we are; and we remember the old gay-male cruising rule: dress either like what you want, or dress like its opposite. Bisexuals and pansexuals seem freer than most of us of strongly programmed sexual associations, and in SM we can deliberately play at programming and being programmed, which extends our erotic sympathies just as serious experience in any art extends us.

It is a plain fact that human sexuality is variable; yet many people cling to various false ideals of "normal" sexuality. somehow uniform for everyone. In psychology this error strikes me as a case of sick doctor; the inability to appreciate the plain fact of human sexual variability is like a classic case of hysterical blindness, based on unresolved sexual guilt. In religion, this error strikes me as a sacrilege, a defilement and throwing away of God's most unique and precious gift to us: our potential for self-creation; why else would God have given us a frontal brain? In politics, ideas of uniform sexuality are only another expression of the need of some people to control others.

SM opens weird, scary and fantastic places in us, and makes them into erotic fountainheads for us and for the people we love. Many people want those places kept shut. They suspect human nature, that people tend towards corruption, and to get out of touch with reality. These are also the basic ideas of authoritarianism. All authoritarian religions and political systems see tendencies toward corruption and disconnection from reality-often a "higher" reality, defined by themselves, and so abstract as to defy testing.

By contrast, SM offers fantasy and play, which are universal and natural. Also universal and natural is the ability to distinguish fantasy and reality, which all play presumes. Even kittens know how to play at fighting, and naturally trust others to know how to play, too.

The stereotype enemy of SM is an authoritarian, mistrustful of human nature (which tends to corruption and needs guidance) and putting their trust in an authoritarian church, politics or "science" (which is somehow not corruptible and will do the guiding).

In SM, we can celebrate and use our diversity; they want to impose uniform values. In SM, we can play and fulfill our own fantasies; they want us to work and fulfill theirs. In SM we can learn to trust; they need to control.

But pure authoritarians are rare. Ordinary people I find not all that hostile to SM. The reason is everyone has two separate value systems: personal and impersonal. Our personal values come from and are applied to our family and friends, whom we love and who love us. Our impersonal values, presumed uniform-for-everyone, come from our religion, culture and politics, and are applied to "other people," not so close to us.

Our family and friends are good, despite their faults.

Other people are suspect, despite their virtues. All history shows that universal value systems, political or 100 DRUMMER religious, have never brought peace and trust, only wars, inquisitions and purges. Even on the most personal level, I resent religious or political evangelists pushing their universal value systems on me. But I can't help liking and trusting someone who enjoys my individuality-even if they don't agree with me.

So, to get along with people, become friends. It's simple. Never go at their impersonal value system; but do take the time to appreciate and enjoy their uniqueness. You don't have to agree with it! Soon enough, they'll do the same and count you among their friends—despite your faults.

And if you're caught in public debate against an authoritarian, never put your own impersonal value system-however liberal-against theirs. They've had centuries of law and theology, millions of lawyers and theologians; their logic will be stronger than yours and you will lose. To win, you must remember yourself, your personal experiences, your own need for love, your own ways of loving and hating, your own spunk and humor. Everyone feels pressed down by institutions, even their own; play your David against their Goliath; the crowd will love it. One live person is more real than any system, which is only an abstraction, after all. It may not seem logical that one person can have more power than a church or government; but that reality is not logical. Be logical, you'll lose. Be yourself and real, you'll win.

More About Domination and Submission

Most beginners (not all) start as submissives. Many continue to prefer that role. In America, masochists outnumber sadists by three to one.

One reason is that erotic submission is an easier step from ordinary life. Most of us learn business and social success by taking orders, being attentive, willing, energetic, polite, and giving ego-strokes even to people we dislike. It takes only one instant to see that such conduct may also bring erotic success with someone that we do like—and another masochist is born.

Another reason is that submission replays our infant dependency, an intense period. To be a child again, what a treat! We can test and expand our limits, be smart-alecky and punished and be safely cared for. All we need is a parent.

A third reason for so many masochists is that submission is easier, domination harder. Ideally the sadist has more experience, sensitivity and technical skill; and the investment of a playroom or dungeon with its fittings, plus carrying the main responsibility for safety and success. Good sadists are rare. (Though really good masochists aren't so common, either.)

For the same reason, don't look down on professional dominatrixes or sadists, who do SM for money. They are usually very, very good.

Experience and sensitivity usually count for more in SM than youth and looks. It takes years to make a good sadist or masochist and age is an advantage. Sadists who have also been masochists are prized: they know.

Submissive is not the same as passive. Passives are inert. Submissives, in their desire to be controlled, may provoke, resist, scream and holler and even fight back. They are often great exhibitionists, loving mirrors and dramatic scenes. Likewise dominant is not the same as aggressive. Dominants are

often shy, calculating, reserved and voyeuristic.

Most beginners start as either dominant or submissive. (Which are you?) But more than 95% of us eventually discover both dominant and submissive impulses. Fewer than 5% stay totally dominant or submissive all the time. These opposite impulses in the same person usually seek opposite objects or circumstances for expression: submit at home / dominate at work submit to pain / dominate with humiliation submit to older / dominate younger submit to bigger / dominate smaller submit to same sex / dominate opposite sex submit to strangers / dominate friends submit psychologically / dominate physically submit in real life / dominate in fantasy (common!) submit to beauty / dominate the homely submit to the powerful / dominate the powerless submit to another race / dominate one's own race submit to another class / dominate one's own class

Is your pattern here? These also reverse. Bisexuals, transvestites and transsexuals often change SM roles in crossing the sex line. The Walter Mittys of the world are powerless in reality, powerful in fantasy; while bully cops are scolded by their wives at home and politicians submit to their dominatrixes. I knew of one woman who submitted to gay men, dominated straight ones (no lesbian, she!) Sexism is only one of the many SM patterns; no wonder it so seldom works.

Limits: The Key to SM

The word limits is frequent in SM. It refers to degrees or kinds of experience not wanted by the masochist: "no marks," "no scat," "light spanking only," "no public," and so on.

Beginning masochists, afraid of excesses, want their limits respected. Most masochists like to have their limits tested and expanded. Some SM ads say "no limits" a search for an experienced partner. And sadists also have limits: degrees or

areas which turn them off.

Such are the usual ideas of limits; but they go much further. All eroticism, including SM, occurs at our surfaces or boundaries or limits. The rubbing, physical or emotional, that focuses our attention so wonderfully, occurs just where we interface with external reality. And this is true of both emotional and physical eroticism.

Our limits mark the boundaries of our perceived self. Our fantasies mark the boundaries of an imaginery self. SM is the art of playing with our limits and our fantasies. Our limits and our fantasies are in us, not in our games. Thus, all SM games are variable and negotiable.

Pain can be symbolic, light or heavy. Scat can be symbolic, light or heavy. Bondage can be symbolic, light or heavy. Whipping can be symbolic, light or heavy. Discipline can be symbolic, light or heavy. Humiliation can be symbolic, light or heavy.

And so on.

About Trust

Kissinger once said power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. A masochist responded, "So is trust!" As the masochist must give power to the sadist, the sadist must provide trust for the masochist. How sadists do this is worth another pamphlet; what follows is for beginning masochists.

Before you let someone tie you up, how do you know if you can trust them? Sadomasochists always talk about trust, gut feelings, intuitions and the vibrations we may pick up. But such feelings are tricky. They require calm in the midst of excitement, and they may come from subliminal observations. Always pay attention to your intuitions, become conscious of

Most people think of SM as bondage, whipping, scat, pain, humiliation, and so on. And in fact, SM has dozens and dozens of games, each one astonishing and more always being invented. But they are all games of playing and discovering our limits and fantasies.

Sadists learn to gauge their masochists and work accordingly. The kind of pain or humiliation must reflect their fantasies. The amount of it must be enough to eroticize the masochist's limits, though too much may be destructive and a turn-off.

My joy as a sadist is not in the outer act, but in feeling the limits of my masochist, just right, so I can touch the living spirit inside of who or what they think they are. My joy as a masochist is not in the outer act, but in being touched and felt, just right, even inside of who or what I think I am.

Growth and eroticism are the same. Both challenge and develop our limits and our fantasies. SM, by pursuing our fantasies, leads us back towards where our fantasies begin and first take form, from our informed primary energy. That is where we come from, with all our loves and hates. To know that place brings wisdom, power, peace and joy. Our limits are not the end of our journey into SM, only its beginning.

What Do People Do in SM?

Most people think of SM as bondage, whipping, scat, pain, humiliation, and so on. And in fact, SM has dozens and dozens of games, each one astonishing and more always being invented. But they are all games of playing and discovering our limits and fantasies.

This is why many sadomasochists like to negotiate our games as we go along. We're all different, in how we touch and need to be touched; at different times; with different people; and the process of eroticism itself also changes us. This is why it's so hard for beginners to begin. You don't know where or how to start. You can't be sure what's play and what's real. You can't be sure if people can be trusted or how far they'll go. It's like trying to get on a merry-go-round while it's going.

Beginners always ask what we do in SM. They want security before they venture, which is natural. But the real question is not what we do. The real question is how do you find security in a game without set limits? But that's exactly what SM is: discovering and playing with our limits.

The insecurity of beginners is natural. If you're a beginner, be direct about it. Just tell people you're new. Ask for advice. Ask people if they'd do a limited scene with you. Experienced 102 DRUMMER them and look for tangible signs to support or deny them. Here is a list of tangible signs of trust.

References: If friends tell you someone has tortured and raped 50 people with uniformly good results, then you can expect good results for yourself as the 51st. People who are well known but hard to get to know may have long waiting lines. People who are unknown are suspect.

Alcohol, pot and other drugs seem to heighten awareness for some, disconnect others. Some sadomasochists have been successful users for years; others claim that even one beer is too desensitizing. At least be clear about your own uses and those of your partner. Do new SM experimenting when both of you are straight. And never do SM with anyone whose uses are different or greater than your own; that way at least you won't sink on someone else's ship.

Self-humor: SM, the subculture that pursues fantasy, is rich in humor, which must arise when fantasy confronts reality. People who like to tell or take a joke on themselves know and enjoy the difference between reality and their own fantasy. Those you can trust. People lacking self-humor are suspect.

Afford their habits: A successful narcotics dealer once told me his secret of success: the good guys were those who could afford their habits. Other clients he gently referred on to other dealers. Everyone, each of us, has habits: economic, social, emotional, intellectual, political, esthetic, hobbies, whatever, which, if we are off-balance, can become as demanding as any drugs. People who can afford their habits are likely to be okay in SM, others not.

Personal Affirmation: People with family and friends whom they love and who love them are likely to be trustworthy. People whose affirmation comes from impersonal sources, church, state, politics, "science," are suspect.

Some Advertisers: People who place sex ads have done something remarkable: they have defined themselves erotically for other people. Score one point. Those who describe themselves objectively, score two points. Objectively with humor, three points and bullseye. If they focus entirely on the fantasy that they think they want, score zero.

Appreciate Uniqueness: In some gay leatherbars, after

mutual attraction has been established, SM partners may spend an hour getting to know one another, before beginning even verbal SM play; even who will be dominant, who submissive, may be delayed. What they are doing is discovering one another's uniqueness, to use it as the basis for their SM play. People who take the time to discover and appreciate your uniqueness can probably be trusted; offers of instant play are only fetishism and suspect.

All these signs are tests of whether a person is reality-oriented . Unreal people of course are not bad people; but they are not trustworthy for SM, where you share and develop your fantasies.

Some Ideas for Beginners:

Learning SM is like learning to ski or to ride a bicycle. Expect some fumbling and wobbling at first. As with any art, you will get better and better.

Start easy. The fantasies of virgins are notoriously excessive and impractical. Try just a blindfold, pretend-bondage and talking in dominant-submissive roles.

Try SM with someone you like and trust: a spouse, lover or close friend. SM can only enrich what you already share.

Don't ask people what they do in SM; it's a no-win. Do tell people you're a beginner, ask for advice and maybe for a limited scene.

Beginning masochists naturally fear SM could get out of hand. Agree on a "safe word" like "pumpkin" or any nonsense word, as a signal for "stop." Some like "green" for "more," "yellow" for "ease up" and "red" for "stop."

Learn from yourself. Try bondage, fetish clothing, pain, SM toys, etc. in front of a mirror. Tke pictures.

Write your own sex ad, even if you'll never publish it. For beginners it's a remarkable discovery of self-image. You'll rewrite it tomorrow!

Call all the SM ads you can find. Tell them you're new and ask for advice. Don't skip the commercials, or the straights. Try to talk to the person behind the ad, not to a projected fantasy role.

Talk to people already into SM. Many of us will talk and listen for hours. your fantasy. Your phone number will bring some freak calls; a call asking what you charge may be the vice squad, doing their homework. (Answer "mutual pleasure." That price is too high for them.) Freak calls and vice baiting are fun, but a private mailbox will probably bring comparable serious replies.

Discount the sleaze; that's just our anti-sex culture. As in any subculture, some sifting in SM will turn up many fine people. Good luck there!

Postscript:

This article attempts an introduction to SM. However, there is a problem in "teaching" SM. SM is an experiential discipline, like music, which you cannot understand without experiencing it yourself; and SM has the extra twist that what you experience is your own erotic self. However, everyone is different and SM, the discipline which takes us into ourselves, is seen differently by different people. Thus, someone else doing an introductory pamphlet about SM might do it all different—everything—and be perfectly right, too. So when you encounter quite different ideas of what SM is, not to worry, it is still all the same.

Also, then, be clear that this article, like any writing about SM, offers only words and abstractions about something which can be real only as personal experience, inside you. It may comfort some, or interest others, to read a verbal theory about SM; but a whole library of books and films on SM will not teach you as much as the first time that you yourself put handcuffs onto someone you desire, or that someone desire puts them onto you. At that moment you will begin to experience your erotic self, not indirectly, in words and concepts, nor as a fixed given, but directly, and as a willed variable (your will or someone else's). And that is why SM is at once so important, so terrifying and so joyous.

SM leads us on important journeys back into ourselves. They are important because the self we return to has changed and grown. SM is a development of our uniqueness, our reality, our limits, our fantasies. We become different in how we can love and be loved. We sadomasochists learn to do SM without knowing in advance just how it will turn out-no limits!- because we have learned how to trust ourselves and one

SM leads us on important journeys back into ourselves. They are important because the self we return to has changed and grown. SM is a development of our uniqueness, our reality, our limits, our fantasies. We become different in how we can love and be loved.

Survey your friends about dominant-submissive loveplay. Don't use "SM" or "sadomasochism;" these words may be too strong. See how much there is!

Call your local sex hotline. Ask for someone who knows about SM. (In San Francisco, it's S.F.S.I., 415-665-7300, Mon-Fri, 3-9 PM).

Volunteer to serve on the hotline. Great training, great people.

Take courses in sexuality; many are open to non-degree students.

Explore SM bars, shops, clubs; get leads from one to another. Join SM clubs for friends, support, partners.

Get a private mailbox; write to other people into SM.

If you pay for commercial SM partners, use those that practice SM in their own lives. Same prices, big difference in quality and caring.

Answer SM ads. Meet on neutral ground if you're nervous. Most are responsible. It's OK not to like them all!

Place your own ad, emphasizing what you have to offer, not another.

We have become children again and learned how to play.

Ecstasy skates the glittering seas of passion, Speeding on the thinnest edge of fantasy and madness..

…faster! …faster! Laughing, exhausted, we stop. What strange place is this? What strange shapes? Oh! Now I see. We are home.

Dedicated with deepest affection to The Benevolent

(Copies of this article are available as a pamphlet from The Society of Janus, P.O. Box 6794, San Francisco, CA 94101. Janus is an SM education and support organization, which has been in existence for over ten years. Membership is low-cost and offers an astonishing introduction to real SM for beginners, and a good place for experienced SMers to share.)

Copyright @1985 by Don Miesen

MILITARY DISCIPLINE BEHIND BARS

Okay, you're all familiar with stories of prison slavery and SM behind bars. And you all know the kind of discipline a young man's likely to learn in the armed forces. Mix them up-more or less-and you've got something like RID (Regimented Inmate Discipline), a new convict reform program being tested out at a Mississippi State Penitentiary.

A report in the Jackson Clarion-Ledger describes Charles Gatlin, a 31-year-old convicted burglar taking part in RID: "Gatlin keeps his hair short, his clothes neat and knows how to say 'yes, sir' as if he were a Marine…He keeps his bunk area spotless and salutes the guards. He asks for punishment when he knows he has botched a command. He marches around the prison grounds to the traditional 'left, right' military beat…Gatlin and about 30 other convicts are completing the state prison's boot camp, designed to instill discipline in offenders.

"Although the guards push him around and total self-control is demanded of him, Gatlin believes jail life is safer and more productive."

Gatlin is one of the older inmates in the RID experiment ; the program is designed mostly for inmates 18 to 25 years of age convicted for non-violent crimes. The inmates are housed separately from the other convicts. "We feel it will taint them to mix with the general population,' says the deputy superintendent .

The RID inmates rise at 5:30 a.m. They raise the flag, have sessions with counselors and perform assigned chores. The inmates are drilled by a group of sergeants dressed in military fatigues, headed by Cor-nell Dillard, an ex-Marine who "takes no nonsense from any of the inmates."

Prison Superintendent Don Cabana says the program is designed to "break some down and have them start all over," learning discipline they were never taught at home. Judge Elzy Smith, who has sentenced about 30 offenders to the RID program, said he is impressed with RID's "boot-camp atmosphere, the discipline , the orderly day, the orderly schedule. We might get the attention of some of the young people." The program lasts 90 to 120 days, depending on the sentence.

Since all Drummer readers are law-abiding citizens, any fantasies conjured up by RID will undoubtedly remain just that-fantasies. But imagine to your heart's content the dilemma of choosing between turning punk for some burly Mississippi con-daddy, and snapping to attention to be inspected by Sgt. Cornell Dil-lard . The rehabilitative effectiveness of RID hasn't yet been determined, but it'll be interesting to see how many repeat offenders request to be sent back into the program.

GMSMA EXPANDING ITS LIMITS

Gay Male SM Activists, headquartered in New York, is one of the best known and most active safe-and-sane SM organizations in the United States. The highly organized group holds regular meetings to instruct members and guests in safe SM activities, sponsors social events, publishes a variety of pamphlets and newsletters, and makes its positive presence felt in the New York gay community at large.

With the August 1985 edition of GMSMA News, the group's organizers have announced a change in membership rules that will allow any interested man 19 or older to join, no matter where he lives (previously, membership had been based on regular attendance at general meetings , which had restricted full privileges to men in the New York area able to attend).

The official membership year runs from September through August; dues paid by January 1986 are $30, and after that $15 (all memberships will expire at the same time next September). Privileges include discounts on admission to various special events and on merchandise, voting privileges, and the GMSMA newsletter. In addition, GMSMA is gearing up to produce "an ambitious program of other publications in the coming year, including one or two informational booklets and perhaps a large-format annual."

Meanwhile, GMSMA has announced its fall schedule of meetings. Listed below are events for October and November. All regular, Wednesday meetings are held at New York's Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center (208 W. 13th St.) at 8:30 p.m., and are open to both members ($2) and nonmembers ($4). Admission policy and fees vary for special events:

Do-It-Yourself Equipment and Play Areas (Wed., Oct. 9): How-to tips, illustrations, slides.

Better Homes & Dungeons (Sat., Oct. 12): A guided tour for GMSMA members only (tentative).

20 DRUMMER

School for Lower Education (Sat., Oct. 19): A smorgasbord of exciting SM scenes, dished out by GMSMA members and hosted by the Mineshaft-9 p.m. to 2 a.m.

Erotic Pain (Wed., Oct. 23): Featuring Geoff Mains, author of Urban Aboriginals: A Celebration of Leathersexuality.

Legal Implications of SM (Wed., Nov. 13): Two attor-nevs will address the issues (open to men and women).

Leatherfest at the Spike (Sat., Nov. 23): Details to be announced.

Thanksgiving Social (Wed., Nov. 25).

For information on becoming a member, or to be added to their mailing list, write to: GMSMA, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

UNIFORMS IN REVIEW/ SPIKE NEWS

It'll be happening the weekend of Oct. 11 at the Spike, one of New York's favorite leather bars-the Annual Review of the American Uniform Association. If you're unfamiliar with the AUA, check out the report on this group in Drummer 79-or check out the gathering at the Spike. These guys go for everything from gauntlets and epaulets to SWAT team gear, and the look is always spit-shine authentic down to the last grommet; the uniforms come from all over the world. If you miss the Annual Review. local AUAers meet at the Spike on the last Saturday night of each month.

More organization notes from the Spike: Tuesdays are Club Bar Nite at the bar throughout October and November, an opportunity for various leather / levi and motorcycle clubs in the New York area to make themselves known to each other and the community on a regular basis. Nonmembers can meet members, and exchange ideas and get a feel for each club-and maybe take the first steps in joining. Participating clubs include The Defenders, Excelsior , Praetorians, the Long Island Spuds, Wildcats MC, Cycle MC, Trident Interna- tional, and the 9-Plus Club. Check with the Spike for schedule details.

And New York leathermen should be on the look-out for upcoming details on the second annual Mr. Spike contest , to be scheduled in October.

The Spike is located at 120 11th Ave., New York, NY 10011. Telephone: (212)243-9688.

ANTI-SM WRITER CALLS CRITICS "CRAZY"

Pros and cons on SM continued to stir controversy in the pages of the New York Native in September. It all began with an article by writer Craig Johnson titled "SM and the Myth of Mutual Consent" in the gay tabloid's July 29 edition , in which Johnson called SM a "virus," a "plague," and an "unhealthy way of life that threatens us all.'

The Sept. 2 edition of the Native carried four pages of letters in response to John- 22 DRUMMER son's article, under the heading "One Good Slap Deserves Another: Getting to the Bottom (and the Top) of the SM Question.'

An editorial introduction noted that Johnson's "controversial article has evoked (sic) replies by sadists, masochists, civil libertarians, and activists, and will be the subject of a feature in an upcoming issue of Drummer magazine." (Aaron Travis' dissection of the Johnson article, "The Shame of the New York Native," appeared in Drummer 86.)

The response to Johnson's article included ten letters attacking the piece, one letter applauding it, and a reply from Johnson himself. The critical letters were generally lengthy, carefully detailed and argued, and came from as far afield as Austria.

Johnson was unimpressed by the overwhelmingly negative response to his article. "I am confronted with nothing

but a series of off-the-wall responses," he said in his reply. "The gist of all these letters …is that I am a narrow-minded fuddy-duddy who is envious of all these people having such fun…If I am, as they would describe me, 'frustrated ,' it's because these guys are taking over."

Johnson summarily dismissed those who disagreed with him as "crazy": "I think that what we're seeing here is that I upset a lot of crazy people and that they had to scream out in response. As the saying goes, the truth hurts. No pun intended."

HARTFORD COLTS

Congrats to the Hartford Colts, a brand-new leather MC in Connecticut which held its first bar night Sept. 28 at Barristers in Hartford. The Colts are looking "to provide a means of fellowship and brotherhood for like-minded men of the community, but this was not the only purpose for forming our club. We hope to add ourselves to the long list of those already active in promoting a healthy view of the leather scene through help and service to both our community and the community -at-large.'

The Colts meet the third Sunday of each month, with bar nights on the fourth Saturday of the month from nine to midnight at Barristers, 601 Broad Street in Hartford.

To contact the club by mail, write: Hartford Colts MC, Blue Hills Station, PO Box 12201, Hartford, CT 06112.

GOTHAM MANHUNT FOR MR. LEATHER NYC

Time again for the second annual Mr. Leather-New York Contest, bringing together New York's top leathermen in heated competition. (Last year's winner, Henry Roma-nowski , was featured in Drummer 82.)

The place: Paradise Garage, 84 King Street (west of Varick St./78th Avenue South). The date: Nov. 2 (doors open at 7 p.m., and the contest kicks off at 8 p.m. sharp.) Admission: $25 advance, $30 at the door.

Prizes for contestants and spectators include a trip to Amsterdam for both Mr. Leather-New York 1985 and a lucky raffle winner. (The con-

MEET THE D.I.

If you saw last issue's feature on "The Box," or if you've caught their "A Few Good Men" Organization ad in the Dear Sir Section, you already know something about the notorious Training Center in Missouri. The latest new man on the staff: A young ex-Marine known only as The D.I., who's taking his training in discipline into the private sector. Guaranteed to whip you into shape. (Photos from The Training Center.)

Okay, New York leather-men -get ready to show your pride! For tickets or information about entry or donation contact: Mr. Leather-New York Contest, Box 410, 132 W 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

WALKING THE DOG LEADS TO FIDO'S AMMEST

The following report, date-lined Los Angeles and filed by UPI, appeared in numerous newspapers in early September . We reproduce it here. without comment. For the full story, you'll have to read between the lines.

"A man wearing a G-string,

chaps, a shirt and shoes-but no pants-was arrested as he was led down a city sidewalk on a chain by another man at 3 a.m., police said.

"A neighborhood resident flagged down two officers a few minutes earlier and suggested they drive over to the next block. There, they saw a man in his mid-20s, with a chain around his neck, being led down the sidewalk by another man, said Sgt. Ray Heslop. The man was wearing only the chain, a G-string, chaps, a shirt and shoes. Hes-lop offered no explanation for the situation.

"The man in the chaps was taken to city jail and booked on suspicion of indecent exposure, a misdemeanor. He was not immediately identi-fied by police.

"The man who was leading him by the chain was not arrested. Heslop said there was no law against leading someone by a chain."

IN A WAREHOUSE IN AMSTERDAM

Thanks to correspondent Tom of Virginia for turning us on to one of Europe's liveliest gathering spots for leather-men , Club LL International of Amsterdam.

Club LL is a "motorcycle and sports club" which has been organizing international meetings each month since 1970. Their invitation elaborates : "Our friends from all over the world meet in an old Amsterdam warehouse that's full of atmosphere for films, disco, live performances, drinks from the bar and a shop called Club LL. The warehouse is situated in the center of Amsterdam, only three minutes from the Club LL bar and restaurant. Next door you'll find Club LL's guesthouse, where friends can stay in one of our three rooms, each with two beds, private shower and toilet." Sounds cozy.

Club LL's meeting schedule for the remainder of 1985: Oct. 5, Nov. 2 and 30, and Dec. 31. For information, write to Club LL, Elandsgracht 29-31, 1016 TM Amsterdam, The Netherlands; telephone 020- 220475. Or in Amsterdam, just drop in at the Club LL bar (address above) and ask for Ad or Geert. Tell 'em Drummer sent you.

NO MORE PORN FOR HARVARD BOYS?

Newest hot-spot in the ongoing "war against pornography ": Cambridge, MA, where it appears that an anti-porn ordinance will be placed as a binding referendum on the November ballot.

According to Boston's Cay Community News, "Women's Alliance Against Pornography (WAAP) has gathered over 7000 signatures on an initiative petition that calls for an amendment to the city's Human Rights ordinance. Signatures of eight percent of the city's registered voters, or approximately 3670 people, are required to get an initiative on the ballot.

The proposed ordinance's language closely follows that of previous legislation introduced in Los Angeles and elsewhere , defining porn as 'graphic sexually explicit subordination of women" and allowing "victims" to claim civil rights violations and sex discrimination. Report has not ascertained whether, as in the case of Los Angeles, the "graphic sexually explicit subordination " definition extends to men as well as women.

The rift in the feminist movement has followed the anti-porn movement to Cam-bridge , as opposition includes Nancy Ryan of the Cambridge Commission on the Status of Women and a Boston chapter of FACT (Feminist Anti-Censorship Taskforce) which has formed in response to the WAAP initiative. Also opposing the amendment is Jonathan Handel of the Cambridge Human Rights Commission.

Cambridge is located near Boston, and is the site of Harvard University. Expect lots of highbrow debate on the issues of free speech versus censorship , and a run on local bookstores selling Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler … and Drummer.

STAN AND OLLIE-SAFE AND SANE

Word arrives from Florida of the formation of a new club dedicated to safe-and-sane SM. Three of the founding members were formerly with the Black Fire MC of New York, which means they should know their way around

"the ropes." Officers include vice president Ollie (aka Oliver Hardy) and treasurer Stan (aka Stan Laurel). We kid you not.

Interested parties should contact: Black Star MC, Box 560933, Orlando, FL 32856, or phone Ollie at (305)423-0992.

SUBMIT!

The Report section is our effort to keep Drummer readers informed about what's going on with leathermen in the US and around the world.

Have you got an event or inside information we should know about? Send press releases, announcement, photos, etc.—as early as possible - to: Report, Drummer, 640 Natoma Street, San

Francisco, CA 94103.

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I wrote it off to his fatigue and disappointment.

As for John, let's just say he warmed up to the part after seeing Sidney in the flesh and having the boy gush over him. In fact, it got a little sickening during dinner to watch John fawn over the boy. I tried telling myself John was just getting into the game, but that certainly didn't explain why he offered Sidney a tour of the gym at work the next day.

If you think I didn't trust John, you're right. Especially since I had to stay home: it would be obvious within a few minutes of my entering the shop that I worked there. (As far as Sidney knew, I took a few days off my job to be with him.) Besides, I know that gym, and it doesn't take four hours to do a tour.

I paced my living room imagining John having his way with his wide-eyed worshipper. In my mind I saw Sidney spreadea-gle on the incline bench as John drove his hot prick into that white ass. Or laying on the bench press as John drove his cock into Sidney's warm mouth. Some of the steam room possibili-ties were so good only my anger kept me from beating off as I considered them.

My paranoia only increased when Sidney came home and announced that "good old John" had offered to coach him privately every day of his stay! I bet he did! When I confronted John on the telephone, however, he got really indignant.

"Hey, man," he shouted. "You roped me into this. What am I supposed to do? The kid's got a bad case of hero worship, not that I can blame him. I can't just brush him off. You want him to fall apart? Besides, you're getting the ass you wanted, right?"

The problem was that it was a very small piece. Sidney was a bit too tired at night, and his loads were a bit too small, if you catch my drift. And each day he knew a few new tricks-and it felt like he was practicing them on me for the next day's use.

It was so bad I was actually relieved when it came time to put Sidney back on the plane to Illinois. But the worst was yet to come. A couple of days later John called me into his office to say he had to lay me off.

At first he claimed business was down, but I knew the figures better than he did, so that didn't wash. Then he accused me of abusing my position with Sydney. Well, what could I say or do? I certainly couldn't fight something like that in court.

The truth, however, was waiting for me on my desk on the top of the pile of routine correspondence. It was Sidney's latest to John, routed as usual to me. After all the gush about having his dreams fulfilled by meeting his idol, he again thanked John for the job offer and said he'd be ready to start work once the semester ended.

Job offer? Yeah, my job!

And oh, by the way, he continued, I wrote to Peter and told him we could never see each other again. After all, one should be true to one's lover! I raced home and sure enough the kiss-off letter was waiting for me in the mail box.

My mind was a jumble of images and feelings. First I saw Sidney as the lonely farm boy in that old snapshot and I wanted to cry. Then I saw him as the hot stud getting butt fucked by that slime ball Taylor and I wanted to kill.

"Damn it," I shouted in the mirror, "I'm John Taylor. At least I'm the John Taylor that little son of a bitch fell in love with, even if he's too stupid to realize it. I'm the John Taylor that practically raised him by first-class mail. I'm the one who loves him. I'm not taking this without a fight."

Then I realized I had a trump card to play.

I sat down and as Peter Timms I wrote Sidney a thoughtful, understanding letter. I said I loved him, and losing him would hurt like hell, but that his happiness was all that mattered. So if he wanted to be with John, I'd accept my fate.

Of course I could not bear to see the two of them together every day, so I had decided to move. I told Sidney I was relocating to Illinois, which I had so conveniently fallen in love with during my recent visit. And would he be so kind as to meet me at the airport? For old times' sake.

Then I wrote a second letter in my alter ego of John Taylor: it was the ultimate "Dear Sidney" message. Hey kid, you got a nice ass and it was fun fucking you while you were here, but

let's be real. Kids like you are a dime a dozen for a stud like me. That job offer wasn't the kind of promise you could expect me to keep.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," I had John write, "but you got to grow up sometime. That romance stuff is just mush for wimps like Petey. Stick to your books. It was fun, but it's finished.'

Now, if that second letter worked John might wonder why Sidney never contacted him again. He might try calling or writing himself. But I doubted it. I knew John well enough to know he wouldn't go to any great pains to land someone like Sidney. He could snare one a day just as good, and grow tired of them just as quickly.

What was more likely was that Sidney might call John. But how would our superhero ever explain away that letter I had just sent? Oh, he could deny sending it, but it would be in his handwriting (namely mine, the only one Sidney had ever seen as John's) and signed in his own hand (again mine, and again the only John Taylor signature Sidney had ever seen).

You see, whenever I had written to Sidney as Peter, I had always been careful to type my letters and to alter my true signature. For once, being John Taylor was going to profit me!

I had no way of knowing if my little scheme worked as my plane touched down in Illinois. Sure enough, there was Sidney with a big grin and a long apology. Miracle of miracles, he had seen the light! My letter, he said, had touched his soul and caused him to realize that I, Peter, was the sensitive, compassionate man he had been longing for, and not that sleazy John.

That night in the motel room Sidney for the first time offered me his plump, ripe ass and I fucked him like there was no tomorrow. And in a sense there wasn't, since our lovemaking stretched until dawn. As we finally drifted into sleep he said the words I had been waiting to hear: love.

I never pushed Sidney to find out what happened with John and I never sought to learn how deep his conversion experience went. I was content to be with him and to build a life for the two of us in our new home. But in the back of my mind I always wondered if his love for me wasn't qualified by a lingering dream about the John Taylor who actually never existed.

That is, I wondered until last week.

In time I landed a job with the Famous Portrait Painters' Institute. You've probably seen us on the matchbooks: "Can you draw this president?" Now I'm Pierre LaBec, with more artistic honors and titles to my credit than you can fit on a business card.

It's okay work, but I was falling behind on my old nemesis. correspondence, and so I took some home to work on one night. Sidney came in from jogging, reeking of sweat and smeared with perspiration, and peered over my shoulder as I wrote to a frustrated construction worker and would-be artist in Baton Rouge.

"Nice handwriting," he said calmly, his wet body pressing against my bare arm.

"Uh, thanks," I stammered. In the two years we had been together I had only scribbled notes to Sidney for fear he'd recognize my handwriting as the one he identified with John.

"Real nice," he muttered, picking up my letter and studying it carefully. My insides were churning. With just sneakers and trunks on he looked stunning. It would have killed me to lose someone so beautiful just because of a note to a guy who was having trouble drawing noses.

After a couple of minutes and careful deliberation and a lot of head nodding, he calmly ripped the letter into tiny pieces and sprinkled them on the rug.

"Uh, Sidney. Why did you do that?"

He pushed my work aside and sat his damp body on the desk, his crotch level with my tits. He took my hand and rubbed it

'Let's just say it sounded a little too friendly and encouraging ," he said with a knowing smile. "And I don't want some dewy-eyed, lost soul knocking on our door one day looking for the one and only true love of his life. After all, he might be

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"Alright you scum bags, drop your cocks and grab your socks!! Let's get those dead asses out a the rack, NOW!!"

The booming voice reverberated around the metal lockers in the barracks, bringing Kevin to life instantly.

Drill Sergeant Matthews continued to shout as he strode the length of the row of metal bunks.

"C'mon people, get your shit together, let's GO!" Kevin rolled from his bunk and fumbled for the key to his locker as the sergeant walked by him.

"Well, well, well, what the fuck have we got here!!" the sergeant exclaimed, stopping by Kevin, who had snapped to attention.

"Sir?" Kevin cautiously asked.

"Caught you killin' babies this mornin', didn't I, dildo!" the sergeant said, pointing at Kevin's erect cock that was pushing its way out of the piss slit in his breezy military issue boxer shorts.

Kevin turned crimson at the sight of his shaft showing hard in front of his sergeant, and a whole roomful of other muscular young men.

"Get down and give me fifty for beatin' off in one of my beds, and don't let me catch you hard again while you're in my house!" Sergeant Matthews shouted into Kevin's face as he walked back down the aisle.

Kevin sighed and fell into the "front leaning rest" or pushup position and began the exercises.

By the time he had finished, the room had emptied of all of the others, who had gone to take showers and shave before dressing.

His hard-on long gone, Kevin retrieved his keys and opened his locker. The mirror attached to the inside of one of the double doors again did not lie to him.

After six weeks of Army basic training he had lost the slight paunch he had acquired from too many beers after work, and had filled out muscles in places he had never dreamed of. He let his hand wander over his chest, stopping to slightly squeeze one full nipple and then fall slowly down to his now rock-hard stomach. His eight-inch cock lay straight down against his heavy ballsack.

Hearing someone in the hallway, he quickly snapped himself out of his reverie and whipped his towel around his waist before he could get hard again.

The shower room was crowded with young men of all shapes and sizes quickly getting ready for the day's activities. Sergeant Matthews leaned against a corner of the crowded room, watching the activity.

Kevin hurried with his brief cold shower, and moved to a vacant washbowl to finish with shaving and brushing his teeth. Sergeant Matthews watched, saying nothing.

Kevin noticed that the Drill Sergeant had been watching him all that morning. During their first hour of physical training the Sergeant had watched him; as they marched to attend class he felt the hard eyes of the sergeant on him as they marched to the sing-song cadence.

Late in the afternoon of that same day they were marched to one of the large training gyms and told to remove their shirts and boots, and to sit in a large circle around the center platform.

The Sergeant strode to the center of the platform and announced that they were going to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

He was a handsome man, with close-cut hair. What hair there was was dark brown and swept neatly across his forehead.

His steely grey eyes were piercing under trim evebrows.

His wiry compact body looked like a gymnast who had been in training for some time. Until now Kevin had never paid any attention to the sergeant's crotch; today he noticed a bundle between his legs that most men would be happy just to look at, let alone touch.

The sergeant called Kevin's name and told him to report to the platform with him. Kevin took a deep breath and mounted the stage.

DRUMMER 37

The sergeant announced a brief demonstration with him before the others were to begin. He grabbed Kevin by the shoulders and quickly pinned him to the ground, sitting astride of his chest. "Let's see you get outa this, baby killer," the sergeant sneered.

Kevin had immediately gotten another hard-on, with the sergeant's crotch rubbing almost in his face. He tried to kick his back and throw his legs against the man, but it was to no avail. He was held fast.

He continued to struggle until he began to sweat. The sergeant kept staring directly into his eyes with cool assurance.

Kevin stopped fighting and conserved his strength for one final assault. He bucked as hard as he could, causing the sergeant to lose his balance.

The man fell to his left, and Kevin grabbed the moment to fling himself directly on top of him, his wet T-shirt sticking against the muscular chest of the man below. Kevin let his crotch grind deeply into the sergeant's, and was only mildly surprised that the sergeant was fully hard also.

The sergeant allowed Kevin to lie on him for only a moment before he tossed him off and rolled away.

Both men got up and faced each other slightly crouched, they circled the small platform.

After a moment of being unable to keep his eyes off the sergeant's raging hard cock, Kevin found himself flat on the floor, the sergeant having taken advantage of the situation by diving for Kevin's feet on the unguarded moment and knocking him off-balance.

Kevin went down with a thud and found the sergeant again astride him, this time with his crotch almost flush with Kevin's face. Kevin could see the big meat pulsing in the sergeant's pants, and could feel the small rivulets of sweat running down the man's arms onto his own.

Sergeant Matthews held Kevin in this lock for only a moment before he released him and began instructing the others on army wrestling techniques.

Late that night, after they had been released from duty for the day, the sergeant called Kevin into his quarters at the back of the barracks. He was seated at his large battered desk as Kevin came in to report as ordered.

The sergeant motioned to a small wooden chair in the corner and pointed at it with the end of his pencil.

"Sit."

Kevin sat down, watching the sergeant's head, bent over the desk.

Sergeant Matthews finished with his paper work and stacked it neatly on the edge of the desk before he looked over at Kevin.

"You were pretty good out there today." Kevin blinked. "Sergeant?" he asked.

"Wrestling. You're only the third in two years to throw me like that."

"Just luck," Kevin answered, still not knowing quite what to expect.

'How about a rematch, a real match this time, just you and me?" the sergeant asked.

"Sure," Kevin answered, "When?"

"Right now," the sergeant said, standing up.

Kevin was not certain what was going on, but stood also. Sergeant Matthews peeled off his shirt and undershirt, revealing his sculpted chest and washboard stomach. He unlaced and kicked off his boots. He then unzipped his green fatigue pants and dropped them onto the floor. He was wearing tight jockey underwear, with the bulging head of his prick peering out over the edge.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go!"

Kevin made the first move and faked a start at the sergeant, who ducked out of the way and allowed Kevin to make his first real move by grabbing the man's waist and pulling him down. Kevin was able, due to surprising the sergeant, to throw himself again on top of the burly man.

MOVING?

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Dear Drummer.

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OLD ADDRESS:

But the sergeant threw him off immediately and quickly grabbed Kevin's legs, pulling him down hard onto his back. He ran a hand the length of Kevin's leg and grabbed at Kevin's cock.

Kevin lay back as the sergeant began massaging his dick, and felt himself go to full hardness.

The sergeant let go of his cock and stepped back to slide his hand under the band of his underwear and slip out of it.

His cock was fully hard now, and he let it bounce in the air away from the waist. It was at least ten inches, with a thick base that tapered up to a large head. The piss slit was already oozing a great smear of precum.

The sergeant lowered himself on top of the young man and pressed hard against him. Kevin let his hands roam over the hard body and explore the deep crack of the sergeant's ass, while the sergeant moved his left hand down Kevin's body and let his forefinger begin slipping into Kevin's dry asshole. Kevin hunched against him as he drove the steel-hard finger deeper and deeper into the tight hole.

Sergeant Matthews silently stood up and pulled Kevin up with him, stopping him half-way, shoving Kevin's mouth toward his pulsing cock.

Kevin closed his eyes and let the massive tool slip into his mouth, feeling the hot strength that it carried as the sergeant drove it deeper and deeper down his throat. The man kept one hand behind Kevin's head as the boy sucked him.

"Lean against the desk," he breathed heavily as he pulled Kevin up from his knees.

Kevin obliged, placing his hands on the edge of the desk in front of him and bracing his legs straight behind him.

The sergeant pulled the loose boxer shorts down and exposed Kevin's round firm buttocks. He put the tip of his spit-lubed prick against the puckering hole of Kevin's ass and shoved his cock deep into his tight ass.

Kevin gritted his teeth against yelling with pain as he felt the shaft driven deeply into him. The sergeant let his cock fill up

Kevin's hole, and then began to slowly push it in and out of the puckering gap. Kevin began to relax against the onslaught of the ten inches of meat inside him, and felt his own dick get hard as the sergeant fucked him.

Sergeant Matthews threw an arm under Kevin's stomach and let his hand play lightly up and down the smooth chest and stomach. He continued with short hard strokes of his cock, plunging as far into Kevin as he could go. The sergeant knew that he was about to loose his load. He gripped Kevin harder and let out a low moan.

Kevin reached under himself and grasped his own rod, beating it as fast as he could, trying to pace his orgasm with the man fucking him.

Sergeant Matthews gave a last groan and felt the hot fluid release from the slit of his dick and begin to fill up Kevin's narrow ass channel. It slid in and out with each stroke, until he pulled his cock out and let the last bit shoot out and spatter onto Kevin's back, and Kevin let his load shoot out and pour onto the edge of the desk.

Both men stood where they were, letting the tide ebb from their fulfillment.

Wordlessly, the sergeant shook the last bits of cum from his cock and stepped away from Kevin to begin dressing again. Kevin stood up from the desk and moved back to the chair that held his clothes.

When he finished dressing he turned to face the sergeant who was again seated with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Don't expect any special favors because of this," the sergeant growled without looking up.

"No Drill Sergeant, I won't," Kevin said.

"Dismissed." The sergeant said, still not bothering to look up. Kevin walked out of the small office with a smart about-face turn, knowing that he might not expect any favors-but also knowing that the next four weeks of training were going to be a hell of a lot more interesting and challenging than the last six weeks had been!

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he steam-clouded mirror softened and partially obscured Fly's impressive, naked image. The bathroom wasn't large, but the mirror covered a good portion of one wall. Fly leaned forward and brushed a hand across the glass. A soppy, streaked abdomen appeared like a hairy washboard. The reflection fogged over and was lost again. Fly's drenched body dripped and glistened. The thick hair everywhere plastered his dusky skin like a heavy pencil drawing. He turned on the heatlamp overhead. The brilliant flood of light elucidated his great physical proportions in frosted reflection: the flying trapeziuses like buttresses supporting the long trunk of his neck; the clavicular portions of the pectoralises bloating separately, providing some relief to the endless sweep of the hefty, hairy pectoralises major; likewise, the deltoids, padding and rounding his shoulders massively, twin bulky mounds with a flume flowing smoothly into the bulging biceps…picture perfect.

Fly's muscles were splendidly proportioned, defined and distributed. He was a tall, big-boned man, and all his muscles had grown to more than amply gild his frame. The hair was merely window-dressing.

Fly smeared a spot clear on the mirror with a finger, baring one eye. He winked at himself and thought: You are so fucking adorable, you big cutie!—then roared at his outrageous audacity

Fly liked to fuck guys. And that's what most of them wanted. The others were just too shy to ask for something else. Still …there was the Old Man.

Fly stroked his pulsing anus, caressing the deeply buried bud lovingly. It throbbed and pouted against his brushing fingers. God, it seemed so tiny. Yet, if it could open up to empty out those big steamers…

He opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. There was a full-length mirror on the other side. He got down on the floor and doubled himself up by hooking his arms under his knees and squeezing. Then he rocked back onto his bowed spine until his asshole appeared in view. It was difficult to see in the hair-choked depths of the crack. But closer inspection revealed a little brown crinkled crater that suddenly relaxed and blinked at him.

The consequent contraction jolted him…Pow!…like a gunshot, and rolled him all the way back onto his shoulders. POW! Another, tipped him up onto the back of his head. Pow!

40 DRUMMER

Pow! He was flipped completely over and landed on his knees. Jesus! He quickly flopped over onto one side, lifted his leg and pulled his buns apart, half expecting to see a lump of brown caught in the hairs. But he was clean. He was trembling from head to foot; huffing and puffing …

"You little sucker!" he yelled at his aching asshole. "Your time has come!'

Out of pure perverseness, he chose an early morning hour. He felt it would make him less conspicuous. It would also provide him with an out if the park was empty. But, of course, it wasn't …

Yes, there he was. Wearing the same tight, faded jeans and form-fitting t-shirt. And staring right at him. Even from across the street, Fly could actually feel the intense gaze bore through him. His stomach fluttered, and his mouth was full of cotton. The Old Man's face broke into that lopsided grin, and Fly thought he would swoon…

He knows what I'm here for. Dear God, what do I do now? He faltered. But his feet were already carrying him across the street.

He approached the Old Man like a zombie, his fate solidly sealed. His face was so stiffly numb, he thought if he smiled, it would shatter. He felt like a helpless little boy on his first day at school. But the last thing he wanted now was his mommy …and that did make him smile.

He walked up to and stood directly in front of the Old Man. They stared each other down…up and down. Fly caved in first.

The Old Man's grin widened to include the other side of his mouth. "It's always easier when you can vocalize a desire," he purred. "Want to sit down?"

Fly continued standing, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. He hooked his thumbs under his belt, and stared at the ground.

"I think it's going to be a rather nice day," the Old Man said, nonchalantly. "Might get a little hot later on."

Fly's cock was getting harder. He bent his knees to keep them from buckling. The Old Man raised his arms behind his head and leaned back, gazing at Fly's nervously twitching face.

"What can I do for you, big boy?" he hissed, smirking lewdly, spreading his legs and stretching them out. His box was a small mountain, capped with a patch of white-worn denim. He

wriggled his hips, but refrained from feeling himself up. It wasn't necessary. Fly's eyes began ravishing his whole body more boldly, not missing a single detail.

The Old Man stroked around the large lump that extended down his right leg, like a flashlight shoved in his pocket. One of those big muthas, the kind that takes six regular batteries. Had the man been here all night, waiting for him, Fly mused, not daring to accept the reality of that … that growing mound. He drove his eyes away, shifting into a lower gear of thought.

He noticed the hard little peaks poking from the front of the Old Man's t-shirt. He had a sudden, powerful desire to see those nipples in the flesh. "Do you have large nipples?" he asked, with a catch in his throat. The pecs looked well-defined; the tummy flat . .

The Old Man chuckled and ignored the question. "Sex keeps me thin," he said instead. "And I work out very hard."

Fly was succumbing to the tremendous aura this man cast… ly was teasing his nipples with the split-slick tip of the dildo. A long strand of saliva still connected his mouth to the roving prong. Fly's lips were red and moist, and each time he breathed between them he caught a whiff of the pungent, oozing rubber.

"You want to make it with me?" the Old Man whispered, practically cooing the words.

There. It was out. It was time.

"I think so," Fly stammered slowly. "You have to know, shithead."

"…c-c-c-can't you tell?"

"When I think you're ready, I'll come after you."

"I'm ready now…please?" A pause. Then: "Turn around."

Fly did as he was told. He felt the edge of a hot hand slide into the crack of his ass and dig into it. The Old Man watched incredulously as half his hand disappeared, and the tight blue jeans molded two very large buns, round and plump.

Fly felt an arm snake between his legs—a hand encompass his box and begin to squeeze.

'Wait a min-" he started to protest. The hand squeezed harder, mashing his nuts. And before he knew what was happening , he was jitterbugging forward, in the direction of the Old Man's car. He pranced and careened, doing crazy steps dictated by the powerful hand mauling his balls. When they reached the car, the Old Man said: "Open the back door." He did so, and was rudely shoved into the back seat. The Old Man got in front, and they drove off.

A few feet down the road, the Old Man adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could see Fly in the back seat. "Now start stripping," he ordered. "What?" Fly blurted, breathing hard from his recent exertion.

"I want you bare-assed in that back seat in one minute, buster. And as you peel off each piece, give it to me!"

"Insane," Fly muttered, but did as he was told, a curious excitement creeping over him. He quickly took off his t-shirt and handed it over to the Old Man. The Old Man threw it out the window.

Fly didn't even notice. He was too busy with his pants. They were driving down a main thoroughfare and his clothes were being chucked out the window as fast as he could get them off. 42 DRUMMER

In one minute flat, he was naked as a jaybird. And his clothes were gone.

"That's much better," the Old Man mewed mellowly, his voice growing husky as he looked over the hulking mass of virile manhood sprawled on his back seat. He reached into the glove compartment and removed a fairly slender, bright red dildo, ten inches long, and capped with a fat, round, deep-purple head. Along with a small tub of vaseline, he handed the fierce, vulgar-looking pal back to Fly. "If you want me to take you home and fuck you, mister, you're gonna have to bury that thing up your asshole any way you can and leave it there until we get where we're goin'. You understand? But, first, I want to watch you play with it. Pretend it's what I got here for ya between my legs. Make it good. And look at me while you're doin' it."

Fly held the soft rubber cock gingerly. It reeked strongly of rectal mucous. God only knows where this has been, he thought to himself. It felt sexy in his hands. The odor aroused a sharp, primitive desire in his loins. He pressed it to his chest and rolled it back and forth through the dark, matted hair between his tits. His nipples started to tingle and grow erect. He sank down a little in the seat. The warm dong rode up his chest; the big purple head banged him under the chin. He looked up into the smiling face of the Old Man in the rearview mirror. Their eyes locked, and held. The Old Man's look was one of unquestionable possession. He knew exactly where they were going …and Fly knew he was going to be taken all the way there, in style. The passing world outside was shut off by his mounting, galloping mania, his attention captured fully now by the insolent but arousing matter in hand. The Old Man said nothing, but somehow his eyes were directing Fly, telling him what to do, and how to perform it.

Fly raised the flared dickhead to his lips and kissed it, stroking the shaft with his fingers. He stuck out his tongue and rested its tip just beneath the split of the glans. He drew the knob into his mouth and closed his lips over the deep ridge at the back. "Ummmmmmmm!" he burbled. The Old Man's eyes gleamed encouragingly. Fly rolled the head in his mouth, licking and dragging on it; tasting the dank, keen funk of ass and latex mixed. Fly pondered impassively how many butt holes the dong had soaked in, imbedding each one's distinctive lubes in its thousands of pores.

As he continued knob-jobbing, holding the red shaft by its end with one hand, he began fingering his tingling anus with the other; frigging the virgin pucker prudently, almost reverently , working feverishly to prime it for the rigorous invasion he knew must follow. His belly growled in sympathy, and immediately filled with gas. Hunger gnawed his guts, and he broke wind several times, loud and long, mewling helplessly around the plug between his gumming lips. He lifted his feet up, resting his heels on the top of the front seat. He slowly spread them further apart. He slid his back down flat on the seat. His legs were bent now, and his ass was riding high in the air. The Old Man's view in the mirror was filled with hairy ass and crotch muscle. He reached up and stroked a finger lovingly over the wrinkled brown pout centered in his mirror, nearly lost in the circle of hair growing around it. The Old Man decided he would have to shave the shaggy bung. He liked his fresh-fucked holes smooth, saucy…glistening with goo, the stretched, swollen lips pursed free.

Fly was teasing his nipples with the split-slick tip of the dildo. A long strand of saliva still connected his mouth to the roving prong. Fly's lips were red and moist, and each time he breathed between them he caught a whiff of the pungent, oozing rubber. He was ready for penetration. His whole body quivered in his stirrup-like position. It was time to move forward onto the horn of the saddle. He pushed up with his feet, raising his ass up still more …

He laid the dildo on his heaving chest, and reached for the tub of vaseline. He squeezed some onto the fingers of one hand and smeared it around. Reaching between his wide-splayed

legs, he probed into his strained, virgin anus with the middle finger. He sank it home easily up to the last knuckle. His thighs bucked with the sudden intrusion. He wheezed, feeling the indignant internal muscles chomp down on his finger with a vengeance. He felt like he had been punched in the belly. He sucked in his abdomen and crooned with pleasure as his insides continued attacking the buried digit. He wiggled his finger and rotated it in slow, widening circles, dilating the sphincter. He carefully inserted another finger alongside the already entrenched one. His hips jerked and boogied. With two fingers up his ass, he felt impacted.

He gritted his teeth and steadied his jumping thighs. He closed his eyes, and imagined he was dealing some stovepipe stud-service to his lover. His ass began rocking gently up and down. He kept his fingers firmly hilted. He opened his eyes and watched his hand riding between his legs. His big balls were crushed against the inside of one leg, his huge erection jounced freely, rubbing along his hairy forearm in dubbing motion. Every time his ass rode down, he could see the Old Man's darting eyes, looking to the road, then furtively back to the action that filled his mirror. He winked at the Old Man and turned his head to the side, smiling and moaning softly.

Fly stroked his body with an idle hand. He took the rolling dildo and stuck it back in his mouth. He grinned broadly, revealing the garish head of the thing clenched between his teeth. His asshole was on fire; the tender inner tissue rippled around his fingers, then gripped and sucked. He burped his flittering hole the same way he drained his lover's distentions after a long night of balling, to release the bubbling load he had clogged his channel with. He spread his holstered fingers apart and excused a long string of windy, whistling poops. He with-drew before poking them back into his smarting sumphole. He frigged steadily now, in and out, tick-tocking his hips in easy grinding rhythm.

"Hey! God damn! I say, God…damn! What have I been missing?" Fly gurgled dreamily, shoving the plunger to the back of his throat; stroking his slot with frenzied, jabbing lunges. "Man! Let's make this one last!"

He finger-fucked his shimmying ass with continuous squelching digs, kneading his torso with a spastic, abusive hand, tilting his head way back to allow the thrumming cudgel deeper into his yielding craw. As his virgin anus relaxed and accepted the pistoning fingers more easily, he had the inevitable urge for even wider entry. His narrowing vision caught sight of the remaining inch or so of unconsumed shaft still protruding from his pouting lips…hmmmm!

He plucked his fingers quickly from his gasping asslips, leaving them twitching in shock. He slid the priapus from his slobbering mouth, letting his clutching lips drag slowly, enticingly down the gnarled shaft. The Old Man's eyes sparkled with glee.

He popped the head free with a tight, wet "ummmp!" and shoved the dripping indecency immediately between his legs.

It was in him before he realized the rashness of the act. His painfully expanded sphincters jacked him suddenly back to his senses. His swollen lips howled open in a silent, stunned gasp. He stared at the Old Man in a wide-eyed blur. The Old Man nodded a gentle reassurance.

Fly abandoned the partially sunk playdong and began tweaking both his throbbing tits. His crotch twinged seismically and caved in, then clenched about the reaming intruder with a determined strangle-hold; seizing it possessively, permanently.

Fly's ass humped erotically, every muscle in his flexing loins pumping, pulsing, revolving in electric tension. He was grumbling with boisterous helplessness. The powerful contraction centered in the lower half of his body seemed to last forever. But, finally, when it began to ease, he was ready. He ripped his fingers from his raw nipples, lowered a hand between his flopping legs, and …

With one shivering, almighty grunt, buried the last inch up his retching rectum. His anus quivered and almost sighed as it gulped shut over the rounded hilt of what the ad had called: "a cherry-buster-feels like the very first time." Fly moaned and

wanted to scream his rapture to the world. Soon, he would be screeching with pleasure.

The Old Man kneaded the great corded muscles in Fly's neck. "Oooooh. I want to feel you up, baby. All over. Play with your balls. Finger-frig your hole. Watch you take a bath. Watch you work out. Give you a massage. Shave your entire body. Soak you in milk. Rub you down with warm, scented oils. Bind you into a pretzel and explore your orifices with my tongue. Then partially set you free and fuck you until you can't stand."

The Old Man felt Fly stiffen and turn to stone in his arms. He backed away slightly and looked into Fly's face with concern. What he saw there was a slack-mouthed, bug-eyed pale of incredulity creeping slowly over Fly's features, like a mask falling.

Fly was staring at something behind them. The Old Man whirled around, and—his hands flew to his mouth—he bit his fingertips and shivered with uncontrollable fury.

NO! HE'S MINE!" the Old Man bellowed, near tears.

"Not this time, Old Man." Virgil, who had just come up from the cellar, now leaned in the doorway and folded his arms with quiet calm. He was totally naked. And aroused. His bulky forearm of cock twitched at half-mast; his knees were bowed with the effort of holding it up. The thick slabs of abdominal muscle strained and hardened like sheets of slate beneath the busy clumps of hair. His bald noggin shone as though gold-plated. His look was pure steel. His over-all appearance was absolutely satanic. There would be no denying this man. He was after a soul.

"We can share!" The Old Man held his palms forward in supplication.

I want him alone."

"But …

"The Boy was by. I warmed him up for you. He's in the woods behind the house. Wants to play Pony Express. Don't keep him waiting."

"Sheeit! Fly here's cherry."

"Fly here is a man. Not a piece of meat. I take care of the men in this house.

The Old Man looked aghast at Fly, then at Virgil's pecker, then back at Fly. "I'm sorry," he muttered to Fly. "But he's good. It won't hurt for long. And then…" The Old Manshook his head. "May God give you strength. Or a new ass." And with that, the Old Man patted Fly on the shoulder, shrugged at Virgil, turned and left the room.

During this entire exchange, Fly had not once removed his eyes from Virgil's great boom of meat, the gaping eye of which stared directly back at him. And the word "impaled" never left his mind.

"See somethin' you like, mister?"

Fly's sphincter gasped and gave birth to a ten-inch, steaming, bright red baby, all slick and shiny with rectal afterbirth-its garish purple head tilted back, the flaring glans yowling silently with a life of its own. It plopped on the floor between Fly's fidgeting feet, splattering his lower legs.

Virgil lurched with surprising grace from the doorway. He kept his knees bent, and had to let his shoulders droop backwards so that his hips thrust forward, spearing the room with his sex, dominating, dwarfing everything in its path.

"Well…well…well." Virgil reached out and filled his hand with a dense slat of pubescent pec. "You're going to be quite a handful," he teased, flicking his thumb over the fleshy, hardening tit, watching Fly jerk away, gulping open-mouthed. "But manageable.'

Fly stared, mesmerized by Virgil's cumbersome, somehow upright erection. Virgil was standing at least three feet away, yet the stout, dark helmet of cut meat seemed to bob within touching distance of his quaking, rippling abdomen. The hot flesh burned his grasping fingers as he struggled to stretch them around the terrible thing. He stroked the wide worm reverently with trembling, flicking fingers. The great extension flinched and flapped against the palm of his hand, looking for a new home.

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Virgil watched Fly's expressions closely, giving the man all the time he needed to contemplate savage surrealisms and all the frightfully wondrous things this dream, or death wish, could do to him…was going to do to him…and make him do.

"Do you mind—if I sit down a minute? I feel a little dizzy."

"Take it easy, guy. We got all day."

Virgil leaned forward and gently pressed his lips into Flys'. The warm, silky contact jolted Fly violently. He stepped forward quickly, lifting Virgil's cock up between them. His chest slammed against Virgils'. He grabbed Virgil by the arms to keep their bodies from rebounding. His broiling breath gushed into Virgil's mouth and back out his nose, clearing his sinuses and searing his taste buds.

Virgil pulled back and studied Fly's face intensely. "Hmmmmm?" he smiled, sliding his fingers up the back of Fly's head, losing them in the thick, rich softness there.

Fly allowed himself to be pulled slowly back onto Virgil's face, opening his mouth wide and flexing his lips with ungodly desire. One more step…his cock slid between Virgil's legs, buried by the balls…he removed his hand…his abdomen humped, and…he felt like Hercules…trying to destroy the temple…with his loins.

Their heads waged a fierce, flaming battle, their mouths struggling to lock in combat. At times, suctioning too powerfully to break the hold, their faces stretched outward, locked by the lips, one trying to tear the others' off. Rubbing noses. Snorting the sweet steam. Lapping. Sucking tongues. Eating the high cheekbones and prominent chins. Spit-slicking eyebrows. Licking. Devouring each other's spirit; dragging it up from the depths of their souls. Using their tongues as probes. Exploring noses. Ears. Teeth. Slurping the oral mean. Giving head. Their big bodies impressed as one, unmoving, only the gasping, sputtering heads bobbing and colliding round and round. Vir-gil felt the hot salami between his legs and squeezed it in a vice. Fly felt Virgil rearing up his torso…and it touched his heart…like a great serpent god.

And so, the day wore on…

Virgil strutted awkwardly about the house, tidying up, performing small, inconsequential tasks and menial chores, reaching down occassionally to fondle his perpetual hardness. Fly followed behind on hands and knees, face conveniently at crotch-level. A curtain of drool connected his parted, slathering lips, the tip of his tongue puncturing the veil whenever Virgil touched himself so lovingly, so intimately petting the object of Fly's obsession. Virgil would pass in front of Fly several times, drawing deliberately close enough for Fly to inhale the enchanting effluvium of his sex, until Fly grew pale and faint with passion; and then Virgil would press the oozing noggin against the patient, snapping lips and utter the words Fly wanted so desperately to hear: "Eat me," feeding the whole unearthly thing to him in one neck-wrenching plunge. Then withdrawing completely, his cock streaming with Fly's hot gruel, and continuing with his housework while he interrogated Fly with personal questions about his private life, sounding calm and collected as though nothing had happened.

Fly's throat guzzled and spasmed constantly now, even when the interminable truncheon wasn't packed into it. He burped and smacked his lips. All he could smell and taste was cock. He followed the upthrust icon about the room on hands and knees with a febrile gluttony that bewildered, alarmed and consumed him totally. His jaw dropped down like a trapdoor every time

Virgil came within five feet of him.

Virgil teased him unmercifully. "Say ah," he would grin wickedly as he approached Fly; then laugh and walk away. leaving Fly gaping helplessly, foolishly. But he would stop frequently enough, exploring Fly's head thoroughly inside and out with his awesome dribbling dork, sporadically allowing Fly to suck its full length for a few dizzying moments before cruelly taking it away again.

The long afternoon wore on …

They kissed. Fly sucked greedily, filling his lungs before each might swallow. They made small talk, and looked at dirty maga- mummy dearest

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zines. They even watched a primitive little French film that showed two skinny, hairless boys with long, snake-like cocks fucking each other, plowing each other's holes with endless, monotonous rhythm. Fly would apply one eye to whatever was put before him, while he carefully, furtively kept an eye on Virgil's naked, roving, looming, prowling presence, holding himself primed for any unexpected encounter. He had memorized every inch of the monster meat, and tried to explore its most interesting features with his tongue each time he was allowed to ingest it: the particularly evil-looking ridge, more like a scar, about halfway down; a clustered band of stud-like bumps near the hilt; the thick, smooth veins that curled like ropes all around the shaft—a beautiful donkey dick with more points of interest than a tourist trap, and Fly struggled to map each one indelibly in his mind, knowing it would come in handy later on when he was trying to figure out how far the thing was inside him, and how much more of it he could take up his tight ass. If that day ever came…

Virgil carried the long, rectangular mirror from the bureau in his bedroom to the living room. He ordered Fly to kneel in front of him so that he could see his own reflection, and proceeded to explore Fly's oral and thoracic anatomy with his deep space probe.

"Look at yourself," Virgil chided. "Have you ever seen a prettier sight? Now watch." And Virgil would slowly haul his ponderous peter out of Fly's throat, making Fly's eyes water when the bulbous, flared head barely squeezed through the bend at the back of his mouth. And Fly would watch bug-eyed, as his spreading, smoldering lips, pouting obscenely around the bloated meat-whistle slid over the bumps and veins, molding around them perfectly, gliding tightly, distorting the taut, yawning grip ever so slightly, making the muscles in his face ripple and flutter, his cheeks hollow. He whimpered with excitement as he continued to watch through bleary eyes what Virgil's withdrawing dick was doing to his handsome features. It was indeed a beautiful sight! When his painfully distended lips neared the great nude glans, Fly drew his shoulders back and extended his neck forward, relaxing the muscles in preparation for another explosive, reaming swallow…but the words "eat me" never came. The fat head plophed free of his gumming lip-lock once again, and he was dragged stumbling to his feet.

Fly looked up shyly. His own untouched erection hadn't abated much since the morning. It ached with a prickling numbness, with a definite desire to be hard, to be seen, to proclaim his manhood. But not to be aggressive. His stance mimicked Virgils', although it wasn't necessary. Fly's enormous long legs and powerful thighs would support even Virgil's incredible extension. He wanted to match Virgil's bravado; his arousal. Prove himself worthy of this moment. He wasn't scared. Only wary…his larynx had felt the length and girth of this man. Could his ass?

Come along. I want to show you something." Virgil took matters by the horn and led Fly towards the basement. He realized if he waited for Fly to plead the way, they would never advance beyond the oral stage, and he was in need of some exercise very, very badly. Playtime was over.

They entered the cellar through a door at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as they were inside, Virgil turned and locked the door.

"Wait for me over there," he indicated the general center of the room. "I'll be right with you, big boy."

Fly stepped onto a wrestling mat of professional size that covered the center portion of the floor, and padded to one end of it. He looked around. The furnishings were spartan. Over in the far left corner was a sink with a low cabinet sitting next to it. There was a big pan and a few jars on top of the cabinet. Near the back wall was a low table. And that was all. All that was noticeable. There were no windows, but the air was cool, and Fly felt a draft from somewhere ruffle the hair on his legs.

He waited expectantly…

(To be continued)

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IHE LEATHER NOTEBOOK by Larry Townsend

Dear Larry,

In ref: Letter number one in Drummer 85, from C., Florida, about the catheter scene. I've found a new twist, using a round ball-chain like the one used to hold the plug for a bathtub. I sterilize it in a pressure cooker, then push it into the urethra, down to the prostate, then lightly jerk off to a great climax. But don't pull it out too soon, as all valves are closed. Go slowly. It bends every which way and doesn't injure anything inside. (It's about twelve inches long.) Thanks, just had to share this.

Master Ringo, WI

Dear Ringo,

For many years I refused to sell catheters , because I was afraid someone would hurt himself with one. Then I realized that without genuine catheters being available, guys were shoving all sorts of weird devices up their dicks, and subjecting themselves to far greater potential danger. Your comment only enhances my previous conclusion. Those chains are plated; if the plating flakes, you've had it. To say nothing of the possibility of the chain breaking inside you.

I can think of several other dire results, but it's your dick. Enjoy it while you've got it.

Dear Mr. Townsend:

In your response to "Puzzled" (Drummer 84) you speak of involuntary servitude and the fact that both Master and slave can ask for termination (freedom ) in regard of our societal laws. The true Master / slave relationship, although rare, is based on voluntary servitude and usually a Master cannot get rid of the slave no matter how hard he tries. But, a true Master with a true slave would not envision freedom at all; they both endeavor to perfect their commitment together for life.

I find it ironic that so many pushy bottoms are looking for a "real" Master. By their attendant attitude they are begging for a bruising. They deserve whatever happens to them! Hopefully nothing. They deserve frustration, an empty life and no release or fulfillment. Most of them are all talk, anyway, and are sub- missive only to what they are into…real pussy slaves. Don't you feel they should be taken up on their challenges to teach them some respect? Afterwards, they can be discarded, being the piles of shit they really are-no real slaves at all.

A true slave is worthy of a Master's love; all else is pig's scum.

Iron Rose, San Francisco

Dear Rose.

In a way I agree with you, in that a guy has no business calling himself a slave if he isn't willing to assume all the elements inherent in the role. However, for the most part I am called upon to answer questions for the would-be slave, and when I do this I am ever hopeful that I am addressing my answer to a man with some degree of potential. Perhaps I retain a more optimistic attitude than you; at least I hope so.

Dear Larry,

For some time I have been very interested in the uniforms worn during World War II by Nazi soldiers and the SS. Can you tell me where I might find some of these uniforms (even reproductions)?

B.B., Irving, TX

Dear B.B.,

What am I becoming, the local shopping service? But I have to admit some fascination with these materials, more with the brass and insignia than with the actual uniforms, however. In the United States, I have seen various items at large swap meets (these are groups specializing in WWII memorabilia), and in dusty corners of second-hand shops that specialize in war souvenirs. If you don't mind getting your name on their mailing list, the various "American Nazi Party" groups also run ads in their local publications for people offering the items for sale. You won't find them sold openly in Germany, but I have seen quite a few items in London. There is one shop that specializes in them, plus a number of dealers who hawk their wares at the Por-tobello Road flea market. I've also seen some at the Nastmarkt in Vienna. Almost any large city has costume rental com-panies , and they will usually have reproductions of many uniforms. If they won't sell them to you, they might put you on to their supplier.

Dear Master Larry,

I am a bottom, and really into "ass stuffing ." I've stuffed almost anything you can think of, and I've never had any real problem while it's in or in getting it out. However, I have recently come into possession of some steel balls, in graduated sizes. I've used the smaller ones, but would like to try the largest. This is a little over three inches in diameter. I've taken things that are this big before, but the object has always been something that protruded from my ass so I could get hold of it and pull it out. I know I can get this ball in, but my question is how to make sure I can get it out. I don't want to end up in the hospital emergency ward and have to explain how it got up there in the first place.

Can you help me?

John, Tallahassee, FL

Dear John.

If you were to end up in the hospital emergency room, the doctor would probably use an anal speculum (one of those steel, duck-nosed dilators) to get it out. I don't like to recommend do-it-yourself medical treatment, but these devices are available from several toy suppliers. If your ass is as loose as it sounds, you might also do the job with a good dose of castor oil. Just don't sit on the john when you're ready to drop the bomb. New toilet bowls are expensive.

Dear Larry,

I know you don't like to write about AIDS, but I just have to ask you if the information I got was right. A local health counselor told me that sucking cock was not really dangerous if you spit out the load instead of swallowing it, and immediately rinse your mouth with a good antiseptic mouthwash. I'm only 24, and in perfect health. I don't even smoke or use drugs, so I don't want to fuck myself up.

Young and Healthy, NYC

Dear Young,

The procedure suggested by your advisor is partially correct, and is certainly better than merely sucking and swallowing. However, this is not a sure-fire protection. Research has not yet determined how fast the body can absorb the virus. All you would need would be a tiny cut or sore in your mouth, maybe a spot along the gum where you brushed too hard, or where you nicked the inside of your mouth in chewing or in your sleep. Nor is there any firm proof that you can't simply absorb the virus through the mucous membranes in the mouth. Stomach acid will destroy the virus, but saliva will sustain it. If you're going to spit it out anyway , why not stop short of your partner's orgasm? Many brochures on AIDS list sucking without ejaculation as "possibly safe," while swallowing semen is "unsafe."

That's the best I can gather from all the advice I've received and all the mountains of paper I've read. When you come right down to it, no one is 100% sure of anything, so if I err in the advice I give, it is always to the side of extra precaution.

(If you would like to have Larry Townsend address a particular problem or issue, you can write him via Leather Notebook, Drummer, 640 Natoma Street, San Francisco, CA 94103.)

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DECIMINATIVA MOVIES

BUDDIES: PASSION ON A DEADLINE

Arthur J. Bressan, Jr.'s Buddies is the first effort to delineate on film what is only reluctantly being incorporated into the 1980's definition of gay identity: AIDS. Buddies hits AIDS head on, harpoons the quivering corner of our psyches concerned with basic survival, hangs in there til it punctures the fairy tales-sometimes rough, sometimes smooth, often on a totally subliminal level-and then binds up a great many wounds, including those you didn't know you had, in a couple of swift, heartrending and gladsome strokes.

AIDS. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Again,

AIDS.

I thought I might as well start out with that and get rid of the burnt-out (desensitized), the coward (hypersensitive) and the closetcase (unconscious) right off the bat. Once in a lavender moon, a personal film illuminates the increasingly polluted homosphere. It draws new strength and special courage from its audience, and returns it in spades. I recommend Buddies with all my heart and whatever skills I possess , but not under false pretenses . Buddies is "about" AIDS. Its fiction is that one crucial step off the documentary that means you can't step back and look "objectively" at someone else's "story." If it doesn't engage on one emotional level-like the weather-it'll shift around without warning and get you on another.

But AIDS-and dying, and helping-is at its soul, and stripped bare. There's a "tired old phrase," as one of Buddies' two characters labels the other's nostalgia for the flag-flying days of pride and rage and joy. of indiscriminate jism and spontaneous gay combustion: "If you ain't part of the solution…

Fine. They're gone. Now let's get down to the movie.

What it's about is two guys who don't even like each other to start with. If they'd met under casual social circumstances (an unlikely proposition , considering their incompatible appetites), it would have been sneer at first sight.

Instead, it's an all-out confrontation-with gloves on (plus mask and gown)- between strangers in a hospital room. In less than 30 seconds of the first scene, both characters have leaped to third impressions , solidified their social prejudices and swapped points-of-view without a spoken word. Visually, the terrifying apparition of a sickroom visitor in full contagion regalia is shouting Unclean!

DRUMMER 79

Unclean! as it advances upon a prone and vulnerable victim; its a formless, tasteless, flaunting , obscene image—superior, invulnerable, unapproachable . It's enough to give even the most optimistic patient the willies, but he gets a touch of the sillies instead.

And no wonder. I he dispos able get-up draped on David Bennett (David Schachter), volunteer Florence Nightingale from the Gay Center, resembles a pinafore leftover from Judy's Wizard wardrobe. His eyes are round and bright with fear and wonder. The hostile response from patient Robert Willow (Geoff Edholm) is deeply tinged with amusement , and his (and the film's) opening phrase is a scatological variation on the Caterpillar's of Alice-of-Wonderland fame: "Who the fuck're you!"

They will spend the rest of their screen-lives asking that rhetorical question of each other in every way they can. It's their way of struggling into love.

Through David's black irises, we look at a still sun-drenched son of California, weakened, to be sure, but overflowing with disconcerting juices, full of flouted conventions, un-chic politics, irrepressible curiosity , impudent humor and odd-ball spontaneity. The guy can't even take dying seriously!

Via Robert's penetrating vision, we see an uptight, self-righteous , complacent, passive , desk-bound, conformist know-it-all, a pippin off the Big Apple who's a mere 25 to Robert's own experienced 32—a bedroom gay who thinks being up-front out is "tacky," and discussing one's sex life, much less anyone else's, is positively perverted.

The story is plural, a multiple focus (them and us) all the way, though it's David's thoughts we hear reading his journal aloud, and David's present-day actions we see outside the hospital room relating to a number of vital off-stage characters . The deep focus on Robert's worsening physical condition never wavers, yet is rarely looked at directly. If anything , the threat of a deadline to their relationship accelerates its growth, forces a painful and self-conscious honesty, and places a priceless value on 80 DRUMMER

All the unacknowledged complications, the silent barriers , are there. There is such a thing as safesex, but no safe passion.

David is as jealous of Robert's past potent promiscuity , freedom and experiences as Robert is of his new friend's simply being hale and whole. Anger bares its fangs: towards Robert for not being rescuable, for being too easy to be fond of; towards David for not taking advantage of his health and appreciating the future, for not being the absent lover. Resentment rises simply out of David's being able to go to a place called home; or out of Robert's ability to embarrass . One is open to rage, the other to guilt. There is not time for justifying or rationalizing what is happening, and the few months snap by in swift, vignette encounters, cutting through the cobwebs of myth that obscure their feeling for one another.

Buddies is pervaded with eroticism of the truest and most painful kind-sexual frustration-released in one shattering scene which requires David's participation to make an empty jack-off into an intense emotional coupling ("my cock came," Robert whispers of his previous solo tries, "but I didn't"). What the French call "the little death" suddenly becomes the better part of its big brother. Flowers and candy, a friendly face and an attentive ear—even a library of video porn-are all very well, but when it comes down to it, there's nothing like a little help from a buddy.

(Needless to say, there is a glaring message here to those who make and keep the evil rules, to those who deny both the existence and practice of sexuality-much less homosexuality -to those who need it most, to whom it is the best, most natural, and incidentally cost-less, pain reliever of them all.)

If we must look only at two characters, Geoff Edholm and David Schachter, as Robert and David, are choice casting. Both are uniquely, unconventionally photogenic. As different as their personalities are-beyond the blond and brunet color differentiations-both have a high tolerance for the close-range lens. The camera can explore an entire continent of expressions on Edholm's face; its broad angles and clean planes are under the control of an actor who can evoke emphasis from the most fractional movement, particularly of the large, wide-set, sea-blue eyes and generous, sensual mouth with a most beguiling smile. Beneath the bedcovers and below the sculptured facade is a supple, compact swimmer's body, seen in snapshots, video flash-back and fantasy sequences. By contrast, Schachter's physical appeal is held in reserve, long after the initial fancy-dress is disposed of. It is no mean talent that transforms a man poised to flee into an obstinate fighter, or one with a stony onyx glare and pursed lips into another, as equally liquid and adorable. It is Schachter-the esthete rather than the athlete-who can bear the exposure of an extreme and undistorted close-up.

As Buddies concerns AIDS, so are its characters uncompromisingly , unpretentiously gav: Men with a single-minded sexual preference (drive, choice , propensity and whatcha-macallit ) for other men. These are the "givens" of the film, as is the bald fact that AIDS is no more a "gay disease" than the Nazi holocaust had a natural affinity for its victims. In Buddies , the stigma of being gay is linked with the stigma of dying-natural processes in the specific, and the general.

As to the movie being "depressing" (that catch-all, peculiarly American phrase for anything heavier than Film At 11), I won't bother defining dramatic catharsis again. Apart from its messages (as subtle as possible under the urgent circumstances ), Buddies has the power of an earth-tremor, a small but essential psychological safety-valve, allowing the massive emotional tectonic plates under immense pressure to shift, create a moment's space for sorrow, and settle into new stability. You get better leverage from solid ground.

Buddies is Arthur J. Bressan, Jr.'s concept, script, direction and editing. Bressan is a magician with nothing up his sleeve, a minimalist and montage artiste with no special effects, no misdirection, a minimum of props (and financial backing), and only one mirror-the audience. He employs the greatest disguise device of all (as he did with a previous film, the devastating Abuse): universal emotional reality softened , only around the edges, with a dash of rarified romanticism , shorn of sentimentality and slop, and a sprinkling of laughter. With a minimum of subtitling, Buddies will elicit the same response from an audience in Boise as in Berlin or Bombay.

Carl Teitelbaum's cinematography is clean, clear and close (like the dialog, where what is left out is equally intriguing), evoking intimacy without claustrophobia. The scenes cut in slowly to start, telegraphing the worst of the trauma and leaving room for complex reactions; then the pace picks up rapidly and sprints to a series of multiple climaxes. Underpinning pace and mood is a string quartet sound track in the contemporary classical mode (New York Salon, performing a mix of Debussy and original score by Jeff Olm-stead ). Souvenirs from earlier Bressan films turn up unexpectedly in the background, always pertinent to the action: like a clip of Robert Adams in Passing Strangers prefiguring the sensuous agony and ecstasy of a safe-sex rendezvous nearly a decade ago; a familiar trip down a flight of stairs that Michael Christopher first made in Juice; or artifacts from San Francisco days of Milk and roses and Gay USA.

Buddies glowed steadily in San Francisco's landmark Cas-tro Theater at its September 12 gala World Premiere. About 1300 attended the Frameline-sponsored benefit for Shanti Project. Distributed by New Line, it followed up with a two-week run at the Roxie Cinema (fortuitously paired with a wise, witty, tongue-in-both-cheeks Canadian short, David Roche Talks To You About Love). Openings in New York, Boston, Chicago, Atlanta, Dal-las , Los Angeles and other major cities are planned—but you'll need to search them out: Buddies is not likely to find a theatrical home in LittleTown, USA. If you haven't got a buddy, see it with a load of loving strangers.

—Penni Kimmel

DRUMONOHOWA BOOKS

DO I SMELL HOME COOKIN'?

Now that the expanding market for gay writing has grown to embrace generic staples from mysteries and romance to science fiction (not to mention the boom in porn-as -literature), it seems we're finally ready for what the mainstream critics for decades have alternately praised and shunned as "regional writing ." Regional, of course-given the provincial prejudices of the East and West Coasts (where most publishing and "gay culture" are based)—usually refers to writing from the South and Southwest. The writer dealing with his life in New York or San Francisco is presumed to be speaking of universal matters; the writer who talks about

Atlanta or New Orleans or Houston is presumed to be somehow more confined and exotic.

Nonetheless, most gay readers across the country are likely to find more relevance to their own experience in the two books reviewed here than in the works of Edmund White or Andrew Holleran. That's one reason that both Lars Eighner, writing from Austin, Texas, and Roy F. Wood, a Georgia boy to the core, are especially noteworthy. Another reason is that they're both damn good storytellers.

Wood's first collection of short stories is Restless Red-necks : Gay Tales of a Changing South (Grey Fox Press, paper, 160 pp., $7.95; by mail from Subco, PO Box 10233, Eugene, OR 97440, $8.95). Wood has been quietly, prolifically turning out short fiction for numerous gay magazines over the last five years. (His most popular piece for Drummer, "The Conquering Strength," appeared in issue 74; with its Latin American setting , it doesn't appear in Red-necks , but will hopefully show up in a future, "nonregional" anthology.)

Roy F. Wood is the voice of the rural recluse, the gay loner, the Southern outsider. The men in his stories are rugged, sharp, fiercely independent and sometimes fiercely lonely; strangers in a very strange land of spitfire preachers, restless rednecks and sweet, secret longings. Wood's most eccentric tales are odd little gems of satire and wish fulfillment, apt to strike those who don't know the South as mighty peculiar, apt to strike those of us who've been there as only slightly larger than life.

When he turns his talent to a lower key, he can deliver classically crafted stories that come from the heart; the beautiful "Next Time" captures to perfection the ache of unspoken desire for the man and the moment that slipped away. And when Wood's men do connect (usually against ferocious odds), sparks fly, heroes spring to life, and a Georgia boy's dreams come true.

For this reader, there is perhaps too much space given in Rednecks to Wood's earlier stories dealing with fundamentalist repression. These anti-religious stories have an uncomfortably preachy and obsessive edge, but they do provide a sense of context-you can't realistically paint the South without religious color-and there is a painful

Reviewer Aaron Travis' new book is Slaves of the Empire, a novel from Alternate Publishing.

DRUMMER 83

sincerity in them that often overcomes their awkwardness .

Wood is by and large a sentimental writer. Despite the presence of out-and-out SM in a story like "Masters of the Ceremony," it is his stories of one rugged outsider reaching out to another that deliver the most potent erotic charge. In "A Picture of Rex," an ex-con just out of prison answers a sex ad for "a dominant man"; that's exactly what he is…in bed. But when the time comes to drop the masks, it's the stud con who shows his loneliness and vulnerability in a piercing scene that begs for a happy ending.

Happy endings are what Wood delivers, much to his credit. There is unspoken sadness enough in these stories; tragic endings would only mar their special quality, a combination of sweetness and big-shouldered masculinity without a trace of false bravado . In Restless Rednecks, Wood evokes the best and most wistful qualities conjured up by a much maligned word like "manliness."

Lars Eighner's Bayou Boy and Other Stories (Gay Sunshine Press, PO Box 40397, San Francisco, CA 94140; paper, 158 pp., $7.95/$8.95 by mail) is a frankly amazing combination of authenticity and craft. Authenticity, for the letter-perfect details and atmosphere with which he invests these stories of gay life in the backwaters and cities of Texas; and craft, for the distinctively sparse and cutting writing style that is evolving under his hand.

Like Roy Wood, Eighner is a relatively new writer in the gay market; the previously published stories in Bayou Boy date back only to 1983. But he already stands head and shoulders above most fiction writers in the magazines where he's frequently published (most often Blueboy); partly, no doubt, because of natural talent, but also because he has never fallen into the sloppy habit of writing "sexy" to formula. There is no ghetto mentality in Eighner's work, no pandering. He takes this work seriously. The result is sophisticated, erotic, and more deeply satisfying than readers of, say, Blueboy have 84 DRUMMER much reason to expect.

If I'm stressing a point, it's because I think Gay Sunshine's packaging of Bayou Boy is rather misleading-a Richard White drawing of a svelte young thing in a dog collar and leash flashing a come-hither stare. Yes, there is such a character (sort of), but the cover suggests nothing of the real richness inside. Readers might think they're getting the likes of John Cori-olan or Max Exander; what they're getting is Lars Eighner, which is quite another species of hard-on.

Eigner's eroticism draws its energy from genuine detail and subtle effects; he seldom goes for the tried-and-true porn cliche. (Well, there are a few attacks of monster-dick mania here, notably in the story of Dwight, who "never saw a cock bigger than his own, not for real, not in photographs or movies, and rarely in art"-but even these are given a novel twist.) Mostly Eighner homes in on the tension between wanting and getting, between holding off and shooting, between men who know what they want and men who are afraid of what they've got.

In "Duel," two neighbors (one gay, the other ambiguous ) carry on a strange relationship from opposite sides of the fence, masturbating to each other's moonlit rhythm but never touching. The ritual, the distance and the tension are everything-"but the coming was nothing. Only a twisting aside to the leaves and shadows, a bothersome necessity like stopping to pee on a drunken long walk home."

In "Bertner: Emergency Room" (originally published in Mach), the setting is a Hous-ton emergency ward during a freak blizzard: professional control in the midst of unrelenting pressure, mounting chaos, a whirlpool of blood, shit and guts, and then-"I tossed my towel on the bench and stepped into the shower. I caught Paul in the act. Too weary to react, he looked up at me…'Please, Doctor. Help me. I've been trying for forty-five minutes." Tension, and "the simple deep sound of masculine urgency." The sex is only a few paragraphs of the story, but the pay-off is all the more potent for the build-up that precedes. Lars Eighner likes doing lots of foreplay with his readers, and he's very good at it.

"Biker Boy" is my favorite: "Spyder dropped his duffle bag and jumped up on the porch like an over-excited pup, ready to pee on itself. He started yapping all manner of easy-rider bullshit with bro-this and bro-that and scoots, which is yankee talk for bikes. He told us he rode with the Outlaws and met all the major Angels, but I don't think he would have known a Bandito if one had cruised up and bit his knee." Spyder will rim your ass and jerk you off, but only if it's dark and you pretend to be asleep. He's a phoney, of course; but he's also the Real Thing, if that's what you happen to have a craving for.

A major part of Bayou Boy is a series of related short stories with the linking title "Houston Streets," about a young hustler named Mike. I confess some disappointment with this story-cycle, despite its richness of incident and its ambitiousness. Mike is not a very sympathetic character, and I don't find his predicaments compelling; and Eighner takes advantage of the flexible format to indulge in some (to me, distracting) stylistic cul-de-sacs. But even here, the wealth of detail and the lean prose kept me reading for the unexpected-which kept arriving.

One disclaimer: I grew up in Eighner's Texas, and spent my formative years in his Austin. I suspect I may be particularly attuned to his way with dialogue and nuance-but no sensitive reader can miss the authenticity of his voice, and the utterly real sexuality of his characters. To this Texas boy, Lars Eighner's Bayou Boy smells like home cookin'.

-Aaron Travis

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DETATION ON ON ON AIDEO

WEIRD SCIENCE / HIGH TECH RAUNCH

Adam & Co. made their initial mark on gay video with two beautifully produced and somewhat specialized tapes, Foreskin Fantasy One and Two. Their follow-up efforts, Modern Men, Modern Toys (released earlier this year) and the just-released Outpost, are equally well-mounted productions taking Adam & Co. in a new and ambitious narrative direction.

Modern Men was an incomplete success. It begins in an intriguing context of high-tech video and electronics: Porn star Max Montoya arrives home to a chatty greeting from his secretary-companion -computer, checks his recorded messages (his computer's already handled the callers, and has even arranged an upcoming date for Max-"I remember you liked him"); then settles down to watch himself having sex on tape (a nocturnal poolside tryst with the very hung Mark Rutter). Yes, we beat off while watching Max beating off while watching himself having sex on screen…

An incoming call overrides his circuits. Irritated, Max nonethless switches his video to show the caller—a leather number who proceeds to seduce him with some video / verbal abuse and lots of foreskin play. We beat off while watching them beat off watching each other…

The call ends with an invitation to an orgy. Max accepts. And from there, unfortunately , Modern Men devolves into a long, unfocused and only intermittently interesting sex party. There's a guy in a white mask, a man in a tux, a leatherman in a rope harness, lots of beating off, baby oil, and Daniel Holt. Interesting flashes, but nothing to match the cool, atmospheric promise of the opening-plus a frequently irritating electronic score that sometimes sounds like standing on a runway strip.

Outpost is a more successful effort on all counts. Its premise is equally intriguing and

off-the-wall: an international group of scientists gather in the American desert to search for lost "dilythium crystals," a new and experimental power source. Unlike Modern Man, which was taped almost exclusively in semi-darkness, Outpost is drenched with sunlight. and the on-location desert photography is invigorating. There's a relaxing outdoor quality, from the open-air geodesic dome in which the scientists dwell, to their hikes in the desert and their outdoor showers, to the night scenes, which buzz with the background drone of crickets.

The story in Outpost is what Hitchcock called a "Mac-Guffin "-just an excuse to grab our attention, provide an unusual setting, and get a lot of horny men together. (It seems unlikely that world-class scientists would be called in for what's essentially a scavenger hunt, and more unlikely still that they would all turn out to be gay.)

Max Montoya is again the star, this time as a Stanford professor named Mario Cal-deron . Even before he arrives at the installation, we're shown a cut-away sequence of the group leader (Tom Burns) getting royally screwed by a black scientist (Brad Leatherwood ). Once the whole gang arrives (several mature scientists and a couple of younger assistants), most of the research zeroes in on exploring one another.

The sex here is basically realistic, and generally mutual and warm-no heavy roleplay or wild fetishes. The cast of attractive but "regular" guys is something of a tonic to the bleached-blond gym twinks who dominate a lot of gay video these days. There are no unforgettable heights of passion , but there's also no sense of going-through-the-paces, can-I-have-my-check-now-attitude that shows through in too many videos. No icy, overnight "superstars" here-just real men having real sex. The diversity of the cast allows for numerous combinations-black / white, older / younger, cut / uncut, chunky / wiry, smooth / hirsute.

As in Modern Men, there's a scene of long-distance video-phone sex, when Max phones home to his tattooed, gym-

bodied lover. We watch them beating off while watching each other, while cutting away to various sexy scenes Mon-toya's recently observed among his colleagues. This sex-via-videophone concept seems to particularly intrigue director Thor Johnson.

Modern Men gives us randy men in a high-tech urban environment; Outpost gives us high-tech men in a rustic setting. Both are atmospheric, idyllic, somewhat utopian in their vision of an exclusively gay world intricately con- nected by the promise of state-of-the-art electronics, as well as by good old-fashioned mansex. Sharing a distinctive and unusual vision that sets them apart from most gay video, and giving promise of further interesting experiments , these two videos make interesting companion pieces-though it's Outpost that I'll be returning to for a repeat viewing.

Both Modern Men and Outpost are direct-video, produced by Frank Jeffries and directed by Thor Johnson, and are available from Adam & Co., 7985 Santa Monica Blvd. #109 / 209, Los Angeles, CA 90046. Modern Men: $69. Outpost: $79. Mail orders add $3 per tape. Phone orders or info: (818)502-0616.

-Steven Saylor

One thing you've gotta give to the men of San Francisco's South of Market scene-they're not short on imagination. Or contests. Or men with lots of imagination who want to enter contests, where they can show off their best assets (along with their asses). But, after the first of an apparently ongoing series of "Greasy Jockstrap" contests at the Powerhouse, there may be a shortage of motor oil in the area…

No baby oil for this crowd. Johnson & Johnson it wasn't-try Havoline, or maybe Texaco. We're talking sludge. The kind that snakes down a hairy ridge of abdominals slow as molasses and oozes like sap out of an overstuffed jockstrap. Leaves a dark stain and photos by robert pruzan

Al Parker (dressed like a mechanic, or at least like a few we've met) was on hand to help judge. He's seen a few greasy jockstraps in his day, from both sides of the camera. He could finetune our jockstraps any day. Knows a hell of a lot about piston action and overheated engines. Sonny Cline was there too. He works at the Powerhouse these days, behind the bar. Drop in some time if you'd like to get a look at Mr. Drummer 1984 in the flesh. Powerhouse patrons got to see quite a bit of flesh-it just happened to be Sonny's birthday, as good an excuse as any for Sonny to jump up on the bar and strip all the way down to his birthday suit (well, almost all the way). The kid can't help it. He's a natural performer.

So's Scott O'Hara, who ended up carrying off the honors in the Greasy Jockstrap battle. Ever since he won a Biggest Dick in San Francisco contest a couple of years back, Scott's been trying to live up to that title, and several more. This guy plays no fair. Look at him sticking his thumb in Al Parker's mouth. ("Yech," Al said later, "tastes like Arco!") Get a load (if you can) of him flaunting that floppy beafsteak ("the dick no athletic supporter could contain"). And when Scott bent over to grab a tongue-taste of his own greasy jock, victory was clearly in the palm of his hand…so to speak.

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