ANTHONY F. DEBLASE

PUBLISHER

RUMMER! A unique, special and very important publication. I can remember the thrill I had when I found the first issue on a newsstand in 1975. Finally someone was publishing a magazine especially for me! I eagerly awaited each new number, and dropped my subscription when I couldn't bear to wait weeks for my copy to arrive after seeing the new issue on the newsstand. I loved "Mayhem at the Movies" and "Great Sadists of History," I followed the growing alliances and patterns of revenge through "Five in the Training Room" and appreciated the ingenuity of the Top and endurance of the bottoms in the all-too-short , three-part "Leather Casting Couch." I laughed at S / M cartoons by Sean, A. Jay and Bud, and admired photos by Robert Opel, Jim Moss and Jim Wigler, and drawings by Rex, Olaf, Bud, Matt and The Hun. I yearned to share the experiences Bill Ward created for Drum. The first drawings from Cavelo left me dripping, and his work is still high on my lust list. The first chapter of Mr. Benson left me tingling-as did nearly anything by Jason Klein. Jack Fritscher, John Pres-ton , Aaron Travis and T.R. Witomski are just a few of the names that drew me like a magnet.

After I started publishing Dungeon-Master in late 1979 many friends urged me to turn it into a magazine to compete with Drummer, or to start a new magazine to do that. I constantly rejected both proposals. DM is unique and fills its own special niche. It was created to be, and still is, the "professional" publication for male-to-male S / M. Most people who read DM are also interested in Drummer, but the reverse is not true. And I could not start a competing magazine because I had too much respect for the real thing. However, when the chance to own and direct Drummer itself became available, I jumped at it. The opening paragraph of this editorial is not just an exercise in nostalgics, it is a list to let you know what I think is important from the past; it is the kind of hard-hitting writing, art, photography , etc. I want to continue.

My objective will be for each and every issue of Drummer to include something to make you think and something to make you cum; something to bring a laugh-or at least a chuckle-to your lips, and something to send a shiver down your spine. Through regular columns and special items we will bring you news about clubs and other special events, functions, contests; news from the health, political, religious and educational fronts, and occasional in-depth review articles trying to put it all together. Other columns will answer your questions about safe / sane S / M, and about sex in general, about the "Drummer life-styles " (note that this is plural-more on this below) and about whatever you want to know about. We invite readers to send photos for Tough Customers, weird or wacky jokes and news items for Drumsticks and Tough Shit (which will reappear ), and stories, art and photos for general use.

Fiction in Drummer will range from not particularly "leatherish," (for example , Tim Barrus's story in this issue) through all kinds of kink. The only common denominator will be quality. These pieces are for the enjoyment of fantasy through fiction. There will be a clear-cut difference between nonfiction and fiction pieces. In articles, how-to's, news items, etc., safe / sane sex will be stressed. But in fiction, anything (well, almost anything ) goes. The same is true of art. We will be using more drawings to illustrate stories and will allow rather explicit depictions . Rex recently brought me a stack of work that had been rejected by several publishers as too-hot-to-handle. One of these will be in Drummer 100 and others will be used later. A few might have to have a "CENSORED" bar or spot applied-but I'm certain your mind will be able to fill in the blanks.

Photography is another matter. We will continue to run hot photos of hotter men. The coverman will usually also be featured in a photo spread inside the magazine. The back cover, beginning with this issue, will also be a hot color photo and we hope eventually to be able to add a color center spread as well. Through the Drummermen feature, beginning in this issue, we also hope to show that the men featured in our photo spreads are whole persons, not just pretty plastic toys; we will talk about their interests and achievements as well as their kink and their endowments. However , while we will use lots of good photos of hot models, there will be less and less bondage and S / M in photos in Drummer. This country is currently having a love affair with the '50s. It is extending not just to clothing and music styles, but to religion, politics and "personal values" as well. The Meese Commission's anti-"pornography" campaign is having its effect. Many distributors returned the recent issue of Mach because of the bondage photos in it and / or because of the flogged back on the cover. A couple of shops have cut their Drummer order, explaining that they do not dare to show it on the racks but will keep it "under the counter," available by request only. The videos Enema Night/ Enema Slave, Red on Black, and the full Slave and Master line have been removed from distribution because of harassment by federal authorities.

Times they are a changing—and not, as far as we are concerned, for the better. Drummer sales to distributors are a vital part of this company's business; without them (or new subscriptions from several thousands of you) we could not exist. Drummer will have to stay within the limits the distributors will tolerate. But, even if we have to go back to the posing-strap days, we pledge to do it better, for our unique audience, than anyone else. If you are too young to remember the posing strap, or need to refresh your memory, I urge you to view a copy of Fred Halsted's video Eroticus*, which explores the evolution of gay male movie-making from early physique movies through the first frontal nudes, first erections , first male-male contact, etc. Now, unless we all get our asses in gear-and I do mean WE, every one of you will have

*Eroticus is available from the Sandmutopia Supply Co., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101, or phone (415) 864-3456 to place a credit-card order. This price is $79.95+$2 5&H. Indicate Beta or VHS.

to stand up and be counted, or sit down and write letters and make phone calls-we will be seeing Eroticus played in reverse . Now no bondage allowed, later no sex, then men will not be allowed to touch each other, then only limp cocks may be shown and finally it will be back to the posing pouch. Join the fight against this new wave of oppression.

While Drummer may be forced to bend with the advancing winds of change, Mach will not. Mach was originated as a place for the harder, more overtly kinky things, and it will continue in this tradition. We realize that fewer and fewer distributors will probably carry it and are planning it primarily for subscribers rather than newsstand sales. The same is true of the new Dungeon-Master . DM will continue to have the same kinds of articles and illustrations it always has had, but more of them. It will become, officially, a quarterly, and each new issue will have at least twice as many pages as past issues. FQ will continue essentially unchanged from the last two issues.

Above I referred to "Drummer life-styles ;" this is difficult to define. What kind of man reads Drummer? Leather-men is one obvious answer. And it is true, but it does not go far enough. We recently had a letter from a fan complaining about all the attention leather gets and asking for more on rubber. Not everyone is into leather. The only common denominator among Drummermen is a cock-hardening interest in masculine men, masculine images, masculine fantasy and masculine reality. Whether it is dripping sweat, high boots, rippling abdominals , tattoed arms, a police uniform, rolling in mud, the sound and feel of leather on flesh, a gold ring in a sensitive nipple, or the feeling of being completely under another man's control-or of being in complete control of another man-there is something in the interests of a Drummerman that definitely goes beyond vanilla; and beyond tuttifrutti too—to jamocha almond fudge and even more exotic concoctions.

Drummermen, you are our audience. I look forward to cooking up each new issue of Drummer to try to cater to your varied tastes and appetites. With this issue you see some changes in Drummer. With the next issue, the milestone issue 100, you will see more. And as time progresses there will be even more. Like its readers, a magazines is a dynamic, living, constantly evolving thing. Let us know what you like and don't like. What do you want from Drummer and from us? With respect to censorship, we will bend if we are forced to, as any good Top, or good bottom, must when faced with a stronger power; but we will not break-and with your help and encouragement we will succeed in serving your wishes better than ever.

ANDREW V. CHARLES

PRESIDENT

RUMMER entered my life at its inception. At that time I was extricating myself from a relationship no longer satisfying and which had grown filled with bitterness. My time was filled with advancing myself professionally and in fully enjoying the freedom from compromise and committment which a working relationship demands. These were the wonderful days of the mid-'70s when our subculture seemed to have an open horizon of growing strength and hedonism. It was before the current wave of repressive conservatism and the devastation and fear of a new illness. I fully explored the only wise counsel I had derived from interminable years of analysis-"Never be masochistic in life-style , but limit and enjoy it in bed." It wasn't limited as I explored the Top role as well. On the eve of 1976 a relationship began with Fledermaus, evolving into something much more stable, durable and satisfying than I in my cynicism could ever have anticipated. Soon Dungeon-Master , and somewhat later, Sandmuto-pia Supply came along. During all this time, Drummer was regular reading, eagerly anticipated, often very good, sometimes a bit bland, but with me as with many others, always saved and placed into that very special library.

But all things change. My peaceful and organized professional life gradually became less satisfying, affected by increasing governmental controls and various fiscal, especially insurance, groups regulation and interference. As DungeonMaster grew, I became increasingly interested, and sometimes to my surprise, involved. Over the last few years as annoyance with my profession grew and forced me to think more and more "politically," the overall environment was also changing as a result of the new illness and beginning to threaten that special aspect of my private life which I so valued and enjoyed. From a totally nonpolitical animal, one used to thinking rather conservatively for reasons of economics and profession, I become increasingly interested and involved in the community of friends which I valued and recognized as a family of choice rather than of happenstance . Drummer was perhaps upstaged by a few other publications in voicing a reaction to the changed political mood and response to the illness, but soon joined as a strong voice.

Early on I had arrived at the simple conclusion that one had only one "go

'round" with this life. So quality in all things became of utmost importance to me-surroundings, education, professionally , in relationships and sexually. Certain standards, perhaps at times excessively stringent, were striven for and more often than not actually achieved. Professionally, adherence to these standards often provided a great deal of personal satisfaction but conversely frequently resulted in a sense of alienation and isolation from many peers who entertained other goals. It became increasingly evident that my field, although expressing these standards publicly and for practical marketing reasons , had in reality become just another commodity in this country's market-place . As this trend began to hit harder and harder and grow increasingly repugnant to my personal outlook, my desire to retire developed. Serendipitously, it was at this time that Drummer entered my life much more actively. Knowing me well after all these years, Fledermaus feared my boredom from the decision to retire. Rumors were circulating that Drummer might be seeking its own new daddy and so we explored the possibility of developing our "cottage industry" of DungeonMaster / Sandmutopia Supply by acquiring Drummer and its brother publications. So the role of being one of the new parents of Drummer opens an entire new chapter in my life, one to which I hope to bring the same guest for standards of quality, excellence and integrity.

But equally, if not more importantly during this increasingly troublesome time, it is hoped Drummer will become an anchor for this community which we all value and which we hope will remain strong and continue to grow. We hope for a voice which will be firm, yet subtle and effective in bringing us together with a greater strength to overcome a reactionary mentality which misunderstands and thus fears this community and through fear attempts to suppress and perhaps eliminate it. With the strength there must be continued ability to look at ourselves with objectivity and sometimes playfulness and humor. One of the most vital aspects of our lifestyle, perhaps one of our most distinguishing, is an ability to be childlike, with openness, fun, whimsy, and an ability to playfully explore and continually grow and learn. We hope Drummer will be an ongoing expression of this in an exciting and invigorating way.

NO ONE WINS ALONE

PAGE 6 DRUMMER

ISSUE 99 DALIMMER

PHOTOS BY STAN BLACK 15 80 HER MR. LEATH K WINNING TAKES GUTS!

ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

PAGE 7 DRUMMER

PHOTOS COURTESY OF IML STUDIO EXCEPT WHERE NOTED. PHOTO BY ROBERT PRUZA 1983 INTERNATIONAL LEATHER TIONAL THER INTERN PHOTO BY ROBERT PRUZAN MR CONTES own importance vould-be winners dull their own dis-rough viciousness. 1986 ecial significance International Mr. Leather Scott Tucker and Larry, his lover of ilders have the twelve years, Mr. S.F. Leather JimEd ove of a longstand-Thompson and porn prince Chris o. Examples include Burns, and Mr. Drummer 1985 Steve Reiswig and Mr. N.W. Drummer 1984 Ray Woods. ISSUE 99 DRUMMER PAGE 9 DRUMMER

DRUMBERMEN eve Reiswig and Ray Woods are a pair of very special men to Drummer and to Drummermen. They first came to our attention in 1984 when Ray was elected Mr. Northwest Drummer and came to the finals in San Francisco. With Steve's aid he presented a fantasy in which Steve, spectacularly costumed as a bird, was mastered by Ray and ridden off stage.

The next year Steve entered the Mr. Northwest Drummer contest. He did not win the regional title but John Embry invited him to participate in the finals as an invitational contestant. Steve and Ray prepared a rather daring and totally spectacular fantasy. Ray, shrouded in a black cloak emblazoned with the letters A-I-D-S, and wearing a death mask, engaged scantily clad Steve in an elaborately choreographed and scored battle . At first Death seemed to win, but the 6'2", 220-pound defender would not give in and took the upper hand. Steve defeated his opponent, threw him to the floor and ripped away the facade of death. Then with a kiss he breathed new life into his lover and carried him triumphantly away. The audience voted and Steve Reiswig was elected Mr. Drummer 1985.

I have seen this performance only in unexplained stills scattered through back issues of Drummer and on video* at this year's finals. Even with the wrong music the incompetent sound man played at this year's showing, the fantasy was breathtaking. The spectre of death is never a pleasant subject, and AIDS has rendered us all too conscious of it. But Steve and Ray have managed to take this gut-churning subject and turn it into an electric, even erotic, and above all a powerfully positive statement. Steve's win was somewhat resented by the men who had supported the reigning Mr. Northwest Drummer 1985, but as was recently stated in a Seattle gay newspaper, "After viewing the video of Steve Reiswig's fantasy at the Drummer finals, no one can have any doubts that he really won the title."

The Mr. Drummer title has raised Steve's visibility considerably and he recently, for example, came to San Francisco to be master of ceremonies at Interchain's Leather Daddy's Boy Contest (the winner of which looked like he could have been Steve's son; I hope I can get the two of them together for a photo session!) Stev and Ray both work out at a "real gym" (as opposed to one with ferns and juice bars) several times a week and Steve has mutually exclusive interests in power lifting and competitive body building. I have to admit I urged him to avoid both—power lifters are amazingly strong but have a "soft" look, while competitive body builders have to shave—and to remove that gorgeous pelt would be a sacrilege! I think that I speak for most Drummermen when I say we like him exactly the way h

ver the course of this last year I have seen several of my brothers die. Their suffering was intense, physically, psychologically, emotionally and spiritually . Their pain was not diminished by the forces which are surrounding us: Rea-gan , LaRouche, Falwell—bigots at large in politics, science and religion have been pouring salt on the wounds of our dying friends.

"We have let these influences victimize us, blame us, put us to shame for too long. Because we are a gentle, peaceful people, we have held back our anger and rage. We can hold back no longer! If we are to die, let us die without shame. And if we are not to die, let us put our attitude in order now!

"We are a dignified, creative, crtically important part of this planet. In atlantis we were the magicians, shamans, the wizards. That we still are today. We have powers to not only save ourselves but also to put a world gone mad back in order again!

"To do so we must fill our hearts with love for each other, and for ourselves, and fill our minds with only the most positive of thoughts. We must always walk tail and proud.

"Each of us has great power. When joined together this power increases geometrically. But a great and terrible test lies before us: each one of us will feel the fire. Only if we bond together and direct our strengths, our creativity and yes, our rage, can we hope to resist those who would have us annihilated. As an army of lovers, we can create the power. the magic to make this fantasy our reality!"

Who deserves to be a Drummerman in future issues? Send in your nominations to Drummer, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101.

'Male Entertainment Network's video of 1985 Mr. e ad in this Drummer Contest is available from the issue) or from Sandmutopia Supply ox 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314, $59.91 $2 ag and handling Indicate VHS or Bela.

ORANGE BREATH FROM THE SUN DRAGON by TIM BARRUS

ORANGE BREATH FROM THE SUN DRAGON by TIM BARRUS

And you will be a fisherman. -Kwakiutl Indian chant Song To a Son he sun set out over the Gulf of Mexico with redolent red-breathing endeavor behind one of the storms of the summer. Key West is the end of the planet. The island's dragon sunsets are like irreconcilable epilogues of burned magnetized male witchery. Orange breath from the sun dragon.

The tumultuous island resembles an anonymously young virginal buck needing violently perhaps even desperately to be fucked in his shithole and like that virginal buck the island of magic leaves you with very little options. The storms of summer are inevitable. And like the storms of fuck they are beautifully, even innocently frantic. Key West is about endings if it is about anything whatsoever.

There is nowhere else to go. It is as far as one is allowed to travel. None of that matters. By the time you have arrived at sunset in Key West you have lost the desire to see the sun from any other vantage point. Just as after you have fucked any virginally anonymous island buck—with his inevitable ache and his inevitable sense of suspense—you have lost the desire to fuck anything else.

Endings. The sun must also surely be an island virgin because it leaves you with no options at all. I sat my butt down on the hard, concrete pier and watched the sun set itself into the reddened, shameless Gulf of Mexico.

The clean, wide-eyed, polyestered constituency of the rest of the world mingled with plastic-cup, inebriated virtuousness among the Key West characters of sunset…those of us who are here because there are no other places left to go. We have all lost the desire to see the sun set herself anywhere else but at the indelicate obscene edge of defiance. Orange breath from the sun dragon. Sunset characters. Immodest drunkards. Shameless, unclean and illegitimate. Jugglers. Magicians. Flute makers. Singers. Men who dance about for tossed coins. Sellers of coconuts. And folks with no past whatsoever…most of them fishermen who rarely speak because they have lost the desire to say anything of substance. All the words of substance have been said.

I have seen so many of those dragon sunsets. I have loved them all as if I were loving my Johnny. I sat there with my inevitable bottle in its inevitable paper bag and felt alone. Key West is the end of the earth. Storms of summer. Storms of fuck. Dragon sunset. Alone. Orange breath from the sun dragon. n the beginning I told my Johnny that I didn't really need a boatboy, a helper, another hand aboard the Ann Marie. I was my own captain and my own first mate…my own fish cleaner. I had no use for a brown-muscled island buck. But my Johnny never did take no for an answer. I still don't think he knows the meaning of the word.

He kind of just moved aboard. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Who the hell knows? It hardly matters anymore. The only real thing I remember about the time that my Johnny first came aboard-years ago-was that it was right after one of the most convulsed, sky-blackened storms of summer I had ever seen. And in my time I have seen more than a few.

It is hardly out of the ordinary for an island buck to remove his clothing when he's out to sea. The fish do not care. I have reached the age where I joyously remember only the things from my sordid old-man past that I choose to remember. And one of the things I choose to remember is the first time my Johnny stripped off his clothes aboard the Ann Marie. Brown as an animal. Rippled muscles that even an old pathetic bearded shit such as myself could still envy. And blond hair that made the island buck look as though he were some kind of God, although I knew better. He had to be all of twenty. If that, I am somewhat older than twenty. My Johnny is, indeed, a very good sailor, having grown up on this island, this rock, and all. It is in his blood. I think he could sail before he could walk, my Johnny. And I do not deserve him, although were he to leave me now, I would not choose to live this life. I have considered life without him and I would rather-pridefully-taste the cold metal of a shotgun inside my warm and willing mouth than lose my Johnny. I'd sooner lose the goddamn sun. Fuck everything. I need my Johnny. We are lovers, and I don't care who knows about it.

And, of course, it was inevitable that in the beginning I would suck my bearded old man's lips at his youthful, aching shithole- … his strained-open shithole. Sucking…my island buck. You could smell the sweetness in the air from the rain that had just spent itself into the sea. Island storms. And I spent myself into the young man's soft-like bowels, fucking him in his hairless ass just like he begged me to do. It was all so very inevitable. My Johnny bent over the Ann Marie's rail telling me that he needed his Pappa inside of him even though I am not his Pappa…that is what he calls me. I do not object. And he did need me inside of him. It was my first taste of his shithole. I am now addicted. It was my first taste of his frantic tongue down my old man's throat and I am now as insane with my need for him as he needs his Pappa. So I became the Pappa he needed. And we live aboard the Ann Marie

It is not a life of civilized luxury. We are many things. Being civilized is not one of them. We live practically in the sea and eat fish if we can catch them and we usually can. My Johnny is a fisherman of the first degree. And we have for the most part left as much of the world behind as we dare. The world does not always take kindly to being left behind. The storms of fuck are always more defiant than the storms of summer.

We'd put into the marina for a while to collect our mail, buy our supplies and stretch our legs on land for a change. Johnny came back from the post with letters and news. "Have a letter," he said, looking thoughtful or at least more thoughtful than he normally does. "I think it is from your son." I opened the envelope with its New York postmark slowly. Sometimes it is best to deal with the storms of the past from a very relaxed pace.

Sometimes it is best to forget the past altogether.

"I think," I told him, "that the past is going to be paying us a call." That night we watched the sunset together naked from the bow of the boat. The sun threw its fire upon the water with a discharged vengeance. My Johnny held me to him intensely rubbing on my old-man hardened breasts and asked me to sperm myself into him. The storms of ruthless youth.

hey were due to arrive from New York and the Ann Marie was a mess. Johnny and I had scrubbed her teak decks down with a brush and a bucket of soap but she still smelled like fish. The Ann Marie always smells like fish. The deck was stained and looked like a hundred thousand fish innards had been gutted out on those decks because a hundred thousands fish innards had, indeed, been gutted out on those decks. I stood there in the galley and tried to clean the dirt from my old hands and fingernails. I was nervous they wouldn't like me, would see my dirt, would be ashamed of me. Maybe they were "fancy." I hated "fancy." Fuck it. My dirt is permanent. My hands smelled like fish. My hands always smell like fish.

They arrived from the airport in a cab. It surprised me, although it shouldn't have. They were from New York. My thirty-six-year-old son got out of the cab, his dark designer suit looking rumpled from the flight, and he paid the cab driver to carry his bags. My grandson, whom I had never met, emerged from the cab and carried his own beaten-looking brown bag. He was sixteen and tall. I somehow expected him to be tall. He would be taller than my son and somehow I knew that that would enrage his father. They looked like they were from New York, alright. Pale as paste. And they stood there on the dock for a minute and just stared at Johnny, the Ann Marie and me in wide-eyed astonishment.

"You really do live on a boat, don't you, old man?" Jeff, my son, said, not quite yet ready to step aboard. I didn't say anything. I see no need to repeat the obvious. "It smells like fish," Jeff observed, turning up his city nose.

Patrick, my grandson, stepped from the dock onto the boat and introduced himself. He shook my hand firmly. "So you think," I said, "that the grandson I've never met is going to get by with a simple handshake? Think again." And I hugged the tall, skinny-looking boy with a strong bearhug…the way a grandfather should hug his grandson. He smiled and hugged me back. I could feel the years of isolation and hurt come welling up from inside my gut. "Don't cry, old stupid man," I thought to myself, "or they'll head straight back to New York." My Johnny smiled and helped Patrick down into his cabin and showed him where to stow his stuff.

'Well," Jeff said, "as you can see, we're here." So they were. I hadn't seen my son in eighteen years. I had never even met his wife, having left the world of wives and women long ago. Fuck the past. And when his letter explaining that he and sixteen-year-old Patrick were coming to see me arrived, it took me three bottles of rum and a good fucking in Johnny's tight butt to take in the news. The night after his letter arrived I sat there on my bed inside the Ann Marie with Johnny asleep. Johnny was naked in the bed and I just sat there admiring his brown ass. Jeff's typewrit-ten letter ended up in one hand, a glass of rum in the other. Both hands shook. And if there was anyone on the damned planet earth who realized with indissoluble remorse that there was no one to blame for their stupid, useless lives but themselves, it was me.

I have no excuses. If Jeff was coming to hear excuses for my absence as a father, he would be coming for nothing. He would leave emtpy handed. I have none. Excuses are insignificant. If I could take it all back and be someone else, I would. But I can't. There are no excuses and I wouldn't demean him by offering him any. The fact of the matter is that when Jeff was a teenager, I left lock-stock-and-barrel. What he didn't realize, of course, is that I had left in spirit years earlier. I left a failed marriage, a failed business, a mortgage and New York. Most of all… I left New York.

In all of the years I've been in Key West and living aboard the Ann Marie, the only communication I had ever had from Jeff was the letter that announced the birth of his son. That was sixteen years ago. I remember taking that letter to sunset. Orange fire from the sun dragon. I laughed at the sun. And I knew then that Jeff's way of punishing me was going to be never letting me see that boy. So when his only other letter came fifteen years later announcing that he and the boy would be visiting me I found myself inside the Ann Marie with my rum, my self-reproach, my qualms of conscience…and my Johnny. Thank god for Johnny. If I had had the guts to follow the sun to the edge of the ocean and the courage to jump over after it into fucking oblivion I would have done so. I was not sure that I was ready to face Jeff, much less the grandson I had never met.

I have no excuses. In fact, I have very little whatsodamned-ever . About the only real thing Johnny and I had to offer Jeff and his boy were a pair of bunks aboard the Ann Marie, which usually contain our dirty laundry. So I wrote him back saying that he was welcome. We cleaned our boat and did our laundry. And, of course, they arrived from New York, looking like New York, smelling like New York, and bringing more baggage from the miscreant past than from the airport. I, of course, being an old hand at the transgressions of misbehavior, could tell imme- diately upon their arrival that all was not well…

I have learned that it is always easier to just look for the honest message in any young man's eyes. Either separation, divorce, death…or a deep unconscious need to be fucked by a man. Maybe all four. I could deal with separation and divorce in my sleep. For death and fuck I need to go fishing to think a bit. It clears my old man senses. Or what I have left of old man senses. So Johnny and I immediately took them fishing. Jeff, of course, complained all the way past the reef. Just like his mother. Jeff always did complain a lot. Patrick, his tall son with the longish dark hair, just smiled and looked at the open sea with eyes that were as innocently blue as the water.

"Ever been fishing, boy?" I asked Patrick.

"Not really," he said, smiling. I wished he'd stop smiling

"Well, this is always as good a spot to catch a fish as any." we stopped in a sea-calm. When you stop in the middle of a sea-calm the laws of nature backslide into the mouth of the sun dragon. They disappear. The sea becomes a smooth sheet of mesmerized glass. There isn't a ripple in the warm water or a breeze in the air. Everything comes to a standstill. Everything. Even the past. Now, weather forecasters on television will tell you in their smiling Sunday suits that sea-calms are due to the

forces of low barometric pressure systems, tidal phenomenon, and can be associated with the birthlike depressive tropical conditions that create hurricanes. But any old dog who's gutted out as many fish from these waters as I have will tell you that sea-calms are the end result of magical male witchery at its very best.

We'd been standing at the deck with our poles in the water for some time. Not a bite. I told Patrick that the dragons and the boy-nymphs must be down there eating all the fish. Patrick laughed and so did his father, but Jeff laughed with inevitable bitterness. Jeff drank another glass of rum straight down. His eyes were red and seemed as angry as the rum he was pouring into his gut. My Johnny just ignored Jeff as he busied himself with the business of fishing, but occasionally he stole a glance at the man he could hardly believe was my-son. Sweat ran down the sides of Jeff's face.

"He's a liar, Patrick," Jeff said, drunkenly. "He's always been a liar. And now I even think the son-of-a-bitch is a faggot. Look at him. An old faggot with a young faggot lover. Shit. Now I've seen fucking everything and some of the past now makes some stinking sense." My Johnny just looked at me. Jeff continued his tirade: "Do you know what this old bastard used to tell me the one time he took me fishing as a kid? He used to tell me that I had to be quiet or I'd scare the fish away. Pure bunk. He never could tell the truth. Or face it. He lied to my mother for years—the fool.

The three of us just stood there at the side of the Ann Marie catching nothing but dragons from the past. "Oh, he had big dreams back then, Patrick, didn't you dad? Big faggot dreams. He was gonna become the most successful businessman in the city. But he couldn't take it. And he left. So just look at him now. Mr. Successful. One leaking old boat, his bottle of rum, his boy and a sunset. Old man, you can't even catch a fish. What do you do for money, anyway?'

'We get by," I said, thinking. "Jeff is right. I am an old fool." "They get by. You have a lot of damn gall to call this the Ann Marie.

"It's my boat. I'll call it anything I like, Jeff."

"Ann Marie was the name of my mother, old man."

"I am aware of that … but … I loved you, Jeff."

"You never loved anything in your entire life, old man, unless it was walking out on us. That probably gave you a lot of pleasure." And he staggered below to pass out. He would have to fight his own dragons from the confines of his numbed inertia.

Of course the boy told us all about it. It was divorce. Plain and simple. I'd never met his mother. I'd been long gone by then. I didn't say anything. It was his story. Johnny and I just let him talk. There wasn't anything for us to say. Everything of substance has ultimately already been said. Besides, Patrick's eyes had more to say than his words. That's when the boy-nymphs from the water sent the boy from the city a fish.

It hit like a snapped shot and Patrick jerked back instinctively hooking the thing in it's greedy mouth. My grandson's facelitup with surprise and he turned to me for advice. I just looked at him. He was taller than his father. He looked like me. And I knew how that must enrage Jeff. The fish jerked the pole tip-down and ran out a screaming line of burning string. Johnny took the wheel to swing us around with the fish. Patrick didn't know the first thing about fishing. "What do I do, Grandpa!" he yelled.

I calmly reeled in my own line, put my pole away, and sat down in my deck chair. "I don't know, boy. It's your fish, isn't it?" And he looked at me with the same look in his eyes that his father used to condemn me with…confusion, excitement and rage.

"Damn!" he said, cursing both Johnny and myself. And he began to reel it in with the fish fighting him every screaming inch of the way. He tightened up on his slack and fought what to him was the unknown with all of the mad provocation that flowed in his veins. The fish was unimpressed and took the boy for a ride. Johnny had to swing the boat around like a dancer in a tightly choreographed ballet before the fish could take itself under us. The fish, of course, was much smarter than the boy. Perhaps it was not his first boy. But it was the boy's first taste of struggle PAGE 18 DRUMMER beyond the disaffected estranged struggles of his parents. Sweat drenched from the boy's T-shirt. He gritted his teeth and pulled back on the rod. His skinny muscles bulged and strained with the turbulent cold-blooded desire to not lose his prey. That's when the fish realized with an outburst of delirium that the creature who had hooked him would take the life struggle all the way to death.

The boy had no more questions to ask. His face was strained and he concentrated. It was h-i-s fish. One of them would die. The fish or the boy. And the dragons sent their fish to the surface in an outburst of desperate frenzy. The fish broke the calm mirrored water in a gust of raving, jerking agitation. That's when the boy came face-to-face with a creature bigger and more powerful than he was. And, of course, it was—as Johnny and I knew it would be—that one second of awe on the boy's face that allowed the creature to free itself from the tolerant hands of the child.

The pole, the fish, and something childlike about my grandson were gone. Pulled violently from Patrick's grasp into the sea. Swallowed by dragons. And the sea was calm again. The sea is a smiling evil-bitch full of her own magic. The dragons and the boy-nymphs had reclaimed their prize and laughed at us with the beginning of yet another stormed sunset on the orange-red horizon. Breath from the sun dragon. The storms of summer. I took us back to the shore which is where most men belong, certainly most boys. The boy rode back most of the way sitting silently in the stern of the Ann Marie. He had nothing to say to either Johnny or Land his eyes looked as tired as depression itself. Perhaps he cried. I do not know. I tried not to look.

He would not want me to see him cry, which was foolish, as all men cry. But as we grow older we become more foolish by the day. The boy did not cry around the loss of a fish. But around loss itself. A man should never be intruded upon when he cries. Like death, it is something he must do alone. itch black night, blackness so thick you could breathe it, found Johnny, Patrick and I aboard the Ann Marie with the moon glistening at the laughing water like a hysterical diamond set against a backdrop of leather. The glow from the kerosene lamps bathed the deck of the Ann Marie in a wash of yellowed warmth. Patrick had never cooked a fish before. 'Jesus," I thought, "The kid is sixteen years old. What the fuck has he been doing with his life, anyway?" I always did hate the fucking city. So I had my Johnny show him how to clean and cook a fish. And the two of them made some kind of tentative pact—some kind of shy step toward a friendship. There comes a times when boys must learn, when boys must become men, and it was time for Patrick to come to terms with himself.

Jeff remained below, uncommunicative as usual. The future was opening itself up topdeck, and below deck the past was asleep, totally inebriated in its own sense of self-created sorrow. I never did have two cents for fucking with the past.

It was Patrick's first glass of rum. A boy has to learn. "He's going to want to leave, you know," Patrick said to us, referring to his father.

"I know," I said. Johnny said nothing, but his eyes drank Patrick in with a thirst that was capable of all kinds of magic. I didn't know if Patrick was yet ready for the likes of buck Johnny. I said nothing.

"But I just met you, Grandpa. I just met Johnny. Why can't I stay?'

"That's something you'll have to work out with your father, boy. You are welcome to stay. I'd like that. But it may be impossible. You know how he feels about me."

'Just because he needs to go back doesn't mean that I need to. Maybe I need to stay. Maybe our needs are different." And his eyes looked at me with the kind of need that can only be satisfied through bestial storms of sexual intensity. But it was not my place to respond.

"Your father needs to do battle with his own sun dragons, boy."

'But I want to learn more about fishing. Maybe I'd like to be ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

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GLORY

The Road through Throm Part IX by MASON POWELL ve me my sword!" Gonar said.

"Don't be a fool!" Chom responded, still holding him upright. "You've done all that you can. It is up to the rest of us to do the fighting now."

"If I am to die in battle, my Master, then I would at least be holding a weapon, even if I am too weak to use it!" Gonar said; forming the words was enough to exhaust him. He had lost much blood from the holes that Falwet had pierced through his hands and feet, his cock and balls. The pain was terrible.

Yet he tried to see into the smoke and fire where the flaming ball of lava had smashed through the gate in the Rhengfel Wall. The enemy waiting beyond might have been decimated by the explosion. Surely the troops that had besieged the gate were surprised at the very least! Above the stone ridge the stars were now blooming, pin pricks in a night sky made brown by fire. On this night of all catastrophic nights the bloody gibbous moon that rose behind him-behind the mountains, behind the volcano , behind the wreckage of Rhengfel—could shed little additional illumination.

"If we get through the pass perhaps the wall will protect us from some of the falling stone and ash," Lady Lharna said sensibly; for indeed the volcano was still in eruption and debris still rained down from above, though not in increments so spectacular as the one that had finally freed them from the confines of the valley.

'Ketis! Here!" Chom bellowed out, and immediately the red-haired boy was at their side. "Tend Gonar's wounds. My slave has it in his mind that he must fight the battle we face."

Ketis looked over Gonar's body with a quick and practiced eye, his skilled fingers falling swiftly to examine the wounds in the hands, the feet, the punctures through the cock and balls.

"You would not be able to walk two steps," the boy said firmly. "It is a miracle that the blood has ceased to flow from such fresh cuts. If you can hold a sword I will be surprised! Still, you should have one.'

In a moment the ruby-pommeled sword they had given to Gonar as warrior of the god Wa-at was once again in his hand- …But Ketis was right: the wound where Falwet had driven the knife blade through his palm made it impossible for Gonar to grasp the sword with any strength. He could hold it, but that was all.

"Better to die by a blade than to be crushed and burned by the boulders the god sends tumbling from the sky," said Norem-at, the priest who had summoned the god at Gonar's behest, thus precipitating the final explosion. His dark hair, streaked with white, was blown about his face as another wave of hot, sulphurous wind struck them from behind.

"Then let us attack our doom," said Chom, and he lowered Gonar to the ground. "Ketis, stay with him and tend him until we return.

"Then others will come, and you will deal with them…But do not anticipate that too soon. It is my hope that we can yet make peace with those who wait, for it was the empire of Rhengfel they came to destroy and that is now destroyed for them.

Chom turned to Lady Lharna.

"It would be best that those who still wear the black leather wait behind, even though they have thrown away the falcon-masks . If our enemy sees us only in Wa-at's scarlet that may give us the moment we need in which to speak and make clear what has happened. If we cannot speak…

'We will be ready for either outcome," said Lady Lharna. Gonar did not want Chom to leave him. The god had brought him back from the shores of death, but for how long was not a matter revealed. If he should die now he wanted to be where he belonged, at Chom's feet. But Chom was the leader of the army, Chom had brought them all down out of the mountains, and now Chom must lead them the final way, through the pass and, hopefully, to a better world beyond the hateful valley.

The troops mounted, Chom took the lead with Norem-at beside him, and the first part of the army moved toward the burning debris, steadying horses already frighted with the destruction around them. A rain of stones clattered against the rough stone of the wall and fell harmlessly to one side, then Chom entered the smoke and was gone from Gonar's sight.

The pain in his extremities flared and Gonar felt as if he were once again under the torture. He cried out and Ketis knelt, took his head in his lap, and began rummaging through a small leathern bag he carried at his side. In a moment the boy was breaking dried leaves under his nose, releasing a sharp smell that at first made him gasp, then seemed to make his head swim. The pain did not decrease but it seemed to be getting further and further away from him, as if he were standing at the opposite end of a tunnel that kept lengthening.

Ketis opened a little clay pot and began to rub an ointment into the wounds, first of Gonar's hands, then of his feet. The pain finally started to subside. Ketis took the ointment and rubbed it in where the knitting needle had pierced Gonar's balls, and that also felt better. Finally Ketis rubbed the ointment into the hole that Falwet's needle had made through Gonar's cock. When the pain there eased Gonar felt himself drifting into a quieter darkness than that of the blazing night. Eventually he slept.

healed. He is wise for one so young. The Cledata have asked him to build a new temple to Wa-at in the village, for their old one fell into disrepair when the priests of Rhengfel became corrupt many years ago. It is comforting to know that good persists even at the heart of a rotten priesthood.'

This thought sobered Gonar again. He wondered if even at the heart of the priesthood of Dworkrimian there could be any good… And he remembered that Wa-at had chosen to possess him precisely because he had taken issue with the Dwork.

That brought to his mind the conflict in his relationship with Chom. Did the god still inhabit him, now that Rhengfel was no more? Would he still be unable to give himself to his Master?

'Where is Chom?" he asked.

"Here," came Chom's voice from the door.

Gonar turned his head and saw his Master standing there, a smile flashing his white teeth in his black beard, his eyes just slightly glossy and wet. He was dressed in a simple white tunic fastened with bronze penanulars at his shoulders, leaving his strong arms bare. There was a plain black rope belt at his waist and his legs from midthigh down were bare as well. He wore no boots or sandals and Gonar felt a sudden and deep longing to fall to his knees and kiss those naked feet, to lick the dust from them

"I will leave you," Chala smiled, and there was great understanding in her voice. She rose from her seat and walked out of the little room, and Gonar was terribly grateful to her.

Chom came and stood by the bed, looking down on him for a moment. Then he drew the covers back and looked carefully over Gonar's body. At last his hands moved down and he touched Gonar, first on the belly where the King of Rhengfel had wounded him. To Gonar's surprise the wound was almost healed. He wondered how long he had lain unconscious. At least a full cycle of the moon would have been his usual guess: but he had been near death when the god revived him. How soon might one heal with a god's help?

Chom moved his hand to the side of Gonar's head. There was still some tenderness where the sword had cut there, but that wound also seemed well on the way to healing. Without waiting for Chom to examine them, Gonar looked at first one palm, then the other. The places where Falwet had driven knives through them showed angry red scars, and there were moist scabs at the centers of the scars; but again, the healing was miraculous.

When Chom tenderly hefted his cock and balls to examine the damage there Gonar knew that he would be well. Despite an agonizing pain in the middle of his prick, it began to stiffen.

"I do not know whether that is a good thing, Gonar, my Gonar," Chom said, and he let go.

"Please, my Master," Gonar begged. "At least touch me! It will harden now whether you touch it or not."

"I must ask Ketis for his advice in this," Chom said. "And until I know whether it is safe, I also forbid you to touch it!"

"Yes, my Master!" Gonar said, and a flush went through him of the best feeling he had felt in months. At last there was a way for him to surrender!

Chom left the room and Gonar lay still, his prick aching where the big knitting needle had pierced it but still as stone. He looked down at it, wondered at the dark purple of the head that stuck wetly out of the foreskin, of the little gold ring that the falconmasks had put through the head at the side. It occurred to him that the ring might be there on Chom's orders, for Chom had been in charge of his torture at that point. If the ring were Chom's doing then it was to be treasured, like the ring Chom had put through his right nipple the night he had finally submitted completely and become a slave.

Chom came back into the room with Ketis. The red-haired boy grinned from ear to ear at the sight of Gonar's big dick fully erect.

"It would appear that you have need of me!" Ketis said.

Gonar looked at him, then at Chom. There was certainly nothing wrong with whatever ministering Ketis might do: he could remember Ketis returning him to health through a

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number of sexual exercises after the Minotaur had raped him. But just now what he wanted was his Master, Chom.

"Lie still, Gonar!" Chom said firmly. "You are not so well that I can use you to your full worth; yet Ketis tells me you ought to be able to please me in some small ways, with his help.

"Yes, my Master," Gonar said, and again he felt warm and good, for whatever was about to be done to him was Chom's will, and that was far more important than his own desires.

Ketis came to the side of the bed and leaned over, looking carefully first at the hard cock, then checking the balls underneath . They still hurt, Gonar noted, but not so bad as his dick. Ketis bent further, then placed his mouth on the head of Gon-ar's prick. His tongue licked around and pangs went through Gonar's whole body. He moaned.

"Lie still!" Chom commanded again. "If you do not do precisely as I tell you I will make you wait another quarter of the moon!"

Gonar felt the sweat bead on his forehead. He was overjoyed, but the fear he suddenly felt, that he might not be able to obey his Master's wishes, made his palms go cold.

Ketis licked, then sucked a little, his skillful tongue pushing into the pisshole. Gonar wanted to writhe, to grab the boy's head and push it down on the whole aching hard shaft. Across the room Chom reached down and unfastened the black rope belt, let it drop to the floor. Gonar's eyes fastened on him. Chom crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of the tunic, then peeled it upward over his head, pulled it off, dropped it to the floor. He stood now in only his loincloth, and under the white linen his big prick bulged.

Ketis's hand slid under Gonar's balls, his fingers moved to Gonar's asshole. Gonar moaned again but kept his body still. The first finger slid into his hole, probed around, was joined by a second finger. He felt the boy test at the walls, find the gland within that controlled his cock, massage it. Chom's strong dark hand squeezed the engorged meat inside the linen, then slowly drew the loincloth off, revealing his huge, hard weapon.

Ketis began to slide his fingers in and out of Gonar's hole, gently finger fucking him. Gonar felt his body begin to tremble, tried to relax, failed. He felt wheels of stars under his skin, felt his cock become again the center of his universe. Chom walked across the room and stood next to the bed, stroking his big dick and aiming it at Gonar's face. Gonar opened his mouth with raw desire but still ceased to move.

"You do well, Gonar, my Gonar," Chom whispered.

Tears formed in Gonar's eyes. They pooled and overflowed, running down his temples in rivulets that joined with the sweat trickling down from his brow. He could smell the sweat in his armpits, and that awareness made him sniff the air for the smell of Chom: and it was there.

Ketis started to move his lips up and down on just the head of Gonar's cock, sucking the head as fiercely as if he were sucking the whole shaft. Gonar trembled, felt his balls ache as they drew tight in preparation for a climax. Beside the bed Chom stroked his huge tool more quickly and a thin line of clear precum dribbled from the end of his foreskin. It was all Gonar could do not to hurl himself at it, lick it, keep it from falling to the white wool blanket. He moaned again and Chom smiled, enjoying his anguish.

Ketis whirled his tongue around and around the head of Gonar's cock as he sucked, and the orgasm came; a painful jolt in his balls, an agonizing surge through torn tissues in his prick, then a sunfire blast out the end of his cock and into the boy's mouth. A trembling roar came up from Gonar's lungs, out his mouth, and his whole body quaked with the force of it. Chom's hand flashed up and down on his cock, then the big dark head spat hot white globs at Gonar's face, hard wet cum that spattered against his cheeks where he was not quick enough to catch it with his tongue.

When it was finished Ketis stood up, displaying his own cock hard. He began to stroke it, aiming it at Gonar's face even as Chom had. Chom leaned over and put his dripping prick at Gonar's mouth.

"Clean it, Gonar, my Gonar," Chom said, and Gonar sucked and licked the cum as hungrily as a puppy lapped milk from a saucer.

"Now!" Ketis said crisply, and Chom grabbed Gonar's jaw, turned his head to face the boy, and pried his mouth open. Ketis's pink prick shot directly into Gonar's mouth, filling it with his thick young cum. When he was finished, Chom had Gonar clean him as well.

After that Chom ordered Gonar to rest and Chom and Ketis left the room. Gonar sank at once into a deep slumber, this time filled with soft dreams of roseate clouds and happiness. he nature of Gonar's sex life from that day was curious but satisfying. Chom never allowed anyone to abuse him physically for fear of Wa-at's reappearance: but he did make Gonar submit to his will, which was what Gonar wanted. Gonar was allowed to take cum from Chom's prick and from f there are gods, and if the gods have any of humankind's interests in their hearts, then evil cannot remain ascendant for long. It is only that human time speeds so swiftly by: the gods do not notice so quickly as we would have them notice.

Ketis's, and then others were brought in, men whom Gonar did not know. Gonar realized that this was a form of humiliation carefully tailored to his needs and happily ate all the cum they could give him. When he was well enough to get out of bed he was allowed to kneel before the men Chom chose, and then to actually suck them. Only Ketis was allowed to deal with Gonar's cock, for it was important that it heal correctly, and only Ketis understood what could be done with it safely.

Gonar's hands and feet healed with scars at their centers, as did his cock and balls. He was not happy with the scars there. It had been a point of Shegri, since the beginning, that one might not leave scars. Still, if his scars had bought their lives, and if Chom did not mind, it was a worthwhile price.

It all seemed to take too long, but even with the special strength that the god had seemingly put into him there were limits to the speed of healing. Yet now Gonar knew the span of time that passed, unlike the time he had spent healing under Ketis's hands in Rhengfel. And that perhaps made it seem longer, for each day that passed was another day with Fillian in unknown danger in Molukenor.

He did not want to admit it to himself, but he had no hope that the boy still lived. It was a long time that he had been in Rhengfel. Time enough for Fillian to have reached Molukenor. to have attempted the rescue of the lost prince, and to have failed. What horrors might be perpetrated upon Fillian by the priests of the Dwork in punishment were better left unthought, considering what the boy had escaped in Jhentfel.

There was also the matter of the birds that carried messages between temples for the Dwork. Chom had ordered the birds hunted, but that could not have gone on for long. If once the message got through, the prince would be murdered, and that was that. Jhent would fall before the Dwork, its fear-mad king no more than a shell or a puppet.

Gonar was anxious to move on, despite the restoration of his proper position as Chom's slave. He was anxious to know the PAGE 28 DRUMMER outcome of his quest, to cease to float in the middle of this timeless place in his life. If what had been before had ended then he would know it. He would begin a new life elsewhere with his Master: for Chom knew the world as he did not. Before Chom's wisdom he was less than a slave, he was a child-slave.

But if there was a path that continued from the old life: if somehow Jhent had not fallen, if Fillian lived …

But it was better not to plan. Too many plans had already gone awry.

The day came when Ketis told them that Gonar was ready to ride and fight, and that made an end to the waiting.

The Cledata, those short shaggy folks who rode short shaggy ponies, had accepted the refugees from Rhengfel on the basis of Chom's word. The plan now was to move them to the village of Cledata. Lady Lharna was the unquestioned leader of the former falconmasks, and though she was a head taller than he, she seemed to have formed some sort of alliance with the head man of the Cledata. Gonar wondered how this would affect Chala's position as Warchief, but it was not really his concern. The last thing he wanted in the world was to become involved in a struggle between two powerful women!

The massed armies readied to ride, Gonar was given a horse and his armor, and they moved out, away from the small, abandoned village that had been their camp while he healed. They rode down a long, narrow trail, joined the road that had led up into the mountains to Rhengfel, and finally turned right at the fateful crossroads, toward Throm.

The first night on the road they camped to either side, the Cledata setting up leather tents which glowed warmly when the hanging lamps inside were lit. Gonar walked about as the food was cooked, admiring the effect; like so many paper lanterns set on the dewy grass. The moon rose in a thin crescent over the mountains, still a little red with the dust that remained in the air after the eruption of the volcano. There was the chill smell of mountain air in his nostrils and he was able to forget for a while the uncertainty of the future.

When Chom had finished setting guards and gone to the tent which Chala had ordered for them, Gonar joined him and they ate thick, hot stew together out of wooden trail bowls with handles carved on the sides. Then Chom told him to strip and climb into the piles of furs that formed their bed on the leathern groundcloth under the tent.

Gonar lay very still and watched as his Master stripped off his armor, then the clothing under it. Chom's big prick hung soft before his balls, but Gonar knew that Chom was aware of his scrutiny. Chom opened a parchment map and squatted on the floor to look at it, positioning himself so that Gonar could look through the arch formed by his legs and ass and see his dick and nuts hang down, see the moist crack that now left his hole stretched open.

Gonar's cock grew stiff under the furs, pushed up against them. He wanted to move his hips, to move the head of his dick back and forth in the soft fur, but he knew his Master would not like him doing it without permission so he refrained. He kept his hands at his sides, merely enjoying the sensation of having a hard-on.

After a while Chom rolled up the map, tucked it into a saddle bag, then came and stood over Gonar. He stepped across, so that he stood straddling Gonar's head, then squatted, so that his asshole was right over Gonar's face. Gonar smelled the sweat, the musk, but did not move. It was exquisite torture to be made to desire something, to be known so completely that his lusts could be manipulated; to be so totally owned that his self-discipline was a perfectly handled whip upon his raw nerves.

'Stick out your tongue, Gonar, my Gonar," Chom said, and Gonar stuck it out as far as he could, yet did not allow himself to touch his Master's hole.

More time passed and the saliva in Gonar's mouth ran, pooled, forced him to swallow; a difficult thing with his tongue stuck out. His back ached with his desire to move his hips, but he lay still, his veins singing, filling with the hot juice of his need.

ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

The smell of Chom's ass entered through his mouth, became a taste as yet forbidden, made his mouth water more.

"Lick it," Chom said at last, and Gonar lifted his head slightly to move his tongue around and around in circles, licking the sweet, salty sphincter, then plunging his tongue up, deep within his Master's asshole. His neck strained, the muscles at the back of his head ached, but it was his cock that truly made his body feel.

After a while Chom stood, pulling his wet hole away from Gonar's mouth. Then he lay down next to Gonar, sliding under the covers with him. His body was cold from the chill of the mountain air and Gonar wanted to warm him, to wrap his arms around him, to bring him the heat of passion. But Chom lay on his back, still, for a long time, not speaking. His cock was hard now, had been since Gonar's tongue had touched his ass, but he did nothing about it; not until the thick furs, and Gonar's body next to him, had warmed him through. Then he put his hand to his cock and began to stroke it.

Gonar was mad with want, but still he lay flat, his dick dripping and making a wet spot in the fur that caressed it. He felt Chom's muscles touching him, wanted to cry out, wanted to beg, but knew that was not possible now. Chom did not want to whip him, did not want an excuse for whipping him. Not until they were sure the god had departed Gonar's body. Gonar trembled, and again he felt tears come to his eyes, tears of desire.

Chom raised his arm and lifted the covers away from his body, making a tent of them. Gonar felt him speed up his stroke, felt his body stiffen, then felt his Master thrash next to him as the orgasm hit, delivering the load secretly, out of sight, upon Chom's hard-muscled chest. Then Chom was still.

Gonar lay in an agony of desire. He wanted something, anything , but it was his Master's place to grant it and not his to beg it. If Chom wanted to go to sleep and leave him wanting, then that was Chom's right. After a long while that was what Gonar thought was to be the case, and he tried to sleep, despite the flickering small flames of the oil lamp above them. But just as he was moving over into sleep Chom threw the blankets back and spoke: "Lick it up.

Gonar climbed to his knees and bent over his Master's mighty chest, applied his tongue to the rapidly liquifying sheets of cum

"Now lie on your belly," Chom instructed, and when he had done that Chom reached between his legs, pulled his hard cock

In the middle of the night Gonar awoke with a wet dream, the cum pumping out of his dick into the fur of the covers, but if Chom noticed it he did not object. hey did not march up to Throm as an army, for the stockaded town above the mountain road was too strong to take easily and they didn't want to waste any time. Three men of the Cledata were sent ahead with furs to trade and they brought back the report that, although the eruption of the volcano was the talk of the town (for the dust in the air made it obvious what had happened) no news had yet reached the place of Rhengfel's fall.

Lady Lharna then readied herself and some servants and went ahead, posing as what she indeed was: a noblewoman traveling from one place to another. It was odd to see her dressed again with the accoutrements of war, for all intents a tall, beautiful woman of the ruling class, the kind of creature pampered and guarded for a lifetime and never troubled by such things as cold or hunger. Her long, blonde hair drifted on the breeze as she rode and her servants carried her banner and her luggage, and it was not surprising that the guards opened the gates of Throm

In the middle of the night she and her servants dispatched the guards on the gates silently and opened them to Chom's army.

Then there was bloodshed. The town that had sent so many to their doom in Rhengfel knew judgement and the high wooden ISSUE 99 DRUMMER houses blazed, torched, while the narrow streets echoed with screams such as their victims had heretofore heard only in the dread arena. Most of the council members were captured alive, including Vred. Near dawn Chom ordered the attack to cease, decreeing a mercy for those who fled the ruin of their lives into the cold mountains.

Both Chala and Lady Lharna spoke against this mercy, and Gonar was again filled with wonder at how much more terrible a woman's vengeance could be than a man's. But Chom pointed out that there were probably as many in Throm who had opposed the policy that had brought about its destruction as there had been in Rhengfel, and the women were mollified if doubtful.

Pointed stakes were planted across the road before the broken gates of Throm, and the council of the treacherous city was ordered impaled. Naked to the cold and watching his home fortress blaze, old Vred was lifted by two powerful men, his legs spread apart, and the sharp point of the tall stake pushed into

Gonar was mad with want, but still he lay flat, his dick dripping and making a wet spot in the fur that caressed it. He felt Chom's muscles touching him, wanted to cry out, wanted to beg, but knew that was not possible now. his asshole. He screamed, he begged for a mercy he had never shown, he offered gold: for that had always been his solution to every problem…To buy and sell, to trade, to profit. Now it availed him not at all. His hands were bound behind him, there was nothing he could offer that was worth the lives of the many he had traded for money. They released him and his own body weight, like the weight of his sins, lowered him onto the stake. He screamed more as the sharp wood drove up into his bowels, pierced him, decreed his death. He had no choice but to clutch with his withered butt, to hold back the inevitable as long as he could, to hope vainly that someone would take him off the stake, let him live until the fever in his belly killed him.

It was a terrible way to die, Gonar noted as each of the council members in turn was impaled: some taking it in the cowardly way that Vred did, some trying for a dignity of courage the punishment did not allow. Yet when he felt sympathy touch his heart he thought back to the horrors of the arena, to the monstrous queen of Rhengfel whom he had killed; and he wondered if perhaps the council should first have been flayed alive before impaling.

The ropes that bound their hands behind their backs were cut, and their arms flayed about, making them look like horrible puppets dancing in the morning light.

A young man with dark hair and angry eyes left the mass of the avenging army and walked to stand before the impaled council. He smiled at them and began to speak, and Gonar recognized him for Chala's brother, Chebid.

"You who die so amusingly today!" he addressed them. "You are in pain! You cannot know how much that pleases me. I also have known pain, have known humiliation, but I was fortunate to escape the death that you will know. I was fortunate to escape much worse, let me assure you! Had you gone to bloody Rhengfel, as I did, as did the many you betrayed, you would have known much worse. You might have been coated in pitch and sulphur and feathers and burned as torches for a festival.

PAGE 29 DRUMMER

You might have been skinned alive and hung as decorations in the Queen's apartments. You might have been raped by wild animals, not only in the orifices where I was raped but in cuts in your bellies and bowels. Oh, yes, they liked to do that! You might have been eaten alive by animals for their sport. You might have seen your children consumed before your eyes. You might have been slowly cooked over hot coals. Then again, they might have decided to kill you slowly."

Chebid pulled off his clothes as he spoke, stripping himself as naked as they to stand in the sunlight before them.

"What they would have done to me in the end I do not know, but to amuse themselves for a while they cut off my balls. Here, look at what happened to me because of men and women like you! Does this please you as well as it pleased them to do it?"

Though the pain they endured, the council looked at the place where Chebid's manhood had been butchered away. Gonar felt himself sick when he saw it, for it was not a clean cutting the falconmasks had done, and he did not want to imagine under what circumstances the boy had suffered it. Yet a thrill of horror went through him as Chebid bent and pulled a sharp kinfe from his clothes and headed for one of the impaled council members.

"Chebid, no!" Chom barked.

But Chala was beside him and she grabbed his arm as he started forward.

"Let him!" she commanded, and the Cledata were suddenly there, their short bows drawn this time on Chom, obeying her wish. From the expression on her face, it was obvious that she had not seen her brother's wound until this moment. "Let him do what he will, as they did what they wanted to do!

Gonar could not turn his eyes away, yet he wished that he could as Chebid mutilated each council member in turn, slicing horribly and differently at the genitals of each, sparing neither man nor woman some dreadful carving. Vred's extra punishment was to have his sac sliced open and the nuts shoved into his mouth. Chebid struck him with his fist in the face until the old man chewed them and swallowed them. Then he cut Vred's cock open down its length and moved on to the next, leaving the old man with a split prick.

When he was finished Chebid's face was bloody, for the impaled victims had their hands free to fight him as he hacked at them. Yet he had known too much horror to let them win. They only knew their own deaths; he had known many. They only knew their present torture. He had known more, both in time and quantity.

By noon the flies had gotten to the impaled council members and the fires had consumed nearly all of Throm. By sunset the town lay in ashes and madness had reached the dying men and women in the road. Chom at last persuaded Chala that it was done, that vengeance was enough, and the army moved on.

That night Gonar and Chom lay beside one another quietly. Neither of them wanted sex. All they desired now was to forget the day that was ended. The kind of cruelties they practiced with each other were an expression of love. The kind of cruel-ties that the torturers of Rhengfel had practiced had been stimulation for sexuality, however unwholesome. What they had witnessed in the road before Throm was purely cruel, an expression of hatred unalloyed. It was ugly, and it showed Gonar that even a righteous cause could descend to depths like those preached by the Dwork. hey reached the village of the Cledata and the refugees from Rhengfel began the complex job of settling in, a thing almost as difficult on them as was the prospect of providing space for them. Nobody had warned the housekeepers of the town, those responsible for providing food. It might be a hard winter ahead with so many new mouths to feed. Yet the Cledata were a tough people, and if complaints were to come (and surely they would) they did not come now, when the newcomers needed to feel welcome. They smiled, if surprisedly , and they took care of their new citizens with almost as much concern as they cared for their shaggy ponies. Gonar now pages filled with photos and details about nudist life, how to locate nudist clubs, and where to send for informative videos, books, and films. All in plain brown wrapper. Send $1 with your name & address to: ESCO-DR, P.O. Box 2668, Los Angeles, CA 90028.

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began to like them for themselves, whereas before he had liked them for their courage and their willingness to follow Chala in her heroic quest.

Both Chala and Lady Lharna offered to send troops to Moluk-enor , but Chom decided against it. Molukenor was a large and prosperous city and, for the most part, undeserving (so far as anyone knew) of a military invasion. The assault on the Temple of Dworkrimian had to be done with stealth if Fillian and Prince Hrendel were to be rescued. Besides which, mounting another expedition would take time, and time was in short supply. The day after they arrived in Cledata, Chom and Gonar set out again supplied with fresh ponies, as steeds and for baggage, and with food, money and weaponry.

… Not all of the wealth of Rhengfel had been blown away with the volcano. Lady Lharna had seen to it that plenty was carried away in saddlebags for those who had come down from the mountains to fight at her side, and now she rewarded them generously, even as she saw to the provisioning of Gonar and

Chom.

At the last moment Ketis announced that he was going with them and somehow neither Chom nor Gonar had any objection.

The three of them rode quickly after bidding goodbye to the village, and by nightfall they were high amidst the snows of the mountains, making camp in one of the fine sturdy tents of the Cledata. They lit the many-branched lamp and hung it from the top pole, then sat in the piles of furs and ate the freshest of the foods they had brought along, a simple meal of meat and cheese and bread; but a banquet to them because they were eating it in freedom.

Snow started to fall outside, but the leather tent kept them warm and the wine kindled their spirits. They did not plan ahead. There was nothing to plan until they should arrive in Molukenor. They lay on the piles of furs and rested, the greatest of luxuries, and waited for their suppers to digest.

Gonar was the first to note the way they all eyed each other, but Ketis was quick to follow suit. Then the three of them laughed out loud, knowing what was next and not needing words.

The tent was warm, so they stripped Gonar and bound his hands behind his back. That seemed very satisfactory for a while and the other two just looked at him, admiring how he looked by the glow of the little oil flames. Ketis stood and circled him, tugged lightly at the ring in his tit, then at the ring in his cock. Of course Gonar got hard very quickly.

"Is he well enough to fuck?" Chom asked the boy after a while.

"I think he is," said Ketis. "But enter him slowly, and keep your dominance light, for we would not call back the god in him. I will pleasure his cock for a while, then perhaps you will be kind enough to let me fuck him as well."

"Most certainly," said Chom with exaggerated politeness.

Chom stood behind Gonar and began to rub his hands over Gonar's back, moving them down slowly to the globes of his ass. Gonar felt more like a voluptuary than a slave, so great was the pleasure it brought. He felt Chom's big prick stiffen and poke lightly at his crack. In front Ketis toyed at him, touching a pink tongue delicately to one nipple, then the other, tugging at the tit ring with his teeth, but not so hard as to hurt yet, then licking his way down the center of his belly.

Just when Gonar thought that Ketis was going to suck him, Ketis stood and put his young lips to Gonar's mouth, pushed his tongue in, and kissed him for a long while, a kiss such as boy slaves were taught to make last for hours. Behind, Gonar felt Chom back away, then felt Chom's mouth at his asshole, the tongue moving in as carefully as Ketis's had moved into his mouth. He began to float in the warmth of it, wondering what new pleasure they had in store for him, hoping they would be forceful later and confident they would be. The probing tongue withdrew from his hole.

Gonar felt Chom's strong arms go around him, lock in front of his chest, then push downward. Obediently Gonar sank to

his knees, knelt while Ketis continued to kiss him. He felt Chom draw his feet together, then he felt a thong wrap around them, tie them tightly. Another thong was fastened to his wrists where they were bound, then his arms were stretched down toward his feet, so that he was held in a kneeling position.

Ketis slid his tongue out of Gonar's mouth and stood. His hard pink cock bounced in front of Gonar's face and Gonar wanted to suck it, but he waited, happy and submissive. Chom came and knelt before him and wrapped a little band of leather around his cock and balls, tying it tightly. Then he took a thong and spiraled it around and around Gonar's cock, starting at the base and forcing the blood out toward the head. Gonar smelled the good sweat of sex drifting from his armpits and his dick ached as the thong completely ensheathed it, making it a black leather tube with a purple head sticking out. The ring through the head glittered golden.

Chom stood and turned to Ketis. Without preamble he put his arms around the boy and kissed him. Their bodies pressed against each other and their hard cocks slid up between their bellies. Gonar looked up at them, wanting to press his face in there between them, but he said nothing, waiting their pleasure.

Chom lifted Ketis lightly from the floor and, holding him against his chest, slid his big dick between the boy's legs. But instead of grasping it with his thighs, Ketis wrapped his legs around Chom's waist and rotated his pink rosette of an asshole toward Chom's hard tool. Chom lowered him slightly, letting the hole come to rest on his stiff prick. Gonar saw drops of clear liquid exude from the piss hole, then Ketis was squirming around, pushing his ass down, and suddenly the big dark head was within, sliding up inside the red-haired boy's white body.

Gonar licked his lips, felt the precum drip from his own dick. He felt suddenly confused, almost jealous. Had not Chom asked about fucking him?

Chom began to fuck the boy, slowly and deeply, holding him tight. As he did it he kissed Ketis the while, thrusting his tongue visibly deep into the boy's mouth, making him writhe with the pleasure. When Ketis tried to reach between their bellies and grab his own cock Chom seized his hands and forced them behind him. Then Ketis really squirmed, desperate to achieve his own pleasure and now prevented from it.

Gonar thought back to his own first tussle with Ketis and realized that the boy would now be in an excess of ecstasy. Yet still he wanted that big hard prick up his own ass, and he wanted it now.

'Please, please!" Ketis began to moan after a long stretch of this fucking, but Chom would not release him. He tried to unwrap his legs but Chom held his hands with one powerful hand and started to slap his firm young ass cheeks with the other. Red handprints appeared on the creamy pink roundness and Ketis locked his legs back in place around Chom's waist; but he also started to buck his hips, fucking against Chom's belly.

Gonar was sweating all over now, big drops of it stinging his eyes. He knew that he would do anything to be in Ketis's place, almost prayed for it to happen before realizing that his prayer might be answered by the very god who had so interfered with his sex life already. He bit his lower lip, tried to look away, but felt foolish. If his Master wanted him to watch, he must watch.

The wet sound of them right before his face drove him wild. The hot smell of them, mingled with the smell of the leather tent, made him delirious. Yet there was nothing he could do! He almost moved forward, willing to risk his Master's displeasure for but a taste of the sweat that dripped down Chom's legs.

Chom began to move a little faster, his breathing came hard. Now Gonar knew he was reaching his peak. Soon he bucked furiously, then a roar came from his throat and he slammed his dick up the boy's hole with the fury of battle.

"Aahhhnnnn!"

Ketis fucked insanely at Chom's belly, struggling to make his own orgasm happen. His lips free of Chom's tongue he cried out, then his mouth fell to Chom's powerful shoulder and he bit down on the hard muscle as his balls drew up and the hot cum shot out of them in strong spurts onto Chom's belly and chest.

Gonar groaned with desire, with want, with frustration.

Chom lowered the boy to his feet, very slowly, letting Ketis's sweat-soaked body slide down his. Then he turned to Gonar and slapped his big, cum-dripping prick across Gonar's face.

Gonar took the cock in his mouth and sucked, licked, tried to draw every drop of his Master's spent cum into him. When he was finished Chom ordered him to lick his chest and belly where Ketis had shot. Then he ordered Gonar to clean Ketis.

Though he could not move effectively, though his cock and balls were bound and his hands tied to his feet behind him, Gonar found ways of taking pleasure from what was allowed him. He savored the way the semen tingled in his mouth, the way it seemed to find its way between his teeth, into every corner, like an army of tiny living things assaulting a dark wet cavern. He licked and sucked at every surface he was allowed to clean, making the most of what opportunity was given him. Only when he was finished did he notice that Chom's cock was very hard again, and so was Ketis's.

"Gonar, my Gonar," Chom said softly, and with a smile, "are you ready yet to be fucked?"

'Oh, yes, my Master!" Gonar gasped.

"It has been long," Chom said, "and the while I have desired you. So I did not want to push into you at the first. I would have come too soon. Now I am emptied out, I will be able to fuck you long and hard into the night. And when I am finished, Ketis will be ready.

"Oh, yes, my Master!"

… And so Chom fucked Gonar, then Ketis fucked Gonar, then Chom fucked him again. Outside the wind came up and the snow stopped, but inside the tent stayed warm, even though the tiny oil lights died, even when the three of them fell exhausted. hen they emerged in the morning the world was white and they had to dust fine-powdered snow from everything : but it didn't seem to matter. Nor did it matter much that Gonar found riding the pony a little difficult. They laughed a lot, elated with the joy of life and the beauty of the landscape into which they rode.

High black peaks rose ahead, craggy mountains topped with snows that lasted through the year. Occasional stands of conifers payed tribute to the tenacity of life, and there were even animals to be seen: deer, cats, thick-furred rodents. There were occasional shrines along the route and they were pleased to offer small portions of food at each and every one. The air was thin and fine and made the hair in their noses freeze, but it all seemed a long and glorious joke. They camped three nights along the route and each night Gonar was the object of their play. He had never enjoyed a trip so much.

On the evening of the fourth day they arrived at the mountain town of Vadkim and they astonished the populace with the tale of the destruction of Rhengfel. The folk of Vadkim proved to be good and pious people who worshiped the Stag God, Grenyal, and they were treated well.

On the fifth day they set out again after a night in an inn that featured hot bathing in a stone pool heated by natural hot springs. Gonar had heard of such marvels but had never seen one. Chom told him and Ketis that such springs were not so uncommon in mountains with volcanos, and that gave Gonar pause to wonder more; for the mountains through which they now traveled did not seem to him to harbor volcanos. They were too cold!

Two more days of travel, two more nights of indolent revelry amidst the snows, then they were at the High Turmnic Pass. They went through it with no incident, then headed down toward the fertile mountain where stood the city of Molukenor and their goal: the evil temple of Dworkrimian and the lost prince of Jhent.

(To be continued)

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by JARED SCOTT he rural county I grew up in was redneck heaven. All "real men" could outfight, outdrink, outcuss and outfuck each other any place, any time; and proving it was a way of life.

I had been labeled "queer" in my early teens: growing up was tough.

My mother got what work she could as a domestic. I held down a job since junior high school so we could keep the small farm my father had left us. Then when I graduated I took on a second job. I guess it was those jobs that let me survive.

I worked in a pulp mill throughout school, pushing and shoving and sometimes lifting logs so they would flow into the machinery properly. Then after graduation , when the first shift was over, I'd head inside and work second, lugging dollies of rolled paper from one end of the mill to the dock at the other end. The result, among other things, was that I was pretty damned big, bigger and stronger than anyone else in the county.

I confounded the locals because I wasn't afraid to take care of myself and thanks to my well-deserved reputation as a faggot I had plenty of chances of proving it. Unless I was ganged up on, I never lost a fight and eventually people learned to leave me alone. I'd still find a window smashed out of the pickup or our mailbox trashed, and the like. But I eventually got that under control because I knew the guys who did that sort of shit and their own property would always wind up in the same shape.

I don't think the adults of the county ever believed I was queer because I never gave them any reason to suspect it. The guys, though, knew. Fortunately, no one believed them and most felt sorry for me for being treated so unfairly, being poor and such a hard worker and "such a good boy" and all.

The only time I ever got to myself was an occasional Sunday. I spent Saturdays and Sundays running the farm; but now and then I'd take a Sunday off or things would work out so that there really wasn't anything to do on Sunday.

My mother would practically drive me out of the house on those "days of rest," insisting that I get away and be with my friends. As I got older I understood that "friends" meant girls. Whether or not she suspected that I was queer I don't know, but she eventually began explaining away my lack of interest in the opposite sex as inherited shyness. Still she insisted that I do what I wanted to do instead of always working. The more I discovered my sexuality the more I gave in to her wishes.

By the time I was in my midteens, my sexual frustration had reached an almost unbearable level. I'd jac'ed off almost daily most of my life, standing in front of the mirror in my room, staring at my body, running a hand across my skin, squeezing my tits, exploring. I'd watch my other hand slide back and forth on my stiff cock and watch my big, loose nuts jump up and down until I'd finally shook the jism out of them and sent it spraying out to land on the mirror or the linoleum floor. I'd look at myself again, when I was done, and long for the person in the mirror to be someone else, a real person who would satisfy me just as I'd satisfy him.

I'd climb into bed, my hand wrapped around my soft cock and big balls, and I'd vow to myself to find someone like that, someone who'd free me from myself.

It was at age eighteen that jac'ing off seemed to lose some of its zing. I enjoyed the tubular bulk of my hard cock in my hand and certainly the explosion of electric sensations which overtook me when I eventually came, but I began craving something more. It was about that age that on my Sundays I'd throw some things into a backpack and head off across the fields to my favorite woods. I enjoy the outdoors and even now will often spend free time in some deep, quiet woods alone, giving myself over to myself.

It didn't take me long to discover my ass, nor much longer for me to fashion highly varnished, smooth wooden ass toys ranging in size and shape to suit my moods.

Except one thing seemed to lead to another.

Before the ass toys, I'd spend a day in the woods, naked. I enjoyed walking through the brush, feeling it rub and maybe scratch my thighs and my cock and balls. To intensify the feeling , I'd tie rope or thongs around my balls, tie a stick to the other end, then tie my wrists behind me and walk through the brush feeling the cord snap tight when the stick got tangled. I'd pull and maneuver until I tugged the stick free using just my nuts. Or I'd tie my cock and balls over a low branch of a tree and lean back as far as I could making my gonads support my weight.

Eventually I became bored with this simple bondage. That's what lead me to discover my ass and to make the ass toys. I added them to my solo activities. I'd find a clearing, or the top of a large boulder, or maybe a large branch of a tree and lie back and fuck myself with a fat, wooden dildo while jac'ing off at the same time. I cut off a sapling just the right height, fastened the dildo to it, bent it back and let it straighten, pushing the dildo deep up inside me. Standing there, impaled, I'd then wrap the thong around the base of my cock and balls and tie them securely to the trunk of the sapling, locking myself to it. No amount of tugging or maneuvering could free me from the pole shoved up my butt. I'd tie my wrists together behind my back and try to feel helpless, knowing all the while that I could untie my wrists then free myself. Still, being tied and naked and partially helpless outdoors, vulnerable to anyone who might come along, became increasingly exciting for me.

The realization that I was essentially playing began bothering me and I soon bored of self-imposed bondage, longing for the real thing. I searched for something new and soon discovered my tits. I'd always reacted strongly when I would squeeze my nipples or even just tease them by brushing my fingers lightly across the sensitive flesh. I would clip spring-loaded clothespins on them and cum practically without touching my cock. It occurred to me that I could probably get away with going to work with something clamped to my tits without anyone catching on. Everything I dreamed up though was visible beneath my shirt, producing a telltale bulge. Although I'd never heard of anyone piercing their tits, it seemed to me that that might be the answer to my dilemma. I was more nervous about infection than pain and carefully sterilized the piercing equipment I'd made or found. Using ice as an anesthetic the process turned out to be simpler and less painful than I'd thought it would be.

After wearing plastic keepers for a few weeks until they healed, I finally took to hanging fishing weights of varying sizes from nylon strings I'd threaded through each tit. As I moved around the weights would swing and shift, yanking on my tits and giving me plenty of unpredictable hard-ons. To my consternation , my popularity with the women at work increased in proportion to the number of spontaneous erections.

My Sundays soon included not only being bound and impaled on the sapling by my gonads and ass, but my tits as well. I ran the nylon string from my nipples back around my chest and down to the tree's trunk making forward or upward movement painfully erotic. Other times I'd hang the weights from my tits and tie the thong around my balls dragging the stick and scramble through the underbrush feeling the multiple sensations of tugs and yanks on both nuts and nipples. When I went "walking," I'd have my biggest ass toy up in me, one which was basically a baseball bat except with a larger flange on the end to hold it in while the free end hung down heavily, weaving from side to side as I moved. A second flange prevented the shaft from driving up into me in case I fell, and I found that I could stop and sit on the thing: it was like a built-in stool.

During winter I would sometimes go into the woods and strip naked and roll in the snow or climb the bare trees as high as I could, knowing that without leaves anyone might see me. That was part of the excitement. When winter turned bitter, though,

I had to content myself with jac'ing off in my room or the barn and making plans for the next summer.

It was one such winter that I pierced my cock.

I'd never heard of anyone doing such a thing, but it seemed logical because it would make my cock more versatile, I reasoned . The piss tube runs just under the skin on the underside, so I figured a hole just below the head could be used for various things without harming anything. I sterilized everything, inserted the punch in my cockmouth and drove it through the piss tube and the skin with a single blow of a hammer. I hung weights from the end of my cock and would lean forward and swing the weights in wide arcs or like a pendulum back and forth through my legs, watching my stiff prick pulled long and low

Sometimes in the barn I'd slip a large nail through my cock-mouth and out the hole and hammer it onto the workbench pretending someone else had nailed my cock to the bench and left me there helpless. I'd fantasize about having to rip out the

PAGE 35 DRUMMER

end of my cock or starve to death. Or sometimes I'd run the nylon string through my tits, down through my cockhead, and pull my heavy shaft straight up by my straining tits. If I was turned on enough, I'd jog in place, and be tortured by the pleasurable pain coming from both my tits and my cock.

I eventually discovered leather. The barn was filled with ancient, decaying harnesses. Something I had never been able to put my finger on had always turned me on about those dark, heavy straps and the silvered buckles, rings and snaps. I would get hard thinking of a huge animal fitted in straps, straining against them, working its muscles to pull a plow or a wagon. Whipped on by someone who's only thought was in getting a field plowed or a load of hay into the barn before a rain without no thought at all about the beast which was giving its all. It began simply enough with me modifying one of the harnesses and slipping it on. I'd fasten the trailing ends to a post then strain against the leather as if trying to pull the barn down. I'd PAGE 36 DRUMMER strain hard until I felt the tension in my groin and felt the leather straps digging into my muscles and skin, distributing the effort evenly across my body. One thing led to another and I modified the harnesses even further until they became more ornaments- … representations… of their original purpose.

I fashioned a simple cockring of leather then a tubular shaft of leather which I fastened around my ballsac, forcing my nuts to the bottom and looking like an upside-down ice cream cone. I made several harnesses which wrapped around my body, accentuating my muscularity. I even made one which ran through a cockring and back between my legs onto which I'd fastened a dildo which was thus held firmly in place up my ass.

There was a large mirror in the barn, the remnant of some ancient bedroom furniture, and I'd stand in front of it wearing my leather and I'd feel like an animal, and I'd get turned on and cum at the sight. It was more than a feeling of being an animal, it was a reminder that I am an animal.

I thought of doing other things to my body. Like a second, lower hole in the underside of my cock which would make me have to hold it like a flute when I pissed to keep from spraying all over myself. I thought of punching a hole through my ballsac but didn't figure it'd do my nuts much good if the sac filled with water or sweat or just plain dirt. I thought of piercing a hole between my legs, up into my piss tube, but didn't know enough about anatomy to know what I'd be getting into. There were other body modifications which intrigued me, but which I didn't perform out of fear of doing some real damage.

One of the simplest things I did was shave my cock and balls and between my legs around my ass. I never before realized how incredibly smooth and soft my ballsac was until I started shaving. I used to sit and just hold my balls to feel the sensuously soft skin. Without the hair to act as a lubricant, my sac would cling to my thighs as I walked or moved, tugging on it, giving me pleasure.

After that extravagant winter, after the leaves returned and the weather warmed, I eagerly returned to the woods with my "new" body, anxious to put it through its paces. During that winter I'd also resurrected an old forge which was in the implement barn and I'd made a pair of handcuffs and ankle shackles. They worked like a pair of scissors so that when one side was closed, the other side closed too. One side could be padlocked shut and that would also lock the other side. They fitted me perfectly: not too tight but tight enough that I couldn't slip out of them. I made them after I realized that my whole sexual life had been leading up to total bondage. More than bondage: helplessness.

I knew that my need to be helpless meant something, but I wasn't sure what. I'd thought a lot about my sexuality and the way it expressed itself. I knew that it wasn't normal, at least not by the standards of my neck of the woods. I knew too that I wanted someone to see me expressing myself sexually and I wanted that person to succumb to what they saw and join me. But I didn't want that person to be the town minister or some little old lady. I wanted it to be someone like myself.

After my mother left for her all-day Sunday socializing I left for the woods. It was a warm day and my pent-up sexuality dictated that I should walk across the fields totally naked except for my boots. I tied my cock to my tits, inserted the baseball bat dildo and strapped on my backpack filled with other implements and stood at the open back door of the house. I stared into the brightness of the morning and looked at the beckoning distant woods lying several hundred yards across the flat field, and chickened out. Although there were no other houses nearby, I would be visible from the road as I trudged across the field and I finally decided that I wasn't yet ready to reveal my true self to just anyone who happened to drive by. With a feeling of disappointment, I undid my cock and tits and pulled out the dildo and slipped on a pair of cut-off jeans. I rarely wore the cut-offs because I'd cut them too short and my cock and balls constantly fell out of them, and the curve of my asscheeks was clearly visible. From the road no one would see my gonads, but they would see that at least I was wearing something.

ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

My favorite spot in the woods was near a bend in a wide stream. The water was deep enough for swimming, although the spot never became a swimming hole because the woods were so remote and inaccessible. As I stood on one high bank overlooking the stream, I felt a slight fear that the day wouldn't go well, that I would be disappointed. I'd dreamed about this day all winter and made careful plans about what I'd do to and with myself. Yet standing there, all those plans seemed old hat. I'd thought about them so much that it was as if I'd already done them: I'd have to improvise.

I pulled off the backpack, then my shorts, and finally my boots and socks and stood in the open, stark naked, finding the sensation of being totally nude sensuous in its own right, maybe just as sensuous as wearing leather straps, dildoes, rings, weights and all the rest. I stood above the swollen stream watching it struggle to carry off the last of the spring rain and rubbed my tits and watched my naked cock raise itself up as if in a salute to my return to the spot.

That's all it took to activate my drives and I found that the plans I'd make all winter did make sense and were what I wanted to do. I knelt and dumped out the contents of my backpack, fingering each homemade sexual device carefully, thinking of its use.

"What'cha doin'?"

I leaped to my feet instantly, more concerned that whomever had spoken would see and comprehend the purpose of the devices spread on the ground than I was about my nudity.

"That you, Jameson?" I asked, thinking I'd recognized the voice of Jameson Willis, one of the half-dozen guys who'd perpetually tormented me about being a faggot. I couldn't

As I searched through the lush spring growth Jameson pushed his way through and stood a dozen or so feet away, just staring at me. I felt panicked: where Jameson was, the others couldn't be far off. He saw my concern.

"I'm alone, Mackey." He shuffled his foot in the grass. "Nobody knows 'bout this place 'cept you'n me."

"You?

"You come here pret' near every Sunday for the past few years," he said with a strange expression on his pretty face. I'd always thought Jameson was pretty, almost feminine. He was smaller than the guys he hung out with, but I knew that his size was deceptive, as he and I had had several run-ins through the years, and he'd always put up a hell of a fight, despite the fact that I outweighed him by nearly fifty pounds and stood six inches taller. "So have I," he finally concluded, bashfully. "I figured with the weather'n all it'd be time for you to come back.'

"You came here on Sundays?"

"Yeah. Used to sit right over there," he said, pointing across the stream to the opposite bank. "I'd watch you. I'd watch you…" His voice trailed off when he ran out of words to describe what he'd seen. His mind seemed to clear and he went on. "I figured it was time, time for me to come over to this side." He stared into my eyes. I recognized the expression on his face, it was one of cautious hope.

"You…? But all these years you've been my enemy. You've sided with Bill and Joe'n … "

"What choice did I have?"

For some reason, despite my suspicion that we were not alone, anger flared up in me, and I forgot about any danger. 'You had a choice!" I shouted to him.

"I didn't," he said simply enough. "And I don't. But I've watched you, after I followed you once, and …

He lowered his head and I turned away, frustrated. All those years alone; that's what I kept thinking.

Despite my uncertainty about our being alone, I bent and picked up the dildo and began fastening it to the cut-off sapling, then I began slipping on my leather shoulder harness followed by my cockring and ball stretcher.

Jameson watched. Almost shyly he said: "That's why I don't have a choice.'

I was running the cord through my tits when he said it, and something about his expression stopped me and I turned toward him. "What do you mean?"

"There's nothin' left, is there? I mean, for me? What'cha gonna do next? Slip onto that pole then tie your prick'n nuts to it? Hang something from your tits? Maybe tie your hands or something? I know I ain't been there for you," he said sardonically , "but why do you think that is?" He was suddenly bolder. "You're a regular one-man band, ain't you? Sorry I bothered you." He turned and began pushing his way out of the clearing.

My mind raced with possibilities. I'd never had to encounter anyone who wanted to…join me. Were we alone, or was this a trap? My mouth, as if on its own, spoke to the retreating figure.

Jameson! I want to fuck you! Or, I want you to fuck me! Whatever you want!" I suspected that he wouldn't come back. I slowly began stripping off the gear I'd put on my body, my day ruined…my life ruined…by Jameson's simplicity.

I was kneeling, pushing my implements back in my pack, when I heard rustling in the bushes. I didn't look up. I knew that the six of them would be there, anxious to knock the crap out of me. Strangely enough, I found the situation exciting and my cock reared itself up to a rock-solid hard-on. When I felt the hand on my shoulder I turned, relaxed, expecting a fist to slam into my face.

Jameson was smiling down at me; he was alone. "You are an asshole, you know that don't you?" As I watched, he stripped out of his clothes and, in the only way he could, he proved to me that he was alone and that he had joined me. When I felt his cockhead press into my ass, I knew that all of my implements could not substitute for the touch, the feel nor the companionship of a real man.

They're still with me. I keep them because I need them from time to time. Not because I can't find a man to satisfy me, but because they're part of me, they're part of who I am.

PAGE 37 DRUMMER

DRUMMER FORUM

DEVOTED TO THE DRUMMER PHILOSOPHY, WHATEVER THAT MAY BE even plain bad scientific research is politically exploited by AIDS institutions eager to appear to be earning their keep, or by the media-ever keen to fan any spark of controversy , or zealots riding their favorite hypothesis saddled up as fact, the public is in danger.

Basing public policy on inadequate science is particular-

All this appears to be fueling the hysteria surrounding the use of volatile nitrites or "poppers," especially the issue whether "poppers" are a factor in causing AIDS or in suppressing the immune system .

As a scientist current with AIDS research and who has reviewed the extensive literature on nitrite use, I cannot assure you that "poppers" are harmless, any more than I can assure you aspirin is; but, neither have I found grounds to tell you "poppers" are harmful . I can assure you, however, that the existing scientific studies on this topic do not justify the widespread belief that 'poppers" have been shown to help cause AIDS, or cause anything else for that matter. My viewpoint is shared by other qualified persons, including prominent cardiologist John O. Parker, M.D., and James Mosley, M.D., the University of Southern California Medical School professor who heads the federal government's largest, multimillion-dollar program studying the AIDS virus and the nation's blood supply. Each of these physicians has provided public testimony in recent months at governmental hearings considering the banning of Each had re-poppers .' viewed the evidence and stated under oath that he regards the claims of danger to be ill-founded .

I can also tell you that the intense campaigns against use of volatile nitrites conducted by Hank Wilson in San hen mediocre or Francisco, Neil Schram and his Los Angeles City / County AIDS Task Force, and John Lauritsen in New York, are slim in scientific merit.

Space limits for this article do not allow reviewing each of the many published papers on "poppers." However, a critical look at three of the most frequently cited ones may whet your awareness of the need for a more substantial weighing of the evidence than has been provided by the 'popper"-ban advocates. A look at these three papers is representative, in my view, of the best of what has been published .

Hersh and Newell and their colleagues at M.D. Anderson Hospital in Houston, studied the effect of butyl nitrite ("poppers") on laboratory (in vitro) cultures of white blood cells-cell types important in the body's immune response to infection.

They reported that many of these cells were killed when left for 24 hours in the presence of one percent added butyl nitrite, whereas at half that concentration (i.e., 0.5 percent) or less the "cell count and viability were unaffected" [emphasis added]. In other words, a small change in concentration dramatically eliminated the toxic effect. They also wrote that at 0.5 percent several of the cells' immunological responses were inhibited . However, again only a generally small inhibition could be detected at slightly lower concentration (0.01 percent ).

The authors warned of the need for caution in evaluation of the significance of their results in real life applications: "The data suggest but do not prove that the agents may be immunosuppressive in vivo (in living animals]." Despite their own sound advice, a paragraph later in their text, they ignore their advice stating: "these in vitro studies strongly suggest that the inhalant ni- trites may indeed be dangerous , and their use should be condemned by those physicians who treat patients who use these drugs regularly." (Note that they use the term "condemned," a judgmental, nonscientific word, rather than one such as "cautioned about.")

Although it is true that instructive information about the effect of use of a drug on people is sometimes gained by in vitro (test tube) studies, more often than not such work proves nonrelevant. Most people are aware, for instance , of the large numbers of "promising" drugs discovered in the lab and reported in the press but which then prove unworkable when tested on live patients. This drug failure, in moving from the test tube to actual people, is often because very high or very low concentrations of drugs were used in the laboratory phase of the study and have little relevance to "real-life " testing.

Clearly a small reduction in nitrite concentration dramatically changed the responses Newell and Hersh found. The question logically follows: how relevant is the use of their concentration of poppers to "real life"?

One estimate is to calculate what Newell's one percent nitrite concentration means for an average adult male with 6 liters of blood for even transiently establishing a one percent blood level, never mind for a 24-hour one. CALCULA-TION : one percent of 6 liters equals 0.06 liters, or 60 milliliters (ml.) of butyl nitrite. A representative bottle contains 10 to 12 ml. of "poppers." that is to say, about 5 or 6 bottles of "poppers" would have to be injected into a person's blood to briefly attain a one percent level…a staggering amount of butyl nitrite!

And that's attained only if all the nitrite gets into the person's blood. Unlike adding butyl nitrite directly into Hersh and Newell's laboratory dish where the "poppers" can saturate the culture medium, only a fraction of the chemical will be absorbed at the lungs through inhalation, the common way poppers are used. As with cigarette smoke, most of what is inhaled is immediately exhaled out of the user, thus, many more bottles of butyl nitrite would be needed to achieve an inhalation level comparable to that in the laboratory study, making the bearing of Newell and Hersh's data still more remote in human relevance.

Also the authors' laboratory results are based on 24-72 hour continuous exposure to butyl nitrite, a condition utterly without parallel in common human usage, even though some might wish that discoing or sex lasted that long.

I think it is instructive to consider all this information with regard to a far less politicized compound such as aspirin . It would not be surprising to find that common household aspirin, used by generations of average Americans, would have had similar inhibitory laboratory effects if Newell and Hersh had tested one percent levels of it, too. In fact, for a rough and ready comparison, as little as 0.325 grams (gm.) of aspirin taken by some persons can cause changes in blood chemistry leading to bleeding for several days, as well as other effects. 0.3 gm. of aspirin in 6 liters of blood represents a concentration of 0.005 percent , even less than the percentage of butyl nitrite needed for an effect.

To conclude, yes, if enough "poppers" are used an effect can be forced…just as household aspirin can be forced to lethal levels.

In another study, the M.D. Anderson Hospital group, injected mice with Rush, a commercial brand of "poppers," in order to see "real-life" ef-

fects of nitrites. They inoculated the mice twice, each time with 1 / 4 ml. of a "poppers" solution of about 5.6 percent nitrite . That calculates to about 0.028 ml. of butyl nitrite per mouse.

How does that compare to a man? The average mouse weighs about 80 gm., the average man 80,000 gm.; the weight ratio is about 1000 to 1.

Scaling up the nitrite dose used in the mice to a comparable one for a man, would thus require injecting him twice with 14 ml. of Rush-that is a total of 28 ml., or nearly three bottles of Rush. Adult humans have died from similar amounts (10 to 30 gm.) of aspirin . Such a massive dose of aspirin is highly toxic compared to ordinary usage. With this parallel in mind I fail to see what significance a similarly massive dose of butyl nitrite has for comparison to ordinary "popper" use.

The third research study is one of rare restraint and high integrity. The study by Haver-kos et al. has been widely used by "popper"-ban lobbyists to claim a link between "poppers " and AIDS, even though the authors avoid that link. In fact, they argue that of those persons who have already developed immunode-ficiency , those who have a history of using substantial amounts of "poppers" more frequently succumb to Kapo-si's sacrcoma (KS), whereas those with lower or no nitrite use, succumb to pneumocystis pneumonia (PCP). Ironically, the AIDS patients with KS (higher nitrite use) have a considerably longer life expectancy after diagnosis than do those with PCP (lower use).

However, in comparing a rather small sample of 47 men with KS and 20 with PCP, Ha-verkos found a long list of other statistically significant differences too: Men with KS were more likely to earn over $20,000 per year (!); to have had hepatitis B; use amphetamines , barbiturates, cocaine, ethyl chloride, LSD, marijuana , methaqualone; had more sexual partners. This is a formidable list of statistically significant differences.

Unable to draw any clear conclusions from these direct correlations, the authors re-ISSUE 99 DRUMMER sorted to "multivariate analysis ," a sophisticated, but treacherous technique. It is especially, tricky with small numbers of subjects, as in this study. Indeed, Haverkos and his associates themselves state that multivariate analysis only "suggests the relative importance of differences" [emphasis added].

Haverkos et al. cautiously report, "Total days of nitrite use more significantly differentiated between the disease groups than any other variable ," and "interpreting the results of these analyses requires ers. While noting that in one study, "helper T-cell counts were slightly lower with frequent nitrite inhalant use; this suggests the possibility that nitrite use may be a cofactor" for AIDS or for KS, "Neither of these possibilities has been completely evaluated," and, "However, it now appears that frequent use of nitrite inhalants simply may be a surrogate marker of frequent receptive anal intercourse. This sexual activity was associated very clearly with Kaposi's sarcoma in a case-control study of homosexual men and with HTLV- lobbyists).

2) I feel that the liberties with fact taken by some who act as medical spokespeople in the AIDS crisis can only serve to undermine public trust in the scientific process.

31 fear the damage which will be done if people are boldly told, as they have been, that "poppers" are "the drug linked with AIDS." Too many will give up "poppers," but continue with (or move on to) cocaine, heroin, crystal meth, and other amphetamines, etc. These are drugs more likely in my view to be among the AIDS cofactors.

In the New York Native a gay doctor in San Francisco was quoted as saying, "Unfortunately , most of my patients and friends appear to be engaged in an elaborate ritual of denial that there is even a problem here. They make some token sacrifice, such as giving up a drug or sexual practice that they never really liked anyway, and they convince themselves that this sacrifice will get them through the lenten period for another 40 days or so until the AIDS problem is solved."

I am fearful that illegalizing "poppers," coupled with the media blitz which already exists , makes "poppers" the "token sacrifice," and "legitimizes " clearly dangerous drugs.

4) I've seen gas chromatographic profiles of the purity of street "poppers" and of the largest "legitimate" manufacturer's . The latter is pure, while the street form is like bathtub gin. Illegalizing "poppers" will knock out the pure forms and make dirty street "poppers" the standard item.

5) We either need to put the issue of "poppers" behind us, or make a valid case against them through better science. so that we can turn our attention to other drugs and other cofactors. We've been too proccupied with "poppers" to the exclusion of everything else. By continuing up a wrong path, we lose time finding the right one.

On the AIDS clock, time is measured in deaths.

-Bruce Voeller Reprinted from Mariposa May 1986 am fearful that illegalizing "poppers," coupled with the media blitz which already exists, makes "poppers" the "token sacrifice," and "legitimizes" clearly dangerous drugs. caution. The numbers of patients enrolled are small," and as the final statement in the "discussion" section of their paper: "The association of KS with nitrites in this study may only represent correlation. In other words, nitrites may be merely a maker for other behaviors or exposures associated with their use."

Indeed, other published multivariate studies do not confirm Haverkos et al. As the authors forthrightly and candidly admit, Marmor et al. initially reported a KS-"pop- pers" link, "However they [Marmor et al.] reanalyzed their data, entering additional factors, and found that still other variables appear to differentiate KS patients from controls by multivariate analysis ," and Jaffe et al., at the Centers for Disease Control also reported using multivariate analysis and found that nitrite use was not significant.

Elsewhere, in the lead chapter of one of the finest new AIDS research and therapy books, J.J. Goedert and W.A. Blattner at the National Cancer Institute draw a very interesting conclusion from their research and that of oth-

III seropositivity in the cohort studies of homosexual men in Denmark and New York City. even after statistically adjusting for the number of homosexual partners and the frequencies of nitrite inhalant use and seven other sexual practices.

In short, the much vaunted body of research supposedly demonstrating a link between "poppers" and AIDS does not withstand close scrutiny. If a link exists it still remains to be proven.

In analyses of diverse other published works, Goedert et al., Jacobs et al., Gerblish et al., Marthur-Wage et al., and unpublished work by Gangadha-ram et al., for example, fare even less well than those I have addressed here.

Do I advocate "popper" use? No. Am I paid by the "popper" industry? No. Why do I press the issue?

1) Because I think some of us have to tell the truth with as much objectivity as possible-some of us with the scientific research training to evaluate the data at more than its face value (thus, leaving out most physicians and nearly all journalists and advocate-

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A LEGEND OF OUR TIME

Porn star and model ex-traordinaire , J.D. Slater recently lent his persona to legitimate advertising. Fur may be a natural for the cold winter months, but J.D. could also warm us up.

JUST CAN'T BEAT IT

"Sending a teacher into a classroom with no cane is like sending a boxer into the ring with one hand tied behind his back," said a Welsh councilman as Britain's House of Commons struck down a time-honored tradition: punishment by the cane. By a bare 231 to 230 vote, the bill abolished corporal punishment in state-run schools; private schools will not be affected by the ban. An earlier version of the bill would have allowed parents to exempt their child- ren from the practice, but would have put students into "beatable" and "unbeatable" categories. The Education Minister warned after the final approval that "the abolition of corporal punishment would send out wrong signals."

LEATHER AGAINST LAROUCHE

International Mr. Leather 1986 Scott Tucker and the Phil-adelphia community recently held a Leather Against La-Rouche benefit. In a recent Au Courant article Scott explains some of the reasons why the LaRouche organization is to be feared.

"A person with AIDS running around is like a person with a machine gun running around shooting up a neighborhood ."

Lyndon LaRouche made this statement recently on a radio talk show, and it is only one more piece in the bizarre puzzle of his politics and personality . This man is hungry for power, and he has a history of ideological zigzags.

LaRouche, now 63, came from a New England Quaker background, and was at one time a Wall Street business analyst. In the 1940s he joined the Socialist Workers Party. By the late 1960s he was lecturing on economics in Greenwich Village, and had gathered several hundred leftist disciples.

Especially on the state and local levels, LaRouche followers have shown great energy and perseverance. They expertly play on the hopes and fears of many anxious Americans . Whether or not they reap the harvest directly, the LaRouchites labor quite successfully to sow the seeds of bigotry and panic. PANIC, in fact, is the aptly named new LaRouche front group-Prevent AIDS Now Initiative Committee. PANIC, based in Los Angeles, gathered 690,000 signature to put an AIDS quarantine initiative, number 64, on the California ballot this November.

The initiative, if passed, would require mandatory medical tests and the quarantining of all who have AIDS, including those "suspect" of developing the disease. Cooks, waiters, airline stewards and others who handle food could lose jobs under certain provisions of Prop 64. People who live with or associate with those known to have the disease or the virus antibody would also be excluded from attending or working in public or private schools; and travel restrictions would be imposed. Anyone who failed to report a person with AIDS to health authori-ties could face fines or prison. Prop 64 would demolish medical confidentiality, and job and housing rights.

A California coalition named No On 64 / Stop La-Rouche is raising funds to run a TV and newspaper campaign against PANIC and the La-Rouche initiative. A door-to-door , face-to-face campaign is also being waged. A similar combination of grassroots and media strategies defeated the Briggs initiative, which would have barred gay teachers from classrooms, in 1978. The campaign against Briggs drew national support from gays and civil libertarians, and the campaign against the LaRouche initiative will also require our support. California is once again a test case of how far our rights can be rolled back, and of how far forward our ene-

The address of the No on 64 / Stop LaRouche campaign headquarters is 3670 Wilshire Blvd., 3rd Floor, Los Angeles, CA 90010, phone (213) 738- 8240.

CAUTION: ENEMA TERRITORY

One of our readers sent this book review he found in a biology journal. We thought it might be of interest to some of you.

Ritual Enemas and Snuffs in the Americas. Peter A.G.M. de Smet, Latin American Studies. FORIS Publications, 1985.

It is difficult for me to name an ethnobotanical publication more interdisciplinary, more widely oriented and more scientifically sound than de Smet's doctoral thesis, just published.

Dr. de Smet has approached the use of enemas and snuffs in the Americas in an extraordinarily meticulous manner: he has insisted on absolutely reliable literature or herbarium authentication or reposts; on chemical, biochemical and pharmacological support for ethnobotanical information; and these interdisciplinary data are presented against an historical background. Some 15 different plant preparations are considered as ritual snuffs, while nine genera are discussed from the point of view of their ceremonial use as enemas.

It will be a long time before there appears such an inter-disciplinary approach, backed up with such a breadth of a widely scattered literature search and presented in as thorough an analysis of the use of the snuffs and enemas of the Americas.

-Richard Evans Schultes Harvard University

HOWDY TEXAS!

Okay, Texans, make ready for that infamous hospitality and the hunky men! Premiere photographer Jim Moss will be on special assignment throughout the Great State from October 15 through November 15, 1986. If you've always thought you were hot shit and wondered why you haven't yet graced the pages of Drummer, this may be the chance you've longed for! Jim will be photographing the men and the scenes for a special TEXAS issue of Drummer in January.

So, if you studs want lim to consider you or your business for this special issue, contact Drummer's office direct: (415) 864-3456. Ask for JimEd Thompson, Associate Editor. DON'T WAIT! He's already on his way!

LEATHER NOTEBOOK

BY LARRY TOWNSEND

Dear Larry,

I have a very heavy interest in wearing rubber gear and have been this way since the age of 12 (and I'm now 68). There are a lot of rubber guys out there who don't know each other. Why don't you start a Rubber Notebook, knowing as I do that many heavy rubber guys would be grateful for such a page in Drummer?

P.S. I have a Drummer Son and two slaves.

Fred. Massachusetts

Dear Fred.

Since the pages of Drummer's classifieds are open to men of various persuasions , there is nothing to stop rubber guys from using them the same as leath-ermen do. That is the best source to meet other guys. I seldom make referrals anyway . As for a column specifically for rubber, why worry about it? This column might just as well be titled something to do with SM or rubber. The problems that guys have, or questions they want to ask, apply pretty well across the board. I haven't kept track, but I would estimate that only ten per cent or so of the questions I answer have to do specifically with leather. Rubber certainly has its own distinctive smell and feel, but the things you're doing in it are not that different from the many exotic activities that are done, or tried in leather. In fact, I wish more leather guys would get into it, since it forms an effective shield to prevent exchange of body fluids.

Dear Larry,

You guys keep advocating "safe sex," and that might be okay for some old guy who's done his thing and now only goes out for sex once a month or so. But for someone like me, who is still under 30, it's another story. I'm hot and ready all the time, and let's face it: Safe sex is dull. It's dull, and boring. If I can't touch the guy I'm making it with, I might just as well stay home and jack off.

Randy, Seattle

Dear Randy,

I hear you, and to some extent I can appreciate your feelings. It's rough to have it up and dripping, and have your prospective sex partner slide a rubber over it, or insist that you not cum in his mouth. Nor is this attitude in any way confined to your age group. There are a lot of horny old goats out there who are used to getting it often and completely, and don't enjoy "safe sex" either. But this isn't something that's being foisted on you by the people who are trying to advise you how to stay alive. We're only telling you what is supposed to be safe, and what isn't. Unfortunately, I can't just say "It's your life. Take my advice or leave it." You have to consider the other guys you are apt to infect if you are careless in safeguarding your own health. I've known too many guys who have died of AIDS to take it lightly, however. You are better off to stay home and jack off. At least you'll live to bitch about it.

Dear Larry,

I really enjoy reading your column in Drummer. I would like to ask a question that may sound silly, but a lot of guys seem to believe that anal intercourse may possibly shrink hemorrhoids by strengthening the muscle tissue around it. Is there any truth to that, or would it be harmful to hemorrhoidal tissue? I would appreciate your comments.

Name withheld

Dear Withheld,

There is an old wives' tale that has been circulating for years. But like many such O.W.T.s there may be a modicum of truth to it. If you can get a doctor to take you seriously enough to answer your question , he's likely to tell you that gettting fucked in the ass is certainly not going to cure your condition, but the stretching action may help to stave it off. If you're prone to the malady, nothing is really going to prevent it. There are things you can do to slow it down (such as not pressing down hard and regularly to evacuate the bowel). On the other hand, if you need a good rationale for getting fucked, that one's as good as any. Hemorrhoids are such a pain in the ass!

Dear Larry,

I would like to know what, in your opinion, are the ten (more or less) best and most authentic SM movies available on video. I have gotten hooked with a lot of trash. The only two "good ones" I've found are Born to Raise Hell and Night of Submission. There must be more! Thanks much!

Karl, Illinois

Dear Karl,

You have to remember that we are living in an increasingly repressive society, and that the people who produce the type of tape you're interested in are also concerned not to be hauled before a Court of Moral Judgment. Both films you mention are quasi "under-the-counter" items. You still can't show "Born" in a theater in Los Angeles without having the police raid the place.) There is also the problem of whether you are only interested in the action, or whether you want handsome hunks performing for you. This is a subjective matter and will vary with each purchaser. For myself, and within the constraints placed upon us by the Guardians of Public Morality, I have found a number of recent tapes to be a turn-on. For me, they have to employ at least reasonably good-looking men, and there should be at least some bondage and SM (although I tend to be able to fantasize sufficiently to pick it up when it isn't 100% overt), lust off hand, I would say my favorites are: "Captive Men" (Close Up Productions), uncut version of "Outrage" (Christopher Rage), "Hung & Horny" (L.A. Video), uncut version of "Raunch" (Christopher Rage), "Chain Reactions" (Marathon Films). I have also enjoyed parts of some others, although it is sometimes necessary to turn off the sound: "All Tied Up, Master of the Discipline ," "Centurians of Rome," "Slaves for Sale" (Wings Video), "Bondage Tease," "Nightcrawler." Of course, if the actors are really hot, I can enjoy them just naked and wonderful. The rest comes with imagination.

Dear Larry,

I am very interested in original art, particularly from guys like Tom of Finland, Sean and The Hun. I've been able to pick up originals from time to time, and over the years I've built up a pretty good collection . I think I'm also making a good investment, but several of my friends tell me I'm crazy, that I'll never get my money out of the pictures I already own. What are your feelings about this? I know you handle a lot of original art in your own publishing, and I assume you keep a good part of it. Do you feel you are investing in this?

Jan, Philadelphia, PA

Dear Jan,

Any investment in art is a risky proposition , and if you're doing it strictly for the money, I'd recommend municipal bonds or Ginnie Maes. But you are obviously collecting these items because you enjoy owning them-the same reason most of us collect the things we do. Whether it's art or postage stamps or antiques.

(If you would like to have Larry Townsend address a particular problem or issue, you can write him via Leather Notebook, Drummer, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314.)

SWEAT AND STRAIN

From seventeen countries and almost every state in the U.S. they came. Gay men and women who had spent the better part of the last four years dedicating time and energy developing their bodies to excellence. The week was filled with pageantry, excitement, visual beauty, renewed and newly acquired friendships, tears of joy, accomplishment, fear and disappointment.

They worked, trained, practiced, performed, competed, paraded… they left us, not without sadness but also with joy; for they left behind the memory of their strength and beauty.

Hopefully each of these fine athletes retains the pride, win or lose, that those of us who watched felt. We salute and thank you for your efforts.

ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

PHOTOS BY ROBERT PRUZAN

PAGE 47 DRUMMER

DRUMSTICKS

DRUMMEDIA VIDEO

FETISH FOLLIES ow do you take it? With or without? Your fetish , I mean-with or without sex?

I've long been identified as a cockman. All those extra fillips of fetishism, whether tightly-choking cockrings or elaborate Master / slave scenarios or leather / cowboy/ lace undie costumes, must be accompanied by cock-a stiff one that shoots, at that—to get me off. You could say my fetish was cock. But a fetish is more a psychosexual orientation than a physical one, and most fetishists aren't as genitally fixated as I. They get off simply by experiencing their fetish, either enacted or worn. A glimpse of cock or a visible orgasm aren't necessary for their arousal, proving, I'm sure, that sex and sexuality are as much in the mind as in the crotch.

The truer fetishist of this latter variety may be pleased by a couple of new videos in which genital sex is mostly subjugated to the fetish at hand. These include body shaving in Master Barber and foot worship in Foot Ball. Yet, given the amateurish execution of these more tightly focused videos, it isn't surprising that several subsequent tapes, which dilute a strict fetish with substantial doses of straightforward sex, make for more involving and satisfying viewing. These include Daddies, an anthology for those who idolize Dad, and Fucked Up, an incendiary tape from Christopher Rage, whose asshole partiality for dildoes and fists is merely a prelude to a malevolent possession .

Master Barber is a 60- minute presentation of Wings Video, currently available at a "prerelease" sale price that is a bargain only if you can appreciate the video's rather dry, uneventful depiction of three shaving scenes.

The three men involved are attractive and willing, although they each momentarily resist the rough and frequently careless handling of scissors and electric shears wielded by Master Barber Ken Savage. The lack of individual identification on the video precludes my naming the participants . Number one is a dark-haired, hard-bodied young man with a thick, uncut cock. The stock body, broad face and blond hair of victim number two marks him most likely as Hanz Facht. Unlike the sullen brunette, he enjoys the process, sharing some unheard jests with his tormentor, and laughing (in between winces) while having his golden locks reduced to a scraggly Mohawk. Best of the three, though, is the last, an appreciably chunky redhead with meaty pecs and biceps. He pays attention to Savage's ministration, following and anticipating the "Master Barber's" movements, and setting up a relationship between them that enriches our empathy with his sensations. He licks and sucks his barber's fingers, urging him on, and is the only one of the three to produce a hard-on. When Savage firmly grasps the man's cock and balls so as to shave his groin, the model is left with a short but stout erection.

Also, the redhead's typically fair-skinned complexion, revealed to the camera as chest and buttocks are shaved yield richly to the camera; there's nothing quite so inviting as freshly shaved skin, and the flesh of this delicious redhead is invigorating in its fresh pink moistness, especially as the straightedge razor flirts with the creamy skin around his succulent nipples.

Model one reveals a warm and smooth tan beneath his dark covering of hair, and his body appears harder when shaved, although this attraction is offset by his impassive expression.

All the participants lose their chest, armpit, groin and scrotum hair; only one has his head (partially) shaved. The shavings take place on a rack-like construction to which arms and legs can be spread-eagled while standing. Facht is the only one who sits, and this seemingly upon a butt plug. When he stands up, it's gone, and no other vision of it is offered.

The fame of barber Savage can be understood in his sheer size and masculine appearance , as well as in his solidly fat cock (only seen momentarily). He's a dull performer, though, hardly saying a word, and completely inaudible even then (mercifully?), due to poor sound recording and the ever-present trendily butch cigar clenched in his lips. Savage's body frequently blocks our view, and his lack of style doesn't understand the possi-bilities of performance. But if the mere sight of his razor gliding over flesh does it for you, Master Barber offers 60 unadorned minutes of just that.

It also offers drawbacks of a substantial nature. Beyond the basic stolid dullness of Big Daddy Savage, there is an unvarying sameness to the treatment of the models. As if tacitly acquiescing this lack of variety, the video makers have intercut the three shavings in circular order, so there seems to be forward movement. This offsets the static act of shaving a bit, compensating for the lack of dramatic involvement from Savage, but cannot disguise the fact that nothing much is occurring.

There is also a horrendous. nonstop disco soundtrack. I find a basic incompatibility between the serious, dark overtones of a bondage/ shaving scene and the relentless buoyancy of this

disco-bunny barrage.

Despite some brief moments spent shaving the ass and underside of the redhead's scrotum, there was obviously little planning put into this video. Couldn't something have happened? What if a model was stretched over two sawhorses, cock and balls hanging down, butthole yawning up into an overhead camera as the razor swirled around the orifice? What if Savage was given a fluid rap to engage us, or created a feeling of ritual and submission? What if …? What if …? What if this was a good video?

While there's probably a market for such straightforward a shaving presentation, the random and rote shavings of Master Barber will probably not fill the bill for the most prospective viewers. For all the arousal of these perfunctory shavings, one might just as well press one's nose up against the windowpane of the local barbershop for a turn-on than watch Master Barber.

Foot Ball is a 66-minute video from a new company, Scorpion Productions. Released at a price of more than half the usual video cost, it may prove attractive to its intended audience of foot fanciers . But if suffers, like Master Barber, from unprofessional packaging, and most damaging in this case, doesn't really deliver the goods.

Scorpion has hired some well-known porn stars for this effort, but they aren't that heavily into feet, and the tape moves away from fetishism to JO, at least for its first section. In this part, star Pierce Daniels (with his aggressive attitude and handsomely stubbled face) tries to pump life into the scene, but his pair of costars don't respond. While one uses his hand to hide the fact that he's not really having any oral/ foot contact, we don't much care, because his overly long cock, slicked-up and shiny with spit, offers a much better vision. This is a pleasing JO, but may not fulfill those who want and expect more foot action . The scene is also padded out and vitiated with fake dialogue ("smell those stinky feet") plus useless and lengthy exposition. Why this pretense at "friends" coming over to take showers? Puh-leeze. Cut to the sex.

Scene two features Drummer favorite Brutus, who reclines in a chair while a masked man displays Brutus's feet to the camera. This appears to be the same disguised man who appeared in Falcon's The Other Side of Aspen II. I have little need for masks in porno, especially in a fellow who puts out so little. He caresses these feet, tickles them, counts each toe, exhibits the space between them, and sometimes even applies his mouth to them. But it's basically a static display scene; even he's content to watch Brutus's feet on an off-camera video monitor. Maybe I'm missing the excitement-the feet are there, but one just doesn't expect such placidity of presentation in a tape meant to arouse. It's a lengthy sequence as well, and would become dull, I assume, even for those content to stare at the soles of Brutus's feet.

The masked dullard is back for scene three, this time with the estimable Cole Carpenter, who induces a moment of oral frenzy from the masked one, but then it's more display.

While I liked Brutus's brief patches of stern talk ("These are a man's feet. Lick! Worship ! Clean them!"), I was disconcerted by a dark patch on his sole. A callous? A lesion?

Although the absence of bad music is pleasing, shoddy production values mar the video. It's littered with unintentional sound dropouts and frames frozen not for dramatic effect but by mistake during the editing or duplication process . Also, despite several moments of obvious foot relish near the end, it seems this cast was chosen for their box-office appeal instead of their sexual proclivities. I'm not convinced any one of them had heard of their feet before taking part in this video.

This month's last video takes us away from the supposed hardcore fetishes of the earlier videos into what could be called "generic fetish." Volume seven of the HIS Video Hotshots anthologies of good clips from otherwise discarded movies is titled Daddies . It's mostly straightforward suck and fuck, but for those who like Daddy as one-

ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

half of the team, this nonstop 90-minute video, at a regular half-price cost, is another great inch-by-inch sex value from HIS. It has ten scenes, all mercifully shorn of dialogue and exposition. Several of them are classics, several rousers and the rest are at least dependable.

Best among them is the appearance of J.D. Slater in an alarmingly forceful segment rescued from a turkey called Caribbean Cruising. Slater's been a star for a good many years, bringing his brooding force, brutefully glamorous good looks, and push-comes-to -shove sexuality to films from the heyday of Jack De-Veaux through some of Chris Rage's raunchier epics and currently into the slicker product of southern California. Only Slater has remained un-slick , with the same forceful no-nonsense slug-out couplings that he's offered in all his films.

Now in Los Angeles, he's branched out into directing-he's done Bait already, and will soon helm a Rambolike epic named Muscle Commandoes . He's one of the few stars I can think of capable of undertaking such a commanding role, and this clip in Daddies is the perfect screen test for it. His pubes clipped and rudely tied off with tight thongs around his balls and cock, Slater treats and mistreats a thickly hung young man who is willingly subservient to J.D.'s rough and mean fucking and make-em-gag sucking.

Other highlights of the anthology include the classic desert shack three-way from Kansas City Trucking Co., Will Seagers and Richard Locke in scenes from L.A. Tool and Die and Heatstroke; uncut Steve Collins working on Jon King and Cole Taylor; and several scenes that play against our daddy expectations-my favorite being the one in which the tables are turned and massively hung daddy David Con-nors is topped by a sturdy young buck.

Wings Video, PO Box 42009, San Francisco, 94142-2009.

Scorpion Productions, 1801 Lincoln, Ste. 106, Venice, CA 90291.

HIS Video, 9333 Oso Ave., Chatsworth, CA 91311.

-John F. Karr ISSUE 99 DRUMMER

PAGE 77 DRUMMER

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DRUMMEDIA MOVIES

BRIGHT PAINTS AND TIGHT PANTS fter being attacked in Parliament as a pornographer for films like the gay Sebastiane, the punk Jubilee and the indescribable The Tempest, Derek Jarman was on his best behavior when he made Caravaggio.

He wrote 17 scripts, Jarman told Drummer, in the seven vears he was planning this opus. The one he settled on must have been the mildest of the lot.

Caravaggio is this year's Mi-shima , another attempt to understand a gay artist through studying his work. Parliament's censorship debate apparently had the same inhibiting effect on Jarman that threats of litigation from Mishima's widow had on Paul Schrader, even though the Italian painter he was dealing with died in 1610.

The date of his death is one of the few things known for certain about Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, who is best remembered for the dramatic lighting effect, or chiaroscuro , he achieved in his paintings. Jarman weaves published fact and speculation with his own research-based conclusions into what might best be described as a fantasia on the life of Caravaggio.

The artist, well posed-there's a lot more modeling than acting going on here-by Nigel Terry, is introduced on his deathbed. In voiceover narration, he recalls the man who carried him there: "If arms as steady as these had embraced me in life … '

That narrative resumes each time we return to the Porto Ercole shack were Caravaggio lies, attended by Jerusaleme (Spencer Leigh), the apprentice he purchased as a child. ("The gentleman is bestowing a great honor upon our family ," the boy's mother says as the painter pays her for "a companion in my loneliness .") Sometimes the thoughts seem to come from a classic novel-larman swears they're original, except for some quotes from Heraclitus -often focusing on an imaginary perfect lover named Pas-qualone . One episode related is a hot, gay sex scene, possibly carried over from one of the other 16 scripts.

Eventually the flashbacks relax into an order that's chrono, if not logical. Young Caravaggio (Dexter Fletcher) moves to Rome as a teenager and becomes a street artist, selling whatever he can. "Have you any more at home?" inquires a prospective customer. "It'll cost you," the lad replies, adding later, "I'm an art object, and very expensive."

The young man falls ill and in the hospital meets Cardinal del Monte, who becomes his first important patron. "What's that cardinal after?" asks a model, another street boy. "Him?" Caravaggio replies. "Fuck all, a few cheap thrills."

Jump forward a few years as Fletcher gives way to Terry (although visually Mick Jagger would have made a more appropriate segue). Caravaggio is suffering from painter's block on "The Martyrdom of

St. Matthew," until he spots Ranuccio Thomasoni (sexy, blond Sean Bean) in a bar and hires him to pose as the assassin .

Ranuccio has a mistress, Lena (Tilda Swinton), who is jealous of the artist. "He ain't fucked me yet," her boyfriend protests as they quarrel, but she taunts him: "Fuckin' rent boy!

We presume that somebody fucks somebody—it's Jarman's contention that Ranuccio be-came Caravaggio's lover, but the painter also dallied with Lena-but the director coyly pointed out in our interview that we never see anyone in the act. When movies were simpler and more innocent we always knew what we weren't seeing; now we can't be so sure.

Lena is murdered. Ranuccio goes to prison for it, but Cara-vaggio's powerful friends get him out. The men fight and Caravaggio kills Ranuccio. It's 1606 and he spends most of the rest of his life on the run.

The plot reads simpler than it plays, with several characters not properly introduced. Jar-man gives us too much credit for sharing his knowledge of the subject, as if we can glance at models posing for painting and know instantly who commissioned it, for what church, and why it was controversial. We should know, for instance, that Dawn Archibald, an androgynous acrobat who poses "Profane Love" with her for clothes on, represents the 12- year-old boy who actually posed nude, and that the painting is patterned after-and critical of-a work by the more famous Michelangelo (Buonarroti).

Unless you've studied the late Italian Renaissance extensively you'll miss such subtle-ties in Caravaggio. You'll have to settle for enjoying the visual beauty, the largely implied gay relationships and the sense that the gay director may become one of the greats if he ever learns to communicate his visions to an audience.

There are great films in Derek Jarman's head, but seating is extremely limited.

MANFINDER

This column is starting a William L. Petersen watch as a public service. Known as a stage actor in Chicago, he first came to prominence in To Live and Die in L.A., where his jeans showed a more pronounced and consistent bulge than any actor's in any major studio release in history-at least without a codpiece.

In Manhunter Petersen wears baggier pants so we can concentrate on his face and acting ability. He scores high on both counts. As a psychic detective for the FBI, it's his job to pick up the mental scent of psychotic killers, whose irrational motives defy logic.

Burned out by the case that put mad genius Dr. Lektor (Brian Cox) behind padded bars, Will Graham (Petersen) is persuaded to come back to work after a serial killer the press dubs "the Tooth Fairy" (Tom Noonan) has wiped out two families and is planning to go for the triple crown at the

next full moon. What he does with the bodies before and after killing them is only hinted at, leaving your imagination room to roam through kinky territory. Asked how to proceed Graham advises, "Someone should blow the sick fuck out of his socks!"

For a movie about passion and feelings in which the thought of murdered, tortured families drives Graham to crack the case if it means cracking up, Manhunter is strangely cold. Not so strangely , perhaps, when you consider the previous work of director Michael Mann, executive producer of Miami Vice, whose first feature, Thief, was as much about the technology of crime as Manhunter is about high-tech crime solving.

Critical opinion is sharply divided on Manhunter. Some of us were intrigued throughout , while others were totally bored. Some were less impressed than others by Pe-tersen's acting, while Noonan and especially Cox earned higher grades.

I think Mel Gibson fans will like Petersen, who is a similar type. By the time you read this, the picture should be gone from theaters, and you can add it to your list of videos to watch for.

TOBE OR NOT TORF

Maybe Will Graham should have been called in to solve The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Lefty (Dennis Hopper) has been on the case for 14 years, ever since his relatives were sawed to shit in the original film. By now the revenge-crazed Lefty is a wacko as Leatherface and company, the family of cannibals responsible for the bloodshed.

Having progressed from Massacre 1 to the relatively sophisticated Poltergeist, direc- tor and cowriter Tobe Hooper returns to his old stomping ground in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. The reunion shows a little more class and a lot more humor. For example, the only one of the killer clan fit to appear in public wins a chili cookoff and declares, "The secret is the meat." Later, a tough old bird who's had so much flesh removed he's about to die from the draft on his bones, apologizes to the woman he's been fighting for, "I reckon I'm falling apart on you, honey.'

The movie starts with two high school party animals, a hunk and an idiot, driving a Mercedes with FAH Q plates. They phone their favorite D.J., Stretch (Caroline Williams), to let her hear them become victims of Leatherface's saw-chosis . She's the one who will scream through the final reels. on a more expensive and elaborate set than in Part 1. There's even a gratuitous Edsel for boomersploitation.

Lefty and Leatherface go on their respective rampages, chainsawing everything in sight like a demented David Letterman stunt. Stretch teases the killer to bring out his (relatively ) human side, but of course his chainsaw is his only sexual organ, and she can't get Leatherface off. Even without that problem, the dude wasn't about to set a fashion trend in above-the-neck leatherwear.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 is as sick and disgusting as its predecessor, which means you won't see anything grosser this year. (Why would you want to?) If you liked the grittiness of the original and prefer to take your horror seriously , you won't appreciate the polish and humor that have "improved" this edition; but there's no question that it deserves a cult of its own.

-Steve Warren PAGE 81 DRUMMER

DRUMMEDIA BOOKS

THE MISSIONS OF ALEX KANE eing one of those people who can and does from time to time get lost in mystery / thriller-type novels I tend to be highly entertained by the genre. At this point I have read all of the gay hero thrillers, Brandstetter, Don Strachey and Valentine. I've also read all of the original James Bond novels. What all of this is leading to is that you must often suspend disbelief and you almost always must make some sort of allowances for the quantum leaps when the author has written himself into a corner. Preston has written , so far, four missions for Alex Kane. Each is capable of standing by itself. And yet there are peaks and valleys in the continuity of the series when they are read in sequence .

Number one, Sweet Dreams, introduces Alex Kane and his "boss"/control Mr. Farmdale, who also is the father of Alex's first lover who was killed by a homophobic NCO in Vietnam. Now Alex has a mission: to go after all of the homophobes who prey on gays. In Sweet Dreams the vil- lains are a ring of murdering scumbags who blackmail high school and college-age guys into prostitution. Okay, the plot line in this, and all the others, is simplistic. However, Preston manages to flesh out the plot line and the characters and allows the reader to use his imagination too. We have all met some of these same "characters" in our lives. Alex rescues Danny from the prostitution ring, is smitten with him but resolutely refuses to get involved. It is not until the first third of Mission number two that Alex and Danny finally are brought together by the meddling Farm-dale .

Mission number two. Golden Years, deals with a rip-off of gay seniors. It is a well-thought -out scam. Only the villains haven't taken into account Alex or a couple of enchanting gay seniors! Farmdale has a bank of computers that can spot trends in gay harassment and, when lawyers and money (Farmdale is fabulously wealthy) can't solve the problem, it's time for Alex to take over. In this one, the computers have spotted an inordinate number of deaths of known gay men who are known to have moved to Cactus County, Arizona, from San Francisco, L.A., New York City, etc. There is a secondary romance story line in all of the remaining novels in the series, besides that of Alex / Danny. In this one there are three!

Mission number three, Deadly Lies, deals with a scandalmongering and murder campaign to elect the next governor of Minnesota. Having lived in Minneapolis, I know there is a "machine." but I never imagined it to be a Snow Belt Mafia! All sorts of lies and machinations are used to get an incompetent candidate elected to the statehouse. Some of the secondary characters here are also a real delight .

Mission number four, Stolen Moments, deals with a rabidly homophobic, racist, sexist newspaper publisher in Hous-ton . He uses the worst sort of yellow journalism. Inflamato-ry headlines work on the threat of AIDS and urge quarantining the Montrose area resulting in rioting and mayhem . Again there are some secondary characters who have interesting parts to play in all of the resolution of the problem. By now Alex and Danny have settled into a comfortable relationship.

The style is typical Preston— short descriptive sentences, realistic locales, fairly realistic dialogue. And although some may find the plots too simple, contrived or mindless, the series makes splendid escapist reading. Preston may not have created a truly believable hero, but there are a lot of secondary characters who are much more human and realistic . The scenarios almost always include all aspects of gay life from disco to leather.

Alex Kane is a little too smooth, too machinelike. Everything is in perfect order with him, "even his mittens have strings." However, Preston has created a central character with a mission (to paraphrase an old TV series) "to seek out injustice…" against gays. They are a good read, and make an interesting series.

-DragonMaster

THE KID'S FIRST TIME WITH DAD PART 1

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 cocksuck-ing , armpits, piss and, most of all, hot, masculine attitude.

THE KID'S FIRST TIME PART 2 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 adolescent cock are too tempting.

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.

KID VS DAD-WINNER TAKES 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 to do 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!

RITES AND RAUNCH

There was definitely 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 . Male bonding at its most extreme.

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.

MARINES OVERHEARD

Two hot and very horny young Marines meet in the barracks latrine. Rich-ie 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.

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 thing to come off-then his dirty, greasy jeans. When they drop to the floor of the cab, you'll find out how this tape got its name. Jake knows just what to do to service that big rig. And you'll feel like you're right there to help him out.

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 buddys' biceps, brushing against these solid, hard pecs…and down, down still further 'til 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 is for you.

DELIVERY BOY COMES AGAIN

Richie is the new driver on the route. He's a hot, straight Italian guy who "curious" seems a little 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 .

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 Al's enormous cock? Sucking that mammoth 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 and kinkiest scenes ever recorded.

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. Breathtak-ing !

TAPE 3 PUNISHMENT & REWARD

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

THE COMMANDER SPEAKS

"I am your big brother, your daddy, your com- manding officer. I am every big man you ever saw in your whole fuckin' 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 feeth 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

FATHER / SON—A father becomes his son's lover.

MARINE BRIG-A Marine DI punishes an AWOL Marine in the Brig.

PORN CALLS-Two half-hour jack-off phone calls.

SAILING TO HELL-Frank O'Rourke relates an original story of rape and abuse.

THE CONFESSIONAL-A young priest hears the confession of his first gay man and what happens in the booth would do much toward conversions.

THE HIGHWAY PATROLMAN-He stops a speeder on the road and there are more ways for paying for speeding.

THE HITCHHIKER-An air corpsman is picked up by a trucker who is looking for more than a passenger to share his ride.

THE HUSTLER—He sets the price for a blow job but discovers that the price includes a good deal more.

THE WARDEN-The young convict learns that time was not all he is giving up when he enters the joint.

TV REPAIRMAN-A straight, married repairman quickly discovers that he gets more than he expected when he goes to a surfer's house.

WHIP FIRE-A live, heavy SM scene between Frank O'Rourke and a slave.

BRANDING, PIERCING AND TATTOOING-The hows and whys.

INTERVIEW WITH A TEEN-AGED MALE PROSTITUTE-A young. male whore tells all.

MASTER / SLAVE INTERACTION-Follow up by Frank O'Rourke of earlier tapes, The Master and The Slave.

SM AND LOVE?-Frank O'Rourke tells whether love can develop from an SM relationship.

THE ART OF FISTING-Fisting is no longer a strictly SM act. Frank O'Rourke discusses many aspects and possible dangers in fisting.

THE INFERNO: THE SM ANNUAL EXPERIENCE—Its values and what it is about.

THE MASTER-Frank O'Rourke discusses the role of the Master.

THE SLAVE—Frank O'Rourke gives an insight to the slave and / or masochist.

TOYS: SOME OF THEIR USAGES AND POSSIBLE DANGERS

GREASE MONKEYS STARRING MASTER MARIO

Two sweaty garage mechanics rape a guy they find hanging around the men's room. He puts up a fight, at first, anyway. Lots of axle grease, cocksuck-ing , filthy talk.

DADDY BREAKS IN A NEW BOY

Patience and understanding go 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.

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 .

THE COP STARRING MASTER MARIO 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.

LEATHER BULLETIN BOARD

BY FRANK O'ROURKE ell, it's here-the first issue of DRUMMER which Desmodus Inc. is publishing . When I am writing this copy, the magazine is just being put together, so I don't know what it looks like. Well, how is it, guys? Now don't piss and gripe because it isn't all that you wanted. Believe me when I say that it will get better and better. Watch out for Drummer 100, the next issue, because Tony DeBlase promises me that it will be a super issue.

Have you guys found the INFERNO XV run book yet? You haven't? Jesus H. Christ, you missed my fucking story. Send $9.95 to Desmodus Inc., plus California sales tax if you live in this state, and I'll get it off to you. Our address is PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314.

Now, I've done the commercial bit, let's get down to what this column's about.

If you live in the Northwest, you must not miss the first International Conference of the National Leather Association. The conference is entitled "Living in Leather" and it will be held on October 11, 12 and 13 at the Seattle Center. Unfortunately , I just got the scoop on it in today's mail. There's no doubt in my mind that this will be a very important conference. I hope that I get enough advance information for the second conference to let everyone know far enough in advance so they can attend if they have a mind to.

I had hoped to attend the Chicago Hellfire Club's Inferno this past weekend, but Andy and Tony, DRUMMER's president and publisher, attended , so I missed out, since the store. Both Andy and Tony said they froze their asses off. I guess this will teach them a fucking lesson-leaving me behind! On second thought, I should have called up a super heatwave, so everyone would have sweated their balls off in the cold because there is nothing sweeter than seeing naked flesh covered with goose bumps. Everyone was having a good time-well, you can't have it all. I tried to fuck it up! Attendance was not as high as last year's, but that happens occasionally. They didn't expect a big crowd last year and it ended up being overbooked. Do you think the word got out that I wasn't going to be there, so dudes figured why waste the money?!

Got a note from Al Santora.

I've got to meet this man someday. He tells me that the Centaur Motorcycle Club is holding their third Mr. Mid-Atlantic Leatherman contest at Dick's Bar in Washington, D.C. on January 16, 17 and 18, 1987. Among the judges will be Scott Tucker and Patrick Toner. Besides the hot flesh on stage, the judges will make your crotch itch. Louis Both-well , Steve Maidhof, and Chuck Smukler will also be judging. Now, don't give me any shit about not knowing far enough in advance. If all those hot men intimidate you, then I'd advise you wimps to stay away. If you are interested, write Al Santora at PO Box 912, Harrisburg, PA 17108-0912, and get the particulars.

OKAY, SHITHEADS! You are still sitting on your hands, or you are so fucking closeted that you're afraid to see your club's name in DRUMMER. I'm not hearing from you. Let me know in advance, like Centaur, and I'll let everyone know.

There are guys who figure that I am too damn raunchy in my column. Well, you get it like I write it. I can promise you that I can get shittier and probably will as time passes. For those of you who can't stand it, I suggest that you read what you want and skip over this column and read the U.S. News & World Report. Astime goes by, I will speak my fuck-ing mind and let the chips fall where they will. If I can't speak my mind, then what the fuck use is there to writing this?

Finally, is there anything of interest happening in your community, other than runs or parties, that you would like to share with the rest of the leather community? Send it on: I'll try to include it in the column.

Until next time! May you fulfill all of your fantasies and get your gun off as often as you are able! Keep the faith!

Yours in leather and fraternal brotherhood,

TOUGH CUSTOMERS ough 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, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, California 94101-1314. 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. (Sorry, photos cannot 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!

IT'S 2139 AND HELL ON EARTH IS A PLACE CALLED

5A00 Part 15LAND

Story by Mikal Bales, Illustrations by Matt

Throughout the Academy Order Presentation Ceremony , the congratulations and the back slapping, Joe Buck's only thoughts were of being alone with Grey. Afterwards, they fought their way toward one another through the excited cadets and made their way back to the barracks and quarters they'd shared together for four years. Once inside and alone, facing each other, Grey extended his hand to congratulate Joe Buck. But the overwhelming emotion welling in both of them was too great. Wordlessly , the fell into each other's arms and four years of restraint exploded into a hungry exploration of each other's mouths and bodies.

Leaders Greystar and Golden wasted no time applying the influence of their offices to aid their sons. Behind cabinet doors, plea bargaining resulted in stays of Grey's and Joe Buck's sentences. Unknowingly , Grey owed his life to Joe Buck's assassination assignment. The Academy still considered Cadet Golden its brightest hope for the termination of Von Sado. Cadet Greystar's sentence was also stayed to give the appearance of uniform treatment of prisoners . Cadet Golden would be returned to the Academy for intensified assassination training. Cadet Greystar was sentenced to the penal mines for life. Grey and Joe Buck heard their sentences in silence and were then led apart from one another, forever. to be continued…

This unique Zeus publication will be serialized over the next several issues of Drummer.

SADO ISLAND is available for $12.50 plus $2 postage and handling from Zeus, PO Box 64250, Los Angeles, CA 90064; and from Sandmutopia Supply Co., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314

IN PASSING

I WEAR THIS COLLAR AROUND MY NECK. IT IS A QUIET REMINDER THAT I AM YOUR BOY. YOUR LITTLE MAN THAT YOU TREAT SO WELL. YOU BRING SUCH A RESPONSE, SO INDESCRIBABLE. NO WORDS CAN EXPRESS HOW PROUD I FEEL TO BE YOUR BOY. SOMETIMES I GET ATTITUDE. SOMETIMES I DON'T FEEL I DESERVE HOW WELL YOU TREAT ME, HOW YOU SHOW YOU CARE. YOUR BOY!

SIOIL

9

THE ADVENTURES OF DRUM

An awesome collection of leather fun and fantasy by England's master erotic illustrator, Bill Ward! Sixty-nine big, splashy pages present the hottest exploits of the most famous character in leatherdom—with a supporting cast you'll have to see to believe!

The Adventures of Drum couldn't be more graphic— you'll spend hours and hours poring over each panel and each episode of Drum, probably holding the book firmly in one hand…

THE EROTIC ART OF BILL WARD

There are still a few cherry copies left of this first look at the erotic world of Bill Ward—includes some of the earliest Drum adventures, as well as his earlier King series and much more! Sixty-nine big pages!

While they last…

DESMODUS INC.

PO BOX 11314

SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314

(415) 864-3456

□ I want to expand my mind. Send me The Adventures of Drum ($4.95 each).

☐ Send me The Erotic Art of Bill Ward ($6 each).

Add $1.00 postage / handling. California residents add 61 / 2% sales tax.

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