DRUMMER FETISHES: FOOT WORSHIP

When, in the words of that hoary old articulation exercise, "Moses supposes his toeses are roses," does he also realize that he makes of himself the pet of the pediphiliac set? Because there, precisely and anatomically, is where the action begins for the dedicated foot fetishist, paying homage to those appendages of man which are in closest and most frequent contact with the earth that affirms all men's basic brotherhood.

To the less liberated among us, thanks to somber ol' Sigmund Freud himself, any brand of fetshism is "abnormality … (which) … may be counted as one of the perversions." Such an atavistic attitude in this day and age should be shelved along with such equally disproven myths as "Masturbation will make your palms hairy" and "Sodomy stunts your growth." Whatever.

Of all fetishes, pediphilia is the one which most requires the performance of a positive act of worship. Art historians verify that in Christian iconography , since the Middle Ages, the human foot has been used as the standard symbol of humility and service . Its origins are found at the Last Supper, when Jesus stripped down and washed the feet of his disciples, instructing them "Ye also ought to wash one another's feet" (John 13:4- 14). Then there was that strange Pharisee woman who washed His feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, and covered them with kisses (Luke 7:38).

Zoologist Desmond Morris, out of his depth in psychology after crassly crossing disciplines into the profitable realm of best-sellerdom, would accuse the above of having been mal-printed at the time of their first sexual experience . Nonsense! And poppycock! There's nothing like a good healthy case of pediphilia to get a kid off the streets and into the john. But, why even waste time on a writer who also flatly states (in The Human Zoo) that the "normal object" of sexual desire is 'a member of the opposite sex"?

It's interesting to note how frequently the foot appears in literature. Robert Browning (sic) seems to have had quite a thing for feet. In Respectability , he coined the phrase "put forward your best foot!" (Tho' Shakes-peare , uncharacteristically more grammatic , exhorts in King John to "Make haste; the better foot before.") But who could improve on Browning's description, in Part X, The Ring and the Book, of the pediphiliac's ultimate scene: "Why comes temptation, but for man to meet / And master and make crouch beneath his foot…"?

In He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, William Butler Yeats confesses "I have spread my dreams under your feet," a romantic image with deep meaning for all unreconstructed foot fetishists, yet hardly in the same league with T. S. Eliot, who, in his masterful The Waste Land fantasizes about those who "wash their feet in soda water" (Part II, "The Fire Sermon"). Examples could be cited endlessly. Just ask the Pope.

The importance of all this to the practicing pediphiliac is that precedence now prescribes he need no longer keep his wont a secret; he can come out of the shoe closet, as it were. Surely so devout an act of "humility and service" merits full disclosure and discussion, and its practitioners especially warrant the respect and gratitude of us all. Few activists offer such equal pleasure to both parties involved, whether entered into as an end in itself or as a prelude to other mutually satisfying undertakings.

If you wish to do your pediphiliac

partner a favor, wear sneakers with no socks and jog a lot, preferably on a well-used bridle path. Good clean sweat and honest dirt combine to provide the kind of challenging treat certain to light up your foot-lover's eyes and moisten his mouth. Nearly all of his senses will become engaged: sight, smell, touch and taste; and the greater the participation of the senses, the greater the heights of passion that may be reached.

The act itself must be done with finesse as well as devotion. First comes the ritual removal of footwear, one at a time, carefully untying laces, gently slipping the backs down and over the heel, pulling forward past the instep, finally revealing the naked toes and tenderly setting the shoe to one side. The foot is next fully massaged by the hands, warming the flesh, kneading and pulling the toes individually from smallest to largest, caressing along the sole and back to the heel, striving to relax any tensions lodged in the Achilles tendon, rotating the whole foot both clockwise and counterclockwise at the ankle.

Ready for climactic moments, the tongue itself is now put to work. Starting again at the tiniest toe, tongue

between the lips, alternately sucking and blowing. And, as with sucking and blowing other things, make sure the teeth don't make contact, for they can utterly destroy the sensuality produced by the licking and sucking. A sensuality , incidentally, that can be heightened by using the hands to massage his calves. After his toes, with special attention having been given to the sensitive spaces between them, the sole of the foot becomes the focus of attention. This area should be laved with long, languishing licks, from toes to heel in one slow and steady motion and then back again, over and over, finishing up with a fluttering and flicking of the tongue across the entire bottom and sides of the foot. The same procedures are repeated on the top of the foot. The hands, perhaps, have now worked their way up to the thighs and … er … whatchamacallums.

A minimum of a quarter-of-an-hour should be spent on each foot if a thorough and satisfying job, resulting in complete arousal, is to be accomplished . Remember that anything worth doing at all is worth doing well. This is particularly true in the world of pedi-philia where, in the final analysis, the whole point is to have a foot in your mouth.

Or wherever.

-Ed Franklin

I know just what you want. And I know exactly how to give it to you.

Ever since I saw you staring at my boots I knew that sooner or later your mouth would be planted on top of these shitkickers. Something in the look in your eyes told me that you wanted to be mastered. That's just what I'm going to do. The minute I spotted you I had a feeling that you'd be spending the rest of the night with your face down around my feet. I can spot a slave a mile away. Even when they strut around and put on a macho act, I can tell that they're thinking up ways to please the next man who snaps his fingers at them. All it takes is the right kind of look, and they're ready to heel; just like you're ready right now. So, instead of wasting any more time with playing silly mind games, why don't you just get down on your knees where you belong.

You look real natural there. That mouth of yours comes right up to where my crotch is. But don't get any ideas that just because your lips are only a few inches away from my dick that you can just reach out and take what you want so desperately. No way. You're going to have to work to get what's in that crotch. And you can start by planting your mouth on those crud-covered boots of mine. There's lots of stale beer piss coating that worn out leather. And before you get to tasting any cock tonight, I want to see those shitkickers shiny from your hot spit. That's it slaveboy, get those boots real clean. I want to know that they've been tongue polished by a hot boot slave. Let me feel that pig tongue of yours lapping up all that recycled slime juice. Then, when you're finished with the right foot, you can start on the left one. It's been a long while since those boots got the kind of attention they deserve. And now that they've got a good pair of slave lips on them, they better wind up looking like they did the day they were bought.

That wasn't too bad for a beginner. With a little experience, I could turn you into a first class boot slave-the kind I'd be proud to loan out to some of my raunchy buddies. I bet you'd really like that. That mouth of yours would be tasting boot polish from sunup to sundown. And when you were through licking up spit-shined leather, maybe I'd let you taste some of my overripe socks. They're real raunchy from being inside those hot shitkickers all day. The fact that they haven't been washed for a whole week should give you some idea of what they're going to smell like. They've got the kind of funk on them that bootboys the whole world over dream about. And I bet you're no different from all those other fuckers who get off on the smell of a man's raunchy sock. So, instead of just lying there like a dog waiting to be kicked, why don't you put yourself to good use and pull off your master's boots. Only do it real slow. I want you to savor everything that is going to be coming your way.

Man, those socks smell like they've been dragged through elephant shit. But then, that's the kind of smell a slave like you deserves to be breathing in. Just wait till you get those shit-kickers all the way off. The best part's on the bottom. That's it, bootbreath. Get those fuckers over the heel. Now, ain't that

something else? I can tell you like it real raunchy. That cock of yours looks like it's ready to burst out of its jock. Why don't you give your master a look at that prick? Man, that's some piece of meat. Too bad it's going to spend the rest of the night buried inside that smelly old sneaker. There's nothing I like more than wrapping my slave's dick inside one of his raunchy Nikes. And those extra long laces are real convenient for tying them around your waist. Maybe when I'm through with that pig mouth, I'll tie the other sneaker onto your face. But right now, I need your mouth. These sweat socks need to be peeled off my feet. Only, doing it with your hands is too damned easy. I want you to pull those socks off with your teeth. And just so you don't get the idea that you'll sneak your hands into the action, I better tie those hands behind your back for good measure.

Man, you sure are one slow fucker. I know half a dozen bootboys who'd have those socks peeled off in half the time it takes you to get them past the ankles. I guess you're going to need plenty of good, hard training before you deserve the right to be called a footman. Now, get that mouth moving. I'm going to count to ten. And if those socks aren't peeled off before I finish, you'll be eating off the floor for the rest of the week. One…two…three…You gotta do better than that…four- …five…Come on fucker. Get a move on…six…All right, now get the other one…seven…eight…What a fucking slowpoke…nine…Man, you don't know how close you came to being turned into a fucking dog.

Now. Pick up those socks with your mouth and start sucking them clean. I want you to get to know how your master's socks taste. If you do a good job maybe I'll reward you by letting you lick my jock off. Come to think of it, maybe I should reward you with my bare feet instead. I could use a good tongue massage. It's been a real long day. And that mouth looks like it's got talents that ain't been discovered yet. So when your finished lapping up that sock juice, you can start working on my toes. They're real anxious to try out that slave mouth of yours.

That's it, slave boy. Get your tongue between my toes. Lick out all that toe jam. It's what you've been wanting for a real long time. Remember all those nights you used to lie in bed, dreaming about how hot it would be to have your master's toes buried down your throat? Well, now's your chance. Open that pig mouth. Stretch it real wide. Now, shove it down on my foot. That's it, fucker, swallow the whole fucking foot. Bury those toes inside that pighole. Work that tongue of yours around that foot. Make love to those toes. Suck on them just like they were a cock. If you do a good job, maybe you'll get to taste your master's prick. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Good, now start on the other foot. I want to feel your spit dripping down on my feet. Just like my cum's going to be dripping down your throat. Take it all, baby. Take every inch of hot manfoot in that mouth of yours. Good boy. Now, I want you to start licking the rest of those size twelves. Get that pig tongue of yours down on the underside. I want your mouth to memorize every inch of your master's foot. Worship it like it was an eight-inch stiffer. There's a pouch full of cock waiting as your reward.

You did real well. I bet that tongue of yours tastes like it just came out of a sewer pipe. Well, as long as it's good and ready we might as well go all the way. This jock of mine's on a par with those stinking sweat socks. There's plenty of crotch sweat inside that elastic. That and more than its share of stale piss mixed in with a couple of heavy cum loads. So, since I'm such a nice guy, I think I'll give you a reward for being such a good bootslave. Yeah, you got it, just lower your head onto my jock. Now, get that pig tongue working on it. You taste all that beer piss? It's the same hot juice you sucked off my boots. Only now you can taste where it came from. You can suck on my dick through my jock and imagine how it would taste with a hot stream of recycled beer pouring down your throat. In fact, why just think about it? Why not do it instead? I know you've been waiting for it, so just clamp your lips around my cockhead and get ready for some bottle feeding.

Damn, you swallow that juice just like it came from a carton. Well, now that you've tasted what's inside that cock, you might as well start working on the meat itself. Only first I think you ought to get a sample of how it tastes through that sock of mine. I can tell that you like the looks of my dick wrapped up in a beat-up old sweat sock. Now, let's see how well you like the taste of it. That's it, cocksucker, go down on that stiff meat. Bury that prick down your throat. Lap up all that foot stink on my dick. Suck the juices out of that sock. Get it clean with that slave mouth of yours. That's it. Keep pumping. Let me know how much you love your master's prick. Suck it down to the root. Yeah…eat it bootbreath…eat your master's cock…swallow that whole fucking rod…get it good and wet…show me how much of a slave you are to a dick…yeah, that's it…suck it hard…come on fucker…suck it…suck…!

That was real hot. You took that load like the dickslave you were born to be. Now, you can lick the sweat out of my hairy pits while I tie up that dick of yours with my sock. Maybe if you're real good, I'll even let you shoot your load. But not until you've tasted every other inch of your master. Sure, I know that's going to take a real long time. But I'm in no rush. There's still a couple of other kinks I want to work out on you. Like some hot tit play. And maybe the acting out of a few fantasies. I think your mind needs some stretching as much as the rest of you. I got plenty of beer and a few joints. And a whole roomful of toys just waiting to be tested on a hot bottom man. So, wipe that shitass smile off your face. We've got some serious training to get into. By the time I'm finished, you'll be the kind of bootslave you always dreamed of being. And that's saying a lot.

Now, get up off your knees and start walking behind your Master. I ain't got all night.

From the FOOT FRATERNITY archives. Men interested in the male foot with its attendant socks, loafers, wing-tips, sandals, boots and even uniforms are invited to correspond with THE FRATERNITY which has a newsletter with ads, photo sets and advice on books, videos and things of interest to men who are attracted to the foot. Contact them at PO Box 24102, Cleveland, Ohio 44124.

HAPPY HOLDAYS! FROM THE MEN OF DRUMMER

"They're right! Oil of Olay does make your skin younger and prettier. And this new bottle is just the right shape and size for so many other uses."

"That's nice, fella. But I think it's your stocking Santa is supposed to fill tonight."

A VISIT FROM SLAVE NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house

Resounded the "Salome" of Herr Richard Strauss;

The harness was hung in the playroom Away to the window with care

In hopes that slave Nicholas soon would be there!

I (Master) was ready, my whips tipped with lead,

While visions of discipline danced in my head.

In brass-studded leather, from my boots to my cap,

I oiled ev'ry chain and greased ev'ry strap.

Then out on the street there arose a wild clatter

Announcing the bike of my night's subject matter.

I flew like a flash,

And peered through the bars after op'ning the sash:

When what to my glittering eyes should appear,

On his chrome and black chopper, And he very obediently called for with a six-pack of Rainier,

But a hunky young driver, all asshole and prick;

I knew, without doubt, 'twas my muscular Nick!

So I drew in my head, and was turning around,

When into my room he came with a bound

He wore a torn T-shirt

(was naked of foot),

With tattered blue cut-offs all covered with soot;

A bundle of "toys" was strapped to his back. his claque.

REPRINTED FROM DRUMMER'S FIRST CHRISTMAS ISSUE (#10)

As rapid as faggots our brothers all came, He kept his eyes lowered, and knelt, And Nick submissively savoured each name: "Yes, Robert! Yes, Brutus! Yes, Larry and Penni! On Drummer! On Daddies! On Masters, I'm ready! To the cold soundproof room at the end of the hall: Now lash away, lash away all!" stationary, Awaiting the orders to offer his cherry; And I drooled when I saw it, A wink of my eye and a twist of my head Soon gave him to know he had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, Stripped off all his clothes, then turned with a jerk. He then donned the harness, with supposed repose-Except for his cock,

He was hung like a horse, my bondage -mad elf, in spite of myself. I sprang to his flanks with a dominant whistle And took a firm grip of his vulnerable gristle; Then I heard him confess. as my fancies took flight, "Happy Christmas to you, Sir. I'm all yours for tonight!"

-Ed Franklin (with no apologies to Clement C. Moore)

"HOT DICK WHACKING AND A GOOD TIME BEING HAD BY ALL!" EVERYBODY SEEMS TO BE DOING IT!

Inside is advice on whom to invite and whom not to, how to invite them, notes on lubricants and gourmet delicacies, music, video, decor, food, shopping lists, getting ready, how to get it started and how to put a stop to behavior not in keeping with what you had in mind.

JO with a group of uncloseted cock-crazed men is totally different than that isolated activity we carried on in our teens. Group JO becomes a pulsating, ever-changing organism of sex energy. Circles of hard dicks, chains of men linked in ball-grabbing and nipple biting. Union of stroking, moaning, spurting and mutual enjoyment.

A JO party can also be spiced by any flavor of kink that gets you off-leather, bondage, uniforms, sex toys, domination, humiliation and whatever. Create your own sexual fantasy and let it fly. Sponsor a party to raise money for your favorite community service group that fights the disease you are hereby preventing.

For those who are health conscious and concerned about STDs, a group JO session can be hot, satisfying and safe. It's easier to limit your activity to JO in a group that has agreed just to JO. You don't have to worry about getting swept away by your passion into activity you might later regret or feel guilty about.

What the JO Buddies offer is expertise distilled from thousands of hours of research-ball sniffing, neck biting, nipple licking, man sweat, man smells, hot dick whacking and a good time being had by all!

Copies of the publication are available for two bucks a copy or in bulk. Contact JO Buddies, 1150 Bryant St., San Francisco, CA 94103.

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Send your entries for this national leather update to DRUMMER Report, 640 Natoma St., San Francisco, CA 94103.

VIDEO CATALOG

Mark I. Chester, whose photographs and stories of bondage and dark brooding sexuality have appeared often on our pages, has put together a one-hour video that catalogs his major work from 1981 until the present. Starting with images of bondage and hard cocks from "Feeling Good on the Edge of Madness" and "Between a Rock and a Hard Place," the video includes some images that will be familiar to Drummer readers, but the majority of the images have never been published.

Further, the video shows "City of Wounded Boys and Sexual Warriors" which were images in response to the devastating Folsom fire that destroyed Chester's work and home, as well as the home of many other people including artist Rex. This portfolio and "Lost on a Sea of Desire" are intense psychosexual portraits of men and women into radical sexuality. The video also includes body portraiture from "Marked Men" and live performance photographs in addition to collages and a ten-minute segment from a bondage performance by Chester with music by Peter Hartman.

This raw, home-produced video is technically simple, so do not expect a flashy slick product. Without question, the potency of the cocks and bodies wrapped in rope definitely enhances the power of the photographs.

Available from Mark I. Chester, PO Box 42501, San Francisco, CA 94101. $30 postpaid . Specify VHS or Beta.

QUOTE OF THE MONTH

We are indebted to ultra-right wing Rep. William Dan-nemeyer (R-Calif.) for this one: "Curious, is it not, that in an age of ubiquitous pornography and blunt speech, it should be so hard to say in plain English that AIDS is legionnaire's disease! almost entirely a disease caught by men who bugger and are buggered by dozens or even hundreds of other men every year?"

We can't help but wonder what his reaction, if any, was to

We are indebted to the one of their drawings of Wasatch Leathermen Motor- HAWK by Garcia, an outstand-cycle Club for their News- ing talent of whom we would leathers as well as the use of like to see much more.

"SANTA" TORTURES BROKER made torture chamber spiracy. because $500,000 in deals had burgh, PA reported.

Mount Lebanon was freed investment," Joyce said. after the ordeal from a farm other minor injuries. inent Greene County physi- police said. cian, Dr. Grover H. Phillippi,

A disgruntled investor 46, said Pittsburgh Police dressed as Santa Claus Superintendent Stephen abducted his broker from a Joyce. Phillippi and another Christmas party and punished man were charged with kid-him for 12 days in a home- napping and criminal con-

"He alleges that Robert in investing large amounts of Broker Robert J. Haye, 49, of money and that this was a poor

Haye had been shackled to a where police found him hand- bed in a small mobile home, cuffed to a bed in a makeshift which also contained a six-torture chamber. He was foot pine box resembling a treated for a broken nose and coffin and a chair fitted with metal flashing and wires to The Santa Claus was a prom-resemble an electric chair,

别别

"HEALTH" SPAS

I loved the baths. When I went to New York City I said I was going to see Dream Girls. Actually I was headed for the famed St. Mark's, supposedly the biggest bathhouse in the world. I've been to little Gent's Turkish Baths in East Los Angeles, decrepit Dave's in San Francisco, the Vulcan in San Diego, Club Baths in Indiana-polis in our nation's conservative heartland and in Carter Country's Atlanta and in prickly Cactus Land, Phoenix. So I alone could have spread a deadly disease nationwide if I had one.

The baths became as addictive as any drug to me. They were great! Being admired, cruised and propositioned by stud after naked stud could build anybody's ego. I was underage so I didn't mind too much when I picked up a case of the crabs at the moldy Lionheart Baths on Melrose in a seedy part of Hollywood. I panicked when I got scabies at the Corral Club in North Hollywood. But at least I was acquiring parasites at a classier place and a bottle of Kwell cleared those critters out. Then came syphillis at the visually appealing Bulldog Baths in San Francisco's Tenderloin. A few bitter pills and I was back on the same track. Walking the slippery floors of Eighth and Howard in search of yet another anonymous trick and a case of penal warts. It cost me a hundred bucks for my dermatologist to freeze them and then burn them off electrically. As they say, live better electrically. By this time I was dependent on the baths. After a decade in the steam I had forgotten how to approach a clothed man in the glare of daylight. Never mind that someone broke into my locker and stole my new watch and all my cash. I didn't miss a beat.

It was St. Patrick's Day so I headed for Boston and Club Boston via Club East Hartford. They were my rest stops, restaurants , hotels and destinations. I don't know in which I picked up a dripping green dose of gonorrhea in my pee pee, but I'll never forget those two painful shots in the ass at the VD clinic, Still my addiction could not be broken. It may be at the Serpent 8 Club in the San Fernando Valley that I picked up Hepatitis. My skin turned yellow, my eyes orange, my piss turned a rancid brown and my shit turned a frightening bleached white. I couldn't hold down solid food. I was bedridden for three months. My best gay friend was too afraid to come and see me much less help me.

When I could walk I returned to the tubs. I didn't realize that I was becoming as run down as some of the dilapidated facilities I was paying to enter. I did realize that in those dimly lit cubicles, steam-rooms , saunas and mazes I couldn't survey the body of my partner for open sores or lesions. Often I would see some slut spread his cheeks on the outside foam rubber mattress in the smelly orgy room and get fucked by a dozen, maybe two dozen guys he never saw. None wore condoms. We would gang bang all night. We resembled sharks encircling our prey in a feeding frenzy. We hadn't heard of AIDS yet. It was still called gay cancer. We had heard of herpes yet we risked permanent contamination. We used Vaseline petroleum jelly as a lubricant—not a water soluble lube. Traces of the Vaseline would not wash off, providing a medium for infection. We freely used amyl butate and nitrate. Someone spilled a full bottle all over my crotch. I felt like I was on fire. Yet that was probably better than inhaling that shit nasally or even orally.

Still I felt I had a right to go where I pleased.

So I frolicked at the Rich St. Baths where I knew several patrons had burned to death several years earlier. Later I screwed a twenty-year-old. I rarely screw someone I don't know well but I figured what could a twenty-year-old have. He had AIDS and he knew it at the time. I cried. I cried for him, for his desperation, for his death sentence. I was afraid for myself. I was shaken to my core.

Pagans threw the Christians to the lions in the Coliseum in Ancient Rome. Today we are throwing ourselves into the pit of death.

THE TIME IS DEFINITELY NOW…

The gay community is used to being under fire. But not as badly as it is under siege now in the age of AIDS. The viciousness of the far right, citing their peculiar brand of religion and taking full and unconscionable advantage of the AIDS scare has opened a full scale attack, usually centered in the Bible Belt areas where they are the strongest. Houston has been under siege and, at this writing, shows small hope of throwing off the "Straight Slate's" attempts to take over a reasonably progressive city government. Headed by a doctor, a general practitioner who should be brought up before the AMA and / or the Texas Medical Board for the asinine statements he is making about the communication of the AIDS disease, alone.

The Houston Gay Community was not spectacularly successful in fighting the repeal of their hard-won gay rights employment bill. I hope I am very wrong, but it looks like they are in for a rough time with this crowd of neo-Nazis in office.

But opposition and trial can create some amazing results. Anita Bryant united us as never before. The homophobia of Chief Ed Davis finally brought together some rationale for civilian control of the fierce L.A.P.D. eventually. In the case of this terrible disease, we must be stronger than it is. That, as with most everything else, depends on the individual. You and me, kids.

Your general health has to be several notches above your heterosexual brothers . And I am not talking about trips to the gym to pump up those pecs and biceps. It means sensible hours, plenty of rest with very little all-night boogeying anymore. It should mean giving up Marlboros, Camels and Virginia Slims along with Hard-

THE DRUMMER PHILOSOPHY RUNS AMOK!

This is the Publisher's page. The general consensus by the editorial staff was roughly, "Give him a space he can do anything he wants with and maybe it'll help keep him out of our hair.

They did and I am. But I don't want to do all the writing, I want you to do it. We start off with a couple of very provocative pieces (the ones on both sides) with the Drummer philosophy in the middle. ware, Rush and The Plain Brown Bottle stuff. No needles, no drugs. Cool it with the antibiotics and the need for them. "You are what you eat" is an old line and a very true one. Junk food, soda pop and booze won't help keep any virus away.

Your sex life may need changing considerably too; the style along with the substance. There are plenty of things to do to with one another without drinking and eating it. Drummer has listed dozens of fetishes for years that are as safe as sitting in your mother's lap and, I assume, much more exciting.

Possibly worse than the AIDS virus is the paranoia and panic that is sweeping both the heterosexual and homosexual communities. It could be time to remember 1932 when FDR told the country it had "nothing to fear but fear itself." The Bible benders and hate merchants will be working hard on that fear in the time to come. What we must not let it do is make us afraid of one another, to touch one another. Reasonable precautions are one thing. Unwarranted seclusion is quite another.

Those among us who have AIDS must be supported. We have to take care of our own. There are organizations of every description doing fine and wonderful things for those in the hospitals or at home. They must have our support, our love and whatever we can do for them to ease their burdon. This is no time for a guilt trip.

AIDS is a venereal disease. It cannot be casually communicated by handshaking or sneezing or touching. That is fact. And in no way is it God's punishment to our community anymore than the Mexican earthquake was to punish Catholics or that children's birth defects happen to punish the parents.

Being strong includes avoiding the paranoia and the fear that abounds among us today, fired by the Bible-benders . Besides your immediate family and circle, you have well over twenty million brothers and sisters out there with the same thing at stake. We must support and defend one another. If there is any lesson to this terrible plague, that surely must be it.

Since this was written, and just before press time, we are delighted to report that the "Straight Slate" in Houston has gone down to defeat. A bright note to end what we hope are very positive comments on being gay, strong and proud.

However, in the meantime, bundle up, stop smoking and take your vitamins.

-John H. Embry

In a casual, yet involved, overview of the world of Masters and slaves, I have made a few very uncomfortable observations . Primarily, there are only Masters. There are no real slaves. And with such an abundance of good top men and such a deficit of honorable slave boys, Drummer may have to take a more realistic approach to SM and the Master / slave relationship.

A good, caring Master does not need to ask his slave "What are you into?", and he certainly does not need to inquire "What are your limits?" A good, serious slave or boy doesn't have the right to ask any questions of the Master. And what is the first question the stupid slave always asks? "What do you look like?", as if to indicate that he's a slave only to a handsome , leather-clad man. The heterosexual world has already taught us this lesson, but we haven't listened. The best long-time partners are not the beautiful, blond girls who think only of how they look and how much money they can marry, but are the less attractive ones who give of themselves and their spirits and their hearts because they want to belong to someone.

The "Masters" portrayed in Drummer are a minority! They are the exception rather than the rule! So when boys call me in reponse to my ad, they are turned off when I describe myself as "average-looking ," and indicate that I am of the leather "philosophy" rather than the leather "dress code." I am a very good top, with references to prove it. I have a commanding voice on the telephone, and an even more commanding philosophy . Yet, I am an "average" guy, more at home in a coat and tie than Levi's and leather vests and boots. And I don't need to look like Rydar Hanson or write like John Preston to be a good Master. The readers of Drummer are looking for fantasies . Real Masters are looking for relationships . And the magazine actually diminishes the chances of a Master to locate a real slave through its classified

I have recently tried out two slave prospects, one from Aurora, Colorado, and the other from Dallas, Texas, both in management positions and with a good level of intelligence. But they, as most all slave boys do, sat around and waited breathlessly for the Master to "take them" and sweep them off their asses. What they should have done, as true slave prospects, was to give themselves to the Master. What your readers seek are visual stars…celebrities…Mr. Drummer winners. And mainstream America ain't made up of that kind of hype shit, but it does have a lot of very good, talented, and qualified Masters. You can't be made to be a slave. You are a slave! And the sooner these assholes realize that and leave us good top men alone, the better. A call from three thousand miles away at two in the morning is not an interested party. A call on a Sunday afternoon with interesting and well-thought -out questions is. And if we don't start caring for hearts instead of hard-ons , caring for each other in a relationship instead of in a scene or a visual, looking on the spirit instead of the boots and the moustache, the problems of the gay community will only continue to amplify. AIDS is not a homosexual disease , but its spread is directly related to our damned promiscuity, resulting from our not wanting to get "involved" with anyone. "Give me a handsome man in leather, and I'll do anything he wants." Venereal disease was spread from heterosexual promiscuity, and they haven't learned anything either. So why don't we teach them something. You guys have the power and the clout to promote safe, one-on-one relationships. Why don't you take the lead, and do it? That "distant drummer" seems to be getting a little farther away, fellows! If we want to be accepted, let's start at least being acceptable.

P.S.: Print this, Embry, and get on your fucking soapbox. You're long overdue, pal.

North Carolina

From AID ATLANTA comes a beautiful poster with the memor- some calendar is available at the same price and will be shown able imprint "No Less A Man For Playing Safe." They are for in Drummer next issue when we review calendars. It's a good sale at $5 each plus 1.50 for postage / handling. Their very hand-cause. Write AID ATLANTA, 811 Cypress St., Atlanta, GA 30309.

WRONG PICTURE, RIGHT DADDY'S BOY

Last issue we ran a story about a fund raiser for Richard Hennigh, this year's Washington State Mr. Leather and runner-up in the '85 Mr. International Leather contest. Both Patrick Toner, Mr. International Leather, and Steve Reis-wig , Mr. Drummer, attended. So far so good. But when no photographic coverage arrived by press time, we ran a pic of the two titleholders along with another titleholder , Steve Kajikawa, winner of the Leather Daddy's Boy contest in San Francisco, where the photo was taken. We are happy to report that Steve is not an AIDS victim and that coverage of that contest is available in the upcoming Drummer Daddies. Now you know.

DR. GOOD SEX MEETS MR. SAFESEX

Sgt. Glenn Swann taped a "safe sex" discussion with noted TV / radio sexpert Dr. Ruth Westheimer October 10 in New York City. They met in Washington, D.C. at the Human Rights Campaign Fund dinner which Dr. Ruth M.C.'d. In the middle half of November, Swann and mentor Jack Campbell will tour California where they will be met in San Francisco by Miami titleholder "Mr. Safesex" Ken Bergquist, Mr. Drummer '84 runner-up. Swann will be Drummer coverman for the January Military Issue. Mr. Campbell, we assume, simply enjoys safe sex with any or none of the above.

ATLANTA-A WELL KEPT SECRET been lucky enough to visit beautiful city. Atlanta probably remember it

"Southern Hospitality." off and are well worth check- conversation.

Those of you who have not ing out when you visit this from that famous or infa- Bulldogs. Bulldogs is located they were celebrating the mous-depending on your across the street from the owner's birthday and the party point of view—scene from hotel where I was staying, the was in progress. Texas is a well-Gone With The Wind where Cabana. There are no signs on lit, spacious bar. Though not as Rhett Butler and Scarlett the building and the entrance rustic as Bulldogs, it is still a O'Hara are racing through the is located on the side, but cruisy bar and the clientele is streets of a burning Atlanta. upon entering Bulldogs there friendly and does not hesitate Recently I have had the is no doubt that you are in a to welcome you to Atlanta. opportunity to visit Atlanta on man's bar. The interior is rustic. They too have a well-several occasions and sample and spacious and open, a equipped leather shop and some of the much noted good indication of great cruis- the bartenders and staff are It is with sadness that I must down one side of the room Atlanta. It has been said that report that one of the oldest with a square bar in the center. Atlanta's leather / Levi scene leather bars in the Southeast, In the basement can be found may soon exceed that of P's, has been turned into a an excellent leathershop. One Houston. disco and its name changed feature I liked about Bulldogs and is very seldom patronized is a large patio area, which Atlanta—Atlantis and The Lea-by the leather community, makes for good cruising in the thermen. I was fortunate However, do not be dismayed. summer (checking out those enough to meet members of There are two other bars that sweating torsos), and a quiet both clubs during my romps in have taken up where P's left spot to gather and carry on a and around Atlanta. They are

The first bar that I visited was Company. As it turned out to Atlanta.

There are two clubs in both solid and well-

During my last weekend in established and go out of their

Besides the leather shops in Bulldogs and Texas Drilling Company there is a shop called Taz-Men a few blocks down Peachtree from Bulldogs . The owner makes all his leather wear and will custom make anything your kinky heart may desire. His prices are the lowest I've seen on the East Coast.

As my tour of Georgia draws to a close I want to pass on to you something a friend of mine said about Atlanta: "There are more bottoms than you can shake a whip at." And I found this to be true as can be seen by some of the enclosed photos. So all you Tops out there who are searching for new meat, check out Atlanta. He's there, -Tom of Virginia waiting.

Dear Larry,

I have found a Top to end all Tops! The guy is terrific, and I love every second of the time I'm with him. But he makes me pay for my pleasure by cleaning up his dungeon and polishing all the leather toys. This is okay by me, except that he makes me use a boot polish on the leather that gives me a rash. I don't want to be a blubbering bottom, so I haven't said anything to him, hoping he'd notice the problem. He hasn't, because our sessions are just far enough apart that I heal up in the meantime, at least so far. Is there some way to tell him without seeming to be a "cry baby"? Or is there something I could suggest instead of the boot polish?

Would-Be Slave, Phoenix, AZ

Dear Would-Be,

Buy him a big bottle of Neet's Oil. It's much better for the leather than polish, and it probably won't cause a rash.

Dear Larry,

When people run ads, like in Drummer, they use abbreviations that I guess everyone is supposed to understand . But I don't know what most of them mean. I assume WM means "white male," and I guess FF means fist-fucking. But I don't understand: WS, B&D versus B&B, TT, etc. And what does "safe sex" mean? I really think you should publish some kind of glossary.

Reader, Miami FL

Dear Reader,

You're probably right, and maybe the Drummer editors will take heed. I have to confess that some of the more esoteric abbreviations confuse me, too; but I guess the people who are supposed to understand them do. Of the ones you mention, WS means "watersports" (as in piss); B&D is "bondage and discipline," B&B means "boots and britches" (uniforms ), but BB means "bodybuilding." TT now means "tit torture," although a few years back it sometimes meant "testicle torture," and I've even seen it used to mean "toilet training." So you see, the aficionados can sometimes be confused, too. As for "safe sex," that means the guys want to do it following the guidelines that are supposed to guard against the exchange of bodily fluids (thereby preventing transmission of the AIDS virus).

Dear Larry,

My roommate and I are having a dispute , which maybe you can settle. I know from reading your Leatherman's Handbook that you disapprove of having sex with animals, and I agree with you. But my roomie (not my lover) likes to play around with our dog. We have both been tested for the AIDS virus, and he is positive. (I'm negative.) I'm concerned that he could transmit the disease to the dog. He says it's not possible, because it's a human disease. Can you tell me?

A.R., San Francisco, CA

Dear A.R.,

My medical advisor says, "Probably not." He went on to cite the lab experiments he knew about where they had used animals, specifically monkeys, but the virus used in these experiments is not exactly the same as the human variety. He said he was sure that a lab technician or someone else involved directly in lab research could answer you off the top of his head. If such responds to this column, I'll let you know.

Dear Larry,

A couple of years ago I had a great pair of leather pants made to order by a San Francisco outfit that's no longer in business . I've now worn them so often that they are all stretched out of shape, particularly at the knees and around the ass. I know I can't shrink the old ones back to size, so I'm going to have to buy another pair. The first ones were a pretty heavy leather, and I'd like to try a lighter weight this time. But knowing how badly (and quickly) the originals got out of shape, is there anything I can do to make the new ones last longer?

Alex, Los Angeles, CA

Dear Alex,

Leather is going to stretch when you wear it, no matter what you do. And the lighter the weight, the more it's going to do this. I have found two alternatives, however, that seem to lessen the problem . One is to have the pants made of a moderately heavy leather, really fitted tightly to your body and cut to ride low on the hips. This seems to eliminate much of the stretching in the ass area, and if the legs are tight enough the slight bagginess at the knees does not amount to much. This works out better if you're slender, of course. The other way is to use a lightweight leather and have it lined in a slick (silky) material. This keeps the leather from sticking to your skin, and does not allow the sweat to soften it so that it stretches as much. Of course, this also eliminates the sensation of having hot leather directly against your body. If you really love it, and love the feel of it, you may just have to lay out the bucks for a new pair every few years.

Dear Larry,

Since the advent of the current health crisis, I have done what many of my gay brothers have done, which is to load up on hot mags and videotapes, and jack off to the fantasies I am afraid to enjoy in reality. I have gradually expanded my horizons (or at least my sensations) by using a variety of sex toys. I really like to stretch my balls down with one of several devices and slowly manipulate myself. I've actually gotten good enough at this to keep it hard and randy, but just short of ejaculation, from the beginning to the very end of a 90-minute videotape. Then, when I finally let myself cum, Oh Man!- what a blast! It's almost as good as the real thing. But now I've got a problem. I've noticed that my cum has started to get a sort of rusty color to it. It happened once before but went away after a few days. Now it's started again, and it's lasted for over two weeks. It scared me enough that I went to the drug store and bought one of those kits designed for testing if your shit has blood in it. My sperm tested positive, so I know I'm bleeding internally. Because I live in a small bible-belt town, I'm afraid to go to a doctor and tell him the whole story. What should I do? Have you ever heard of a similar case?

Frightened, (near) Des Moines, IA

Dear Frightened,

I'm writing to you directly, but I'm also sharing your dilemma with our readers. The November 1985 issue of the Mayo Clinic Health Letter contains a timely answer. It states that whereas blood in other bodily secretions is of cause for alarm, "…appearance of blood in the seminal fluid after ejaculation rarely is a hallmark of significant disease." The article goes on to say that it should prompt a visit to your doctor, but that the source of blood is rarely found unless there is really a problem in the prostate or testes. In other words, there are often minor sources of bleeding from the surface blood vessels in the lining of the sperm storage sites. These generally tend to heal themselves after a period of time. So, while I am telling you that you probably have no great cause for alarm, you should get yourself checked out by a doctor. You don't have to tell him about all your toys, since your condition can easily happen without their use. The chances of serious problems are remote, but don't take a chance. Besides, the doc can probably prescribe some medication to clear up the condition and make sure it doesn't become serious.

(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.)

DRUMSTICKS

Stool Sitting

Alone on a barstool. "Hi, you're cute." "i'm owned." Thick, hairy pecs. Bulging biceps. Huge, tough hands. "Wanna suck cock?" "i can't." Devilishly-smiling, blue eyes. Infectious grin. Expressive eyebrows. Rough hand inches up his hairless thigh. Slave cock engorges. "Oh, God, leave me alone, He'll kill me." Master approaches. "i told you." Smiling, blue eyes closed, laid out on the bar floor.

-- J. Tarvis

DRUMMER

FICTION

The Gift by Olaf Odegaard

क ठीवी । ग्रहम

BAD AS THE SHIT THAT IS SPILLED ON THE BARROOM FLOOR

The one-eared monkey O'Casey keeps on his shoulder shits down O'Casey's back in incessant little dribbles.

"He's got diarrhea from the grapes he eats. Every time he gets into them he gets the shits," O'Casey explains to anyone who gets close enough to hear him. Everyone seems to be keeping as far away from O'Casey as they can. "And he drinks too much beer," he adds. The little simian is pulling at O'Casey's hair, and he swats the little hands away.

'Two beers," he says to the bartender.

At the third booth from the rear of the bar, Peggitty McClaren sits with Ludwig, a young street punk, a hustler, who plays nothing but Beethoven on his Walkman. Peggitty is a battered, old boxer who, down on the skids, has kept his body whittled to a fine piece of sculpture nonetheless.

"Yeah, man, I can really get into whatever it is you are talking about," Ludwig says as he taps di-di-dah with his fingernails on the table top. There is an implausible blond spot about an inch across on the left side of his dark brown, punk-cut hair; he wears a silver stud on his right ear. His black, silk shirt is open to his navel, exposing a well-developed chest covered with long, silky hair.

What Peggitty is saying is that the world is rapidly going to hell in a handbag, but it is the "rapidly" that bothers him. He explains that he bought a little computer to try to keep up, but that he couldn't learn "Basic," so he sold it for half of what he paid and drank it up.

Di-di-di-dah. "Yeah, man, they don't write music like they used to, either," Ludwig says. "Even the Police." Peggitty's head pops up. "The police write music?" He doesn't like the word "police." He has been running numbers for Black Richard, who operates the neighborhood, and is paranoid.

'Old man," the kid says, "The Police is a rock group."

"Oh," Peggitty mumbles, and takes a sip of beer.

"But Beethoven has got it over everybody, for my money," "Speaking of money, Ludwig, I don't got much tonight.

"We can make it some other time."

"But I need it tonight. Can I give you ten and owe you ten?" Ludwig sits back and slumps. "I don't know, Look man, I look at you like a friend, you know that, but my landlady kicked me out today…

"Jesus! God! What the fuck…?" Someone has just come into the bar and has slapped O'Casey on the back, pulling his

"…just because," Ludwig continues, "I owe her two weeks rent."

"I got a place where you can stay awhile, you know that," Peggitty says.

"Yeah, man, one bedroom and a piss-little living room; what

"You could stay a couple days until you get back on your feet, you know that," and Peggitty gives him his best hang-dog, straight-in-the-eye look.

"I'll think about it, man," Ludwig replies, then jumps up. "Holy shit! I just remembered…" He scrounges around in his front jeans pocket and pulls out a crumpled-up piece of paper. "I got a trick tonight! I forgot all about it. It's a quicky, but the son-of-a-bitch is paying me seventy-five bucks to whip up his ass a little. What time is it?"

Peggitty looks at the clock behind the bar. "It's a quarter past eight," he says.

"Holy God, I've got fifteen minutes to get over there," Ludwig yells and looks around, then puts his hands in his pockets again. He looks at Peggitty and says, "You gonna be here later?"

"I thought that I'd hang around awhile and then go home and watch Dallas," he replies.

"Okay," Ludwig says, "give me the ten bucks. I gotta take a cab if I'm going to get there on time."

"I don't know, Ludwig," he says, shaking his head.

"Listen, it's gonna be short. The old dude cums quick. I'll 40 DRUMMER come right back and spend the rest of the night with you. I don't got no place to stay, anyway. I'll give you a good twenty dollar fuck, I promise. See, you'd make money.'

Peggitty shrugs his shoulders and pulls his last ten dollars, neatly folded, out of his shirt pocket. "What if I'm not here?" he asks.

Grabbing the bill and starting to run toward the door, Ludwig calls back, "Then I'll go over to your place." He steps in a piece of monkey shit.

Peggitty takes a long sip on his beer, then looks up.

Fast Freddy Serpe is heading his way. Peggitty tries to look away; he doesn't want to talk to Fast Freddy, who is too pretty, too expensively dressed, uses too much hair spray in his wavy locks, and sweats too much for Peggitty's taste. But, Fast Freddy sits down across from him anyway.

"Your boyfriend is in a hurry," Fast Freddy says. "What hap- pened, he give you the clap?"

"You got a dirty mouth, Fast Freddy, and a dirty mind." Peggitty takes another sip of his beer.

'It's a dirty world, old man. It's filled with disease and filth and shit." "You're a piece of shit, Serpe," Peggitty says. Fast Freddy puts his arms in the air, like he is giving up, showing two big sweat stains at his arm pits. Nobody fights with Peggitty, even with his bad leg. That could be looking for a date with the coroner.

"You're looking for a fight tonight, it sounds like to me." Peggitty shrugs his shoulders and quiets down. "No, nothing

Fast Freddy leans over the table, his garlic breath hitting Peggitty square in the nose and whispers, loudly: "There's a crapshoot at Fathead's tonight. You interested?"

'No," he replies, "I'm broke."

"Yeah, after you give the punk your bread. I saw you give it to him.

"He needs it now," Peggitty says. "He's a good boy."

"To you, old man, they're all good boys. He's a fucking hustler, that's what he is.

"Maybe so," Peggitty replies, beginning to flush in the face,

"but he's a good boy. I like Ludwig.

"You like his big fucking cock, that's what you like. That's what everybody likes about the cheap little two-bit whore. He's a piece of shit, Peggitty, and I say this to you because I love you."

"Get out of here, Serpe, or I'll knock your brains all over the barroom floor!" and Peggitty's eyes sparkle, a look of fixed iron comes over his features, the muscles of his arms and chest swell.

Fast Freddy stands up. "I'm going man. Keep cool."

After he leaves, Peggitty sits and watches the diarrhea dribbling down O'Casey's back.

Peggitty closes his eyes and sees the lights blazing down on him in the ring. It is The Fight, the last one, the big one. He is fighting Cat Moran, one mean fighter, for the chance to fight Archie Moore for the Heavyweight Championship of the World. Cat Moran is out of his territory. He is the heavy this night. They boo him when he enters the ring. And they cheer their asses off when Peggitty raises his arms, struts around the ring, like a cock entering the henhouse.

The lights…the cheering crowds…the smell of man-sweat and cologne from the fancy dudes at ringside set him off…

God, he is a stud then! And what a life at the top, fucking fancy Jorges at night, eating chateaubriand at the best restaurants , being cruised by the hunkiest men…his trainer pulling his robe off his already sweating, hard body, pulsating in excitement …he tastes blood…

He looks up. Someone new has just entered the bar. He is standing in the open door, dark against the bright light of the street, a vision of some wonderfully-built, young, lost angel who moves inside into the shadows, dances around the monkey shit, then steps over to a booth opposite Peggitty's.

The young man wears a black T-shirt with "The Police" bes-

pangled on the front, a pair of tight blue jeans and a studded, black leather belt. He has a face fit for an angel, dark and glowing with deep, brown eyes, heavily lashed, and a light moustache and a few days growth of beard. His hair is slightly waved. He keeps brushing it off his forehead. He gives the impression of a dude who wants to say, "I'm tough, I'm wicked, I kick ass, but I also give it," but Peggitty sees a lost soul at the end of its wits. Pete, the bartender, comes over, asks for the kid's ID and wipes his hands on his no longer clean apron. The kid orders a beer, which Pete delivers, yelling at O'Casey to take his shit-dripping monkey out of the place before he calls the cops or the health department or whoever. O'Casey is drunk by this time. The monkey is drunker.

Peggitty is staring at the boy, who is aware of it, but who stares instead into his own beer. Peggitty feels a rise in his crotch. But, more than that, he senses in the kid a son he never had.

Someone new has just entered the bar. He is standing in the open door, dark against the bright light of the street, a vision of some wonderfully -built, young, lost angel who moves inside into the shadows.

Peggitty gets up and goes to the john, which stinks, since the toilets and urinals are all clogged and the floor is wet with water, piss and toilet paper. He takes a long, satisfying beer piss on his tip-toes and returns to the bar where Pete, who has just gotten O'Casey out, is pouring Lysol in a pail of hot water to clean up behind the monkey. He tells Pete to put the kid's drinks on his tab.

"You got the hots again?" Pete asks.

Peggitty shrugs his shoulders. "Okay," Pete says, "your credit's always good here, Champ. But O'Casey…!" Pete's eyes enflame, "That fallopian-tube- sucking son-of-a-bitch brings that fucking freak in here again and I'll kill the bastard!"

Someone yells, "You can't discriminate," and Pete shouts "He's a mongoloid monster!" Loonie Louie jumps up and does a little dance, scattering all the spare change he's panhandled that day on the barroom floor. One quarter lands deeply in a piece of monkey shit. He kneels down and picks up the coins, then tries to extricate the quarter with the tip of his fingernails. "Gimme a napkin," he calls out to his partner, Robbie the Rooster, so named because he crows like a cock when he gets drunk. Robbie forthwith pulls a napkin out of the dispenser and hands it to him. By this time, Pete is out in front of the bar with his pail and mop and tells Louie to drop the coin in the pail, to which someone suggests they drop Louie in the pail. Louie gives him the finger, then slips, face-forward, into the shit on the floor. The Rooster crows.

Peggitty walks back to his booth, sits down and watches the boy sipping beer. Finally he asks, "Man, you want some company?'

"You speaking to me?" the kid asks. "Do you want someone to talk to?"

The kid looks hard at Peggitty, then says, "I don't know. Sure, if you need someone to talk to. But, I ain't very good at talking, least of all right now. But sure." The kid has a slightly southern accent.

Peggitty picks up his beer and joins the kid in his booth. They both sit sipping for awhile, then Peggitty asks, "What's your name? They call me Peggitty."

"Why?"

"Aw, well, perhaps you noticed, I got a bum leg. It was a blood clot in my brain from a fight I had; it half-paralyzed me

for awhile. I was a fighter, a boxer once. Everything else is all right now, I guess. But I still have trouble with the leg. So, they call me Peggitty now. My name is Mickey McClaren. Maybe you remember?'

The kid looked dumbly at him.

"I almost fought Archie Moore for the heavyweight championship of the world."

"Who's Archie Moore?"

Peggitty sits back, looks at the kid. God, he is young. "When were you born?" he asks. "1961, when were you?"

1961! Four years after the fight. Two years before Kennedy was assassinated.

"You're nineteen?" he asks.

"Twenty," the kid replies. "And my name's Willard Rodri-guez , for God's sake, but they call me Willy." was standing on Hollywood 66 Boulevard passing the time with the rest of those smart-assed dudes I hung around with, when this white-haired, good-looking old dude asks me if I want to make a hundred bucks. "

"Nice name, both of them," Peggitty says.

"Naw, naw, it's not a nice name, either of them. I hate it."

"What would you like to be called? I mean, in this bar nearly everyone but Pete, the bartender, has a nickname. If you don't give it to yourself, they give it to you."

"I never been in here before, probably won't be again."

"So…? What you like to be called?"

The boy pauses, takes a sip of his beer, almost finishes it off, then, putting the bottle back down, says "Luke."

Peggitty is surprised. He pulls his body and head back against the booth wall and says "Luke? Why Luke?" "Well," the boy says, "first there's Luke on General Hospital. I feel a lot like him, like I could go out and rape sometime or, if I fall in love, I figure I'd be in love forever. Then, there's Luke Skywalker from Star Wars. I feel a lot like him, being thrust from one incredible adventure to another, never really knowing what's in store, except that he's got the Force. And then, there's Saint Luke, you know, in the Bible. He was a doctor and healed people, stopped their pain … "The kid falters, then finishes off his beer. Peggitty turns around and waves two fingers at Pete, who brings them another round.

After Pete leaves, Peggitty looks at Willy and says, "Luke, I think you've got some kind of pain."

Luke moves his hands through his hair, pushing back the locks that fall over his forehead.

"I'm just no damned good," he says.

They sit there, each of them, gulping a swig of fresh brew. Their bottles land on the table at the same time.

Peggitty says, "I never heard a man say he was no good who was no good."

They each take another swig of beer. Then Luke stares straight into Peggitty's eyes and says, "I don't mean to, but I bring trouble to everyone I meet." His eyes begin to water, like drops from a deep, dark well. Peggitty has a throbbing, blue hard-on.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"My father died the day I was born, to begin with," Luke says. "We was from Pasadena, the Texas one, and he was driving my mother to the hospital because I was just about ready to burst out, and he hit a police car."

He says it like "poo-lice car." "I was delivered by a cop. My

42 DRUMMER mother had never worked a day in her life, and her family hated her because I was illegitimate when I was conceived, and my father hated her, I think. He was a yankee. So we all moved to Los Angeles where my mother wanted to become a movie star. That's what she said. All I remember is her working in cheap hamburger joints, coming home late and tired, sometimes bringing men with her. I really liked some of them who stayed awhile. I wanted them to stay and be a father. But, she was a cheap fucking tramp, when you come down to it, though I loved her.

"Then, one day, when I was sixteen, and bursting out all over with no place to go, I was standing on Hollywood Boulevard passing the time with the rest of those smart-assed dudes I hung around with, when this big, old Rolls Royce stops at the curb and this white-haired, good-looking old dude asks me if I want to make a hundred bucks. Can you believe it? Me, sixteen, with thirty-five cents in my pocket and he wants to give me a hundred bucks?"

Peggitty scratches his head. Dallas has already started, but this is better.

"'What do I have to do?' I asked. 'Nothing much,' the dude says, 'except let me suck on your penis.' He actually said, 'penis.' Hell, I didn't care, even though nobody had ever sucked me off before. So, I got in the Rolls Royce and he took me to this incredible Mexican-looking palace in the hills and I let him suck me off. Does this offend you?'

Peggitty shakes his head.

"I'm boring you."

"No, no, I like the story," he says. He rubs his blue boner.

"Well, this dude produces movies. He really does. Some big ones. And he asks me to stay with him for awhile. I didn't even call my mother. I didn't care. That's the kind of creep I am. I stayed with him. I was his little boy for two years. I had to be naughty sometimes so he could spank me. He bought me lots of clothes and a Mustang convertible. He wasn't home much. He worked a lot, so I had the place pretty much to myself. Until one day he brought a new and younger kid home. "Well, you can guess what happened. The car was in his name. I kept some of the clothes. I was back on the streets again. Only, I hexed him.'

"Hexed him?" Peggitty asks.

"Yeah, I laid a hex on him. I damned his damnable soul and, a week later, I read in the Times that he gagged on a piece of liver at a wrap-up party and died. I had three dollars in my pocket when that happened and I bought a paper and a cup of coffee and read in the paper how the son-of-a-bitch died.

"Then I was spaced out on acid one night, boozing it down the street when this…elderly dude…stands in my way. He is a hunk. I have to admit that.

Peggitty's cock is raging hard now.

"And he was dressed in leather and studs. 'Good God,' I thought to myself. I tried to pass him, but he grabbed my arm and wouldn't let go.

"'I like your style, kid,' he said. I got defensive, so I said to him, 'What will you pay?' real cocky-like. I wanted him to think that I was a pro. The S-O-B pulls out a wad of bills and peels off a fifty. 'To begin with,' he says. That was my language. A big, black Cadillac limousine pulls up to the curb and he pushes me inside. He's down on me sooner than the door slams shut behind us. Well, to make a long story short, he wants me to move in with him and I got to, you know, start to care for the dude, but I was just a piece of meat to him. So, one night, while he was out, I took everything I had, which wasn't much, grabbed a black felt pen and drew a big X on his door. He died of a hernia a couple of weeks later." Luke takes a long swig of the beer. "Then, the last one…

"Hey, man, you don't want to hear this…"

"I'm listening, I'm listening."

"Well, I'm not telling." The kid sits sullen, then looks up and stares at Peggitty. The bar is getting quiet now. A lot of the regulars have left or are out of spare change and are back on the streets. Dallas is over.

Luke has the sweetest face Peggitty has ever seen on a man. He wants to take the boy in his arms and crush him with affection, but Peggitty doesn't know how to approach him. He doesn't know how to move across the table and tell the boy that hexes and love don't kill.

"Peggitty…?" the boy asks. "Yeah…?"

"I got nowhere to stay tonight."

"I figured."

"You're the first real, honest man I've talked to in a long time."

Peggitty stares into the kid's deep, dark eyes.

"Can I stay with you. Just for tonight? No longer, just for tonight?"

Peggitty's heart jumps. "Of course you can, kid. I got a friend who might come in, in the middle of the night, but God only

Then he opens his eyes, the boy is staring at him, their eyes only inches apart. The boy moves his mouth toward his, presses his body closer and kisses him, deeply and passionately. knows about that. I doubt it. If he does, he can sleep on the sofa. I mean…unless you want to…I mean, I only got one bed."

"I want to sleep with you, Peggitty. I need somebody like you right now. I want to feel you close to me. I don't know exactly why, but I want to wake up tomorrow morning with you next to me."

Peggitty feels the kid's hands on his thigh under the table. He places his own hand over it and the kid takes Peggitty's hand and pulls it over against his basket. The kid has a hard-on. Peggitty's legs shake.

"Well, come on, let's go," he says, and stands up. Pete glances

"Good night, Pete…

"G'night, Peg…

Luke's buns stretch his jeans tight, nearly bursting the seams. His body casts a long shadow down the street…

The floodlights…the roar of the crowd…the cheering …the smell of sweat and cologne…his smashed head suddenly bouncing off the mat, broken and…

The long, dark journey into day.

II. WAKING UP IN THE MORNING AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE…

Peggitty opens his eyes. Light is coming in through the window . It is morning. He rolls over and puts his arm around the boy next to him. Luke jumps a little, then draws his body up tightly against Peggitty's. They lie there for awhile. The kid is a middleweight. He has an athlete's body, firm and well-muscled.

Peggitty's hand creeps down and takes hold of the kid's cock. He plays with its head and feels it grow hard and erect in his hand. When he opens his eyes, the boy is staring at him, their eyes only inches apart. The boy moves his mouth toward his, presses his body closer and kisses him, deeply and passionately. Peggitty holds both their cocks in his hand between their pressing groins, rubbing them together. The kid's is enormous. He remembers the night before, how it felt inside of him, plowing up there so deeply he thought it would come out his mouth. And the kid is good at it. He has some tricks even Peggitty has never experienced.

Luke breaks off the kiss, then says, "God, you're built, man. How do you do it?"

"I work out. Every day. Lift weights. Run. Spar a little when they let me."

"Do you mind if I ask, but, uh, how old are you?"

"Fifty-six. And I don't mind. A boxer gets this old and he's proud of the fact."

Luke's hands are running over his body. "There's not an ounce of fat on you. You're like steel, man.'

"Don't always feel like steel. Sometimes like a ton of iron. The leg, you know…

'You had a stroke?"

"That's what they said. Too much battering around."

Luke's hands are kneading his buttocks, the softest part of his body. His fingers begin to insulate themselves into his hole. It feels so damned good he pulls his ass back to open it up more. He places his own hands around the kid's buns. They are firmer than his, tighter. He sticks his finger in the kid's hole. It is tight. He wonders what it would feel like to stick his cock in there.

"Oh, man…!" Luke whispers, "that really feels good." He pulls his hands away from Peggitty's buns and begins stroking Peggitty's cock, after he spits into his hand. The morning paralysis suddenly disappears and every sensation in the organ comes back. Peggitty has big hands, long, thick fingers. The kid is still tight, but he gets two, then three of his fingers inside him. The kid is beginning to shake, waves of shuddering spasms pass through his body each time Peggitty presses his fingers in further. He feels the nodule that is Luke's prostate and rubs his fingers against it, massaging and manipulating it. Luke is out of his mind.

Finally, he pulls his fingers out and picks up the kid's legs and throws them over his shoulders. He shoves his blue-veined cock into the kid's ass, brutally, hard. Luke cries out, but he rams it in all the way until his hairy crotch is pressed tightly against the kid's firm ass; then he rubs himself against him, sensitizing, enflaming the flesh of his ass. He pulls back, until only the head of his cock is inside, then shoves it in again. Luke cries out again. Tears are beginning to stream out of his eyes. He slaps the kid's face, then begins to fuck the shit out of him.

When he cums, it is long, intense and violent. He pulls the boy close to him, holds him tightly in his massive arms and cradles him as his body trembles, erupts and shakes—then falls down upon him. The kid is looking up at him, eyes wide open and he is smiling.

Later, as they lay cradled in each other's arms, Luke says: "That was the best fuck I've ever had. No, that is the only fuck I've ever had.'

'You like it rough?"

"I like it every way. In the afternoons I like it slow and easy, lasting a long time. I could almost go to sleep, it feels so good. But, I also like it rough and exciting. I like it to hurt, sometimes. Until I feel like I'm going to pop out of my skull."

Peggitty kisses him on the forehead. Their cocks, half-hard, are pressed tightly between them. What he feels toward the kid he's never felt before. He's never felt anything this intense about another man.

Just as they are finishing bacon and eggs, there is a knock on the door. Luke goes into the bedroom and Peggitty puts on his robe, the same one he'd used almost thirty years before in the ring, with "McClaren" embroidered on the back in white against the burgundy satin.

It is Ludwig, dressed in his black leather gear.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry I didn't show up last night, but we got into this really heavy scene." Ludwig is speeding. "And he really got into me and gave me two hundred more megabucks to stay all night. I mean, I couldn't really let that pass." He hands Peggitty a twenty dollar bill, then begins to pace around the room.

"Oh man, it was terrific. You know what it's like sometimes. First of all, this dude's a hunk, not built like you, or anything, I mean he shows his age, but he's a hunk. Then, he's got imagination , and a room that he designed where you can get down to some real hard action. And the stereo was incredible. We went

through all of the symphonies. All nine of them. It turns out he's into Beethoven, too. By this morning I had him into a whining mass of red pulp. He loved it! He wants me again next weekend. I can get another place to live, man. He said I can have five hundred a weekend. I think he'd even let me move in with him, but that would really cramp my style. I mean, I'm high on more lists than his, you know…

The bedroom door opens and Luke, dressed, walks out.

Ludwig and the kid stare at each other.

"Man, I didn't know you had company," Ludwig says. He shifts his body awkwardly. Peggitty, feeling uncomfortable, introduces the two young studs. He feels like a referee; then, suddenly, old, distant, apart.

Ludwig and Luke are sizing each other up when Ludwig starts fluttering his hands, then grabs onto his belt. "I, uh, I gotta go find a room," he says, looking straight into Luke's eyes, but speaking to Peggitty. Then, with something as close to real emotion as he can muster, he says to Luke: "Peggitty's real. There ain't no better man alive. You hurt this man and I'll kill you." Then he turns around and walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

"He's high," Peggitty says, looking at Luke, who stands, stunned, shaking a little.

Luke shakes his head. "No," he says, "he's right. He got my number right away."

"What do you mean?" "I'm a hustler like he is." "Don't … " Peggitty says.

"I didn't tell you about my last affair," Luke interrupts.

Peggitty sits down at the table. Two cold slabs of bacon lay on a plate, and a half slice of toast. He can see the teeth marks of the serrated edge. Luke lifts his left arm and scratches his armpit with his right hand. "The Police" insignia sparkles suddenly under the light bulb that hangs over the table.

"I had my twentieth birthday on the street. I felt mean and down on the world. I called my mother, the first time in four years, and she didn't even remember it was my birthday. Her voice was hoarse and tough, like she'd been drinking and smoking too much. I asked her if I could come by, and she said 'Not now, honey. I've got a man and he's real good to me, but he doesn't know I got a kid. Call me in a couple weeks and I'll see if I can break it to him.' I called a couple weeks later and she hadn't told him. 'I'm almost forty, baby,' she said. 'I don't have too many chances left.'

"So, I hung up on her. 'Fuck her,' I said. I was standing there in the telephone booth, wondering where in hell I was in the world…

Luke reaches over and grabs a slice of cold bacon and eats it. "…when I see this dude standing in the shadows of a door of a store front, watching me. He is playing with himself, with his hand in his pocket.

"'Oh hell,' I think. I am down to a couple dollars in my pocket. He is a big dude, good-looking, young. I stand there in the booth and put my hand over my basket, you know. That gets a reaction out of him. So, I go over to him.

"There is this hotel nearby where they charge by the hour. We go there. He is pretty good sex, gives me thirty dollars, then pulls out a badge, puts cuffs on me and I get angry and make the mistake of battering my knee as hard as I can into his balls. He beats the shit out of me and I end up in the slammer. I spend two months there. I get raped four times. I got out yesterday morning."

Peggitty closes his eyes. Getting up in the mornings is getting harder each day.

"You know," Luke says. "I dreamed last night that I was free. I don't know, but I think I knew all the time that I was sleeping and dreaming, that you were lying there with me. Why was that?"

"I don't know," Peggitty says. He picks up the last slice of bacon and eats it.

"But right now I don't feel free," Luke continues, stands up mummy dearest

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"Oh God," Peggitty thinks. What he feels and what he can do, or ought to do, are miles apart.

Luke turns toward Peggitty and says, "Give me some kind of sign, man, say something to me."

"I don't want to love you," Peggitty says.

Luke puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, looks at the floor. "I understand, man. Life's just too hard, one big pile of shit everywhere you turn."

"But I do," Peggitty adds. Then he nods his head, agreeing with himself. He looks up at Luke. "I ain't much, you know. I ain't got nothing…

He can't lock eyes with Luke. He is setting himself up to be shot down. "…But, I think that I love you. And, I ain't never said that to anyone before."

Luke falls down at Peggitty's feet and hugs his knees. The fucking kid is crying.

"It's one of those mornings," Peggitty thinks to himself, then, "No, it's not. I never have said that to a man before."

He reaches down and pulls the kid up. Then he stands and pulls him tightly against himself.

"Sometimes you have to take a chance and make an asshole out of yourself," he thinks. "What the hell?"

THE GARBAGE PILES HIGHER—SOMEONE HAS TO PICK IT UP…

"Where's your partner?" Pete asks as Peggitty comes shuffling into the bar. O'Casey is off in a corner booth sulking. He has been sulking for days since the monkey died.

"He got a job," Peggitty answers. "He's working for the city. Sanitation department.'

"A garbage collector?" Pete asks.

"How's he smell when he come's home?" Rooster crows from his booth.

"Like a man," Peggitty says and limps back to his booth. Pete brings him over a beer.

'Daddy's having a rough time?" he asks.

"No, I'm just a little tighter, sorer than usual," Peggitty answers. "The leg is swelling up. I think it's the heat and humidity . This is one hell of a summer."

"They say it's some goddamned current in the Pacific," Pete says. "It's called 'El Nino.' Fucking up the weather all over. If it weren't so close to fall, I'd have them put in an air conditioner, though God knows I can't afford it."

Pete sits down across from Peggitty, which is unusual. There

"I'm a little worried about you, Peg," he says. "Every day you get a little slower, a little more tired. It's none of my fuckin' business, but is the kid wearing you out? I mean, there's over thirty years difference between you. Fuck, I couldn't handle a

Peggitty shakes his head. "No, I'm in good shape. Pete, the kid really loves me. He worships me. I've never been so cared for in my life. He'd give his life for me. And I love him. For the first time in my life, I can really say I love somebody. Sure, the happy.'

'You loved Jorges, didn't you?"

"In a way. But, after that fight, he wasn't around any more. He didn't really care. Only as long as I was on top. And, you know something, I didn't care that he didn't care.'

Pete taps his fingers on the table. "Ludwig was in today," he says.

"What's he doing."

"Same shit. Only now he's throwing the bread around. Bought a round for the house. Has a new custom-made leather jacket with a silver eagle on the back. Parked a Mercedes sports car outside. Real flush.'

"He's living with that dude?"

"So he says. But, I don't know. I don't think it's everything he makes it out to be."

"How's that?"

"He's aging. He's still a kid, but he looks older. He's scared of something. Acts paranoid, as if someone was going to steal the fucking car. I don't know where that kid comes from.'

"Hunger."

"He comes from hunger, like all of us."

"He's got a big cock.

"You know?"

"He paid off a bar bill with it once. I didn't mind. There aren't many young cocks come in here."

"You used to have the hots for me."

"I've always had the hots for you. Still do. As far back as I can remember. You're the champ, man. You're the only celebrity who's ever come in here. And, you got a lot more going for you than these young studs." Pete's face flushes. "Well, I said it again."

Peggitty moves his hands across the table and places them on top of Pete's hand and squeezes it. "You're a good friend," he says.

Pete turns his hand around and holds Peggitty's weathered tough hand, palm to palm against his softer, plumper hand, and presses it tight.

"I used to jerk off at night thinking about you. I remember how you looked in the ring," Pete laughs. "I remember one fight. I spent my last buck to get a front row seat near your corner. After the seventh round you were sitting on your stool and one of your balls fell out of your jock strap. I thought to myself that I'd never seen such a beautiful ball in my life. Even now, when you come in the bar, I feel the same old feelings. I can't keep my eyes off your basket. Your arms excite me like I was fifteen years old again and just discovering life.'

Peggitty grins. "You didn't discover life until you were fifteen ?" he asks. "I was eleven when this kid I knew taught me sixty-nine.

"I'm making an ass out of myself," Pete says.

"No," Peggitty says, "I'm really flattered. You're the only one who remembers those days. Sometimes I think I'm forgetting.

"You were the body, Peg. Rc. nember, even the papers called you that? If that thing hadn't happened, you would have been the champ."

"Well, it did happen and I wasn't the champ."

"You're still champ to me."

"And you're still the best bartender and friend in town," Peggitty says.

Louie is standing at the bar, holding an empty glass in the air, yelling "Barkeep, Barkeep…

Pete breaks the hand-hold and stands up.

"Duty calls…" he says.

Duty also calls Peggitty, and he gets up and walks to the john. Pete has cleaned there this morning. As he stands before the urinal, holding his big cock, letting go a stream of piss, he remembers the first time Luke had wanted it.

They are in the bathroom together. Luke is sitting on the floor, naked, as he watches Peggitty undress to take a shower. He likes the attention the boy pays him. Suddenly, before he begins to spout, Luke is kneeling before him: "Give it to me," he pleads. "What the hell," he thinks, as Luke's mouth encloses itself over his now half-erect organ. He pisses into Luke's mouth. It feels warm and secure to do it, like it's being flushed out of him. Trickles of the golden liquid escape the corners of Luke's mouth as he can't swallow fast enough.

It is an incredibly intimate feeling; not like sex and yet, like it.

After that, nearly everytime he pisses, it is into the boy's mouth. Luke gets better at it until he never loses a drop.

And, with this little change in their habits comes a greater change in attitude. Peggitty begins to realize that Luke wants to be dominated, cared for, abused, commanded. He can tell when the kid wants it most: he will misbehave, do something to hurt Peggitty and then wait for punishment. Like a naughty puppy, as if punishment was the truest way he can show his love.

At first, Peggitty doesn't want to do it. He can strike the kid, but he doesn't want to hurt him. But, when he sees that Luke takes his refusal to inflict pain on him as a sign that he doesn't love him, he reluctantly uses his belt on the kid's buttocks. Not really hard, just enough to elicit a burnished glow to the copper-colored skin.

Soon, Luke is provoking him more and more. Having learned Peggitty's likes and dislikes, he knows which buttons to push.

One night, after a long, loud battle, Peggitty gets so angry that he beats the shit out of Luke. Then, suddenly, when he realizes that he is inflicting real pain, he stops.

My god, my god, what in hell am I doing?" he screams. Luke is lying on the floor, panting, his body a mass of red and purple welts. Peggitty falls down next to the boy and holds him in his e pisses into Luke's mouth. It feels warm and secure to do it, like it's being flushed out of him. Trickles of the golden liquid escape the corners of Luke's mouth as he can't swallow fast enough.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, Luke. I don't know what got into me …

But Luke looks up at him and smiles.

"I asked for it. I wanted it."

They make passionate love like they have never done before. More urgent, more complete than anything he has ever done (the smell of sweat and cologne and cigars as the crowd cheers…) before.

Their lives fall into certain patterns. Luke wants to do all the domestic chores, which doesn't bother Peggitty one bit. He is, in fact, a first-class cook, if only a little too fancy for Peggitty's simpler tastes. "I'm a meat and potato man," he says. But, he also remembers the times before the big fight, when he enjoyed the great restaurants. Jorges had known how to order in French.

There is never much money. One day Luke offers to go out and hustle again to bring in some extra income, but Peggitty nixes the idea. He would rather go without than have to sit at home and wonder who Luke was with and what they were doing. His SSI check isn't adequate at all, and his numbers run doesn't add much to it. So, Luke, lying in bed with him one morning says: "I'm going to get a job. I met someone the other day who can get me in at the Sanitation Department."

"A garbage collector?"

Luke chuckles. He has a wonderful way of chuckling; it starts in his belly. All the tight muscles of his abdominals quiver and shake; then it moves up to his chest, which heaves and pants, then comes, anticlimactically, out of him as a giggle, a chuckle.

"A garbage collector," he says at last. "What the hell, it's honest work and I really need to feel useful. Besides, it's pretty good money, with a lot of benefits. Also, who knows what I can drag home. People throw away a lot of incredible shit." He laughs. Soon, Peggitty is laughing with him, belly to belly.

After all, somebody's got to clean up the shit this world makes," Luke says.

One day, while they are talking over dinner, Luke slips and calls Peggitty "Dad." Peggitty doesn't even realize it until afterward . He doesn't say anything. But, a couple days later he discovers himself calling Luke "son." And Luke never says a

word about it. But the words give them both a new, warmer feeling inside.

If anything, as the months roll by, and autumn turns to winter, winter into spring and summer comes again, their love grows deeper, stronger. Their love-making becomes more intense.

"I've never felt anything like this in my whole life," Luke says. They are walking in the park, holding hands, watching other lovers come and go. "I didn't know there was such a thing to feel."

Peggitty is silent. He is choked up. He cannot think of one goddamned word to say. So, he presses Luke's hand even tighter. Finally, when they stop at a corner, both of them pretending to be looking into the window of a sporting goods store, he feels the certain sensation of warm, wet tears flowing out of his eyes which cannot stop, and he turns and looks at Luke. "I love you, you little son-of-a-bitch," he says. They kiss in broad daylight. Someone whistles from across the street.

A dog is chasing a squirrel across the street in the park. The squirrel makes it up a tree and the dog tries to jump up and climb it, but falls back to the ground. The squirrel, safe on a limb, chatters loudly at the dog, who proceeds to bark his head off.

"Oh, Dad," Luke says, "I want to make love to you, right here, right now, right here in the open. Where the whole world can see.'

They don't. They cross back into the park and find a clump of bushes with an opening in the middle where there is evidence of others who have used the place before.

After Luke gets his job, Peggitty starts to cook again. He picks up a couple of books and tries some exotic dishes, but Luke likes his simple things the best.

One night Luke is over an hour and a half late. Peggitty is furious. The roast has nearly burned and both of them like it rare. Luke comes through the door, sheepishly. Peggitty is about to remove his belt and knock the shit out of the kid. Instead, he stands in the middle of the room and gives him his best icy stare.

"Well?" he asks.

Luke stands, his legs firmly planted apart, defiantly staring at Peggitty.

Well, what?"

"Where the hell were you?"

"Would you believe overtime?"

"So, what was it?"

"I had sex with another man." Peggitty's heart seems to sink down into his belly. He belches. "I had to know," Luke continues. "I had to find out something.

"What?"

"How much I love you."

"And…?"

"It wasn't any good. He wasn't you."

They stand and stare at each other, but Peggitty feels his heart rising, beating, feels pressure in his head. His temples throb.

"The roast's too well done," he says.

And still they stand and stare at each other. Finally, Luke rushes toward Peggitty and begins beating his fists against Peg- gitty's mammoth chest.

"Goddamn it, goddamn it, it's not fair," he sobs, then falls to his knees and begins to cry. "I'm twenty-one years old, I'm good-looking-no, I'm more than good-looking. I'm gorgeous …" He slips back into his Texas drawl when he says goorgeous." "And there's a whole world of hunky men out there who want to make it with me. And I don't want anybody in this whole fucking world but you, Dad. He was a hunk. He was sexy and he really had the hots for me, but I couldn't even get a goddamned hard-on." Luke is crying. He seems to be racked in pain. He trembles and shakes.

Peggitty kneels down in front of him and puts his massive arms around the kid's chest and pulls him close to him.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Luke stammers out of his sobbing and tears, "Sorry for what?

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Sorry because we love each other, I never thought anyone could ever love me, not 'til you. I tried to love other men before, but never could. Give me one good reason for you to be sorry, Dad, and I'll leave you right now, tonight.'

Peggitty has no good reason. He runs his hand through Luke's hair. He pulls his face close to him and kisses him, deeply, darkly. He feels his cock rise up in his tight jeans, and he picks Luke up and carries him into the bedroom. He undresses the both of them and they make gentle, long and loving sex until the sun rises. Until Luke falls asleep cradled in his arms, his slowing breath falling upon Peggitty's nipple. And Peggitty lies awake as the sun breaks through the bedroom windows, falling upon the two of them. He watches the peeling paint on the ceiling above.

"God," he thinks, "how much love can a man take before it destroys him?" And he is sorry. He's created a cripple.

His lifeblood flows in and out of the kid who sleeps in his arms.

It is Saturday, nearly afternoon when Luke awakes and stumbles out of the bedroom, a piss-filled hard-on preceding him. Peggitty is dressed in his sweat-suit, sitting at the kitchen table, nursing his third cup of coffee.

"Take your piss and I'll pour you a cup of java. We're going to the gym today.'

Luke isn't awake yet. He stretches his arms and yawns. "What?" he asks.

"You're going to learn to box," Peggitty says.

"What … ?"

Peggitty grins. "You're going to learn the manly art of self-defense , my boy. Now, get out of that dream world and get ready for a real one. I'm going to make a fighter out of you.'

THINGS OFTEN SMELL BETTER WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN

The kid has a natural talent. He is quick, responsive; he uses his head. He concentrates on what he is doing. And he has the body, the strength, the muscle. He has a tendency to overplay his opponent, jump in when it isn't necessary, then play with him like a cat does with a mouse. But that isn't really a problem: he can win matches with those instincts.

He takes punches well; in fact, Peggitty knows he will. He seems to enjoy the hard punches. And he likes the body contact.

What Luke doesn't like is the dicipline, the hours of training and workouts, the weight lifting, the jogging. "It's like fighting a shadow," Luke says, so Peggitty introduces him to shadowboxing , then T'ai Chi, then karate. Luke is a natural in all of these sports. His body begins to develop further, his responses get quicker, he becomes more aggressive.

Their love life begins to change. Often now, it is Luke who takes the initiative. It is Luke who wants to do the fucking, rather than get fucked. He stops calling Peggitty "Dad" except on those rare moments when he is depressed and tired.

Peggitty is proud of his boy. But, he is also concerned that Luke will grow up and away from him. Finally he comes to the understanding with himself that if it does happen, what better thing could he do. Because, in the back of Peggitty's mind is the feeling that he will not be here forever to keep and protect the kid. And the greatest gift that he can give him is the strength to go out and face the world alone without Peggitty, without anyone if it comes to that. The kid will be tough, will be able to take the knocks, walk in whatever shit life lays in his path and come out clean. The thirty-odd years difference in their ages lies heavily with Peggitty, if not with the kid.

So he pushes him, cajoles, even whips him into being strong. Peggitty increases his numbers runs, until he tells Luke to quit his job collecting garbage. He gets him training all day and into night school in the evenings.

You need your head as well as your body," he says. "I never used my head too much."

"I feel like a kid again, going back to school."

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foolishly, doesn't defend himself properly. He opens himself to Luke's attack, as if he wants it, impales himself on his blows, feels weakness in his knees and finally falls prone before his master. He too loves, he knows; as, on the floor, he looks up and sees the magnificence of the human beast towering over him, fire in his eyes.

"What did I do?" he thinks, then passes into uncon- sciousness.

Luke begins to feel alive.

But life is not such a complete thing. He must return to Peggitty's death, to the annihilation of his dreams, to the apart- e remembers every sensation of it. He remembers every detail, every vein, every cock hair. He strokes himself . He reads porno. He tries to arouse himself to life again. He even brings hustlers home, but it does not work out. ment that they shared.

He withdraws into closets. Sitting on the floor, beneath rows of the old man's clothing, he batters his bare fists into the wall until the blood splatters everywhere.

Life is not like the ring. Peggitty is gone. He is nothing more than the man he was the night he first met the old man. Only now he is a boxing champion, and the reporters are after him. He escapes even further into Peggitty's world. He sits in the old, worn, winged-back chair in front of the fireplace and stares at the pictures above the mantle of Peggitty in his boxing shorts, especially of that yellowing photo of the blow that ended Peggitty's dreams. Forever.

Somewhere in his world there was a physical father he never knew. And there was Peggitty, who gave him life.

He sits and watches the photos and he remembers Peggitty's cock up his ass. He remembers every sensation of it. He remembers every detail, every vein, every cock hair. He strokes himself. He reads porno. He tries to arouse himself to life again. He even brings hustlers home, but it does not work out. He sends them back out to the streets.

Peggitty is dead. Dead. Dead.

Luke is famous, rich…and alone.

SUNRISE

Pete brings him a beer. Luke has been coming in almost every night lately.

"Hey, Champ," he says, "you haven't moved out of Peg's old apartment yet?" "No. It's good enough for me. There's a lot of Peggitty

"Kid, you're boxing champion of the world now. You can afford anything. You're the biggest celebrity to ever come in my place."

"Some things you just can't buy, Pete."

"Do you mind…?" Pete gestures that he'd like to sit down. Luke nods. Pete sits down across the table from Luke.

"You just ain't changed since Peg died. All that's happened to you, and you just ain't changed a bit. It's been almost two years, Luke.'

"I'm happy. Why should I change?"

"But Peggitty's dead."

"I know.

"And you can't just keep going on as if nothing's changed." "Nothing much really has changed. I won't keep the belt forever. I know that I'll grow old. But some things are forever. They don't pass like dreams in the night."

"Then you gotta learn to add to those things," Pete says.

"I gotta serve the man," Pete says, standing up. "If you got any respect for what Peg wanted for you, you'll do something and you know what I mean. Drinks are on me tonight."

Luke replies, "Seems as if drinks are on the house every time I come in here."

"Brings in business."

O'Casey's new monkey is sitting on his shoulder, picking at his balding head.

Luke leans back and stares into space. The thrill of victory is beginning to die down, the reporters are coming by less, fewer people now stop him on the streets. He wishes that Peggitty had been with him to help him cope with the fame and the glitter, at least at first. Oh hell, he wishes he were still here. He even tells one reporter that he is thinking of retiring. "I got what I wanted," he says.

Nights are the worst. Lying in Peggitty's old bed, he keeps the television on until he falls asleep, waking up sometimes to test patterns or old reruns of Gunsmoke or Ironside.

Loony Louie and Rooster are dancing in the middle of the barroom floor, Rooster waving his arms and cackling.

Luke's mother calls him after the title fight. She'd lost her old man, wants to know if he'd like her to come and "take care" of him. He hangs up on her. She calls back and is crying. "For God's sake, Ma," he shouts, "I don't need you or nobody."

He is endorsing a line of sporting goods. As he looks over at the bar he sees himself on television. When the ad is over he feels, rather than hears, a hush fall over the place and every eye is looking at him. He wants to crawl under the table and hide. Instead, he takes another swig of beer from the long neck.

Ludwig comes in. Luke can't see clearly, but the kid looks as if he is limping. He pulls himself over to a booth and sits down. A neon beer ad lights him alternately in pink and green. There is a gash across his forehead and his black leather jacket is torn. He grabs for some napkins and presses them over the gash. Luke gets up and sits himself across from the kid.

"What in hell happened?" he asks.

"Fuckin' Bozo. He didn't know where the hell to stop."

Luke reaches over and pulls Ludwig's hand and napkins away from his forehead. "That's nasty. Let's get you to the hospital."

"No way, man. They're gonna ask too many fuckin' questions . I ain't gonna answer.'

Luke thinks for a moment. "Wait here," he says.

"Where can I go?" Ludwig mutters as Luke sprints toward the phone. When he returns, he grabs Ludwig under the arm and helps him up.

"I called my ring physician. There'll be no questions asked," he says, leading the kid outside. Pete has already hailed a cab.

"Seven fucking stitches," Ludwig moans, looking at his bandaged face in the mirror. "Right in front where the whole world can see!" Then he feels his body, looks around in a state of panic. "Where'd my goddamn Walkman go?" he cries.

'You didn't have it with you.'

"Goddamn it," he screams, "and I can't go back to the fucker's place and get it.'

'I'll get you another one. Come on, lie down."

"But I had all nine symphonies. That fucker's going to pay for this.” “Come on, come on…” Luke is urging him into the bedroom

The sedative the doctor has given him is beginning to work. He stumbles a little, then puts his arms around Luke's shoulder.

52 DRUMMER

"You're not half bad, you know," he says. Luke sits him down on the bed and begins to take his clothing off him. The torn jacket is covered with dried blood.

"You going to try to take advantage of me?" he asks Luke, who laughs. "I don't give a damn if you do, you know. Every goddamn man in this city's gotten inside of me. It don't feel any more."

Luke is pulling off his black, grimy engineer's boots, then his fatigues. He is suddenly freaked. The kid's cock and balls are covered with dozens of little scars, a couple of them fresh. Ludwig sees him staring, then says: "Yeah, that's what I meant

Te was going to cut my balls off. I pulled back and he swung the fuckin' knife at me and hit my forehead, so I kicked him in the balls and, as he was kneeling over, I clubbed him on the head. Then I tied him up and split. " by going too far. He was going to cut my balls off. I pulled back and he swung the fuckin' knife at me and hit my forehead, so I kicked him in the balls and, as he was kneeling over, I clubbed him on the head. Then I tied him up and split. I hope he sits there for a week, but he won't. I never was too good at knots." He looks over at Luke. He is naked now. He smiles.

"I always hated you. Peggitty loved you, not me. I never got around to telling him, but I loved that old man. But you're not…" His eyes are beginning to close, "…you're not so bad,

Luke pulls a sheet up over the kid's body, then turns out the lights, closes the bedroom door and returns to the living room.

He sits for a couple of hours in the worn-out, faded, old, overstuffed chair that Peggitty always used to sit in. The fireplace mantel holds some of Peggitty's trophies and some of his.

Hanging over all of them, around a photo of Peggitty and Luke together in boxing trunks pretending to spar, is the Championship Belt. It seems to glitter as the first beams of sunrise burst into the shadowed old room.

"Thanks, Dad," he says.

Now he is tired. He looks into the bedroom. The kid is stoned asleep, one hand hanging over the side of the bed. Luke undresses then climbs into bed beside him. He lies on his back, watching patterns in the cracked and peeling ceiling.

He looks over at Ludwig. The bandage is showing a little blood. He will have to clean it first thing after they get up, then try to get the kid to help himself in getting his own life cleaned up. He doubts if Ludwig will go along with that one. He turns on his side and snuggles up behind the kid. He begins to get erect. The boy, in his sleep, pushes his ass back into Luke's groins. Luke enters him, then falls asleep.

When he awakens, the sun outside is beginning to lower itself in the sky. Ludwig is moving his ass, fucking Luke's cock.

Later, while Luke is changing Ludwig's bandage, he feels the stirring in him again. The kid is so damned vulnerable, so cocky, so filled with life. But street dumb.

Luke bends over and kisses the kid's wound. The kid starts to shake. Luke kneels down and wraps his arms around the boy. He cares.

By sunset they are in bed again, together. Each needing as much as the other. Each giving.

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"Fuck it. It's growing up, son. Use every resource you got. It's a tough world.

Luke somehow knows what Peggitty is doing: giving him everything he's got to make him ready for the time when Peggitty won't be here. He cries a lot at night, after Peggitty falls asleep, and wraps his increasingly big arms around the great bum. He swears at him, curses him, and whenever he has the chance, loves him to death. And, Luke decides, he will be everything Peggitty wants him to be. English literature and European cultural history are not his favorite subjects, but he works hard, brings the work home with him, shares his lessons with Peggitty. They read together, argue, even fight over Charles Lamb and T. S. Eliot, then laugh and share. Not a single night passes without them having sex. It is always unique, different, as if it is always the first time. They have too much to learn about each other. They are growing daily in each other's arms. e shoves his blue-veined cock into the kid's ass, bru- tally, hard. Luke cries out, but he rams it in all the way until his hairy cock is pressed tightly against the kid's firm ass; then he rubs himself against him.

Luke's first five professional fights are knock-overs. Three KO's and a TKO. The sixth fight is a close decision. He is getting into the good stuff, where champions are sometimes made. And yet, he seems to blossom best where the challenge is the greatest. The decision seems to frighten him. He wins the next two fights by decisive knockouts before the fifth round.

The papers pick up on him. Why not? Young, aggressive, ambitious, trained and sponsored by an old pro ("with shades of undiscovered glory" one sports writer says). He is handsome and good copy.

He nearly loses one fight. It goes eleven rounds before he comes back and knocks the shit out of the Puerto Rican who is almost as feisty and hungry as he is. He picks the man up off the mat and takes his hand and they wave them together as Luke is declared victor.

He puts on weight, all muscle. He shifts from middleweight to light heavyweight.

The world is Luke's. He is ranked eighth and is coming up.

Peggitty limps into the bar, almost walks past Pete before he greets him, then makes for the back booth.

"The same?" Pete yells at him.

Peggitty nods, and sits down. Damned leg. It is really hurting. "How's the kid doing?" Pete asks as he sets down the beer. "He's at school. He's got History of Economics until eleven

Pete sits down. "You feeling all right, Champ?"

Peggitty nods. "Yeah, it's just the old leg again. Every time it's wet out, it feels bad.'

"That kid of yours is doing all right. There's something in the paper about him almost every day."

Peggitty beams. "He's a winner, Pete. He's going to make it. I can feel it in my bones."

Pete is quiet for a moment, then says: "I always knew you were a champ, but goddamn it, I never knew how great a champ you were, Peg. You took this kid off the barroom floor and made a champ out of him. And you did it even better, win or lose, in the ring or out. He's going to have it made. I always loved you, always loved that wonderful old body of yours, that—what?—spirit in you, but I don't think that I ever really knew what it was I loved.'

Peggitty reaches over and touches Pete's cheek. "Aw, Pete," he says.

"I can't help it. I think about it a lot. About all the shit that goes on in my world, and yours—everybody's—and how some of us crawl out of the slime and others just keep crawling. That night, years ago, when you got knocked to the ground. I was there that night and I cried for weeks afterward. Everything I read in the papers, everything I heard. You were the most beautiful thing in my life. Everything else was shit. Pure crap. Until now. And again, it's you, what you've done with the kid. Why? What made you do it?"

Peggitty takes a swig of his beer. His heart beats a little lighter. Pete is a good and faithful friend. "Two reasons, Pete. First of all, I love the kid. And when you really love someone you don't want to hold on to him forever. You want him to be strong and free and able to make his own way in the world. You want him to be a winner, not a wimp. You don't want him dependent on you. You want him to be happy. If you love him, then his happiness is more important than your own. That's what love is, finding another person who is more important to you than you are to yourself. The kid taught me this.

"The second reason is that I am dying. Don't tell no one, please don't. You're my oldest and best friend, Pete…'

Pete shakes his head. "1…don't, I don't…

"Don't try to. Take my word for it. Two times in my life I found something wonderful. The night I got knocked to shit and almost was killed. The night you say you were there. And the day Luke came into my life. Most men don't have a second chance at happiness, but Luke gave it to me. He's the best man who ever was, no matter what happens. Whatever pride's in the man for what he's done, he gives it back to me with interest. I love him, like the earth loves the sun, like he loves me.'

Pete has never seen Peggitty cry, didn't think he was able.

"We can't go on forever. Everything's got an end," Peggitty says. "And one of these days Luke's going to be left alone. And I can't do a thing about it except to make sure that he's a survivor, a strong one. I'm worried, though." He stops and looks Pete squarely in the eyes. "I don't speak to nobody about my relationship with Luke except with you, you know that?"

Pete nods.

"Okay. What worries me is that there hasn't been a day since we've lived together that the kid and I haven't had sex. Not because of me. I'm getting old, real old. But, because he loves me. I never tried to hold on to him no matter what. And this is the problem: what happens when I'm gone and he's left alone? Everything he's done with his life he's done because he loves me. And that's wrong. I'm thirty-five years older than him and I'm going to die. But Luke is going to have to live. I lived thirty years with hustlers, when I needed them, and it was alright, because I never had a strong memory of anyone to hang onto. But Luke isn't going to settle for this kind of thing. We're too close. Neither one of us knows where the one begins and the other leaves off. We've become the same person with two faces. I can't kick him out, I can't force him to go have a relationship with someone else, because he doesn't want that. It would destroy him. I'm only hoping that by the time I go, he's strong enough."

Pete is shaking at the core. "I feel for you, Peg. But I have to admit that I'm jealous. You've got problems only angels have to

"Maybe…" Peggitty takes a swig of his beer, "maybe if he comes in here afterward, treat him like you do me. Like a champ."

'There's a difference."

"Which is …?"

"You never had nobody before him. He has you."

"Aw, there's plenty of old goats like me around." Pete shakes his head.

"Not in my bar," he says.

Peggitty dies of a stroke as Luke is fucking him. The last words he says are "Thank you for everything." Then he passes into

nothingness. Luke's big cock is left stuck up in a dead piece of flesh.

Peggitty's gone.

There isn't much of a will. Peggitty doesn't have much to leave, except his trophies, and photos and scrapbooks. And a note Luke finds in the desk drawer a couple of weeks later. Son,

I can't begin to tell you how proud I am of you and what you've done with your life. But life is for the living. If you read this, I am dead. And dead is dead and ought to be buried and out of mind.

I loved you. If anything, I learned a lot about love from you. I learned to live because of love and, finally, to die with it in my heart. You made me the happiest man in the world.

But now I'm dead and buried. And you have a lot of living and loving yet to do. There is so much love in you. Don't bury it. There's just not much sense in reliving what we shared. Find yourself a good man and hold on to him. Your instincts are good. You're not bound to make a mistake.

Nothing lasts forever. For me, it lasted longer than I ever hoped. I know that you're the champ.

Love, Dad (Mickey "Peggitty" McClaren)

That Moment Before the Dawn

Every little rabbit punch is, in fact, a jarring blow. By round two the pain is excruciating. He is being constantly battered. He fights back, swinging from the left, then suddenly shifting to a deadly blow from the right. He defensively retreats, protects himself. Then, in sudden spurts, he drives into the jackhammer moves which most distinguish his style.

A sudden, merciless attack from his opponent. He is defenseless . He takes the pain. His head spins. The pain in his forehead is so intense it feels as if everything will explode. A sudden, unexpected right blow to his jaw and he is elsewhere. He stumbles backward, trips, falls.

On the mat he feels only the pain. Two thoughts occur to him: he loves the man who is inflicting the pain on him and, the pain is a sense of bliss.

Because he loves this man, he knows—and this is the moment when he sees, with closed eyes, the face and body of Peggitty in a mad rage which has precipitated, closing in on him. He knows how deeply he loves the man and that only he is getting from this what he wants. But love is giving, love is wanting, more for the man one loves than wanting for one's self-one's own needs. That love is what frees man finally from self-need, self-pleasure , selfishness. Love is for the kid, the door out of himself into the world of other men. Freedom.

He pushes himself off the floor. His body is having spasms. Strangely enough, his legs hurt most of all. They feel weak. He is not sure he can stand. But he does. Then, on his feet, the trembling passes and he feels firm, strong. A surge of energy assumes control of his body. "I am encased in steel, in leather, he thinks. His eyes clear, the referee is at the count of eight. He sees his man across the ring from him in his corner. The man is beautiful. His body is a perfect fighting machine. Suddenly he wants to fuck the man. Then, as suddenly, the man has Peggit-ty's face.

And all the anger, the sorrow, the moments he has faced alone without his man who deserted him, all the fiery rage he has felt at Peggitty going where he can never again touch him, the utter sense of loneliness without his man, batters his soul and his blood boils. The old man taught him how to fight.

"This one's for you, Peggitty," he screams loudly. The crowd roars. They know legend, somehow.

He moves, every tactic, every defense, every offensive measure comes into play. He parries, then moves, dances, punches, probes, inflicts the kind of pain he can feel in himself unto his lover. His is finally alive, more alive than he has been before.

His new lover is surprised, hesitates, holds back, strikes out

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JIM'S STORY by Robert Boucheron

I know I shouldn't be telling you this, but you look like someone who won't blab, and you didn't look at me funny or nothing because of my shaved head. I have to tell somebody because I get so nervous all the time not being able to do stuff, you know, because of Mr. Braddock. If he finds out about this, I'll be in trouble, so this is just between you and me, okay?

You knew I wasn't a skinhead or a punk rocker because of my muscular development, right? Those guys always look kind of pale and thin and unhealthy, like they don't eat right and always stay up too late at night. But I've been putting on weight, all solid muscle, especially in the arms and chest, see? Go ahead, you can feel it—it won't pop like a balloon. Mr. Braddock, he's the one who got me exercising, he says it's all a matter of "a few pounds in the right places." He has a funny way of saying things sometimes, but I have to admit he's done a lot for me, because he really took me under his wing and made me shape up, you know.

But Mr. Braddock's very strict—he won't tolerate any funny business "what-so-ever." That's how he says it, mister, and it's nothing to laugh about. I try real hard not to break the rules, but I'm still a kid, you know. I'm almost nineteen, and I left home two years ago, but like I said, I get so nervous and I don't always think before I do something. That's Mr. Braddock's big thing, he's always telling me to "think it through" and "consider the consequences." In most cases, the consequences for me are aching muscles and a sore butt.

You heard right-Mr. Braddock believes in physical punishment . "Spare the rod and spoil the child," he says, which doesn't really make sense, because he usually uses his belt on me. He also has a spanking stick, which is really just a scrap of two-by-four; a special strap made of black leather; a small paddle, like you play paddleball with; and a birch cane that stings like a snakebite and makes a scary swishing sound. "Let the punishment fit the crime," that's another thing he likes to say. He does some other stuff to me too, but I better not go into that right now.

Sometimes he asks me what I think he should do to me because of my mistakes, which is like an extra punishment to say what it is. I have to think about what I did and why it was wrong and how wrong it was. He always gives me exactly what I ask for, ten strokes with the strap or five with the paddle or whatever. It's like he knows I'm afraid to underestimate,

It hurts awful bad, so I used to cry a lot when I first met Mr. Braddock. But like he says, you have to learn to live with pain, and I think I'm getting used to it—a little. I don't cry as much now, but that's mostly because Mr. Braddock can't stand it. "Sniveling baby," he says, "can't take his spanking without turning on the waterworks. Maybe I should make the baby wear a diaper and pat his bottom with baby powder."

That always shuts me up first. I'd die of embarrassment if I had to wear a diaper, even if nobody knew about it. Anyway, I'm learning discipline, how to control myself. Strange as it may sound, when Mr. Braddock lays into my behind, it's like something I need. But I've got a long way to go even with his help. I still get carried away and do stupid things when I should know better, like missing my haircut a few weeks ago.

I'd been going to Vito once a week to get a crewcut. Originally , it was Mr. Braddock's idea, but I got used to it after a few weeks, and I wondered how I ever had time to bother with long hair. With a crewcut you don't have to comb it or condition it or blowdry it or worry about the wind messing up your hair. You just get up in the morning, shower, rub dry with a towel, and that's it. I liked it, although if it hadn't been for Mr. Braddock I might never have gotten a crewcut, especially one as short as I had.

Meanwhile I was going to the gym and starting to show some progress, eating regular meals, and trying my hardest to follow the rules, which are really for my own good. Plus I started working part-time for Mr. Braddock in his office, opening mail and cleaning and stuff like that. I'm not sure exactly what he does, but he spends a lot of time outside of the office, meeting clients and doing research. He's a hard worker, and he makes you work hard, too. That's okay, because like Mr. Braddock says, if he didn't keep me busy I'd be up to no good.

So all in all, life was going pretty good, a whole lot better than when I was on my own, bumming around and getting into trouble. The only problem was that I never had any money of my own. Mr. Braddock said I was "earning my keep" and didn't pay me an allowance. He bought me clothes and stuff, like these tough-looking boots with the strap over the instep, and one of the rules is to always keep my boots polished. You can practically see your face in one if you bend down. But he only gave me money for something specific, like my weekly haircut.

Now there was this movie I really wanted to see about a guy who goes into the jungle to rescue his best friend, who's held captive by these little jungle people who are real mean, and they torture him a lot but he can take it, and when the guy shows up they capture him too and torture him in a different way, but eventually the two guys figure out how to trick the guards, who don't really have any discipline, so they escape together and go live in a cave complete with furniture and a telescope high up in a mountain somewhere.

I knew I was supposed to go straight to the barbershop, but I was feeling my oats on account of how I look so tough, so I went to the movie instead, which is how come I could describe it so well, and I hoped Mr. Braddock wouldn't notice. Well, that was stupid all right, because he noticed right away.

"Where the hell have you been, boy?" he said. That's mostly what he calls me, his "boy," but my name is Jim.

"Nowhere," I said.

"I can see that—not where you should have been, at any rate. What is all this?" He grabbed my hair in front, which was the only place you could grab it, and pulled hard.

"Ouch! Oh, you mean Vito?"

"Yes, I mean Vito. Why didn't you go get your haircut?"

"1…I forgot."

"You forgot. After all these weeks of going to exactly the same place at exactly the same time, you forgot.

'Well, I didn't exactly forget. I got distracted.'

"Oh, that's even better. And would you care to tell me just how your feeble mind became distracted?"

"Well, I was walking past the Cineplex, you know, and there was this movie about two guys who get captured in the jungle." Mr. Braddock stopped fiddling with his belt buckle, like he was getting ready to take off his belt.

"Oh yeah? These guys get tied up and, uh, interrogated?" "Sure, Mr. Braddock, that's mostly what it's about. And they're real handsome, and since it's hot and sweaty in the jungle, you know, they're not wearing much of anything like a shirt, especially when the natives start testing them.'

"Testing them?" Mr. Braddock was getting real interested, I could tell, because he was absent-mindedly unbuttoning his shirt and sort of tugging on the fly of his pants.

"There's this scene at night where the two guys have their

56 DRUMMER

arms tied to a pole overhead, and they're facing a big campfire and they're stripped naked, and the little jungle people are trying different things to make them talk or at least break down.

"Like what kinds of things?" Mr. Braddock had that look in his eye. It's sort of hard to describe, but it means I'm in for one of his "training sessions."

"Well, they pretend they're going to poke their eyes out or hold a burning stick against their skin. But mostly the natives whip them with vines that make a swishing sound, a lot like your cane." As soon as I said it, I knew I shouldn't have mentioned Mr. Braddock's favorite "disciplinary tool."

"Is that so?" Mr. Braddock had his shirt off by now, and I could see his chest muscles bunching up through the pelt of black and gray hair. "This is more serious than you may realize, boy. I think you'd better come into the den, where we can get to the bottom of this."

The "den" is a sort of exercise room, but it also has some special equipment you don't usually see at a gym, like a body harness and overhead pulleys. I knew what was coming, but I just stood real quiet by the bench press. Mr. Braddock doesn't like me to make a move without his say-so—that's part of the training.

"You were very bad to miss your haircut, Jim. You let Vito down, and you disobeyed my orders, but worst of all, it means you don't give a damn about your appearance. Now instead of telling me about this movie you saw without my permission, you're going to show me. So, on the double, strip!"

I got out of my blue jeans and T-shirt in a hurry, because Mr. Braddock doesn't like to be kept waiting. One of my boots fell over, and there was a wad of gum stuck to the sole. I must have picked it up in the Cineplex without knowing it.

"What have we here? Another example of your slovenly ways." Mr. Braddock pried off the gum and stuck it on the tip of my nose, where I couldn't help smelling it. "Now don't you look pretty, with the snot hanging off your nose. Maybe that will teach you not to poke it in the gutter."

Technically, the Cineplex wasn't off-limits, but I remained standing at attention, not daring to say a word, while Mr.

Braddock paced around me.

"What do I always say about punishment, boy?"

"Let the punishment fit the crime." "Very good. And what else?"

"Spare the rod and spoil the child."

"Batting a thousand. Now, by a curious twist of fate, we can combine these two truths. Go get the cane.'

It was hanging by a loop from the pegboard. I handed it to Mr. Braddock, who flexed it between his hands and cut the air to one side.

"Will this do for the vine?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Show me how the man in the movie was positioned." So I had to show Mr. Braddock how to tie me up and whip me with the cane. He kept pretending not to understand.

"Like this?" as he hit the back of my thighs.

"No, sir," I said, trying to hold back the tears. "Higher."

"Oh, like this," giving my butt a light tap.

"No, sir, it was harder."

He whipped my butt a little harder, but not enough to sting. "It was much worse, sir. The victim grimaced with pain." And so did I, as Mr. Braddock quit fooling and laid into my butt and backside. I managed to keep my mouth shut, but I couldn't help crying as he got into the rhythm. The tears dripped down my cheeks, and I licked the salt from my lips.

You may not believe this part, but as Mr. Braddock whipped me from the right and then the left, as the pain in my ass got unbearable-my pecker got hard! I could see it stick out all by itself, stiff and tender at the same time. I couldn't touch it, of course, since my wrists were attached to the pulley restraints. But as my hard-on got to feeling unbearable too, I tried to rub it a little against the wall. Like magic, Mr. Braddock knew what was up.

"Was that in the script, boy? Did you see the man's dick get hard?" Mr. Braddock had a pretty big bulge himself, but then he was a lot taller than the natives, anyway.

"No, sir, the camera didn't go down that far."

"So you thought you'd exercise your imagination." "I can't help it, sir." My voice was a little unsteady, because my butt felt like it was burning up.

"There are a lot of things you can't help. But what is rule number one?"

"To conserve my vital forces-sir."

"Damn right. They may not have shown this in the movie, either, but then they didn't have your problem. Jim, I'm going to have to tie off your nuts. It's for your own good, you know that, so hold still."

As I tried not to tremble, Mr. Braddock cinched this little leather contraption around my balls and the base of my pecker. I don't know if it was supposed to prevent something or what, but my dick only got harder. It even started to dribble, you know, that watery stuff before you come. Mr. Braddock was standing real close behind me, almost breathing down my neck. I could feel the bulge in his pants pressing against my bare ass, which must have looked bright red. Instead of letting it cool off, he was sort of rubbing it in.

With the cane he flipped my balls up and down, my poor nuts, all stretched and swollen by the leather strap. Then he ran the cane across my dick like he was playing the violin, and he squashed the fat part on top against my belly. At this point, I wasn't crying any more-I was breathing hard, like in the mid- dle of a workout.

"Had enough, boy? Don't think you can take any more?" "I can take it, sir." But inside I thought I was going to shoot a

'Listen up. First thing tomorrow morning, you high-tail it over to the barbershop. And you know what you're going to say to Vito?"

"No, sir. Honest, I really don't know!"

"You're going to apologize for missing your haircut. And so that you won't forget again, you're going to tell him to shave all the hair off that empty head of yours." gulped and started to panic.

"Let me hear you say it, boy." He kept fiddling with my dickhead and balls and rubbing against my inflamed butt. His chest hair made a sort of grinding sound on my shoulder blades. I thought I was going crazy, and I couldn't get out the words.

'Come on, Jim. What do you want him to do?" He was talking real soft, just an inch away from my ear.

"Shave my head," I finally whispered.

"Louder, so he can hear you." Mr. Braddock almost had my ear in his mouth. His breath was as hot as steam.

'Shave…" But that was as far as I got, because my pecker shot like a geyser, spilling my vital forces all over the place. I thought it was never going to stop-it just kept gushing and gushing, about nine or ten times, until I thought my guts were going to come out that way. My heart seemed to stop, and I went limp, hanging from the pulleys.

Mr. Braddock was kind of quiet himself, for a minute, leaning against me with his arms around my chest. Then he took a deep breath and unhooked me.

"Put the cane back, get cleaned up, and report for chow. You can eat standing up in the kitchen. On the double, now, march!"

When I went to bed that night, he let me sleep on my stomach, which he usually doesn't. And, well, you know what happened the next morning at the barbershop.

When he saw what I looked, like bald as an egg, Mr. Braddock decided to keep me that way. So now I have to shave every day, and if I miss a spot by accident, he makes me do it over. He won't let me wear a baseball cap unless it gets real cold, because he wants me to be reminded. Which reminds me, I put in some stuff just now that was sort of personal, so keep it under your hat, you know. Because if Mr. Braddock gets wind of it, I won't be able to sit down for a week.

DRUMMER 57

STARRING STEVE YANCEY

Three sailors find better things to do than spend a beautiful San Diego summer day on a battleship.

They find their thrills at the San Diego Zoo, the local YMCA, and an adult bookstore. They end up at a Country-Western bar where shooting pool with Marines can be a winner's fantasy.

DANA ROMANO

MATT FERRING

I am an adult over 21 years of age, and I wish to recleve adult materials through the mail, I am not a law enforcement official, postal impector, or member of any censorantp group. I agree that the material I am purchasing

SIGNATURE ___

CHECK CHOICE

□CASH □MONEY ORDER □CHECK □MASTERCARD □VISA □COD

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$69.95

FOR C.O.D.S. SEND S5 DEPOSIT S _ CALIF. RESIDENTS ADD 6". SALES TAX S

SEABAG P.O. Box 3770 San Diego, CA 92103

Charley Soeo Leather

It was a day like any other day when Charley and his friend appeared at the Drummer offices. They are Leather Fraternity members, were in town from the midwest and Charley asked shyly if we were interested in photographing him for the magazine. Were we ever!

Charley brought his own leather for the session and they were such nice guys that we got much better acquainted. It turned out that there is little in the way of leather stores in their part of the country so he makes his own, rather their own.

We were so impressed with his designs and workmanship that we placed an order for lots of Charley's work. What started out as a pleasant afternoon of some great shots of a beautiful lea-therman might turn into big business for a couple of very nice guys.

Whichever you are interested in, Charley or his leather, make these four pages well-worth looking over. Charley isn't available but his leather is now.

On the inside fold-out is a magnificent work by the incomparable Olaf. Carefully unstaple it (don't hurt yourself) and hang it on the wall, but don't forget that Charley is on the other side.

LEATHER FRATERNOTY MEMBERS DEDUCT 10%. INGLUDE YOUR MEMBERSHIP NUMBER, PLEASE.

DRUMMER 87

ERYTHING EW

G R

CHARLEY LEATHER FASHIONS Created and executed by Charley himself. Arm bands are of double soft leather, studded or unstudded. Snap on easily to accentuate the bicep. Indicate small, medium or large. Unstudded Studded

1295 / 1695 the most comfortable leather shorts you have ever put on. Charley's modest price…

LOW CUT LEATHER TANK TOP Show off those tits in front and your lats in back. Long tail to keep it from bunching up. They'll love you

3995

Daddy's boy

DRUMBER

T-SHIRTS 144

DRUMMER T-SHIRT 995

Our usual fine quality 50% cotton black T-shirt comes with the famous Drummer logo silkscreened in white to let everyone know just what kind of man you are. Small, medium, large.

DADDY 995

Drummer created the Daddy and Daddy's Boy craze with its popular Drummer Daddy magazines. Now you can let every potential Daddy's Boy on your block know you have a firm hand and a firmer attitude. White on 50% black cotton. Small, medium or large.

DADDY'S BOY 995

Looking for a firm hand and a firmer attitude? Advertise with our 50% cotton black T-shirt that proclaims who and what you are! Small, medium or large.

IN TRAINING 995

The perfect cover-up for your slave's tired and worked tits is our In Training half-shirt. From shoulders to mid-stomach; black on battleship grey, 50% cotton; small, medium or large.

DADDY'S LITTLE MAN 995

[F1(0)]

MISTER BENSON

The novel that electrified leather-men across the country when it was first serialized in Drummer, revised by the author with an epilogue from Mr. Benson himself. Cited by Penthouse as one of the Top Ten SM Novels ever writ- ten, praised by Phil Andros as "an SM masterwork ," and acknowledged "a classic underground novel" by the Village Voice, John Preston's Mr. Benson is must reading for all leathermen, and for anyone who wants to understand the phenomenon of gay SM in the 1980s.

95 THE BRIG

A major novel of military discipline and institutionalized SM. Victor Terry in Dungeon-Master calls it "one of the best erotic novels of dominance and enforced submission I have ever read- … This book is hot!"

Set at the close of the Vietnam War, The Brig chronicles a young consciencious objector's ordeal at the hands of his Marine tormentors , his surprising self-discoveries in the midst of torment, his ultimate triuimph-and the price he pays for it.

HE AIN'T HEAVY, HE'S MY LOVER

Had enough of whips, chains, and heavy-aron Heinri duty SM? You won't escape them here—but's menacing you'll rediscover them with a decidedly nch-men! humorous twist, along with Carlo Carlucci'seus comm glowingly humorous look at every otherrleans artist aspect of gay life, from the pangs of comingiantum leap out to a Thurberesque cartoon series "Warture of SM Between the Machos and the Sissies" that 2139 and will have you in stitches! ace called

Gay cartoon books have come and gone, but usclebound this one is really special. "A must-have lice society cartoon book," says the Baltimore Gayleviate" love Paper; "a sharper wit could not be found!"distic batt Cruise Magazine says it's "the kind of book rrorism, He you'll read over and over, getting a frestado Island chuckle or grin each time." And the Sarntasies into Francisco Review of Books declares that netrates the Carlo Carlucci "has the talent of Thurber." your imag

FROM THE LARRY TOWNSEND COLLECTION:

EARLY NOVELS

KISS OF LEATHER THE FAUSTUS CONTRACT MAN SWORD BEWARE THE GOD WHO SMILES MIND MASTER THE CONSTRUCTION WORKER SM SCRAPBOOK THE LONG LEATHER CORD

The Zeus Collection's 50 SADO ISLAND Illustrated by Matt

Beyond Road Warrior and Chrome lies a new dimension in sophisticated science fiction SM. Welcome to Sado Island, stronghold of the notorious Baron Heinrich von Sado and his menacing muscular / metallic hench-men!

Zeus commissioned New Orleans artist Matt to take this quantum leap into the illustrated future of SM adventure, where its 2139 and hell on earth is a place called Saso Island. Two musclebound hereos fight a police society that forbids their 'deviate" love-then take on the sadistic battlechief of world terrorism, Heinrich Von Sado. Sado Island catapults your fantasies into the future and penetrates the darkest recesses of your imagination.

SLAVES 095 OF THE EMPIRE by Aaron Travis Illustrated by Cavelo

Hot off the press-the long-awaited paperback edition of Aaron Travis' SM Roman epic, with twelve richly detailed illustrations by the master of erotic fantasy art, Cavelo.

Set against the barbaric spendor of ancient rome at the height of its empire , Slaves seduces the reader into a steamy world of flesh and steel, where a famed gladiator must ultimately choose

John Preston calls Slaves of the Empire "a wonderful mythic tale," and Phil Andros has called it "taut, tense, and absorbing."

"With hardly a pause," says the Bay Area Reporter, "Aaron Travis torments us from sex scene to sex scene, each building higher than the one before, all satisfying, original and leading surely to the hair-raising last chapter… I got bruises just from reading.

Lavish, unusual and compelling, Slaves of the Empire is a novel you'll read more than once—the first time for its suspenseful story, and after that for lingering fantasies and pleasure.

FROM THE LARRY TOWNSEND COLLECTION: NEW TREASURY OF SM

TREASURIES OF SM

A SLAVE'S GAMBIT NEW TREASURE OF SM 6 THE MACK ANTHOLOGY NEW TREASURY OF SM NEW TREASURY OF SM 5 NEW TREASURY OF SM 2 THE FLEDERMAUS ANTHOLOGY NEW TREASURY OF SM 3

THE STORY OF 'Q' 995

The classic story by Robert Payne. We have only a hundred or so of this second printing. Leather Fraternity members ordering now will get their copy signed by Mr. Payne. Indicate inscription desired.

THE BEST OF ZEUS 395

The hottest Zeus men—Gregg Strom, Val Martin, Mickey Squires, Ryder Knight, 8 more! Full color-lots of bondage.

SEXTOOL 995

End of the line for this one, Fred Hal-sted's movie in still form. A rare collector's item.

DOWN WHITE BOY

A photo essay of two BIG blacks working over a blond surfer. Big meat, and lots of action. Inspired by the "Down Boy" story of reverse slavery.

GLORY HOLE SLAVE

A bottom finds a Master and happiness in a dirty film booth South of Market. Photographed on actual location and stars Ed Wiley and Scott (Biggest Dick in San Francisco)

CHAIN REACTIONS

Video collection of stills from Marathon Films new theatre film

The first of the Drum books along with some wonderful extras by the great Bill Ward.

DRUM BY BILL WARD 1 95

The second book filled with leather action. Beautifully illustrated.

Movie still collection to accompany the best-selling "Slaves for Sale" with three Mr. Drummers and a cast of eight.

94 DRUMMER

SLAVES FOR SALE 995

FOLSOM MAGAZINE

We bought out the remainder of this magazine and have only the two issues above available. As for Issue Two ("Leatherneck") and Issue Three ("ABC's of S&M"). Available at 395

VAL BREAKS IN A HOUSE SLAVE Val Martin actually breaks in a couple of them as only he can. Hot situations with considerable pointers by the old master. One of our favorites. It was a day to remember.

795

595

595

95

DRUMMER DADDIES

Drummer's hottest selling specials.

Take your choice of issues One, Two or Three. Cover prices $6. Collectors' items definitely.

ANNUALS:

BEST & WORST OF DRUMMER

The first annual is getting very rare.

595

DRUMMER RIDES AGAIN!

Western motiff along with outrageous fiction and photos. Not many left.

595

CLASS OF '82

Initiations and school hijinks make this an annual to top all yearbooks.

595

DRUMMER MARCHES ON!

The oversize Military issue with an awful lot going for it.

5 95

DRUMMER 95

BLACK ON RED

You saw the photo article in Drummer—now see the tape! Brick Samson, a master of enema techniques, and Chris Burns, shaved hairless and ready to be filled, star in what may be the definitive video exploration of the erotic enema. The heavy action also includes dildoes, licking, catheters, piercing , shaving, and more in this epic of a leatherclad Master and his hungry slave. From the producers of "Enema Night/ Enema Slave."

Drummer says: "Chris Burns is dynamite as a young bottom enslaved by the only Master, and the only man, able to satisfy his deepest need!"

7995

ENEMA NIGHT/ ENEMA SLAVE

From the makers of "Black on Red," two previous erotic shorts featuring leather, asshole shaving, and multiple enemas. (There's also some nipple-twisting, ball-crushing, and well-directed ass-slapping—but it's the water spout that steals the show.) "Enema Slave" features a young man who takes an enema bent over a motorcycle before ending up in his captor's sling for more of the same; "Enema Night" goes even further with two leathermen administering a deep plunge to a hapless slave bound to a rack—and some interesting role-reversal. A must for the video collector and the enema connoiseurl

CHAIN REACTIONS

From the men who gave you the classic Born to Raise Hell comes a look inside a leather bar where nothing gets held back, including the confesions of horny leathermen eager to share their latest exploits with each other-and the camera. Chains, rope, motorcycles, bondage, slings, clothespins and enemas are a few of the festishes that inhabit their dreams-come-true. The cast alone makes this one a must for men in the leather scene-Rydar Hanson (Mr. Southern California Drummer 1985) in his first film role, beefy Ken Bergquist (Mr. Southeast Drummer 1984), along with Daniel Holt, Dwan Les Price, and Lee Stern.

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FANTASIZE

Fantasize

New and hot! When handsome Nick Jerrett drops into Los Angeles' famed Pleasure Chest to check out the goods, and few other horny shoppers check out his goods-and an erotic shopping spree turns into a wild series of fantasy sexcapades! Also starring hunky Mark Rebel. The leather fantasy sequence, with a harnessed, hooded Master and his slave in spiked collar, is a must!

95

FALCON HEAD

The original hardcore cult classic-Micheal Zen's stylish, uncanny tale of sex and desrie with a supernaturel edge. Pass through the magic mirror and encounter the menacing, mysterious Falconhead. Plus the award-winning short "Tattoo"- "a shocking study of pen-tration ."

7995

Born To Raise Hell is a seventy-minute hard-on . At least that is what I had the night they screened it for me. It is a classic in Leather SM movie-making .

-Robert Payne DRUMMER

VHS / BETA

Now, see for yourself the film that made a star of Val Martin. Originally in four parts, this videotape is the complete theatrical film and includes The Bar Scene, The Shaving Scene, The Dungeon Scene and the Cop's Revenge Scene. No collection is complete without it and we are extremely happy to be able to offer it for home viewing. Running time: 70 minutes.

NIGHT OF SUBMISSION

VHS / BETA

This is about the first big production of leathersex and showed a dungeon that was the talk of the leatherworld for years. It still holds up well and this is a print from brand-new theatre film. Drummer featured it in a very early issue and even published a picture book (now unavailable).

Running time is sixty hot and exciting minutes and the price is modest

SLAVES FOR SALE

SLAVERY WAS ABOLISHED IN 1863 BUT NOBODY BOTHERED TO TELL HIM

Meet the man who is dedicated to carrying on that age old tradition. He gathers them up one way or another— hunky men from all walks of like-and brings them to The Compound.

They are stripped, shave, branded…or worse.

They are brutally trained, shackled, abused, then offered to the highest bidder. There is no escape…

It was done a hundred years ago and it is being brought back in this Robert Payne fantasy, Slaves for Sale, that will hold your attention from the first gripping moment to the last explosive orgasm.

In two parts, each tape runs one hour. Starring Ken Bergquist as the Dungeon Master, and a cast of extraordinarily hot, hung, hunky captives that includes Mr. Drummer '84, Mr. Rocky Mountain Drummer '84, and the winner of the Biggest Dick in San Francisco contest. Plus many, many more exciting newcomers to the video screen.

AUDIO CASSETTES ARE YOUR HOTTEST

TURN-ON AND THESE ARE THE VERY BEST AVAILABLE!

RITES AND RAUNCH

There was definately something evil about the guy, maybe that's why I went home with him. But nothing prepared me for what was to come. I admit the things he lead me into were pretty sick, but he was so sure of himself, so masculine—well, I did them. Warning: Don't order this tape unless you're prepared to listen in on some really perverted stuff-devil worship, toilet sex in a filthy bathroom. M le-bonding at it's most extreme.

PART 1 THE KID'S FIRST TIME WITH DAD

The kid's been bad (chicks and drugs) but Dad knows just how to handle him. Dad shows his son who's boss and gives him the punishment he deserves. It's a horny kid's introduction into the male world of cocksucking, armpits, piss, and most of all, hot masculine attitude.

PART 2 THE KID'S FIRST TIME WITH DAD

Dad's been waiting for the right opportunity to corrupt his oversexed boy and tonight's the night. He knows he shouldn't do it, but those hot ass cheeks and adolsescent cock are too tempting.

KID vs DAD-WINNER TAKE ALL

Ever wrestle with your Old Man? Ever wonder what would happen if those sessions got Dad hot—too hot—and he overpowered you? Even wonder about all the different things he could force you do to to that sweaty body of his before he pins you on your stomach and forces that horse-dick of his up your ass? It's all on this tape!

MY DADDY WAS BAD

The kid comes home to find his dad asleep after a hard day's work. He could stand there forever at the foot of the bed, rubbing his crotch and watching his Dad's hairy chest, meaty thighs, and swollen dick. But when Dad wakes up. matters come to a head and the kid gets taken on a wild sex trip that culminates in a super-hot scene.

MUSCLE BUILDER ORGY

Five hot bodybuilders after a sweaty workout…stripping down to sweat-drenched jock straps…eyeing each other…their hands reaching out to feel their buddy's bicep, brushing against these solid, hard pecs…and down, down still further 'till they get so hot they don't give a shit who walks in. If you get off on pumped-up muscle, hot man-to- man action, STEAMY LOCKERROOM SEX WITH NO HOLDS BARRED, then this tape if for you.

DELIVERY BOY COMES AGAIN

Richie is the new driver on the route. He's a hot straight Italian guy who seems a little "curious" when he finds himself delivering beer and soda to a gay bar. The bartender jumps at the opportunity; soon he convinces Richie to pull out his dick and show it off. "I gotta piss," Richie announces so the bartender hands him an empty beer can. A hot session follows that gets into heavy cocksucking, lots of dirty talk, more piss games, and kinky exhibitionism.

BIKE EXHIBITIONIST

Imagine, it's a steamy afternoon at the local truck stop and you see a biker who looks too good to be true—mean, dirty, muscular—leaning against his big, black Harley. You ask if he's interested in getting some pictures of his bike. But back in your garage, his massive chest, his big hairy ass, piss streaming out of that dick. It turns out he's quite an exhibitionist. But things get out of hand when he forces you to do more than take pictures. In a short time you know that stinking body better than your Polaroid does

HOT HUNG TRUCKER

Teamster Bob picks up a not-so-innocent hitchhiker at a truckstop in the California desert. Bob has a kink in his neck…Jake the hitchhiker suggests a massage. Bob's leather jacket is the first think to come off—then his dirty greasy jeans. When they drop to the floor of the cab, you'll find out why this tape is called HOT HUNG TRUCKER. Jake knows just what to do to service that big rig. And you'll feel like you're right there to help him out.

AL PARKER AS THE REPAIRMAN

Porn star Al Parker in his only audio tape. Al's an air conditioner repairman who drops in on a guy who's wife isn't home. Who could resist AI's enormous cock? Sucking that mammouth piece of meat isn't enough and pretty soon the guy's begging for it up his ass. He gets it too-plus Al's giant balls at the same time, in one of the hottest kinkiest scenes ever recorded. 45 minutes.

GREASE MONKEYS STARRING MASTER MARIO

Two sweaty garage mechinics rape a guy they find hanging around the men's room. He puts up a fight, at first, anyway. Lots of axel grease, cocksucking, filthy talk.

DADDY BREAKS IN A NEW BOY

Patience and understanding goes out the window and Daddy starts training his boy with the tried and true adage, "spare the rod and spoil the boy." It is heavy duty training in an actual session. Both the boy and you will be better for having been there.

TAPE 1 THE INTERROGATION

This tape is featured on the cover of Drummer Magazine. Model Brutus is a mean Master who knows how to deliver some heavy abuse, both physical and mental. On side one he talks directly to you, forcing you to suck his big cock and worship that incredible Master body. On side two we hear an authentic session where he works over a slave. Plenty of humiliation, and heavy, heavy abuse.

TAPE 2 THE TRAINING BEGINS

Brutus lays it on as his recruit responds willingly and unwillingly to the abuse and humiliation of his training. Not even allowed to beg, he submits to the DI's heavy hand and busy belt. Breathfaking!

TAPE 3 PUNISHMENT & REWARD

When Brutus speaks, men listen as will you when he tells you how it is and how it's going to be. Whether the punishment is its own reward or the reward is merely more punishment, only the lowly recruit can say, 1 hour.

THE D.I. STARRING MASTER MARIO

Authentic military discipline as a tough Drill Instructor takes advantage of a couple of guys in the brig. Packed with heavy verbal abuse and forced body worship as the D.I. proves who's in command.

MARINES OVERHEARD

Two hot and very horny young Marines meet in the barracks latrine. Richie has to take a piss…and Mike takes things from there. If you're a real pig…if you like your action raunchy—hot military scenes, uniforms, the feel of a cold tile floor against your naked back while a hot Marine squats on your face—then we think you might be interested in MARINES OVERHEARD.

THE COMMANDER SPEAKS

"I am your big brother, your daddy, your commanding officer. I am every big man you ever saw in your whole fucking life and started beating off about…your tongue is going to be my shower…your mouth is going to be my toilet…you're going to make me feel like the biggest man in the world just cause you got a throat. Get your teeth down there on that zipper…get down. That's it—get your face in there. Smell what a man is like between his legs." This is just the start of the verbal abuse and humiliation the Commander is going to heap on you.

THE COP STARRING MASTER MARIO

A mean police officer forces a suspect to service his body in a show of brute perverted force. Climaxed by a raunchy bathroom scene and the victim cleaning out the cop's dirty ass.

COP WORSHIP

We've never offered a strictly one-man narrative tape before, but this one is so good we decided to make an exception. It's one guy's cop fantasies, his true-life obsessions, his dreams of what might happen if that super-hot cop he's had his eye on for months should bust him, force him to his knees to suck not only his cock but his partner's too, as the two cops stare at each other in the eye. All the guy's pent-up desires come out slurping cop cum out of rubbers, swallowing gallons of cop piss, wallowing under dominant cop attitude. If you're into cops you'll listen to this tape again and again.

DRUMMERMAN/ BE MY CLOWN

A pair of back-to-back hits for the leather crowd, from Mario Simon, whose performances at Mr. Drummer competitions from coast to coast brought audiences cheering to their feet

HIS MASTER'S VOICE

The novelty hit of the year. Whoever thought you'd be discoing to D.I. Brutus!? Be the first in your neighborhood, your bar or your dungeon.

TITCLAMPS

Ouch! Or is that ooooooooooh! You'll get a lot of nipple-sensitive stimulation with these beautifully crafted, chain-conected little biters in chrome. He'll follow you anywhere with these attached to his tits! In two versions: with detachable rubber ends (4.95), or with adjustable screw to regulate tension (5.95).

MAN OF WAR!

The finest latex dildos made, and the Source's best sellers! Flexible but firm, soft but solid for hour of fun. Shown here: our 9" model, available in white fleshtone or black fleshtone (9.95). Also available, for real man-eaters , the giant 12" model (19.95).

LEATHER FRATERNITY GREETING CARDS by Rex

The ultimate all-occasion card collection from Rex, the master of hard-edged erotic art! Available exclusively from the Source to you! An assortment of one dozen will send your message in sleazy style. Studio size; sturdy kraft envelopes included to get your message there discreetly. (9.95)

SHOWER SHOT

Our best shot: Keep it clean with this deluxe shower attachment with flexible reinforced hose, gently bevelled nozzle, and instant water flow diverter (switch from shower to shower shot with the push of a button). The best on the market at the best price!

THE BEST LUBRICANTS!

Our selections are drawn from the finest manto -man or solo-action lubricants on the market. Your selection of Lube (Natural, Hot, or Ultra) in 4 oz. (2.95) or 16 oz. (5.95); or Frisco, newest on the market, in small (2.50) or large (5.95); or high-tech formula ForPlay in 8 oz. (5.95). All water-soluable.

THE TOOL!

A medium-sized dildo for comfortable pleasure, 7" in length with a tapered base that makes for butt-plug capability-look, ma, no hands! In regular, with a gently ribbed shaft (8.95) or (shown here) extra-thick (9.95). Both in white fleshtone.

When the sun comes out in San Francisco, or anywhere else for that matter, the shirts come off and male watching is in full bloom. Richard Law, a photographer dedicated to not just watching but taking pictures of the beef, put his camera where his eyes were and amassed a collection that is being exhibited through December at Express-Photo, 2370 Market Street in San Francisco.

In fact, we told you about it last issue. Richard gave us our pick of shots he had taken mostly at the Folsom Fair with a few from the Castro Fair thrown in. Don't ask us who these men are or how to reach them. They were merely in a public place and had their pictures taken. We wish we knew who they are and if any would like to be a star in our studios. Easy come, easy go, that's the way of the passing flesh.

CIVIC CARNIVAL'85

Once a year the leather community gathers en masse in San Francisco for a fraternal bash that is unrivaled in gay leatherdom. Below: A deserving son receives a kiss from Dad. (Photo by Robert Pruzan.)

At right: Grommets, studs, zippers and belt complement the outfit of this well-dressed Carnival-goer. (Photo by B.J. Bradford.) Above: A leatherman cops a feel from a scantily-dressed frolicker. (Photo by Robert Pruzan.) At right: You can't keep a good man down, even after a hard day's fun at the CMC Carnival. (Photo by B.J. Bradford.) A …

DUGH CUSTOM

Tough Customers is our way of sharing the hottest candid home photos sent in by readers like you!

Wanna join in? Send your photo (crisp black and white reproduces best) to: Tough Customers, Drummer, 640 Natoma Street, San Francisco, 94103. Tell us you're of legal age, put your signature on the back of the photo, and include your name and address so we can assign you a confidential TC Box number. (Photos can't be returned.)

Wanna get in touch with a TC? Put your correspondence in an envelope, seal it, apply postage, and write the TC Box number on the back flap in pencil; put that inside another envelope and mail to the address above, along with a measly quarter for handling. See ya around!

TIGHT WIDE RECEIVER: This northern California muscular, bearded bottom boasts "wrap-around asslips with a wide hole that wants to be worked over by healthy, good-looking tops of any age and race. My hole can stretch from condom-cock tight to wide open and back. A treat for your big toys. Firm buns glow when slapped around." At age 34, he stands 5'10", 158 lbs., with a 41" chest and 31" waist and is hot to get plowed. "Safe is hot—healthy sex is tough and masculine," says TC 1121.