FF THE TOP by FLEDERMAUS

Dear Sirs:

Knowing very well that yours are the only legit leather magazines on the market, I decided to voice my opinion about the supposed "Levis / Leather" community and some items which really piss me off.

I am by "bar" standards a hot number, tattooed and a tough customer. I have more than once been accused of being straight, redneck with an arrogant afti-tude . Very simply I'm my own man an independent cuss, and proud of it. With this independent attitude comes a variance in the traditional leather dress code. Instead of basic motorcycle leather, etc., I have a real fetisir for western garb. Suede chaps, buckskin jackets, deerhide or chamois shirts, cowboy hat and boots. I live western. Well, guys, there is this particular problem called prejudice by the "leather community" which I feel your magazine indirectly contributes to.

It seems to me that if you are not in motorcycle attire, you're just not with it within the leather fraternity. I have been denied access to a bar in Chicago (upstairs) simply because I wasn't wearing black leather. This I feel is discrimination , and for the most part I'm shunned when I'm at a leathermen's run; (I'm the only "mountain man" present). I think I look lousy in motorcycle attire, and I don't ride a bike either, but I'm just as much into leather as the next guy. Why all this separation? How often has your, magazine expounded on the western style of leather and its ruggedness? By your omission of this very real leather category, you seem not to want to think it legit enough for the leather mystique of your clientele. I think you should give us western leathermen some validity in our choice of dress and actions by doing some special articles.

Second gripe…in the realm of leather sex, it seems to me that most potential Masters want their slaves already submissive and "broken in." As I said earlier, I have a cocky "I ain't gonna take no shit' attitude. Call it egotistical, arrogant, or gut feeling of downright maleness. All great attributes for a Top, right? I have enough guys who want to go home with me, thinking I am a Master / Top. I really am a bottom and, more than that, potential slave material. It is so contrary to the image I present that most often nothing ever develops and I go home alone and beat off. It seems to me that potential Masters find me a threat to their supposed masculine image. When # do happen to find a Top, he for the most part is turned off by a challenge. I'll defy any orders given me (secretly hoping to be punished severely, which never materializes ). Yes, my standards are high, but I don't feel I should lower them. I'm gay, and I am because I like men. Real butch, arrogant, men! Just because you got a set of balls doesn't make you a man in my book

Ideally, I'd like to find a cowboy- /rancher, any age, with the sadistic quali-ties of a Marine drill sergeant. Someone who isn't arraid to kick ass, punish and eventually break me into prime slave material. After the ads I've submitted to your magazines, and the phony responses I've received, maybe the real thing doesn't exist. Sorry, Mr. Townsend, but slaves are made, not born, and they are molded into shape by real no-nonsense Masters, of which, sad to say, there are very few.

A parting shot: When I've put an ad in Drummer, I have been as explicit as possible . Don't your subscribers know how to read? After the initial response to my ad, and my subsequent reply, they are in disbelief about what I advertised for. I ask for an animal trainer (horseman, etc.) with a bonafide location (i.e.: ranch, stables , etc.) who has the attitude I described above. I get 10 letters and curiosity hounds, and gays who waste my time.

Drummer, I know I've got what it takes to be an animal slave, to the right Master. Have I set my sights too high looking for a Top / Master who can fuck with my head as intensely as my body? Train me to be his and only his farm slave / pet, and not be initially intimidated by a redneck mountain man.

Another ad is going into your magazine . Maybe my potential Master will take the challenge I offer this time.

I'd like to hear your comments on my remarks.

J.D. Milwaukee, WI

Dear J.D.,

You have raised several items that I'd like to speak to.

This issue should be a good example for my statement that Drummer is interested in more than the black leather motorcycle man look. For want of a better term, we use "leather" to include a great variety of masculine images including black leather, cowboy, police, military , fireman, construction worker, athletic, trucker, logger, gangster, gladiator , mountain man, redneck, etc. We advocate broadening of limits rather than their narrowing.

As for your experience in a Chicago bar, keep in mind that a dress code has to be defined somehow. Perhaps "black leather, uniform or club colors" is too restrictive-it would keep out your "mountain-man" look—and would let in a guy in drag done up in a leather gown-or as a female cop! It is possible to have a dress code stated by what is NOT allowed—as they had at the Mineshaft-but this was administered by doormen who knew what to look (and smell) for. (The fastest way to get barred at the door to the Mineshaft was to wear cologne-that kept you out no matter what style of dress you had on-after all, an alligator shirt could be checked-an odor couldn't.) But I digress…

I was recently discussing this need for an all-inclusive term with Barry Douglas who holds the SM / leather seat on the steering committee for this year's March on Washington. His counterpart in the seat representing transvestites, transexu-als , etc. is having a similar problem. They are currently, jokingly, referring to them as the "butch" and "fem" seats respectively. Not really an answer but…

THE FIGHT TO BE BOTTOM

Your complaint "potential Masters find me a threat to their supposed masculine image" brings two responses from me. First-how do you know that the men who are supposedly scared of you are Tops? I'd wager a great many of them primarily want the same thing you do. They pose as rough-and-ready Top men (just as you do) secretly waiting and hoping to be forced into the bottom role. Second-being a Top is hard work, something bottoms never seem to comprehend . Why in hell should I choose the harder job of trying to break your arrogant attitude when I can take home a docile hunk who will provide an e-sy scene. Don't get me wrong-breaking an arrogant redneck can be exhilarating. I like to do it, but not with a late-night bar pickup when I have to go to work tomorrow.

With your costuming and your attitude you are building yourself into a corner where only a small percentage of available men will be interested. Don't blame them because they don't all come running. continued on page 29

REPORT

SEND YOUR ENTRIES TO DRUMMER REPORT PO BOX 11314, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314

HANGING OUT IN THE PARK

Nashville, Tennessee's park rangers recently carried out an undercover arrest campaign against public sex in parks. The investigation resulted in the arrest of 65 men and three women on charges of soliciting or engaging in "crimes against nature" or indecent exposure.

Those arrested ranged in age from 18 to 67 and included building contractors, college students, state government workers, a Kentucky minister and a teacher at a Christian school. The "victims" were photographed or videotaped by undercover officers soliciting and occasionally in the sex act. One man, who was nude except for a leather harness. was photographed hanging suspended from a tree.

In true homophobic form the local papers published the names, ages, addresses and occupations of those arrested. It is assumed that this section of the U.S. is living in a time warp!

HERE'S TO YOUR HEALTH

The 1987 National Lesbian and Gay Health Conference and the Fifth National AIDS Forum will be held March 26- 29, 1987 at the Sheraton Uni- versal Hotel in Los Angeles. Sponsored by the National Lesbian and Gay Health Foundation , George Washington University Medical Center, and the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center, over 1,000 people are expected to attend this year's conference. Registration information is available from Greg Thomas, GWU Medical Center, 2300 K Street NW, Washington, DC 20037, or call (202) 676-4285.

KENTUCKY RIGHT TO PRIVACY UPHELD

A county judge in Lexing-ton , Kentucky has ruled that Kentucky's criminal sodomy statute is unconstitutional. Favette District Court Judge Lewis Paisley held that the statute , which makes it illegal for individuals of the same sex to engage in either oral or anal sex, violated Kentuckians' right to privacy under the state's constitution.

The judgment was the result of an undercover investigation in downtown Lexington, conducted by police detectives who were wired for sound. The undercover detectives positioned themselves in a parking lot and engaged in conversation with people in the area. After extended conversations , some officers were invited home by unsuspecting gay men. There was never an attempt or suggestion to commit a sex act in public. All individuals involved were adults and there were no offers or requests for money. All invitations were to take the officers home.

It is unlikely that the matter will end at the district court level. The prosecutors have indicated their desire to appeal the new ruling. The ruling by the higher courts will be binding throughout the state.

GAY CALENDAR NOMINATIONS

Drummer contributor John Preston is putting together a 1988 gay engagement calendar which will be published by Alyson Publications. Readers are asked to nominate their heroes, important dates in our lives and suggestions of what should be included in general.

Many of you out there have taken your love of discipline and SM and applied it to collecting encyclopedic knowledge of specific areas of history and culture. He wants to use you… as a source, that is.

If you would like to make sure that an individual, an organization , or an event re- ceives community recognition , you have until April 1 to send your ideas, with appro- priate dates to: John Preston, PO Box 5314, Portland, Maine 04101.

HISTORIC MARCH ON WASHINGTON

Sunday, October 11, 1987 the March for Lesbian and Gay Rights takes place in Washington , DC. The march, called by a conference of 350 people representing more than 125 organizations, centers around extending the protection of all civil rights laws to specifically include lesbian and gay people and the defense of our right to privacy by repeal of all sodomy laws. This is expected to be one of the largest political gatherings of the 1980s.

This event is historic, even in its creation. For the first time ever, a national lesbian and gay coalition has recognized the importance and contribution of the SM community. Through the efforts of a group initiated by the GMSMA of New York, we in SM have been given a seat on the steering committee for the march.

Members of the leather community and especially SM organizations have the responsibility to make special efforts to reach out to our own people. Every organization should appoint a liaison to the march and make a commitment of support. Your help is needed now! Get out the word and encourage all who can to go to Washington.

For further information or to contribute a donation, write to: Community Involvement Committee, c / o GMSMA, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION

A new research study focusing on lesbian and gay sexuality has recently begun. James Bahr and Dr. Gerald Weeks are seeking gay and lesbian couples to fill out questionnaires . Participants will have no contact with the researchers , unless so desired; all contact is via mail. Interested couples should write: PO Box 2364, Philadelphia, PA 19103-0364.

EDUCATING THE MASSES

Thirty-two California legislators , most of them Republicans , sent a letter to the state Superintendent of Public Instruction asking for revision of proposed guidelines that the state Board of Education will publish for sex education. The letter specifically asked that homosexuality not be discussed in elementary schools.

"The homosexual lifestyle is both immoral and a grave danger to public health," said the letter.

Susan Lange of the state Department of Education said that homosexuality, AIDS and birth control are "things that educated people need to know about."

TOUGHSH

GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

Byrd Laboratories is advertising drug-free urine "for experimental purposes …100 percent pure urine…suitable for unanticipated urine demand."

The Texas-based lab owner, Jeffrey Nightbyrd, said he was not interested in what customers did with the product. But he speculated that the most common use could be to beat on-the-job urine tests for drug use.

"I'm really startled that anbody would pay $49.95 for urine," said Nightbyrd. "I have a $5 pamphlet on how to beat the tests.

WINNING REMARKS voted national champions. that you just grow to love," he said. this year."

Penn State Lions quarterback John "Guys who pat you on the butt even after one ever left my side. I think that kind of "There are people in that locker room love allowed us to come back and win

ROLE PLAYING

Lakewood, Colorado High School officials refused to ring down the curtain on "Le Tigre Plantation," a creation of history teacher Bill Wright, designed to teach students about the Civil War even though parents complained that actors chosen to play plantation owners have taken their roles too seriously and are abusing and humiliating classmates.

Principal Vince Greco said, "It shows what the slaves had to do. There's no physical punishment, it's just social status."

No physical punishment? Darn!

17TH CENTURY PURITAN SAFE SEX

Five condoms made from fish and animal intestines were found in the foundation of Dudley Castle near Birmingham , England recently that date as far back as the 1640s.

The English soldiers loyal to King Charles I occupied the castle during that period and were eventually defeated by

Cromwell's army during the English Civil War

Stephanie Ratkai, archeologist, said she thought the prophylactics had been brought to England by officers returning from France. She said it is believed the condoms were used not as contraceptives but to prevent venereal disease, which was quite common at the time and sometimes known as the dreaded "pox."

She said she hoped to put the con-doms on display at a museum castle. 'They would certainly make an interesting exhibit," she said.

NICE LADY!

The jewelry given by the Duke of Windsor (King Edward VIII) to Wallis Simpson (Duchess of Windsor) will be auctioned off in Geneva this April. The more than 200 diamonds, rubies, emeralds and other gems are valued at more than $7 million.

The Duchess named the Pasteur Institute , a leading institute in AIDS research, as the prime beneficiary.

OFF THE TOP continued from page 4

WHO SAYS WHAT IS "REAL"

S / M and leather, like pornography, may be impossible to define, but we all think we know them when we see them. But fortunately-or unfortunately-we don't all recognize the same thing. You gripe that you cannot get your mountain-man look accepted. Everyone is fixated on black leather and will not recognize brown as a valid alternative. In the latter part of your letter you attack Larry Townsend, saying "slaves are made, not born, and they are molded into shape by real no-nonsense Masters.'

NO DAMN IT, NO! SOME slaves are made, some are born. You don't have the right to state absolutes anymore than Townsend or anyone else. Each of us takes his own definitions and feelings and establishes them as the heart of the correct piece of geography-we will allow some slight variations in certain directions. But not too much or too far. We are NOT all alike, there is virtually NOTHING that all "slaves" have in common , except that they supposedly exist primarily to please their Masters. Those of us who have had "slaves" at various times know well that this is one of the biggest fantasies of all-but more on that another time.

We "leather" men (for want of a better term) are not a uniform army. We vary over a very wide spectrum of ages, education , experience, intelligence, physical ability, preferred style of dress, sexual fetish, preferred activities, tolerances, etc. Each of has to stop thinking that what he does is the only correct thing, the right thing. We have to recognize that the other fellow, who has his own thing, is just as valid in his interests as we are in ours. It takes this variety to make life interesting and all of our "kinks" must be united to fight those who would rather see NO kinks at all.

To paraphrase a famous quote about Nazi Germany. "When they came for the fist fuckers, I didn't resist because I wasn't into fisting. When they came for the piercing nuts, I didn't help them because I had no body jewelry. When they came for the rubber fetishists, I didn't fight because my motorcycle jacket was leather. And when they came for us leather cocksuckers, there was no one left to fight,"

We are not a uniform and homogenized sea of black leather. We MUST broaden our tolerances for differences among ourselves if we expect to gain greater tolerance from those who are so different from us.

-Fledermaus

by Tim Barrus grew up in one of those small mainly unheard of typically American cornfed towns where people were allowed to be one of two things: you were good or you were trash. Smalltown America is a lot of things. It's a mix of starless mismatch . Spring is planting. August is supper on the porch; corn on the cob, why, it fairly drips with butter. Mainly. Friday nights is bowling-alley smalltown slow, and hot with the luxurious semantics of studied trouble. Sundays is church. Mainly. We were hayfield-farmer simple. We smiled a lot but mostly at each other. Smalltown American, why, it can be downright suspicious if it has a mind to. My town did. You were good or you were trash. Now, white trash lived south of town. We called it the outskirts. We called white trash a lot of things. We could be generous if we had a mind to. We could be less than generous as well.

My friend Cheyne was white trash for three reasons. One, his mother was an Indian. Two, his daddy was white, and his daddy's whereabouts were unknown, which made Cheyne a half-breed . And three, he was a half-breed. In our town half-breeds lived in the outskirts. You lived in the outskirts, you were white trash. White trash had abandoned cars rusting in the front yard. And kids in their underwear usually running around crazy-loose with the remnants of chocolate ice-cream bars dripping from the corners of their lips. Dirty-faced. White trash had dogs sleeping on their porches. It was said that white trash was TV-dinner lazy. It was just the way things were.

Cheyne was bad from the beginning. My daddy called him trouble. Most folks called him trouble. When we were in grade school Cheyne broke near every window in the schoolhouse playing ball. He said he didn't mean to. The baseball just kept going that way. None of us other boys could even hit a ball that far. We tried. Repeatedly. But Cheyne, why, he'd just step up to home plate, that grin on his face, his black half-breed's hair in his eyes, a bat in his hands, and he'd hit that sucker so far out of left field, and slamn-damn if it didn't hit a schoolhouse window every time. None of the rest of us could do it for a month of Sundays.

They made him stop playing ball. Cheyne could drive. When we were all fourteen we boys saw him do it, brazen as the Lord, driving down Main Street like he was born to it. We were in awe. His mother was a waitress in town. And Cheyne said she gave him the car. Cheyne got busted for driving without a license. But then Cheyne eventually got busted for a lot of things. He was dedicated white trash. Had a flair for it. Cheyne smoked cigarettes and smoking cigarettes was a sin. Cheyne lived in a trailer. Most of us good folks either lived in town or on a farm. But wherever we lived it was usually in a house. White trash lived in trailers. I went over there. I had to see it. The sheer, unadulterated thrill of it, being in Cheyne's trailer, alone with Cheyne, why, it was enough to hand my sinner's soul straight over to the devil. With pleasure…

I was bad with Cheyne. He made me do it. "You ever had a whole beer, boy?" I said no. "Well, have one." Cheyne was white trash but he was hospitable. "You ever suck somebody's dick dry, boy?" I do not know why he called me boy. We were the same age. In the same class. In the same school. Maybe it was because there was this big, hard, uncompromising space between us although we became friends. In fact, we were close. No one could understand why we were friends. I still do not know why we were friends. I was attracted to the beauty in his badness. Cheyne was attracted to my being attracted. I worshiped him. Come Thanksgiving I knew he'd be having another TV dinner. So after my family was through with their meal, well, I piled this big old plate full with country stuffing, mashed taters, turkey, and my ma's pumpkin pie. And I sneaked it over to Cheyne, who was downright grateful. Dug into it. Not that I felt sorry for Cheyne. Not at all. I simply wanted that boy to like me as much as I liked him.

I was one of the goodies. I was born to it. Lived in a house. I got good grades. Learning was fun. And I did well in school, although I did it without much effort. Hardly any. Cheyne was one of the bad guys; someone to be avoided. Trouble. Delicious trouble. His mother worked and she didn't much care if Cheyne had friends over or drank beer. Or two beers for that matter. I had three. And then I had Cheyne. I think I spent the better part of high school either sucking his cock on my knees in that trailer. Or I was thinking about sucking his cock on my knees in that trailer. Cheyne was big, bad and beautiful. I was in love with him. Had to be the beer.

Cheyne was always showing off that big piece of corrupt slab he had between his legs. In the whole time I knew Cheyne I don't think that he owned but one pair of jeans. His jeans were usually as tight as a drunk in a bowling alley bar. Very. Fact is, if you couldn't find Cheyne at home, you probably could find him at the bowling alley, which was only about a block from the trailer. In our town was a right way to do a thing and a wrong way. There was the right side of town and the wrong side of town. And then there was Cheyne.

When Cheyne was eighteen he had a motorcycle. No one in our town had a motorcycle. It was somewhat outrageous. Cheyne wore leather, had his hair slicked back black as the blacktop in a summer rain; why, fathers would take one quick look at that boy, and sheer moral fright for their children's very lives would set in like a hot rabid brain-fever. Girls liked him. Girls liked him a lot. I knew for a fact that he was fucking girls because he made me watch him. I was forced into it.

Cheyne would come over on that cycle. I'd hop on before anyone in my house had a chance to object. Hell, there'd be enough objection to deal with when I got back. I didn't need any before I left. And we'd ride over to the river. Now, the river was more of a bad place to go than the trailer. Every Sunday in church when the preacher talked about sin, and doing sin, and being bad, which he assumed most of us were, why, what he was thundering-on about was the river. There was one spot along lover's lane on down by the river where the used rubbers were about knee-deep. Old Cheyne, he'd drop me off there, and then he'd go back to get the girl. Cheyne would bring her to the spot. I'd be off hiding. And he'd fuck the bejesus out of her right there smack dab on the ground. Those girls liked the feeling of that seething cock. I kept telling myself to concentrate on the girl. But none of them were as intoxicating to me as Cheyne. Watching that big dick plunge into girls could just

about make me cream right there in my pants, which I did on several occasions. It was messy. But well worth the trouble.

Later on, usually at the trailer, we'd evaluate his performance over a couple of beers. "She was tight," Cheyne would say, "but she wasn't as tight as your sweet little ass. I want a piece." I was always giving him a piece of my asshole-pussy. He'd get me all lubed up with his tongue, sucking on my cunt-hole, he called it, and then he'd jam that meaty plunger straight into my guts. Fucking me for every ounce of hot smalltown sweat I was worth. Sometimes I had to give him a piece down by the river. My sore little hole would fill up with sand, spit and Cheyne's creamy cum. "Smooth as a virgin's oven," he'd moan. "And tighter.

But I could never fuck Cheyne. It was simply not in the scheme of things. I was the cocksucker and he knew it. I have to give some credit to Cheyne. This was a small bible-town, a place where if you didn't fit in you got looked down at something bad. Feared and loathed. People would spit on you if they could. No doubt about it. Old Cheyne could have told everyone in those parts that I was sucking him, and letting him fuck me until the cows came home. But he didn't. He kept it between us and I had to respect him for that.

Not because he was afraid of being considered a queer. Not Cheyne. Why, that boy had every young piece of female pussy in town. I saw him fuck the preacher's daughter. And then holy-of-holies with my own eyes I saw him cram it into the preacher's wife. I swear that next I thought he might go for the preacher. Women thought he was bad. But they all wanted it. Couldn't get enough of it. Cheyne wasn't afraid of what any of them might think of him. "Life," he'd sometimes tell me all serious-like, "can be tough enough all on its own. I never saw a need to make life more difficult for a person than it already is." And he lived by his words. My secret was safe with Cheyne.

Eventually, I went away to college because I was dying. "I'm dying on the inside, Cheyne," I'd tell him. "This town is killing me. I cannot stay. I'm counting the days, man. I got to get out. It doesn't mean that we can't still be friends." Cheyne would smile but he knew better.

"I understand," he said. "You want to leave. It's only natural. Hell, this town will eat you mean alive, boy, if you give it half a chance." We spent a lot of time together just before I left. In fact, for a while there, we didn't pick up any girls. We'd work on his bike, our arms up to our elbows in black grease, doing things to that Harley that didn't really need to be done. And then we'd do the things again. We just liked being together. That bike got more tune-ups in one month than most bikes get in a decade. And we fucked. We fucked in Cheyne's bed. We had never fucked in Cheyne's bed before. Usually it was on the sand down by the river. Or on the floor of the trailer in the livingroom. "Let's sleep together," he said.

Cheyne was different in bed. Gentle and tender. We fucked and we kissed. We'd never kissed before. Old Cheyne had these soft kind of pouty lips, and he liked to put his tongue into my mouth. I gave him my pussy. He put my legs in the air, lubed my asshole and finger-fucked me until I was sweet and open. Loose and ready. The pressure from his meat would make me gasp. I'd close my eyes and pray that Cheyne would cum before my bowels got torn into a bloody mess. I hurt with him in me. But I loved it so badly I hurt with him not in me. His ma knew about us. She never made an issue out of it. Just treated me like I belonged. Always had a six-pack in the fridge for us. They were white trash. They were the closest friends I ever had.

I picked a college that was about as far from that town as I could get. There was a whole world out there and I had to see it. There was a whole world of m-e-n out there and I had to see them. College was easy. Boring. Mainly. I got by. And I traveled.

A buddy and I backpacked through Europe one summer staying at youth hostels. It took us a month to work up to having sex together. He was a virgin and I finally got to break some pretty-boy's cherry. Fucked him in Rome in the middle of one of those sultry vehement Roman nights, when the heat seems to pour into your room, and all you want to do is sit around, drink and be naked. That boy ended up saying he loved me. Said it out loud. I was in Rome and I wanted someone to say that he loved me. I wanted him to hurt until his soul bled with me. I was decadent and unforgiving.

I fucked hordes of Roman boys and I made the boy who loved me watch. And cry. I do not know why he cried. He had a bellyful of arrogance and he went home. I stayed in Rome and continued to fuck Roman boys. I lived on wine, Turkish hash and Roman boys. I wanted to be a man of the world. I was broke. So I sold my pussy to Roman men who are not Roman boys. Priests had a thing for sucking my cock. I spermed in a lot of religious mouths in Rome. I got a letter from my mother. It was smalltown charity, and she mentioned that Cheyne had been drafted. I went to Paris.

Cheyne went to Vietnam.

Eventually I graduated, although I took my time about it. I heard through the grapevine that Cheyne was married—a Vietnamese woman. And that it had shook up the whole damn town into one hell of a glorious tizzy. Apparently it was one thing to defend one's country, but it was another thing to bring one of "them" over here. Not that Cheyne would have cared. Cheyne had brought his wife back to his hometown, settled in, and that was that. I was a struggling writer-type living in New York. And a visit home was long overdue.

Nothing had changed. Not that I expected that anything would change. I'm not even sure I wanted the place to change. Change comes to these fields, these places under the sun, these country roots-hard. I returned to her and she was still full of her rightness, her sense of starless morality; she was stubborn. Her blacktop was older now, but it still ran sweet past the outskirt's bowling alley, full of country music and trouble looking for Friday night to hang its hat. I was the one who had changed. She was still a place of white trash with kids in underwear , running around crazy-free, chocolate mouthed and loud. She was Main Street. She was fireworks on the Fourth of July in the park, and everyone went ahh. She was necking at the drive-in. She was blowjobs at the bus station tearoom.

She was Cheyne.

He was older, but we all were that. Cheyne was still white

They lived in a small broken-down farm on the outskirts of the outskirts. There were three little half-breeds who looked like Cheyne running around in their underwear only they were darker than their father. He was glad to see me. Cheyne was more reserved than I had remembered him. His wife smiled a lot but said little. We drank beer and Cheyne showed me around his garden. I never thought I'd see the day when Cheyne had a garden but he said that it saved him money. Cheyne worked in a garage in town and was a right-fine mechanic. His hands were tinged with a greasedirt black under the nails, and he sported several tattoos which he had acquired in the service. Cheyne did not care to discuss that time.

We sat alone on the front porch in a rusty porch swing. Chevne was barefoot and rested his feet on top of his dog. "You've really settled down," I said.

"Don't hold it against me, okay?" And he laughed.

"I had to see how you were, Cheyne."

"I like my life. And you…

"Oh, I'm fine, Cheyne. I'm fine."

"I don't, you know, see anyone else anymore. Are you with anyone?" "Yes, he's a lot like you. We live in New York." Cheyne just looked at me and smiled.

"I'll bet you've seen and done it all, eh?"

I didn't know what to say. "Twice." Cheyne just looked into the distance. We shared a joint in silence, drank the rest of our beer, and I shook his hand. "Goodbye, Cheyne."

"Come see us anytime, you hear.

I heard. I went back to my old house, to my old room, and thought about Cheyne. I was glad that he was happy. I spent the rest of my visit there doing not much of anything. Went to a

DAN ACKER

Photos by JIM MOSS

A handsome hunk and cowboy at heart, Dan Acker is a transplanted Californian who moved to Texas seven years ago. The six-foot-two manager of two bars in Fort Worth, the 651 and the Lumber Company, likes his men built (he likes meat with his potatoes), good-looking and sensitive.

Aggressive, dominant and methodical, Dan has found his niche in the Texas leather country / western scene.

DISCIPLES O

90213-0302 for $3.95+1.50 postage and handling. The Leatherman's Handbook II can be ordered from Sandmutopia Supply Co., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101 for $4.95+1.50.

I'm proud of you! If you feel you are in the right, stand up for yourself, and defend your brothers. If possible, go to the "authorities" and demand your legal rights. If you are forced to fight for your life or safety, give 'em hell, kid! -JET

SHITTY REVIEW

Picked up your November issue (Drummer 100) this morning and you have made my day! Your video reviewer really did a great service and help to all of us with his honest reviews of Sirco videos (p. 79).

R.G. Address Unknown

CARING FOR OUR OWN

I am a good-looking, 27-year-old boy. I have a smooth swimmer's build, 5'9", 160 lbs., 8" cut and a great butt. I'm into servicing a daddy and enjoy spankings, tit-work and having a nightstick up my ass.

Sounds good, huh? I have one problem , though. I've been diagnosed with KS / AIDS since August 1985. There haven't been any new lesions, I'm healthy and have even put on ten pounds. My doctor thinks I'll be around for quite some time and encourages me to have safe sex, should I find a daddy willing and able.

I've gone to bars occasionally to try and find a daddy, but as soon as I tell them I have AIDS, they back off. All they hear is AIDS and run.

What's a boy to do? Look through Drummer's personals? Most daddies are looking for "healthy" boys. I am more ready for a relationship with a daddy than most boys, since I don't have time or the inclination to play games.

Even if I can't find a daddy willing to have safe sex with, I still could use a big, mature shoulder to cry on sometimes. Or a daddy just to hold me and be affectionate with. Is that asking for too much, Sir?

M.P. New York City

Ed.: No, it is not asking for too much. We all need a shoulder to cry on occasionally , and some have more reason or need. Many of our brothers and, yes, sisters suffer from alienation within our own community. The pain could be lessened by a word, a touch or so simple a thing as a smile.

If one of you guys out there would like to contact M.P., you can send your letter in care of Drummer's associate editor, and I will forward it. The leather community has always been known for "tak- ing care of its own;" don't let fear change that proud statement. -IET

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uess I owe you one, Jamie. Last July when I came down the coast to see you, I arrived a couple of days early, hoping we would have an extra weekend. It was a hot Saturday afternoon and you weren't anywhere around. There seemed nothing to do but wander the quiet streets of San Luis and check every hour or so to see if you'd returned to your room. You remember , there'd been a rodeo the weekend before and it was as if everybody'd done their celebrating for a while and were either lying low, resting, or off at the beach as it turned out you were. The town was deserted.

I hadn't got a room, figured if you got back I'd take a nice little suite at the new motel where we'd cook our breakfast and not have to share your narrow bed, worrying if your landlady might hear us carrying on. About the only cool place (aside from the movie house where they showed a rerun I'd already seen) was Joe's Chili Bowl around the corner. I sat in our favorite booth, nursing a beer and listening to last year's hits on the juke box, now and then checking to see if you'd returned.

About 5:30 in walked a sensational-looking man who took a seat at the bar for a beer. He had "cowboy" written all over him, not just the clothes and the way he wore them (slim, almost-formal , striped riding pants and pale, gray shirt with pearl grippers), but the way he stood, sat on his bar stool, chugged his beer. When I got up close to buy myself another draft beer, plus one for him as well, I saw that the tobacco he rolled so expertly was imported. I smelled that he spent a lot of time around leather and lots of horses. I also saw that, despite his rugged, rather mature look, he was probably not quite legally a man as yet. Skin smooth as some kid's, though he'd gone a few days without shaving. Not too friendly until I guessed he was what he seemed to take pride in being, a professional cowboy. Then he talked a blue streak. Had a thick, down-home accent…Oklahoma I guessed, and he grinned, proud of it.

Not really a cowboy, either, he confessed. Just a circus rider, born and brought up in the big show and when his mother died had left to follow the rodeos. I told him I admired the cut of his shirt and pants (all but painted onto his broad back and lean legs, not daring to mention what the fit did for his neat butt) and he replied that he didn't really approve of parading around in his work clothes. These were the quietest he owned. He was just laying over after winning second place…due in three days up Pendleton way for another rodeo. Had a way of glancing up quick, catching you staring at him. One minute he gazed earnestly into his mug of brew or rolled another cig that looked tailor-made, playing the old-timer, then he'd reveal his shy boyishness in a quick, hungry smile. The kid in him was just about tanned and hardened away, yet I somehow knew he was barely a minute over eighteen.

We each had some of Joe's chili—easing our throats with a few more beers-then, since it'd cooled down some, took a walk. Your windows were still dark but by then, I admit, I was so hooked on his presence, I'd've had a battle with myself to leave him right then, even for you. Not that I figured anything much would happen; he was so damn young…and no matter how good he might turn out to be, not near as good as you.

Strolled all over town in a lazy half hour till we were sitting on the old bridge by the railroad yards, smoking. As we sat in the last rays of the sunset, I noticed his pants'd tightened up across the buttoned fly over the big hard he had on. Noticed he had noticed that I'd noticed, and when I asked what was he thinking of, he told me, quite frankly, the cause of it, a hot scene from the movie he'd seen that afternoon (Gloria Graham in…I forget what) had got him all upset. In the last row of the balcony he'd wanted to let go and jerk one off, but a nosy usher kept flashing a light and some creep-you'd know who-moved

closer, breathing hard. So it was still bothering his nuts, something he'd have to take care of, later.

He had his sleeves rolled up and all at once I saw this big. mosquito hover, then light, ready to bite his arm. I raised my hand to swat out and squash it, but the kid just laughed, fending me off, saying to leave that sucker alone. We watched while the insect drank its fill of his blood. He looked my way and caught me staring past his arm at the outline of his prod that'd swollen rigid through all that sucking, and I knew-straight or not-this fellow doted on having an audience to admire him. And I was it.

He nodded his head toward the almost-dark old building across from the railway station and announced that was his hotel, and did I want to come up to his room and see some real sharp cowboy duds? I asked him the room number and said I'd join him in a few minutes with some cold beer. Took the opportunity to see if you'd returned and you hadn't, then came back to his hotel carrying four quarts of Olympia plus a pint of Four Roses; if we were going to drink, let it be as serious as what

The gloomy Sentinel Hotel had given Chad a huge room (we finally introduced each other) and he'd told me to come on in, not budging from where he lay back on the massive old bed, stretched out bare with the dark curls showing in his armpits, arms up back of his head, and more curls over his softened but still plenty-big dong. There was more of that vaguely "horsey" aroma of leather in the air, blending with what I'd begun to recognize as Chad's particular brand of scent. I inhaled it and felt my own balls crawling. He had opened the big wardrobe trunk and already hung his classy gray shirt and the dark striped

I poured cold beer into the bathroom glasses and he sat up on the edge of the bed to toast me, suggesting I pull up a big mahogany desk chair. I drew it close … till it all but touched the bed. If I was his audience and that bed the stage, I wanted a front-row seat. He'd opened the windows, thank gosh, and a nice cool breeze helped keep us comfortable. Didn't I want to shuck some of my clothes off, too? he wondered. I didn't have a hard-on yet, but I didn't trust my dick without my jockey shorts on. I saw I needn't have bothered bringing liquor; he had rum and gin as well as rye, though we contented ourselves quenching our thirst with the beer.

Sitting that close, it was tough not to keep staring at his beautiful nakedness. As it was I felt safest focusing on one thing…the big raised welt that damn mosquito'd bitten on his upper arm (only marginally viewing what nice, full, pointed nipples he had, what keen little furrows of muscle defined those inches from his chest to his bellybutton) and, as far as his big cock went, I tried to ignore it.

He began talking about it (sex, that is) right off the bat, not that there was anything much else on my mind with all of him spread out under my nose, bare. Still had that movie in mind that'd put him in a pulling-off mood; I could see he was fighting a losing battle to keep that dick soft.

"Yeah," he said to me, "it itches like Hell!" He turned his arm so he could look down at the bright pink mark he'd let the mosquito make on his arm. And about then I noticed that-along with the whisky, gin and rum bottles on the nightstand— there was an empty quart milk bottle…empty until I looked close and saw it was capped and swarming inside with mosquitoes.

"Hey," I said, "you've got a whole convention of your bloodthirsty little friends, huh?'

Chad only agreed with a laugh, offering no explanation. One thing on his mind right then, he said, was a hot little female.

When I reminded him he'd asked me there to look at his western clothes, he bounced up off the bed (balls bouncing, plus the easy half-hard head of his dick starting to show itself from under its skin, bouncing from hairy thigh to thigh) and over to the wardrobe trunk. I'll admit I felt a twinge of guilt, thought of you and how this guy looks so much like the one we agree we wouldn't mind at all lying between us some night when we're really hot! I excused myself after he'd shrugged into a yellow satin shirt with green embroidery across the yoke and pale gray jeans so tight you could almost count his hairs in, ran the four blocks to your place. Of course you weren't there. What would I have said…and done if you had been? Would I have tried to convince you to come and meet this new guy I was so shaky for?

He guessed the situation. Even asked if I'd've brought my friend along to see the show. I confessed that he was something really special to look at. He had stripped down to nothing again, looking through his shirts for the next one to put on. Didn't at all mind my looking (not to boast, but that's how he made a living: getting looked at) just so I kept my hands to myself. Unless, of course, he was to ask to be touched!

His duds were a marvel, half of them circus costumes too gaudy even for a rodeo. I noted that no matter how that rod of his stuck out—just this side of full stiff—it always seemed under control once he'd stepped into a pair of cowboy strides. He'd had a tricky little pocket sewn into each pair…so that he'd aim the tip down the left leg and that rod slid home, neat as in a velvet cunt. After whipping in and out of seven or eight more pairs of skintight custom jeans, his big dick was up there, all the way. Chad ignored it, grinning, saying he sure loved the feel of good clothes, damn near as much as being naked. Fully aware that I was unable to ignore his full-steam boner, he eased his rangy frame onto the bed, knees up and spread wide-providing a keen view of his asshole under his high-riding big nuts—to talk about his favorite subject: girls. Whores paid him, he said. I believed it.

How come, I challenged him, he didn't have one of them right now (instead of me) sitting there…appreciating his nudity ? Chad laughed. Small-town girls usually spelled trouble. They fell in love with him and prayed he'd knock them up, or they expected to get paid. His own fist was a better lay, he told me, letting his fingers wrap themselves frankly around the ivory-pale shaft of that gorgeous dong. But he did enjoy talking about it with another fellow (normal or queer, he didn't mind a guy down there practically worshiping his balls, so long as he kept his nose to himself) talking about the wild sex he'd had. A circus is full of girls that like a hot young kid; Chad couldn't begin to count how many he'd had since he could barely talk, cootch dancers, bareback riders, even freaks were after his dick. Yeah, he said when I asked him right out, had there been fellows, too, but he hadn't got much kick out of it.

No matter that it was an enormous bed, I felt like declining his invitation to spend the night-wondering could I withstand such beautiful temptation—then shrugged and decided to stay. Chad was nowhere near ready to sleep; his little show had a good many acts to go before the curtain. When I looked at my watch, he gave a wise little laugh, then told me that even if my friend was home, I'd already made up my mind where I wanted to lay my head for the night. Must've been pretty obvious from the way I'd set my gaze…right between Chad's legs. Not really beating that meat, he kept letting the shaft twang from hand to hand, just keeping it at its stiffest, the heavy flanged rim of its head finally squeezed free of its foreskin. His eyes were shut as if he were imagining one of his freewheeling females, yet he was plenty conscious of me, down there watching, and from the way his butt tensed, let go, only to tense again, this was another performance to Chad. Now and then he gripped his dick hard and pistoned six or eight mean strokes back and forth over it…quitting just as he neared the danger point. In my shorts, my own stiff cock was oozed slippery, and I barely dared to lay a finger on it, he had me so hot.

'Hey," Chad said to me, "hand me over that jar of skeeters, huh? Bet you're curious about them?" He stood up then at the edge of the bed (crotch all but jutting out against my face) and told me how one of them'd stung him right on his tool the other night, left an itchy spot he could only ease by whacking off. Got

the idea of having a really itchy dick…hired a kid to fill a whole jar, and now he was going to let them sting him clean off. Told me to take off the lid, then pop that bottle over his dong. Don't let any out, he cautioned, only one place he wanted them to bite him, right on his fuck-stick, wanted them to suck his blood, dry…till he was one all-consuming itch!

There was just room for the big head to sqeeze through into the bottle neck, and I jammed it down till it hit his balls. Instantly the hungry insects were all over the column, greedy for the blood that pumped into it. They'd light and suck a while, then move on to another spot.

That's what I call gettin' sucked off! Chad was laughing though his hips were beginning to squirm as if he was insane and that laugh got crazier. He handed me a towel after he'd had all he could stand and told me to get ready to kill mosquitoes when he drew off the bottle and recapped it. Not a one tried to fly away. They seemed to like biting Chad's dick too well- …stayed and got squashed rather than give up their sucking.

"Jeez!" I said, "looks like it's one big bite, a solid itch," and his big blunt nails tried scratching while he moaned, what a fucking feeling! It was enflamed all right, and bulging out about a quarter of an inch all over.

'Too bad you haven't got a camera!'' he laughed, adjusting the night-lamp so it shone directly on his dick. No shit, he was saying, the itch was so strong he had almost come off…now, at last, he was going to. He would tell me when, if I wanted to get my rocks at the same time.

Slowly, his muscular arms tensed, hands clawing at the bedclothes and his belly knotted and reknotted, twisting and writhing . His legs tensed and thrust his hips up free of the sheet and ground them around, locking his ass high. His cock was tight and distended and bubbles of ooze sputtered from the slit in its knob. For a few more moments, he teased himself, then he permitted his fist to close around the rigid girth of his dong and begin a slow up and down squeeze.

With a long groan, he kept jacking cautiously…long tip-to-nuts strokes over that bitten-pink flesh. "Won't be long now," he was saying, telling me I should break mine out, too, start giving it the same sort of hell he was giving his, telling me "Let's you and me pop, huh, together?" For a fellow who's supposed to be straight, he sure seemed insistent…seemed a tad more curious as to what I've got between the legs than he ought to've been. When I yanked my jockeys down and my pud sprung up, stiff and slippery, he breathed out a sigh.

"Figured you'd have a nice big one!" Chad said. We stood up then, facing each other, the heads of our dongs almost touching , sort of mutually admiring them (his an easy inch longer) and I was on the point of letting him know…if my dick was particularly hard, it was because of the exposure I'd got to him. When he sank back, sitting on the bed again, I felt the tickle of the hairs on his thigh against my knee. Don't know if Chad got the same sort of vibrations, but he didn't pull back away. No, he got closer, and I reminded him as we began slowly, carefully milking our meat.

"You promised," I said, "you would tell me when, huh?" Only about a dozen of the gripped-tight, reckless strokes he was taking and I knew he'd soon just have to be saying it…

"When! When!" Chad was gasping. I began shooting moments before he did, jolted myself right off the bed so that when his juice started to spurt, it hit right there on my hungry face! Into my wide-open-for-it mouth the thick globs piled up, and once the wonderful taste of it got to me, I popped off again.

Chad lay back panting, pulling me onto the bed with him. "Get it all!" I heard him breathe out, then I went sort of crazy, dipping my face down to obey his order. What he must really have wanted was the feel of my lips around his dick; after a bit, that's what he got. Soon enough so his sperm was still pulsing slowly up out of the head of that thing. His hands held me there, getting the last drop, had me nuzzling, then kissing his sweaty big balls, and (no real surprise to me by that time) kissing his ass.

I fell asleep before he did. I recall his saying that he had such a nasty itch in that mosquito-bitten dick, he'd no doubt waken on the hour…needing more work on that thing to ease the tickle. The first time Chad talked and squirmed his way off, hardly touched-till damn near the last minute-by my hands and mouth. But something warned me "this guy's not fooling" and I licked out under his balls, this time introducing my tongue not just to his cheeks…to the hairy little brown hole between them. I'd just got into it when the jerk of his sphincter warned me: Get it. I lined up my mouth and caught it from the first white cascade to his final spurt. Get it, I did. We slept sound, then. But just before daybreak I woke to find his big cock—stiff again-bouncing on and off my forehead.

"I'm hot again," he was declaring (those skeeter bites still itching him, deep). "Got to get something real tight around my prick!

"Well," I answered, "I think I've got it…my ass!"

"Sure you don't mind if I try?" Chad asked, "Been a long time since I cornholed a little buddy of mine—he was the juggler's kid and we were about ten. He tried it on me first and it hurt so bad I almost gave up my chance to plug his little ass. I liked it and so did he; we did it from Sarasota to Tacoma! He and his mom and dad left, and I was one horny eleven-year-old…till a high-wire girl snapped her pussy at me. No kidding," he was asking, "you don't mind if I try?" Well, naturally, I replied by throwing my knees up high and angling my butt right up to his crotch!

He about went wild…but me too, once he got me canted out-ass over teakettle-over the edge of the bed, pounding long and deep and hard with his stone-hard hunk of cock, bearing down, screwing me in that good, old-fashion dog fashion! If ever you had cause to be jealous, it was that night-wherever you were—cause that young fucker was proving himself almost as good as you are at it! Pumped my hole overflowing with jizz, then a half hour later he was back, teasing my buns again.

"Feel good?" I asked once his hips got to ramming it home. He agreed, panting, that it did. "Well," I went on, "d'you have any idea how great this feels, getting fucked up the ass?"

"Naw!" he growled. He didn't go for that stuff, not even when he was ten.

'Yeah?" I came back at him. "Someday you're going to turn for some guy and once he drills his dick up there, you aren't going to rest until you've had it…again and again! I've got this horny young pal named Jamie" (yeah, I told him all about you) "not much older than you with maybe a half inch more of prod than you're sending me right now. Jamie's persuasive," I told him, "and I'd bet you a new set of cowboy threads, if you let him in bed with you, he'll be on top, pounding it to you. Only reason you'd holler would be for more!"

"Oh, you think so?" Chad responded, not sounding as sure of himself as he probably hoped he did.

"Fact is, I just dare you… spend a night with the two of us!" I taunted him.

Chad had suddenly decided he was moving on to Pendleton that morning, not waiting till Monday night as he had told me he planned. I had him in a spot, though, and he promised, "Next time I hit this town, I'll take you up on your dare!" he panted, giving my ass the full, beautiful punishment as he spoke. Had hold of my hips, bang, bang, banging away, full depth on every third or fourth stroke (driving me fucking insane, having to guess this time: when)! Then his breath was puffing faster, his big lean body breaking into a musky-smelling sweat. I started to shoot and I didn't stop till he had pumped his last drop into my happy ass.

So, you can see, Jamie, why I drag you to every rodeo within a hundred miles. When he shows up—and he's just got to one of these days—I will make myself scarce, let you move in and make it with him alone the first time anyway, then share that beautiful stuff we've got coming to us!

LARRY TOWNSEND

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LEATHER NOTEBOOK by LARRY TOWNSEND

Dear Sir,

I am an 18-year-old high school student. I live with my Master who supports me with the agreement that I serve him totally as his slave. At first everything was great, but now the public humiliation he forces on me is getting more and more extreme. I need your advice ! My Master keeps me naked around the house at all times, even when friends come over. During one bondage session he shaved my body, pierced my navel and put a ring in it, fastened so I can't get it out. This is especially embarrassing in gym class where I can't keep myself covered . My Master forces me to wear a G-string-style swimsuit to the beach. Once I almost got arrested for indecent exposure , but I talked myself out of it, since my pubic hair was shaved and that's the main thing they look for. This is just a sample of what my Master requires, and if I don't cooperate , I usually get punished with long periods of naked bondage. Lately he is threatening to shave my head for backtalk. I can't give you a return address, since my Master doesn't allow me any mail, but he does get every issue of Drummer. You are the only one to whom I can turn. Please help by answering in your next issue.

Scott

Dear Scott,

Shades of "Slave R"! Here we have another young man, getting exactly what most would-be slaves can only dream about, and he's unhappy . Again, this poses the question : Are you really (emotionally) a slave, or merely a bottom who has submitted to a slave's condition because it puts a roof over your head and food in your mouth? You don't mention the type or degree of affection that binds you to your Master; neither do you ever refer to yourself as "slave," although there are several references to your "Master." This leads me to question exactly how you perceive yourself. If you do think of yourself as a slave, and wish to retain this status, I would say that you have no choice but to submit to the will of your Master until such time as it becomes impossible for you, and you dissolve the relationship. If you are a bottom who is functioning as a pseudo-slave in exchange for your bread and butter, you should then renegotiate the covenant, so to speak.

Dear Larry,

When you referred "Slave R" to me several months ago (see Leather Notebook, Drummer 98) I had no idea that the encounter would generate so much controversy . Now that it has, I may as well put in my two-cents worth as the "other Top." M.C.'s well-conceived letter (Malecall, Drummer 100) makes some valid points and gives an overview of a fantasy / lifestyle which-although "not in the majority," according to M.C.—is, I'm sure, shared by a significant number of Drummer readers (at least the fantasy part). This total dominance may be exactly what Slave R is looking for, in which case he has probably contacted M.C. by now. If so, I'd be eager to know the out-cum . During my acquaintance with R, it was made very clear that any "servitude" would be subject to availability after considerations of employment , schooling and several other commitments. I have no problem with this, as I am not available for "a scene" or "play" 24 hours a day, either. Would M.C. deprive R of his bright future and present pleasures to be replaced with the satisfaction of a sexual/ psychological need for complete dominance? If not, it is hard to imagine the mental contortions which would maintain the conviction of total dominance / submission when the submission is subordinated to a multitude of prior any rate, I enjoyed R, both personally and sexually, and wish him the very best in discovering what he wants,

Top B, L.A.

Dear Top,

You've said it just about the way it is, I think R is a nice kid-and a very bright young man. I like him, and it was certainly not my intention to hurt him by my previous comments . We all face the need to order our priorities in life, and especially during our 20s we are torn between the urgings of brain on the one hand, and balls on the other. It's a fortunate man, indeed, who can balance these out and satisfy both sets of needs. "Living in Leather" is - and must remain -/an unobtainable dream for the vast majority of leather / SM men. The practical considerations of earning a living, getting an education, or simply fulfilling the social and familial obligations that life heaps upon us make it impossible to follow our genital urgings 100% of the time. In fact, for a great many guys - especially during the current health crisis—the opportunity to express these "leather lusts" comes only in the form of fantasy. And, when all is said and done, isn't that what we (Drummer, Yours Truly, etc.) are here for?

Dear Mr. Townsend:

I would like to pose a question similar to those you have previously answered, but with a little different subject in mind. I am totally average: age 30, 5'7", brown eyes, dark hair. My strength comes from within the mind and soul, which transcends and extolls my outward apperance. I am not an intellectual; neither am I a moron, for I adapt to whatever situation I find myself presently subjugated. This allows me to become an animal, human, or if you wish, vegetable. Yet I am still the same being. My only concern is that I don't become crippled or killed in the course of action (sane sex). and the only hindrance I feel hat would jeopardize a relationship is that I am self-reliant and supportive. I am not impressed by material objects of others. The only thing I want from a man is to be able to serve, with both of us being satisfied together. This, along with honesty and integrity. My experiences lately have been of Masters who either have slaves of their own, or live outside my area. While we're together , the moment is enjoyable. I am complemented on having the proper attitude and for being a hot man. But then the same question arises every time: "Why don't you have a lover?" Could you give me the answer?

Jeff, Seattle

Dear leff.

There are a great many reasons why guys who would like to have lovers don't have them. Seattle isn't so much of a gay desert that you should be lacking the opportunity to find someone, so you've probably let a good prospect or two get away from you. Remember that a long-term relationship has to have more than just sex to sustain it. I'm assuming you don't want to be a real live-in slave, but rather the bottom in a partnership. When you meet a guy who seems to be lover material. why not extend the contact beyond the bedroom? Have dinner with him, or suggest going away for a weekend. Establish a social as well as a sexual rapport, and if it builds from there, let nature take its course. Remember, if you want a real, long-term relationship , you (as well as your partner) will have to give more than just your (his) body.

(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.)

teven stood "at attention" outside of the teepee they'd assigned him. Waiting. He was naked except for the rag he wrapped around his waist and pulled up between his legs to keep his cock and balls out of the way. The Indians hadn't given him a loincloth. His blond hair was long and shaggy, but his face was clean-shaven at the Varakt's decision. He'd tried going without shaving once. When the Varakt had discovered him like that in the open area among the central teepees, he'd shouted and given him a slap that had knocked him down. Then six laughing braves had lashed him to one of the frames and took turns for an hour trying to pull the hairs out with their teeth.

He was exhausted. He was always exhausted. Devereaux had abandoned him there nine months ago.

Steven had arrived from Minnesota to sign on with the U.S. Cavalry outpost in Abilene. There he'd met Devereaux, a civilian scout for the regiment. He had to be the biggest man Steven had ever seen. The size and sudden charm startled Steven when Devereaux smiled that smile and surveyed the young body from head to foot. Then he'd stuck out his hand, introduced himself and said that, as the new recruit on Indian affairs, Steven should come with him and "get to know" the Indians

Steven had agreed. They'd set out a week later and traveled for days. He was young, and shy in the tent, embarrassed when the massive man went shirtless around their campsites; hearing the man sigh and then chuckle as he slowly jerked himself off in the tent at night. He finally joined the man's laughter at his own erections when they went swimming.

When Steven's horse had gone lame, they rode double the last ten miles to the Paqueet camp. Steven was in front, gripped by the man's thighs, feeling the slow breathing on his ear. As they approached the camp. Devereaux had asked him if he'd ever thought of getting married. And before he had time to answer, the man laughed and suddenly nuzzled him on the side of the cheek.

"You're ripe and ready for a mate, baby. You're lucky this big guy came along in time.'

That was nine months ago. A crowd had greeted them as they entered the camp. The man had lifted Steven off the horse effortlessly and handed him down like a kid to two huge braves who grabbed his arms. Steven was stunned into silence as the crowd parted and an elder Indian, the Varakt, approached. He exchanged a few words with Devereaux in Paqueet. Steven began to protest.

Slowly the elder turned to him and slapped him hard. Then, at his signal, the women stripped the clothes from Steven's body as Devereaux smiled. Panicking, he struggled frantically, his arms immobilized by the solid muscle of the Paqueet braves. Then, amid shrieks of laughter, he was dragged away, stumbling , like a new toy. As he turned back, he saw Devereaux standing with the Varakt, still grinning. It was the last he saw of the man.

Now he stood locked at attention outside of his tent, exhausted, trying to clear his head. He'd counted the days. Today was his twenty-first birthday.

He was tall and callow when he arrived. Now his blond, almost hairless body was hard with muscle from doing work only horses did in the settlement. He was still pale. They'd kept him out of the sun for the most part, working him at night. At first he'd thought they were hiding him and he'd tried to escape. When trappers had arrived that first month and found him pulling a sledge, he'd called out for help. But the trappers had laughed. The Indians gagged him, threw the trappers' equipment on the sledge, and whipped him forward with one by Dan Cavanagh of the leather straps. He caught the trapper's eye.

"No more English, baby."

Now, after all the training and conditioning, he understood why he worked only at night. He was a sex-toy and they were keeping him white.

The Indian boy-trainer, Shawat, rounded the corner near the teepee. He was six feet two inches, bronze and massively muscular . Steven began sweating immediately, fighting the conditioning , feeling his asshole yawn. He tried to will it shut. The front flap of his loincloth tented over the mound of his crotch. It was open at the sides and Steven could see his thick, hard ass cheeks dimple as he walked. Tight leather bands wrapped both wrists. He was a half-breed who looked like Devereaux: Steven stared at the unusually dark hair covering Shawat's chest and down his enormous legs as he automatically lowered his eyes.

Shawat yawned as he stopped three feet away from Steven. He was chewing on a piece of bark. Steven could already smell the man: the animal fat he used in his hair, the smell of sweat and armpits. Shawat looked up and down the six-foot boy-man, the pretty-handsome face with thick coral-pink lips and the palest blond eyebrows, the grey eyes staring downcast at the feet in front of him. The nostrils flaring, nervously inhaling the man like a dog. The soft pink nipples rode the hard chest up and down as he sniffed unconsciously; they'd been conditioned and were wide and long, like a woman who'd been breastfeeding . The arms and legs were long and hard with muscle under soft, polished skin.

With one huge hand he easily ripped the rag from around Steven's waist. Steven stumbled and cried out and was immediately slapped for his efforts. He stood back at attention. His cock and balls were encased in the soft, deerskin sack that tightened with a drawstring at his crotch. It had taken him a while to learn to do this.

They had ridiculed his cock and balls that first month; snapped at them with the leather straps when he was hauling heavy logs. They'd even strapped him to one of the frames one night and boiled them, licking his face while he howled, as if they drew strength from his pain. Then when they'd castrated the trapper who'd cheated them, Steven understood. Only those who fucked needed a cock.

Shawat continued chewing the bark as he slowly unwound about three feet of wide leather from his wrist. He left it dangling as his eyes examined the blond, detached, as if he'd done this job a hundred times. He stepped forward, his massive frame inches from Steven's pale body. At a word, the kid raised his head, eyes closed. He could feel the heat as Shawat studied his face. He blew softly on the face, staring with naked curiosity as if he were pulling the wings off a fly. He began to raise his arms over his head. Steven began.

"Ohhhh…Oh, god, please, no…"

Shawat muttered something in a deep bass. Tears formed as Steven tried to fight it.

"Please…" he wept.

Shawat leaned forward. Steven's long, soft nipples tangled in the hair on the half-breed's chest. The sensation made him shudder and they began to harden. Patiently Shawat whispered in Steven's ear. The tone was unmistakable. It was if he'd thrown a switch. Steven instantly leaned forward and buried his face hungrily in an armpit. He began slobbering immediately, devouring the stale sweat as he gasped from the musky smell of man-hair. Saliva coated his face, then ran down and into the hair on Shawat's chest. A massive hand grabbed the back of the head, yanked it backward and pushed the open mouth-hole into the other pit. Whimpers bubbled through the boy-man connection.

were methodically lashing the boys with the leather straps. Suddenly one of the trappers shouted something in Paqueet and threw Shawat a bullwhip. He watched the brave heft the whip with curiosity and then smile while the trapper positioned his cockhead at Steven's dripping asshole for the second time. He gentled the soft, white ass with his huge, calloused hands as Shawat brought the whip back. Then he nodded and as the huge Indian brought the whip down for the first blow onto the Indian boy-man in front of him, he rammed himself full length. Shrieks filled the air as the trapper groaned and exploded in Steven's fuck-tube.

Shawat sensed the fear in Steven's body and the corner of his mouth turned up. Then he roared at the delay and struck the ass a violent blow from the leather strap. Steven spread his legs, bent over immediately and grabbed his ankles. His asshole pushed itself almost inside out automatically until the wet pinkness from his tube showed. Steven felt the strap dangling down his back as Shawat pushed against the small of his back with one hand and rammed three fingers up the asshole with another. It was a ritual. A boy was a fuck hole. With one hand, Shawat shooed a fly away from his face as he methodically reamed out the hole. He savored the soft caress of the ass lining like the inside of a mouth.

But he was bored and welcomed a change. He smiled as he looked at the whipping frame. The bullwhip was hanging in coils from one corner.

Yanking his thick fingers out of the hole, he grabbed the boy by the back of the neck and wiped the ass-mucus off in his hair. Pulling him erect, he shoved him toward the frame. Steven stumbled forward and stood in front of it.

The frame was a square tilted slightly forward. Braces protruded from the corners toward the center, just long enough to bind forearms and calves to. A heavy beam ran from side to side. Shawat bent the boy over the beam, raising his feet off the ground. He stretched the legs impossibly wide and wrapped the calves with thick rawhide thongs to the corner braces. Wrapping thongs about the boy's wrists, he slid each one over a corner and then yanked hard. Steven gasped. Shawat yanked again and then a third time, practically pulling the arms out of the sockets. He then wound the remaining rawhide around the forearms to the braces. He removed the center beam. Steven's thighs and torso were entirely exposed on both sides.

Shawat stood in front of the boy, pulled the head back and slapped it hard, paused and slapped again. As he bent over to pick up a bottle of whisky, his loincoth rode up and Steven stared up the dark hairy crack of the man's ass. Shawat stood up. yanked the head back by the hair and began to pour the whisky down the boy's throat. Steven choked and swallowed.

When the bottle was empty, Shawat flung it aside and then casually sucked at the mouth as he stroked the down on the insides of the boy's thighs. Even in terror, Steven sucked at the mouth like a machine, and then groaned as Shawat shoved his long, thick tongue down the throat. The Indian caressed the nipples, supple and long, proud of the progress they'd made. His heavy, calloused fingers began to mash them hard, as he thought of the days he'd made the blond hang from them. He took the boy's lips between his teeth and began to chew them softly.

But he stopped suddenly. He couldn't care about the kid. The boy was getting married to Devereaux. Devereaux had agreed with the Paqueet Indians to keep the white man ignorant of their existence. To seal this deal, Steven had been left here for "squaw-boy" training.

This was the last phase before the marriage ceremony.

Shawat stepped behind Steven, leaving the whip, and massaged his own right shoulder, warming it. He waited a full two minutes, watching the hairless muscles twitch; the flawless, white back. He grasped the thong dangling from his wrist and brought his arm up. He brought it down hard on the back, avoiding the ass.

WHACK!

Steven shrieked. Shawat paused and then hit him again. WHACK!

Again. Over and over, crisscrossing the back in even welts. First to the right. Then to the left.

WHACK! WHACK!

The blond hair flailed as Steven whipped his head back and forth. He wailed naked cries in English.

WHACK! WHACK!

The beating went on for ten minutes. Shawat grunted through his teeth with each blow. He was capable of putting a spear through a deer at 100 feet, and now he twisted, then unwound the full power of his huge body savagely, pausing long enough to regain full strength each time. Steven screamed and wiggled like a stuck pig.

There was a longer pause.

Steven opened his eyes and saw Shawat standing in front of him, sweaty and breathing hard. It was over. The man stepped forward and pulled the head onto his powerful shoulder, stroking the back of the neck. Steven cried like a baby. Then his sobs became whimpers and he began to lick the sweat off the man's neck.

Finally Shawat dropped the head and stepped around the body. Steven relaxed.

WHACK!

He threw his head back and this time the shriek filled the camp.

WHACK!

Shawat was working on the thighs now, once again avoiding the ass. The soft, muscular thighs glowed red and the ass muscles tensed like steel.

WHACK!

He began hitting harder, building an accustomed pattern on the skin. Ten lashes on each thigh. A long pause as Steven drew several ragged breaths. Then twenty more.

The two men were drenched in sweat. The next time Steven opened his eyes he stared into an animal's. Shawat had stopped chewing the bark and it rolled unnoticed out of his slack lips. The man was breathing irregularly as he reached down and pulled off his own loincloth. His huge meat sprang free. Liquid poured from the oversized slit. He began fisting the shaft with both hands.

Steven saw the huge rod and lost control. His wails took on a new meaning as he twisted against the frame trying to free himself. He was an animal in rut. The itch in his asshole was ferocious and it sucked air. Gibberish poured out of his mouth and he begged the man for the first time on his own level.

Slowly Shawat reached up and took down the bullwhip.

He stepped behind the body. All the sledge pulling, all the plow pulling Steven had done had been deliberate. It had developed an ass like two heavy, hard cheeses. Now the muscles bucked as the hole grabbed. For anything.

Shawat brought his arm up. He brought it down hard.

The bullwhip was heaven sent.

SNAP!

Steven came in the deerskin pouch.

SNAP!

He shot almost a pint of liquid that overflowed the lips of the pouch and began to pour down the insides of his thighs.

SNAP!

His eyes glazed as his head fell back on his shoulders. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

He felt the head of the huge dick on the opening of his wet, aching asshole. He fought to open his legs wider and lower his ass. With one lunge, Shawat was home. He drove in with suck force. The frame cracked. He fucked like a machine. By the time he was finished, the force of his fucking had yanked the blond's legs off the braces. Steven dangled there, riding the moaning male animal as Shawat's cum joined his own, ran down his legs and dripped slowly onto the dirt.

evereaux rode his horse through the hidden pass and out onto a wide, flat valley of scrub grass. He took off one leather glove, reached between his legs and felt the wet stain in the crotch of his denims. He was getting married to Steven. The blond would be waiting for him at the Paqueet Indian camp. In a loincloth. Ready. He couldn't wait to see what the Indians had done to that hot little blond body in nine months. His ten-inch dick pumped another load of precum as he ran his hand through the sweaty hair under his shirt.

Devereaux had hired on as a scout for the cavalry outpost in Abilene. The work was shit, but they loved him. The U.S. government paid him to rat on the Indians and the Indians paid him to understand the white men. He'd come west looking for a father who had left him at birth.

Instead, he found the Paqueet Indians.

The Varakt, the Paqueet leader, and six braves had smoked pipes with him around a fire in the teepee. They told him they wanted more than to just be left alone. They didn't want the white man to know about them. Suddenly Devereaux heard a piercing male scream from outside the tent, followed by a low moan. He whipped his head toward the entrance.

When Devereaux had stumbled on their camp, the Varakt had intended to sacrifice him, as they had sacrificed Deve-reaux's father for fucking Indian squaws. Drag him running behind a horse until exhaustion, and then strap him belly-down over a fucking frame until the entire tribe had emptied two loads each: one in the captive's mouth and one in his ass. Then throw him to the women. The women weren't allowed to fuck a white man. But they could stake him out and make him scream. While the shrieks filled the air, the camp would be the chaos that Paqueet had protected them for, Littered with braves fuck-ing squaw boys: on the whipping frames, the fucking frames, sometimes two at a time in a well-stretched hole.

Shawat, the half-breed, approached Devereaux's naked body with a soft drawstring sack made of deerskin. His huge body was covered with hair similar to Devereaux's. His skin gleamed with bear fat and the hair on his head was cut in a mohawk. He squatted in front of the prisoner to encase the cock and balls in the sack. Only men who fucked needed a cock. His own cock tented his loincloth. One brave with a tattooed bicep licked his lips as he stared up the dark, hairy valley of Shawat's crotch, exposed between enormous thighs and calves now mashed wide in this position, and he began massaging his own crotch.

Shawat caught his eye and he looked away.

The half-breed grabbed Devereaux's cock and balls in a huge hand and yanked them almost three inches from the body. Devereaux threw his head back and roared. But the Varakt spoke sharply and signaled Shawat away. They untied the body, threw a blanket over his shoulders. And as Devereaux sat once again near the campfire trying to clear his head, the Varakt told him his plan. If he would keep their secret from the white man, they would make him one of them. Devereaux stared stupidly. There was another shriek from outside the tent.

He let two Indians help him to his feet and walk him to the entrance. As the flap was pulled aside, he stepped through, blinking to adjust to the change in night light. Another scream.

Three young braves were tied with their backs to the tent, to whipping frames that had been lashed together in a line. Behind one was a six-foot brave, hairless and heavily muscled, gleaming with sweat, with a long, leather strap dangling from his right wrist. The strain was evident in the definition of his muscles as he twisted his body around and brought the strap down on the ass in front of him. He hit with such force that the boy was shoved forward as far as the frame would allow. The boy's head dangled back, helpless, wailing straight up.

The backs, legs and asses of the other two boys were marked with stripes. Two braves were surrounding the second boy; three around the third. Some were sucking the boys' mouths and stroking their torsos. One was fucking an asshole slowly,

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commenting to the others with a broad smile that brought low chuckles. The massive brave with the leather strap suddenly barked an order and three moved to the first boy, abandoning the second who began to whimper like a puppy. There was a delay, filled with low murmurs and liquid sounds while the second boy's breathing became ragged and the pleas got louder.

WHACK!

The boy screamed. The whipping continued.

Devereaux was stunned. After a minute, the Varakt shouted something and the braves moved away from the figures. Deve-reaux was ushered forward to the front of frames. The Varakt barked again, and slowly the boys raised their eyes to Deve-reaux . There were tears in their eyes and saliva was running from their mouths. Then the Varakt stepped forward and removed the blanket from Devereaux's body. His huge, hairy muscles gleamed in the firelight. His thick, ten-inch cock stood out at a 45-degree angle from his body. His mouth went slack at the sight before him and a thick bead of precum pulsed out of his cock and hung toward the ground.

The boys stared hungrily at the man in front of them. A groan came from one of them that sounded like it started in his bowels. His mouth opened and closed like a fish and he groaned again. A second one joined in. The third began to fight at his bonds. He bucked his ass as far as the frame would allow. setting up a regular creaking. The air was filled with whining.

Devereaux felt hands on his cock. He looked down into Shawat's face. The big brave had knelt between his legs. His head was thrown all the way back, eyes closed, and he milked the cock with both hands as if he were using a tool. He caught the drool in his open mouth. Then he stood. Putting both hands on Devereaux's shoulders he shoved down, and Devereaux buckled like a rag doll. Using one hand to yank Devereaux's head all the way back, he ripped his own loincloth, leaving it dangling from a string on one hairy thigh. Then he milked his own ten-inch pipe, aiming the prefuck into the open hole of the scout beneath him. The Varakt murmured approval.

Finally he lifted Devereaux to his feet again, and as the Varakt gave another order, one of the boys was released. He slumped to the ground. Devereaux was shoved forward. He staggered toward the boy who raised his head limply and saw the massive man. Then with a cry, his head shot forward like a cobra and he buried half the ten-inch tool in his open mouth-hole in one plunge. The width of the dick stopped him. Reaching up with both hands, he grabbed his jaw. And with a desperate yank, he unlocked it. The cock sank to the root.

Devereaux grabbed the head in front of him, completely encasing it in his two hairy hands. He threw his head back, and with a roar he shot from his asshole, trying to bury the boy's head in his abdomen.

… He rode on now to the campsite and Steven. What a night. He'd fucked every boy once. He'd spent fifteen minutes resting while they'd licked his body from head to foot. Two of them had tried to bury their mouths in his asshole at the same time.

When he'd thought he'd had enough, they gave him more to smoke. Then they tied the boys onto their backs on frames that left their heads dangling over the edge. He'd held onto the handles and pounded their mouths. rums pounded. The camp was illuminated by huge bonfires . This was the day Devereaux had come to marry the white blond. Squaw boys had spent the day in preparation : washing and scraping their bodies; douching themselves thoroughly, then greasing the bodies of the male braves. The women had evacuated to a camp a mile away.

The Varakt chanted solemnly. Then he slowly opened his eyes. Sitting across a bonfire from him on a raised platform was Devereaux. His hairy body was naked and his smiling eyes were glazed with the drug. He was sitting, semireclining, in a chair, a 'throne" designed to tilt his pelvis forward. His ten-inch cock

was pointing straight up in the air, shining wilth saliva and prefuck. The slit in his cockhead pulsed ooze continually that ran down his shaft, worked it's way through the hair on his balls. His naked feet were planted wide, and his huge, hairy thighs were thrown open. The precum continued its journey around the gonads and then down the ass crevice, the hole forced open in this sitting position and coated already with saliva. His cock was practically on a level with his eyes. His hands gripped the arms of the chair.

The next squaw boy was brought forward by two braves and pushed into a kneeling position between the man's loins. As the boy began to lick, the Varakt closed his eyes and began chanting again, the braves murmuring response.

To Devereaux, it was all bullshit. He smiled and growled in a drugged haze.

'Lick me, baby. Scour it."

The tongue wormed its way deep into the man's asshole and the boy packed in more saliva as the groans bubbled out of his mouth.

Devereaux babbled in a dream.

Oh, sweet bitch baby, that's good. Now get those balls nice and shiny. Uh huh. Uh huh. Lick 'em. That's a good boy. Real good. You're gonna get to suck on that dick now, baby. Uh huh. Uh huh. Open that pretty mouth of yours real wide.

The hands of the braves completely encased the boy's head and they lifted him by the skull, tilting it down and centering the mouth over the staff already familiar with a dozen mouth holes. As one brave reached down he yanked and unlocked the jaw. Slowly and evenly he squelched the gaping hole over the staff, and Devereaux watched the pink lips, stretched to a thin line, begin their descent over his cock. The chanting continued. Within a minute, the boy's nose was mashed into pubic hairs and his throat tube bulged, thickened and straightened by the white man's dick. His tears joined the others in the matted softness of the man's belly hairs. Devereaux growled, threw his head back and bucked upward. Hard. The braves held the head in place. He bucked harder. They pushed down.

Finally one of them grabbed the boy's head by the hair and yanked it up hard and all the way back in one motion. Facing the sky, the boy sucked for air like a drowning fish. He was unable to close his jaw, his eyes still streaming tears, face beet red. They hauled him to his feet and as he stumbled, they half-walked, half-dragged him away.

A disembodied hand offered Devereaux the drug pipe again and as he sucked at it deeply, the next boy was brought around from behind the platform.

It was Steven.

The chanting stopped.

Puzzled, Devereaux exhaled and rolled his head forward slowly, trying to clear his eyes to see what had happened. What he saw first was his own huge cock. Then beyond it, as his eyes focused, he saw the palest man-boy he'd ever seen. He had long, blond hair like a woman's. But a flawless, hard-muscled body like sleek steel, covered in places with a fine, golden hair that caught the firelight. The sight brought a sweet, painful ache to Devereaux's cock that made it seem a pound heavier. The smile of pleasure left his face, and his features suddenly darkened.

The boy seemed to recognize him, but the effect of the drug was so potent that Devereaux had long since stopped trying to make sense out of what was going on around him. He was an animal. The whole world wanted him to fuck them. If this gorgeous piece of fuck-boy thought he recognized him, it would make things that much easier.

Another hand placed something in his hand and closed the brawny fingers over it. He rolled his head to the side…and found himself holding a bullwhip. When he focused ahead of himself again, he saw two braves stretching and strapping the blond body to a frame. Greed and rage suddenly coursed through his body. He could have anything. The chair creaked as he hauled his huge body out of it and stood there looking down at the naked back and ass, his own cock streaming fuck juice, the whip dangling from his right hand. He stepped forward.

The camp was silent.

Suddenly Devereaux began to mumble, wavering for a moment, confused in the drug. He looked at the Varakt across the bonfire, then back at the expanse of white back and ass muscle stretched in front of him. Down the long, hard thighs to thick calves covered with the finest down. He thought the boy was crying. Then he recognized it as moaning. Suddenly, with an amazing show of strength, the blond body in front of him forced its legs open against the tightness of the bonds, threw its head back and tilted its ass toward Devereaux. The hole began to open.

The Indians had reduced the young, blond recruit to a sleek body with two hungry fuckholes, carefully and methodically condemning him to an aching hunger that could never be satisfied. For the rest of his life.

'Oh, god, please…" the blond moaned.

Devereaux hauled his heavy arm over his head and brought the whip down suddenly with a crash. It flew back through the air over his head and then back again as he struck a second time. Lust tightened his muscles and smoothed his actions with inspiration as he twisted his massive body and brought all his strength onto the helpless body in front of him. He grunted as he lashed over and over. Welts began to cover the boy. The chanting began again. Devereaux worked the thighs, belting red streaks across the long, white muscles. The blond's shrieks fed the man power, like fucking, and he lashed the boy again and again.

He staggered back. The body was breathing raggedly. He saw the fourteen squaw boys he'd face-fucked, tethered by the necks like dogs to a hitching post. Forbidden to touch themselves , they were on all fours, bucking their asses into the air like cats in heat as they stared at the huge man covered in hair, sweat and muscles. A tattooed brave he barely recognized suddenly fell to his knees in front of Devereaux and tried to bury his face in the man's groin. The Varakt shouted quickly and he was knocked flat by another brave and then dragged away to be dealt with later. Devereaux rolled the handle of the whip in his hand. The asshole in front of him tilted outward and opened once again. Steven crowed.

Devereaux suddenly brought the whip up hard and caught the tip of it right on the gaping hole. Steven snapped and wriggled back and forth out of control, lunging his hole backward again. Devereaux cracked the hole and Steven shrieked, whipping his body so violently this time that the frame began to wobble. His hole arched back again and his legs practically pulled themselves away from the rawhide bonds as he opened himself wide and wider. Another crack. His asslips began to

Devereaux continued beating like a machine, until his arm was in agony. Frustrated by the pain, he threw the whip aside and stood there, working his fingers, his cock running like a faucet. The big man was crying now, drugged, standing like a child, stupid with need. Four braves quickly untied the wriggling , blond body and hauled it to the chair on the platform, then stretched the legs so wide the tendons stood out like rope. Two more Indians pushed Devereaux between the legs and put his hands on handles above Steven's head.

Devereaux stared down at the sight before him, his handsome , moustached face blank with lust. Then with a roar, he buried his dick up the blond hole. Steven's pink, slack boy-mouth flew open in a shriek. The belly distended with the size and force of the invasion. He came immediately, the tendons on his neck standing out with the force of his wailing like the tendons on his legs.

From where he was now standing, the Varakt could see the hole distorted by the gigantic member thrust up it. There was a small trickle of blood. He watched the bull-like muscles on the man's hairy body tighten and release in a savage pounding. The

Varakt smiled. The ceremony was complete.

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P. O. Box 7466-D Fort Lauderdale, FL 33338 Discreetly mailed you must be over 21 When in Ft. Lauderdale, visit our store

REPORT

SEND YOUR ENTRIES TO DRUMMER REPORT PO BOX 11314, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314

HANGING OUT IN THE PARK

Nashville, Tennessee's park rangers recently carried out an undercover arrest campaign against public sex in parks. The investigation resulted in the arrest of 65 men and three women on charges of soliciting or engaging in "crimes against nature" or indecent exposure.

Those arrested ranged in age from 18 to 67 and included building contractors, college students, state government workers, a Kentucky minister and a teacher at a Christian school. The "victims" were photographed or videotaped by undercover officers soliciting and occasionally in the sex act. One man, who was nude except for a leather harness. was photographed hanging suspended from a tree.

In true homophobic form the local papers published the names, ages, addresses and occupations of those arrested. It is assumed that this section of the U.S. is living in a time warp!

HERE'S TO YOUR HEALTH

The 1987 National Lesbian and Gay Health Conference and the Fifth National AIDS Forum will be held March 26- 29, 1987 at the Sheraton Uni- versal Hotel in Los Angeles. Sponsored by the National Lesbian and Gay Health Foundation , George Washington University Medical Center, and the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center, over 1,000 people are expected to attend this year's conference. Registration information is available from Greg Thomas, GWU Medical Center, 2300 K Street NW, Washington, DC 20037, or call (202) 676-4285.

KENTUCKY RIGHT TO PRIVACY UPHELD

A county judge in Lexing-ton , Kentucky has ruled that Kentucky's criminal sodomy statute is unconstitutional. Favette District Court Judge Lewis Paisley held that the statute , which makes it illegal for individuals of the same sex to engage in either oral or anal sex, violated Kentuckians' right to privacy under the state's constitution.

The judgment was the result of an undercover investigation in downtown Lexington, conducted by police detectives who were wired for sound. The undercover detectives positioned themselves in a parking lot and engaged in conversation with people in the area. After extended conversations , some officers were invited home by unsuspecting gay men. There was never an attempt or suggestion to commit a sex act in public. All individuals involved were adults and there were no offers or requests for money. All invitations were to take the officers home.

It is unlikely that the matter will end at the district court level. The prosecutors have indicated their desire to appeal the new ruling. The ruling by the higher courts will be binding throughout the state.

GAY CALENDAR NOMINATIONS

Drummer contributor John Preston is putting together a 1988 gay engagement calendar which will be published by Alyson Publications. Readers are asked to nominate their heroes, important dates in our lives and suggestions of what should be included in general.

Many of you out there have taken your love of discipline and SM and applied it to collecting encyclopedic knowledge of specific areas of history and culture. He wants to use you… as a source, that is.

If you would like to make sure that an individual, an organization , or an event re- ceives community recognition , you have until April 1 to send your ideas, with appro- priate dates to: John Preston, PO Box 5314, Portland, Maine 04101.

HISTORIC MARCH ON WASHINGTON

Sunday, October 11, 1987 the March for Lesbian and Gay Rights takes place in Washington , DC. The march, called by a conference of 350 people representing more than 125 organizations, centers around extending the protection of all civil rights laws to specifically include lesbian and gay people and the defense of our right to privacy by repeal of all sodomy laws. This is expected to be one of the largest political gatherings of the 1980s.

This event is historic, even in its creation. For the first time ever, a national lesbian and gay coalition has recognized the importance and contribution of the SM community. Through the efforts of a group initiated by the GMSMA of New York, we in SM have been given a seat on the steering committee for the march.

Members of the leather community and especially SM organizations have the responsibility to make special efforts to reach out to our own people. Every organization should appoint a liaison to the march and make a commitment of support. Your help is needed now! Get out the word and encourage all who can to go to Washington.

For further information or to contribute a donation, write to: Community Involvement Committee, c / o GMSMA, 132 West 24th St., New York, NY 10011.

SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION

A new research study focusing on lesbian and gay sexuality has recently begun. James Bahr and Dr. Gerald Weeks are seeking gay and lesbian couples to fill out questionnaires . Participants will have no contact with the researchers , unless so desired; all contact is via mail. Interested couples should write: PO Box 2364, Philadelphia, PA 19103-0364.

EDUCATING THE MASSES

Thirty-two California legislators , most of them Republicans , sent a letter to the state Superintendent of Public Instruction asking for revision of proposed guidelines that the state Board of Education will publish for sex education. The letter specifically asked that homosexuality not be discussed in elementary schools.

"The homosexual lifestyle is both immoral and a grave danger to public health," said the letter.

Susan Lange of the state Department of Education said that homosexuality, AIDS and birth control are "things that educated people need to know about."

TOUGHSH

GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

Byrd Laboratories is advertising drug-free urine "for experimental purposes …100 percent pure urine…suitable for unanticipated urine demand."

The Texas-based lab owner, Jeffrey Nightbyrd, said he was not interested in what customers did with the product. But he speculated that the most common use could be to beat on-the-job urine tests for drug use.

"I'm really startled that anbody would pay $49.95 for urine," said Nightbyrd. "I have a $5 pamphlet on how to beat the tests.

WINNING REMARKS voted national champions. that you just grow to love," he said. this year."

Penn State Lions quarterback John "Guys who pat you on the butt even after one ever left my side. I think that kind of "There are people in that locker room love allowed us to come back and win

ROLE PLAYING

Lakewood, Colorado High School officials refused to ring down the curtain on "Le Tigre Plantation," a creation of history teacher Bill Wright, designed to teach students about the Civil War even though parents complained that actors chosen to play plantation owners have taken their roles too seriously and are abusing and humiliating classmates.

Principal Vince Greco said, "It shows what the slaves had to do. There's no physical punishment, it's just social status."

No physical punishment? Darn!

17TH CENTURY PURITAN SAFE SEX

Five condoms made from fish and animal intestines were found in the foundation of Dudley Castle near Birmingham , England recently that date as far back as the 1640s.

The English soldiers loyal to King Charles I occupied the castle during that period and were eventually defeated by

Cromwell's army during the English Civil War

Stephanie Ratkai, archeologist, said she thought the prophylactics had been brought to England by officers returning from France. She said it is believed the condoms were used not as contraceptives but to prevent venereal disease, which was quite common at the time and sometimes known as the dreaded "pox."

She said she hoped to put the con-doms on display at a museum castle. 'They would certainly make an interesting exhibit," she said.

NICE LADY!

The jewelry given by the Duke of Windsor (King Edward VIII) to Wallis Simpson (Duchess of Windsor) will be auctioned off in Geneva this April. The more than 200 diamonds, rubies, emeralds and other gems are valued at more than $7 million.

The Duchess named the Pasteur Institute , a leading institute in AIDS research, as the prime beneficiary.

OFF THE TOP continued from page 4

WHO SAYS WHAT IS "REAL"

S / M and leather, like pornography, may be impossible to define, but we all think we know them when we see them. But fortunately-or unfortunately-we don't all recognize the same thing. You gripe that you cannot get your mountain-man look accepted. Everyone is fixated on black leather and will not recognize brown as a valid alternative. In the latter part of your letter you attack Larry Townsend, saying "slaves are made, not born, and they are molded into shape by real no-nonsense Masters.'

NO DAMN IT, NO! SOME slaves are made, some are born. You don't have the right to state absolutes anymore than Townsend or anyone else. Each of us takes his own definitions and feelings and establishes them as the heart of the correct piece of geography-we will allow some slight variations in certain directions. But not too much or too far. We are NOT all alike, there is virtually NOTHING that all "slaves" have in common , except that they supposedly exist primarily to please their Masters. Those of us who have had "slaves" at various times know well that this is one of the biggest fantasies of all-but more on that another time.

We "leather" men (for want of a better term) are not a uniform army. We vary over a very wide spectrum of ages, education , experience, intelligence, physical ability, preferred style of dress, sexual fetish, preferred activities, tolerances, etc. Each of has to stop thinking that what he does is the only correct thing, the right thing. We have to recognize that the other fellow, who has his own thing, is just as valid in his interests as we are in ours. It takes this variety to make life interesting and all of our "kinks" must be united to fight those who would rather see NO kinks at all.

To paraphrase a famous quote about Nazi Germany. "When they came for the fist fuckers, I didn't resist because I wasn't into fisting. When they came for the piercing nuts, I didn't help them because I had no body jewelry. When they came for the rubber fetishists, I didn't fight because my motorcycle jacket was leather. And when they came for us leather cocksuckers, there was no one left to fight,"

We are not a uniform and homogenized sea of black leather. We MUST broaden our tolerances for differences among ourselves if we expect to gain greater tolerance from those who are so different from us.

-Fledermaus

by Tim Barrus grew up in one of those small mainly unheard of typically American cornfed towns where people were allowed to be one of two things: you were good or you were trash. Smalltown America is a lot of things. It's a mix of starless mismatch . Spring is planting. August is supper on the porch; corn on the cob, why, it fairly drips with butter. Mainly. Friday nights is bowling-alley smalltown slow, and hot with the luxurious semantics of studied trouble. Sundays is church. Mainly. We were hayfield-farmer simple. We smiled a lot but mostly at each other. Smalltown American, why, it can be downright suspicious if it has a mind to. My town did. You were good or you were trash. Now, white trash lived south of town. We called it the outskirts. We called white trash a lot of things. We could be generous if we had a mind to. We could be less than generous as well.

My friend Cheyne was white trash for three reasons. One, his mother was an Indian. Two, his daddy was white, and his daddy's whereabouts were unknown, which made Cheyne a half-breed . And three, he was a half-breed. In our town half-breeds lived in the outskirts. You lived in the outskirts, you were white trash. White trash had abandoned cars rusting in the front yard. And kids in their underwear usually running around crazy-loose with the remnants of chocolate ice-cream bars dripping from the corners of their lips. Dirty-faced. White trash had dogs sleeping on their porches. It was said that white trash was TV-dinner lazy. It was just the way things were.

Cheyne was bad from the beginning. My daddy called him trouble. Most folks called him trouble. When we were in grade school Cheyne broke near every window in the schoolhouse playing ball. He said he didn't mean to. The baseball just kept going that way. None of us other boys could even hit a ball that far. We tried. Repeatedly. But Cheyne, why, he'd just step up to home plate, that grin on his face, his black half-breed's hair in his eyes, a bat in his hands, and he'd hit that sucker so far out of left field, and slamn-damn if it didn't hit a schoolhouse window every time. None of the rest of us could do it for a month of Sundays.

They made him stop playing ball. Cheyne could drive. When we were all fourteen we boys saw him do it, brazen as the Lord, driving down Main Street like he was born to it. We were in awe. His mother was a waitress in town. And Cheyne said she gave him the car. Cheyne got busted for driving without a license. But then Cheyne eventually got busted for a lot of things. He was dedicated white trash. Had a flair for it. Cheyne smoked cigarettes and smoking cigarettes was a sin. Cheyne lived in a trailer. Most of us good folks either lived in town or on a farm. But wherever we lived it was usually in a house. White trash lived in trailers. I went over there. I had to see it. The sheer, unadulterated thrill of it, being in Cheyne's trailer, alone with Cheyne, why, it was enough to hand my sinner's soul straight over to the devil. With pleasure…

I was bad with Cheyne. He made me do it. "You ever had a whole beer, boy?" I said no. "Well, have one." Cheyne was white trash but he was hospitable. "You ever suck somebody's dick dry, boy?" I do not know why he called me boy. We were the same age. In the same class. In the same school. Maybe it was because there was this big, hard, uncompromising space between us although we became friends. In fact, we were close. No one could understand why we were friends. I still do not know why we were friends. I was attracted to the beauty in his badness. Cheyne was attracted to my being attracted. I worshiped him. Come Thanksgiving I knew he'd be having another TV dinner. So after my family was through with their meal, well, I piled this big old plate full with country stuffing, mashed taters, turkey, and my ma's pumpkin pie. And I sneaked it over to Cheyne, who was downright grateful. Dug into it. Not that I felt sorry for Cheyne. Not at all. I simply wanted that boy to like me as much as I liked him.

I was one of the goodies. I was born to it. Lived in a house. I got good grades. Learning was fun. And I did well in school, although I did it without much effort. Hardly any. Cheyne was one of the bad guys; someone to be avoided. Trouble. Delicious trouble. His mother worked and she didn't much care if Cheyne had friends over or drank beer. Or two beers for that matter. I had three. And then I had Cheyne. I think I spent the better part of high school either sucking his cock on my knees in that trailer. Or I was thinking about sucking his cock on my knees in that trailer. Cheyne was big, bad and beautiful. I was in love with him. Had to be the beer.

Cheyne was always showing off that big piece of corrupt slab he had between his legs. In the whole time I knew Cheyne I don't think that he owned but one pair of jeans. His jeans were usually as tight as a drunk in a bowling alley bar. Very. Fact is, if you couldn't find Cheyne at home, you probably could find him at the bowling alley, which was only about a block from the trailer. In our town was a right way to do a thing and a wrong way. There was the right side of town and the wrong side of town. And then there was Cheyne.

When Cheyne was eighteen he had a motorcycle. No one in our town had a motorcycle. It was somewhat outrageous. Cheyne wore leather, had his hair slicked back black as the blacktop in a summer rain; why, fathers would take one quick look at that boy, and sheer moral fright for their children's very lives would set in like a hot rabid brain-fever. Girls liked him. Girls liked him a lot. I knew for a fact that he was fucking girls because he made me watch him. I was forced into it.

Cheyne would come over on that cycle. I'd hop on before anyone in my house had a chance to object. Hell, there'd be enough objection to deal with when I got back. I didn't need any before I left. And we'd ride over to the river. Now, the river was more of a bad place to go than the trailer. Every Sunday in church when the preacher talked about sin, and doing sin, and being bad, which he assumed most of us were, why, what he was thundering-on about was the river. There was one spot along lover's lane on down by the river where the used rubbers were about knee-deep. Old Cheyne, he'd drop me off there, and then he'd go back to get the girl. Cheyne would bring her to the spot. I'd be off hiding. And he'd fuck the bejesus out of her right there smack dab on the ground. Those girls liked the feeling of that seething cock. I kept telling myself to concentrate on the girl. But none of them were as intoxicating to me as Cheyne. Watching that big dick plunge into girls could just

about make me cream right there in my pants, which I did on several occasions. It was messy. But well worth the trouble.

Later on, usually at the trailer, we'd evaluate his performance over a couple of beers. "She was tight," Cheyne would say, "but she wasn't as tight as your sweet little ass. I want a piece." I was always giving him a piece of my asshole-pussy. He'd get me all lubed up with his tongue, sucking on my cunt-hole, he called it, and then he'd jam that meaty plunger straight into my guts. Fucking me for every ounce of hot smalltown sweat I was worth. Sometimes I had to give him a piece down by the river. My sore little hole would fill up with sand, spit and Cheyne's creamy cum. "Smooth as a virgin's oven," he'd moan. "And tighter.

But I could never fuck Cheyne. It was simply not in the scheme of things. I was the cocksucker and he knew it. I have to give some credit to Cheyne. This was a small bible-town, a place where if you didn't fit in you got looked down at something bad. Feared and loathed. People would spit on you if they could. No doubt about it. Old Cheyne could have told everyone in those parts that I was sucking him, and letting him fuck me until the cows came home. But he didn't. He kept it between us and I had to respect him for that.

Not because he was afraid of being considered a queer. Not Cheyne. Why, that boy had every young piece of female pussy in town. I saw him fuck the preacher's daughter. And then holy-of-holies with my own eyes I saw him cram it into the preacher's wife. I swear that next I thought he might go for the preacher. Women thought he was bad. But they all wanted it. Couldn't get enough of it. Cheyne wasn't afraid of what any of them might think of him. "Life," he'd sometimes tell me all serious-like, "can be tough enough all on its own. I never saw a need to make life more difficult for a person than it already is." And he lived by his words. My secret was safe with Cheyne.

Eventually, I went away to college because I was dying. "I'm dying on the inside, Cheyne," I'd tell him. "This town is killing me. I cannot stay. I'm counting the days, man. I got to get out. It doesn't mean that we can't still be friends." Cheyne would smile but he knew better.

"I understand," he said. "You want to leave. It's only natural. Hell, this town will eat you mean alive, boy, if you give it half a chance." We spent a lot of time together just before I left. In fact, for a while there, we didn't pick up any girls. We'd work on his bike, our arms up to our elbows in black grease, doing things to that Harley that didn't really need to be done. And then we'd do the things again. We just liked being together. That bike got more tune-ups in one month than most bikes get in a decade. And we fucked. We fucked in Cheyne's bed. We had never fucked in Cheyne's bed before. Usually it was on the sand down by the river. Or on the floor of the trailer in the livingroom. "Let's sleep together," he said.

Cheyne was different in bed. Gentle and tender. We fucked and we kissed. We'd never kissed before. Old Cheyne had these soft kind of pouty lips, and he liked to put his tongue into my mouth. I gave him my pussy. He put my legs in the air, lubed my asshole and finger-fucked me until I was sweet and open. Loose and ready. The pressure from his meat would make me gasp. I'd close my eyes and pray that Cheyne would cum before my bowels got torn into a bloody mess. I hurt with him in me. But I loved it so badly I hurt with him not in me. His ma knew about us. She never made an issue out of it. Just treated me like I belonged. Always had a six-pack in the fridge for us. They were white trash. They were the closest friends I ever had.

I picked a college that was about as far from that town as I could get. There was a whole world out there and I had to see it. There was a whole world of m-e-n out there and I had to see them. College was easy. Boring. Mainly. I got by. And I traveled.

A buddy and I backpacked through Europe one summer staying at youth hostels. It took us a month to work up to having sex together. He was a virgin and I finally got to break some pretty-boy's cherry. Fucked him in Rome in the middle of one of those sultry vehement Roman nights, when the heat seems to pour into your room, and all you want to do is sit around, drink and be naked. That boy ended up saying he loved me. Said it out loud. I was in Rome and I wanted someone to say that he loved me. I wanted him to hurt until his soul bled with me. I was decadent and unforgiving.

I fucked hordes of Roman boys and I made the boy who loved me watch. And cry. I do not know why he cried. He had a bellyful of arrogance and he went home. I stayed in Rome and continued to fuck Roman boys. I lived on wine, Turkish hash and Roman boys. I wanted to be a man of the world. I was broke. So I sold my pussy to Roman men who are not Roman boys. Priests had a thing for sucking my cock. I spermed in a lot of religious mouths in Rome. I got a letter from my mother. It was smalltown charity, and she mentioned that Cheyne had been drafted. I went to Paris.

Cheyne went to Vietnam.

Eventually I graduated, although I took my time about it. I heard through the grapevine that Cheyne was married—a Vietnamese woman. And that it had shook up the whole damn town into one hell of a glorious tizzy. Apparently it was one thing to defend one's country, but it was another thing to bring one of "them" over here. Not that Cheyne would have cared. Cheyne had brought his wife back to his hometown, settled in, and that was that. I was a struggling writer-type living in New York. And a visit home was long overdue.

Nothing had changed. Not that I expected that anything would change. I'm not even sure I wanted the place to change. Change comes to these fields, these places under the sun, these country roots-hard. I returned to her and she was still full of her rightness, her sense of starless morality; she was stubborn. Her blacktop was older now, but it still ran sweet past the outskirt's bowling alley, full of country music and trouble looking for Friday night to hang its hat. I was the one who had changed. She was still a place of white trash with kids in underwear , running around crazy-free, chocolate mouthed and loud. She was Main Street. She was fireworks on the Fourth of July in the park, and everyone went ahh. She was necking at the drive-in. She was blowjobs at the bus station tearoom.

She was Cheyne.

He was older, but we all were that. Cheyne was still white

They lived in a small broken-down farm on the outskirts of the outskirts. There were three little half-breeds who looked like Cheyne running around in their underwear only they were darker than their father. He was glad to see me. Cheyne was more reserved than I had remembered him. His wife smiled a lot but said little. We drank beer and Cheyne showed me around his garden. I never thought I'd see the day when Cheyne had a garden but he said that it saved him money. Cheyne worked in a garage in town and was a right-fine mechanic. His hands were tinged with a greasedirt black under the nails, and he sported several tattoos which he had acquired in the service. Cheyne did not care to discuss that time.

We sat alone on the front porch in a rusty porch swing. Chevne was barefoot and rested his feet on top of his dog. "You've really settled down," I said.

"Don't hold it against me, okay?" And he laughed.

"I had to see how you were, Cheyne."

"I like my life. And you…

"Oh, I'm fine, Cheyne. I'm fine."

"I don't, you know, see anyone else anymore. Are you with anyone?" "Yes, he's a lot like you. We live in New York." Cheyne just looked at me and smiled.

"I'll bet you've seen and done it all, eh?"

I didn't know what to say. "Twice." Cheyne just looked into the distance. We shared a joint in silence, drank the rest of our beer, and I shook his hand. "Goodbye, Cheyne."

"Come see us anytime, you hear.

I heard. I went back to my old house, to my old room, and thought about Cheyne. I was glad that he was happy. I spent the rest of my visit there doing not much of anything. Went to a

high school football game. Cheyne was not there. I was about ready to leave. My bags were packed. I'd be gone in the morning . It was almost dusk when I heard what had to be a bike drive up and stop. "Go for a ride, stranger?" I never could resist him. I climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapped my hands around his waist, and we headed toward the river. The sun was setting like an orange dragon off in the distance, and I could feel the beginning of the impending night's air blow freely and cold against my face.

We stopped in our old place. There were more tire tracks in the sand than there had been in the past. There were more rubbers. We both had to laugh. "Some things never change, do they, Cheyne?'

"No," he said. "Some things never do." And he kissed me with those pouty lips of his, putting his tongue into my mouth. "Fuck me." I wasn't sure I was hearing him right. "Fuck me," he said. "I was a fool to not let you fuck me before. I'm still a virgin. I've thought about it. Lots of times I think about you. I love my wife. Really, I do. But I still think about you. And now I want you to fuck me. Please …

We were naked. Cheyne was on his back with his legs raised. I kissed his hole. His anal lips were as thick and sultry as his mouth. My tongue slid into his bowels and I opened him. Cheyne moaned and masturbated. I eased my blood-hard cock up to the dark, pinpoint entrance of his cunt, and I slowly pushed myself into the man. His eyes closed. "Cum in my ass," he said. "I don't want to dream about what it's like. I want to know what it's like." I pumped into his moist tightness which gripped my meat like a vice. My balls slapped against his buttocks . My sperm ejaculated into his guts-spasm after breath-taking spasm. I fucked Cheyne.

And then I sucked him off. I wanted it hot from his sac. His semen; thick and delicious. His cock was bloodlush and hard. The head of his dick went down into the moist back of my throat, and just like old time, Cheyne fucked me in the mouth until I about gagged on his rich, half-breed's semen.

"Drink me, baby," he kept saying as his pubic hair softly pounded against my face. It was as if I had never left him. It was as if somehow we had grown into the lovers we were never allowed to be. It was this painful thing between us-we had both wanted it. But neither one of us had known how. Our lovemaking that time near the river was the lovemaking of what could have been. We could have been lovers, Cheyne and I, and we would have been magnificent lovers. But the time and the place were simply not right. It had never happened. It would never happen. Except for that brief moment by the river that washed over us with its almost anguished sense of urgency.

We kissed and collapsed onto the bank of the river. We were covered in sand and had to jump naked into the water to wash off. His eyes were softer now. His laugh warmer. There was less of an edge to him. "I'm glad you came back," he said.

"So am I, Cheyne. So am I." Our spent cocks touched one last time. Half-hard, still thick and dripping cum.

Cheyne drove me around on the bike through town. It was bible-black and sweet as only the first breath of moonless autumn knows how to be sweet. We drove past the old ball field where Cheyne once had broken the windows of the schoolhouse . We drove past the old trailer where his mother still lived. We drove past the bowling alley and down Main Street, which seemed quietly deserted. We drove and I didn't care where we went. I wanted us to keep driving, drunk with forever. Holding onto Cheyne and never letting go. We could have been so good together. I ran my hands down his chest and kissed the back of his neck. Cheyne took me home. I got off the bike and he kissed me. Fully, flagrantly on the mouth. Forever. He left me breathless . Hurting. And he didn't care who saw.

The last time I saw him he was heading back to the wrong side of town, his half-breed's hair blowing softly in the wind.

high school football game. Cheyne was not there. I was about ready to leave. My bags were packed. I'd be gone in the morning . It was almost dusk when I heard what had to be a bike drive up and stop. "Go for a ride, stranger?" I never could resist him. I climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapped my hands around his waist, and we headed toward the river. The sun was setting like an orange dragon off in the distance, and I could feel the beginning of the impending night's air blow freely and cold against my face.

We stopped in our old place. There were more tire tracks in the sand than there had been in the past. There were more rubbers. We both had to laugh. "Some things never change, do they, Cheyne?'

"No," he said. "Some things never do." And he kissed me with those pouty lips of his, putting his tongue into my mouth. "Fuck me." I wasn't sure I was hearing him right. "Fuck me," he said. "I was a fool to not let you fuck me before. I'm still a virgin. I've thought about it. Lots of times I think about you. I love my wife. Really, I do. But I still think about you. And now I want you to fuck me. Please …

We were naked. Cheyne was on his back with his legs raised. I kissed his hole. His anal lips were as thick and sultry as his mouth. My tongue slid into his bowels and I opened him. Cheyne moaned and masturbated. I eased my blood-hard cock up to the dark, pinpoint entrance of his cunt, and I slowly pushed myself into the man. His eyes closed. "Cum in my ass," he said. "I don't want to dream about what it's like. I want to know what it's like." I pumped into his moist tightness which gripped my meat like a vice. My balls slapped against his buttocks . My sperm ejaculated into his guts-spasm after breath-taking spasm. I fucked Cheyne.

And then I sucked him off. I wanted it hot from his sac. His semen; thick and delicious. His cock was bloodlush and hard. The head of his dick went down into the moist back of my throat, and just like old time, Cheyne fucked me in the mouth until I about gagged on his rich, half-breed's semen.

"Drink me, baby," he kept saying as his pubic hair softly pounded against my face. It was as if I had never left him. It was as if somehow we had grown into the lovers we were never allowed to be. It was this painful thing between us-we had both wanted it. But neither one of us had known how. Our lovemaking that time near the river was the lovemaking of what could have been. We could have been lovers, Cheyne and I, and we would have been magnificent lovers. But the time and the place were simply not right. It had never happened. It would never happen. Except for that brief moment by the river that washed over us with its almost anguished sense of urgency.

We kissed and collapsed onto the bank of the river. We were covered in sand and had to jump naked into the water to wash off. His eyes were softer now. His laugh warmer. There was less of an edge to him. "I'm glad you came back," he said.

"So am I, Cheyne. So am I." Our spent cocks touched one last time. Half-hard, still thick and dripping cum.

Cheyne drove me around on the bike through town. It was bible-black and sweet as only the first breath of moonless autumn knows how to be sweet. We drove past the old ball field where Cheyne once had broken the windows of the schoolhouse . We drove past the old trailer where his mother still lived. We drove past the bowling alley and down Main Street, which seemed quietly deserted. We drove and I didn't care where we went. I wanted us to keep driving, drunk with forever. Holding onto Cheyne and never letting go. We could have been so good together. I ran my hands down his chest and kissed the back of his neck. Cheyne took me home. I got off the bike and he kissed me. Fully, flagrantly on the mouth. Forever. He left me breathless . Hurting. And he didn't care who saw.

The last time I saw him he was heading back to the wrong side of town, his half-breed's hair blowing softly in the wind.

ROUGH STUFF by SCOTT TUCKER

CHILDREN OF THE FUTURE AGE

Scandal rocked Boise, Idaho in 1955, and the story made Time magazine: "Recently, Boiseans were shocked to learn that their city had sheltered a widespread homosexual underworld that involved some of Boise's most prominent men and had preyed on hundreds of teen-age boys for the past decade." This was the decade when many Americans lost their reason and hunted for deviants and aliens in their midst, putting their brand of patriotism above democratic rights. It was a time when queers and commies were purged from government or blacklisted from employment , and when the net of suspicion was cast far and wide. John Gerassi investigated the scandal in Boise and later wrote a book called The Boys of Boise in which he wrote, "… I realized that the Time article had been misleading in many ways. I also concluded that the whole scandal was one of the most shocking examples of legalized prejudice, involving politics and personal vendettas, that I had ever come across."

Crusading moralists often link or equate homosexuals with child abusers, and this proved to be a running theme during the Boise scandal. In this respect the gospel of today's antigay right-wingers has not changed. Anita Bryant's crusade to "Save Our Children " was an echo from the '50s, as was her slogan: "Homosexuals can't reproduce, so they recruit." Jerry Falwell, along with other preachers and politicians, claims that gay people undermine the traditional family.

There is a degree of truth to that claim. If the traditional family means heterosexual, reproductive monogamy sanctioned by religion and the state, then gay and bisexual people may be viewed as stray sheep. But in the real world, gay people are often parents, whether they are traditionally married to spouses of the opposite sex, coupled with gay lovers, raising kids alone, or living communally. And in the fantasy world of the right wing, all kids are just "naturally " heterosexual unless somethings goes wrong-like a pervert lurking in the schoolyard . But in the real world, many boys and girls know themselves to be gay and often long for the company and experience of an older gay person.

The North American Man/ Boy Love Association (NAMB-LA ) has been shunted to the margins of the gay movement by people who decree NAMB-LA members are too queer to be gay. The argument is usually made that any sexual relationship between an adult and a youth is rape or abuse, no matter what both persons may claim to the contrary. It follows that a gay movement consisting of "consenting adults" cannot permit anyone in its ranks who crosses the legal boundaries of the age of consent.

But all age of consent laws are arbitrary. Such laws do not prevent rape and sexual abuse, but they do serve to deny the sexual rights of youth. At the age of fifteen I initiated a sexual relationship with a family man over twice my age, and I had the power to destroy his entire existence by merely exposing him to the force of the law. Yes, I had that power-but why destroy a man I loved and who did me a great deal of good?

The three winners of the International Mr. Leather Contest-JimEd Thompson, Peter Gallo and myself—rode a float in the Los Angeles gav parade last June, and the spirit of celebration was strong. That day somewhat dimmed for me when I learned that the parade organizing committee had forbidden NAMBLA to be present. Only later did I learn that Harry Hay-a respected veteran gay activist-had pro- tested this act of censorship and exclusion by wearing a sign saying "NAMBLA Walks with Me," and he himself was then threatened with expulsion by a parade monitor who called in the cops. Two officials of the parade committee defended their actions in the gay press with an open fetter which included this bit of wisdom : "We would remind NAMBLA that they are not living in ancient Greece or primitive Polynesia." This is just the sort of logic which right wingers use against all gay people, reminding us forever that Judeo-Christianity is the name of the game and we'd better play by their rules. No. we don't live in ancient Greece or primitive Polynesia. We do live, however, among sexual barbarians in America, in the Year of Their Lord, 1987.

Fifty-seven percent of the 17-year-olds surveyed in a recent Harris poll reported having had sexual intercourse. Because of economic pressures and sexual hypocrisy, however, youngsters often have little privacy or security in which to have sex, limited access to contraceptives, and poor sex education. So every year girls suffer unwanted pregnancies, every year lesbian and gay youngsters feel trapped in closets.

California State School Su-perintendant Bill Hopig recently wrote, "We can and should say that premarital sexual intercourse is wrong." Honig recommends the "personal , societal and health benefits of abstimence," but at least he proposes some sex education should begin before age nine. The AIDS crisis is forcing some conservatives, like Surgeon General C. Everett Koop, to promote early and general sex education, including discussion of homosexuality . But Koop says boys should be warned not to have anal sex with other males. And the archbishop of Los Angeles recently announced that the an AIDS education group to hold seminars in its churches. Why? Because the organization recommended a heretical and new-fangled practice … the use of condoms. Abstinence , says the archbishop, is the answer to AIDS.

Koop displays his antigay bigotry, or his lack of imagina-flon , when he recommends that young gay males should simply give up fucking. He trivializes our sexuality and expects a sacrifice from gay people he would never expect from straights. Since gay fuck-ing is not reproductive, he must think it is a mere indulgence which a little self-control can cure. The fact remains that young people, regardless of sexual orientation , deserve a full and free sexual life of their own. And young gay men have every right to know that they can enjoy fucking if condoms and common sense are used. child brought up without religion ," wrote Wilhelm Reich back in the '30s, "can stir up an entire school, but unless this effect is properly organized it will remain merely accidental ." Love and sexuality can never be freely expressed when masses of people are subjected to a deadening schooling in their youth, to deadening work as adults, and to the straitjacket of the nuclear family all their lives. Never underestimate the force of envy and resentment directed against the young by people whose own lives were half lived, and are more than half over. Adults have a responsibility to open doors and windows so that the young can make a full spectrum of sexual choices — gay, bisexual, straight, vanilla, SM, whatever-without suffering and secrecy. William Blake wrote:

Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time, Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.

hroughout the state of Texas, perversion is pervasive and the men persistent and persuasive. For example, one evening when I was spinning the dial on the FM radio, I happened to accidentally tune into KNON, Dallas' "Industrial Strength" country / western and rock-and-roll station and heard a new record by Jerry Dale McFadden, titled "S&M Cowboy." The lyrics went "I love being spanked while listening to Hank…country / western music beats the hell out of me." I felt right at home.

In fact, as of last year, the state of Texas became one of the four leading destinations in the United States for tourists both American as well as foreign. Everyone knows Texas is huge, but many people are unaware of the remarkable differences in climate, geography and lifestyles of one part of the state from another. No matter your personal taste, Texas has something to offer everyone. This is especially true for gays.

For example, there are more gay bars in Texas than any other state except California. Drinks are inexpensive (half the price of drinks in New York bars), nearly every bar has a live DJ, a dance floor and goes "after-hours" on weekends. The laws governing the operation of a gay bar in Texas are probably the most liberal of anywhere in the U.S.

Texas hospitality is no myth. The people are aggressively friendly, open and sincerity is still the fashion. During my seven week tour of Texas for Drummer magazine I was often the houseguest of total strangers who treated me as if I were a member of the family. I was always picked up at the airport—often in a limo. Members of each local community, anxious that I see everything in their hometown, drove me everywhere, day and night, in shifts. Special Drummer parties were held in most of the major cities at which I photographed over a hundred hot men for our expanded Tough Customers section. The parties drew over a thousand spectators collectively at each bar. The parties were packed by the hottest hunks imaginable…Texas men are remarkably handsome and masculine. As proof of this, check out the TC section in this issue.

In creating this pictorial essay, it was impossible to include every bar or place of business in Texas. So, I limited myself to photographing and writing about only those places that would be of interest to Drummer readers as a whole. Individual readers will have to pick through these listings to find those places that will be of interest to them personally. This should be easier than with most guides which often give only an address and phone number with no photo or description that gives a sense of what the place is like. In all cases, the places mentioned are masculine oriented, safe and fairly priced. I have taken great care to not send the unsuspecting tourist to a ripoff joint or a dangerous neighborhood.

Also, all the places mentioned made a special effort to make their staff and establishment available for photography and editorial review because they want Drummer readers to know they are welcome-every last nasty twisted one of you. They are ready for you if you are ready for them!

Those places I felt would be of little interest or whose reputations were dubious or dangerous, I simply omitted. In short, if I wrote the place up at all, I felt that some of you would get off on at least a visit. Have a great time in Texas—I certainly did. And I want to thank the publishers and staff of Drummer for giving me this wonderful opportunity, I shall never forget it.

A SPECIAL THANK YOU TO THE FOLLOWING TEXANS WHO HELPED MAKE THIS ISSUE A SUCCESS:

George and Domingo of the Trestle, Grace Harvey and Bobby, Ron Stanton Photography, and Disciples of de Sade, all of Dallas.

Dan Acker and Randy of the 651 in Ft. Worth.

Randy Cuniff and Bob Reese and Paul Pena and Alan and Archie of Snuffy's of Austin.

John Shown of Artists' Forum and Phillip K. of San Antonio.

K. Dick Sanderson and staff of Mary's, Ted Lenze and staff of Chutes, Ben Wilson of Houston Forum, the entire staff of Eagle Leathers, Glen Webber, Michael LaFleur and Steve Cole, all of Houston.

And last, but not least, my old friends Sandra, Donald Ivan and Gregor of Arlington, Texas.

—Jim Moss

TEXAS GAY MEDIA

The gay community of Texas is blessed with a statewide network of firstrate magazines and newspapers. Only in California and New York, homes of national gay publications exceed Texas in quantity. As to quality of gay publishing, Texas is second to none.

THIS WEEK IN TEXAS

Foremost among Texas gay publications is twelve-year-old This Week in Texas, or TWT. Printing 20,000 free copies a week (that's over a million a year) this lively, beautifully bound digest with a full-color cover distributes statewide every Friday to twenty metropolitan areas. It maintains large editorial offices in Houston and Dallas with bureaus in San Antonio and Austin.

For gay visitors to the state of Texas, TWT is an indispensable entertainment guide. Its vast listings with over 500 entries are updated weekly. Many expatriot Texans flung to the four corners of the earth subscribe to TWT as a way of maintaining gay contact with the home state. A one-year subscription (52 issues) is $66. A six-month subscription is $44. A single copy of the most recent issue (a valuable aid in planning a trip to Texas) is $5. TWT, 2205 Montrose,

HOUSTON MEDIA

Houston has two firstrate gay tabloids that individually distribute 10,000 free copies each week. The Houston Forum with its colorful magazine-style covers and the Montrose Voice. Highly competitive with each other, the Houston gay community benefits by having two very professional independent newspapers. They also make for interesting reading for out-of-towners as well. Houston often is the setting of gay news of national importance. The opening of Houston's new hospital The Institute for Immunological Disorders " made the media around the world as the first of its kind in the treatment of AIDS.

Houston Forum, 1110 Bayland, Houston, TX 77009 (713) 869-0011 Montrose Voice, 408 Avondale, Houston, TX 77006 (713) 529-8490

DALLAS MEDIA

The Dallas Voice is Texas' finest gay newspaper. It contains a healthy balance of news and entertainment. Printed on high-grade paper, it occasionally sports full-color photos on its cover. The full-time staff of four, plus ten regular contributors, has published 5,000 copies each week for nearly three years. Available free at hundreds of locations, the Dallas Voice ranks among the best gay newspapers in the country. Dallas Voice, 2727 Oaklawn, Suite 105 Dallas, TX 75219 (214) 521-3239

THE GU

SAN ANTONIO MEDIA

San Antonio is a mixed bag. Its two publications could not be more different . The Calendar is a slim, biweekly newspaper, devoted mainly to entertainment . There are many gay clubs and activities in San Antonio, the nation's tenth largest city, and chronicling these social functions keeps the staff of The Calendar quite busy.

At the other extreme of the publishing spectrum is one of the most outstanding publications of its kind in the world-Forum, the "Artists' Forum of Texas Publication." A nonprofit institution run by members of the gay art community, it is supported by many gay bars and businesses with advertising and special fund-raiser parties. This is a high-art magazine that transcends its gay origins and has moved into the mainstream of museums and major art galleries of Texas and beyond. A beautifully designed magazine with a giant 11" by 16" page format, every issue is exciting and innovative. For example, its 3-D issue. complete with glasses, was outstanding -and included a rear-cover advertisement in 3-D for the biggest gay bar in Texas. This issue sits proudly on the coffee table of many a straight Texas millionaire art collector.

Forum is edited by John Shown, Texas' leading gay artist. His work has appeared in many national gay magazines. Currently, Mr. Shown is preparing a book of his work, Sexicons, to be published hopefully in the near future.

Artists' Forum of Texas accepts photos , art, articles and interviews from around the world. Forum, PO Box 120131 San Antonio, TX 78212-9331

Your link to what's happening in Dallas and the Southwest

AN ARTS MAGAZINE FEATURING TEXAS ARTISTS

Lobo, 4008C Cedar Springs, Dallas (214) 522-1132 Lobo, 1424C Westheimer, Houston (713) 522-5156

EAGLE LEATHERS

Eagle Leathers is the largest retailer and manufacturer of leather garments and accessories in the Texas gay community-perhaps the largest in the world. It has two big stores open during the daytime, one in Houston and the other in Dallas; and four small shops in bars, open 9 P.M. until 2 A.M. in the evening: Chutes, Mary's and Hot Rod in Houston and Tramps in Dallas.

Eagle Leathers has for sale most anything you can imagine and many things almost beyond belief! If they don't have what you want, they can make it in their extensive work rooms or get it for you from one of their hundreds of suppliers. When in Texas, Drummer readers will definitely want to visit Eagle Leathers. Main stores open 11 A.M. to 7 P.M., Monday through Saturday, noon to 5 P.M. Sundays.

Eagle Leathers, 1544 Westheimer, Houston (713) 524-7383 Eagle Leathers, 4000A Cedar Springs, Dallas (214) 528-4620

Boots has many unusual designs such as a traditional Navy uniform in black leather. This kind of innovation and creativity can also be found in such items as black leather overlays and pants styled after Levis classics. There are harnesses of all kinds: suspension, bondage and decorative.

One of the real pleasures of owning leather is to participate in its design, making each piece uniquely one's own. The leather tailors at Boots enjoy assisting customers who want their leather to be a personal expression, not a copy of someone else's trip.

Boots has three smaller stores open evenings from 8 P.M. at the following bars: Ripcord and the 611 in Houston, and Chain Drive in Austin. The main store is open noon to 6 P.M. Tuesdays through Saturdays at Leather by Boots, 711 Fairview, Houston.

LOBO BOOKSTORES

Thirteen years in the business in Dallas, the Lobo Bookstores have recently opened a large new store in Houston. They are veritable supermarkets of gay, sexually oriented merchandise . For example, the Lobo Video Club for tape rentals has over 2,000 titles to choose from, making it the largest erotic videotape library in the world.

Gay owned and operated, the Lobo also sells a large selection of gay publications, including Drummer, cards, novelties and ready-to-wear leathers, such as hats, harnesses, vests, arm bands, etc.

The Lobo Video Club has a $40-a- year membership with overnight rentals at $5 per tape. The Dallas Lobo, in the heart of the Oaklawn section, is open 10 A.M. to 10 P.M. Monday through Saturday, Sunday 12 to 7 P.M. The new Houston store in the Mont-rose is open noon to 9 P.M. Monday through Saturday, and Sunday noon to 7 P.M.

LEATHER BY BOOTS

As one of Texas' major retailers of ready-to-wear and custom leather clothing and accessories, Leather by

DEEP IN THE HARD OF TEXAS

A long-time regular advertiser in Drummer, Deep In the Hard of Texas is the class act of phone-fantasy services found anywhere. No tapes are used. All calls are live, spontaneous fantasies tailor-made to the client's needs. This service accepts every major credit card except Bloomies, according to the owner.

Deep In the Hard of Texas specializes in hot Texan men, leather / SM, dominant phone fantasies. For more information, call the number below and a helpful member of the service staff will answer any questions and match you up with one of their remarkably talented and exciting Texans . Free long-distance call backs. Deep In the Hard of Texas (713) 526-4739

TEXAS COUGH CUSTON

Drummer's Tough Customers are just what the name implies: ready and willing but hard-to-please Tops and bottoms. And there's nothing as upfront as a Drummer man, right? That's why these studs are here, to show you what they've got and to see if you're man enough to handle it. Texas Tough Customers were photographed by Jim Moss at special Drummer Tough Customer Parties at the Trestle, Dallas; Chutes, Houston; and Snuffy's, Austin. Now let's see what you've got, stud!

THE GUIDE

AUSTIN

BARS

THE CROSSING

The Crossing is a popular little bar with a live DJ and dance floor. On Monday evenings, male strippers Hunter and the Headliners perform. This particular dance company maintains a number of small troups of four or more that tour the state, dancing one night in Dallas, the next in Houston, and so forth. Male strippers are a big attraction in Texas; altogether there must be a dozen small and large male-stripper dance groups in the state. When they go on stage, the temperature in the room rises at least 10 degrees.

The Crossing also has an amateur strip night (sort of a training ground) on Thursdays, with a $100 cash prize. Sometimes a slightly drunk cowboy taking his clothes off on the dance floor can be more fun to watch than the pros. Opens at 7 A.M. (noon on Sundays).

The Crossing, 611 Red River, Austin (512) 476-3611

505 CLUB

If you enjoy going to an elegant home for cocktails, you'll love the 505. A remodeled private residence with sofas, separate rooms, waiter service, patio and occasional live entertainment , a visit to the 505 is an unrushed. leisurely sampling of Austin's sophisticated gay community. On Sunday afternoons there is a cookout in the garden—a full plate for $1. On Fridays there are free hot hors d'ouevres. Saturdays and Sundays feature a liquor bust 4 to 7 P.M.

When special entertainment is offered, there is a cover charge. The 505 is also available for private parties and events. Located downtown, it is close to most of Austin's other gay businesses. Open 4 P.M. till 2 A.M., noon till 2 A.M. weekends. 505 Club, 505 E. 3rd St., Austin (512) 479-5050

SALLY'S APARTMENT

The flagship gay bar of Texas hill country, Sally's Apartment, fifteen years in the business, is not only Austin's oldest but its most successful. On Sunday afternoons it is the place to be. The atmosphere is comfortable and informal, Levis the accepted dress. Only a stone's throw from the University of Texas, most of the attractive bartenders are students. The bar, incidentally, allows in students under 21 for soft drinks and juices.

For any tourist or newcomer to Austin, Sally's Apartment is the perfect jumping-off place. The staff and management are eager to see that you have the best time possible in Austin-even if it means sending you to another bar. Don't hesitate to ask for tips and you'll get accurate information and directions to all Austin's gay attractions. Hours are from 8 A.M. till 2 A.M. except Sundays, open at noon. Every evening has some special activity. Highly recommended as your first stop in Austin. Sally's Apartment, 2828 Rio Grande,

Austin (512) 478-8782

PRIVATE CELLAR

No gay bar we've ever seen exceeds the Private Cellar in the beauty of its design and its incredible urban setting . Situated along Waller Creek in downtown Austin, the patio and balcony have a breathtaking view of the creek and its many dramatic waterfalls and walkways; all this against an urban high-rise background of hotels and office towers. In a state known for its patio bars, none comes close to the rugged beauty of this sculpted outdoor environment.

Inside is an equally stunning duplex bar with hot disco downstairs, and above an open airy top-floor quiet bar with comfortable couches and cocktail tables. The atmosphere is casual, the clientele sophisticated and urbane. Open 2 P.M. till 2 A.M. daily, except Fridays and Saturdays open at noon and frequently after hours. Magic Muscles male strippers are featured Wednesdays, and on Thursdays a variety show with professional performers set the stage.

Private Cellar, 709 E. 6th St., Austin (512) 477-6440

SNUFFY'S SALOON / BADLANDS

Built side by side with an interior connecting door so you can go back and forth without going outside, are two of Austin's most interesting and busy bars, Snuffy's Saloon and Badlands.

Snuffy's, the larger of the two, is a vast C / W dance bar with a friendly and attractive staff. Allan, the live DJ, is the foremost spinner of C / W music in the area. Mondays there are free dance lessons and a cash-prize pool tournament. Tuesdays is 25-cent beer all night. Seemingly as big as all outdoors, Snuffy's Saloon fills to overflowing on weekends with Austin's hot, masculine cowboys.

Badlands, on the other side of the wall, is smaller-but not small by any standard. A live DJ plays different music, mostly disco and rock-and-roll. The decor is very high tech. Both bars are open after hours on weekends and have frequent special parties such as Drummer's Austin Tough Customers Party.

Connected as they are, Snuffy's and Badlands make bar hopping easy and fun and multiply your choices enormously. Snuffy's Saloon & Badlands

THE ALL NEW FASHION

DADDY'S

MORE MUSIC! MORE FUN! MORE FRIENDS!

3913 CEDAR SPRINGS • DALLAS • 214-528-4098

TEXAS TOUGH CUSTOME

If a Tough Customer has a TC number, he'd like to hear from you. To answer, put correspondence in an envelope, seal, apply postage and write (in pencil) the TC box number on the black flap. Put this inside another envelope and mail, along with a quarter for handling, to Tough Customers, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314.

THE GUIDE

DALLAS

ARENA

At the edge of the Oaklawn section, Arena is the big, bold dance bar for the Levi crowd. Very hot bartenders, sunken dance floor, firstrate music, a large patio and private parking make this one of the largest bars in the city. If you like to dance next to hot sweaty men, this is the place. Arena offers different drink specials nightly. Its Sunday beer bust is a popular tradition.

At special parties there are frequently entertainers from major recording companies. Open Monday through Thursday, 3 P.M. till 2 A.M., Friday, Saturday and Sunday, 1 P.M. till 2 A.M. with frequent after-hours. Drummer readers will surely enjoy the Arena.

Arena, 4025 Maple Ave., Dallas (214) 522-7572

BIG DADDY'S

In the middle of the block, right between and across the street from a score of Dallas' most successful gay bars is the newest addition to the scene-Big Daddy's. Informal, Levis welcome, this is a beautifully decorated establishment with life-size brass sculptures of wild animals along its exposed brick walls. Comfortable and quiet in the daytime, it's a perfect place to rest a while and watch the passing parade of pretty men on Cedar Springs Boulevard.

At night it is a stand-up cruise bar gaining in popularity. With plenty of private parking in the rear, this is the perfect place for a cocktail while shopping in the neighborhood. Open from noon until 2 A.M. daily. Happy-hour prices till 8 P.M. Big Daddy's, 3913 Cedar Springs,

Dallas (213) 528-4098

Connections via American & Southwest Airlines

120 E. Atol St., P.O. Box 2326 South Padre Island, Texas 78597 512 / 761-LYLE (write or call for brochure)

EIGHTH DAY

It is said that after creating the world in six days and resting on the seventh, on the eighth day God decided to party hard. Well, every night is a wild party at the Eighth Day. If you want to buy a hot, young, available stud a drink, you'll have plenty to choose from here. Bordering on the insane, the Eighth Day is a wonderfully wild assault on the senses, especially on Thursdays and Sundays, when the male strippers perform, or an evening jockey shorts dance contest that brings the exhibitionists and voyeurs out of the woodwork . Fun, safe and to-the-point. Eighth Day, 2509 N. Fitzhugh, Dallas (214) 827-3765

4001

This high-tech disco is only open Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. The doors are thrown open at a late 9 P.M. but stay open well into the after hours-sometimes until 5 A.M. Saturday nights feature Hunter and the Headlines, male strippers, and a live DJ plays disco. The decor is sleek, video-oriented black and chrome.

4001 opens at 5 P.M. Sundays for its all-night beer bust. This is the best time to go as the crowd is the most varied and interesting. Occasional live entertainment. Cover charge. 4001, 4001 Cedar Springs, Dallas (214) 522-4001

HIDDEN DOOR

The Hidden Door is a crazy little bar with posters on the ceiling, a little room in the back with coin-operated Speed Queen washer and dryer. Here you can clean sheets and towels while cruising for someone to help you make even more dirty laundry. Home bar for three cycle clubs (The Dallas MC, The Texas MC and The Ad Hoc MC) the walls are covered with show- cases full of MC trophies and awards. A small leather shop completes this wonderfully zany spot that has been a favorite with Texas bikers for years. If you're into bike runs, swapping cycle stories and men with a little grease under their fingernails, this is the place for you.

Hidden Door, 5025 Bowser, Dallas (214) 526-9211

JR's

The most profitable gay bar in Dallas, JR's is a jammed-to-the-rafters cruise bar on the busiest gay corner in the city. The crowd tends to consist of young, well-groomed college-types that will appeal to certain readers, but not all. But seven years of success also means that it will turn some Drummer regulars on.

JR's has a grill open 11 to 4 that serves overstuffed sandwiches, burgers and salads. The complete Sunday brunch is $3.75.

JR's is at the exact center of the gay Oaklawn section, within a block of a half dozen other gay bars. JR's, 3923 Cedar Springs, Dallas (214) 528-1004

THE OLD PLANTATION/ DENTYNE'S PATIO

When big names from the major record companies come to play the Dallas discos, they always hit the Old Plantation-Thelma Houston, Divine, Gloria Gaynor, Helen Reddy, to mention just a few. The Old Plantation is very suggestive of New Orleans' French Quarter with its excessive use of wrought iron. It has a large dance floor, stage, indoor and outdoor bal-conies . The disco section opens late, 9 P.M. However, in the rear is a large, second-floor bar that is known as Dentyne's Patio, opening at 4 P.M. Monday is the Old Plantation's special night—the only evening it is regularly open after hours. The jockey shorts dance contest and 25-cent well drinks make it the place on Monday evenings . Cover charge on evenings of special entertainment. Lots of free parking in rear. Old Plantation / Dentyne's Patio 3911 Cedar Springs, Dallas

ROUND-UP SALOON

Right in the center of the action on Cedar Springs in the heart of the gay Oaklawn section is the Round-Up Saloon, a huge country / western bar. If bigger is better (and in Texas it is) the Round-Up is the biggest and best of its kind in Dallas. Home bar for the Texas Gay Rodeo last year, if you like cowboys, this is where you'll find them-by the herd!

for the leather / levi man

ON PREMISE LEATHER SHOP

THE TRESTLE 412 S. HASKELL DALLAS, TEXAS (214) 828-4959

Free C / W dance lessons every Tuesday and Wednesday on a huge dance floor with a live DJ and the largest wide-screen video in Dallas. An exciting and friendly place, the Round-Up is easy to find and hard to leave. Open 1 P.M. till 2 A.M. daily. Happy hour prices 1 P.M. till 8 P.M. Round-Up Saloon, 3914 Cedar Springs, Dallas (214) 522-9611

TRAMPS

A newly redesigned, high-tech dance bar, Tramps has a special appeal to Drummer readers. Although it is not strictly speaking a leather bar, all the staff and management are nightly decked out in their black leather best. Tramps is the home bar of the Men of Dungeons (MOD) social club, has a beautifully appointed Eagle Leathers shop and was chosen by the Disciples of de Sade as the rendezvous point for their annual SM bash / orgy.

Tramps has a sunken dance floor plus a separate quiet bar and game room. Weekly events and specials include: Mondays when all the gay bowlers converge after the tournament ; Tuesday discount on frozen margaritas; Sunday 4 P.M. to midnight beer bust. Frequent after-hours, as late as 5 A.M. on Fridays and Saturdays . Open daily.

Tramps, 4117 Maple Ave., Dallas (214) 741-9426

DRUMMER 103

THROCKMORTON MINING COMPANY

Packing them in for the last nine years, the TMC is another of Dallas' moneymaking night spots. Its masculine , subterranean mine decor wanders on from room to room to a large, covered patio. Always busy, with an informal dress code, this is definitely a cruise bar-stand up and stare 'em down. The TMC opens daily at 1 P.M. and has a popular beer bust Saturday evenings and all day on Sundays. The crowd is a mixture of all types: western, military, leather, Levis and fuzzy sweaters with sneakers. A party-pack assortment with something for everyone. Throckmorton Mining Company

3014 Throckmorton, Dallas (214) 521-0202

THE TRESTLE

One of Dallas' newest bars, the Trestle, is also the city's only hard-core leather bar. Situated right next to the railroad tracks in an out-of-the-way industrial section, it presents an ominous exterior at night. Seeing it for the first time, you might ask yourself, "Do I really want to go in there." The answer is an unqualified, "Yes!"

Inside, it is a clean, austere, medium-sized bar that has become a favorite of Dallas' leather crowd. Site of Drummer's Dallas Tough Customers Party and future Drummer events, this is where you will find the faithful. Put this bar on your "must see" list when in Dallas. Live DJ, dance floor, afterhours . Shades of Grey leather shop open evenings.

The Trestle, 412 South Haskell, Dallas (214) 828-4959

TEXAS TOUGH

TC 1190

I LIKE SEX And that says it all!

CUSTOMERS

HERMAN eat body.

BEND OVER AND GRAB YOUR KNEES

Don't forget to smile.

WORTH

BARS

THE 651 CLUB

Where the hot men go! The cover-man for Drummer 103 is the manager of the 651. This hot cowboy is but an example of what Ft. Worth has to offer-and you'll find them at the 651, too. A huge C / W dance bar with the largest dance floor in the state, the 651 has many attractions: a blackjack table with house dealer; C / W dance lessons on Mondays; pool tournament on Sundays with cash prizes as high as $300; always a live DJ.

The bar opens at 10 A.M. (noon on Sundays) with happy-hour prices every day until 8 P.M. Lots of private parking is available. Another gay bar, the Lumber Company, is directly across the street.

There is also a 651 in Arlington (a bedroom community between Ft. Worth and Dallas) that is owned and operated by the same management. This smaller, more intimate version of the Ft. Worth 651 caters to many college students attending the University of Texas, Arlington. It, too, has many attractive men. Discovered here was another hot stud with spectacular tattoos who was photographed and will appear in a future issue of Drummer.

The 651 Club, 651 S. Jennings, Ft. Worth (817) 332-0745 651 Arlington, 1851 W. Division, Arlington (817) 275-9138

LUMBER COMPANY

Across from Ft. Worth's 651 Club is the Lumber Company, a cruise bar. Unlike its neighbor, the DJ plays rock music rather than C / W. There is a small dance floor, all-day Sunday beer bust, blackjack table and patio. Open Monday through Friday, 4 P.M. till 2 A.M., Saturdays and Sundays noon till 2 A.M.

The Lumber Company benefits from all the hopping back and forth between this bar and its bigger neighbor across the street. A pleasant change of pace, both places are enhanced by the other's existence. Friendly, attractive staff. Free parking in a private lot.

Lumber Company, 700 S. Jennings, Ft. Worth (817) 332-0192

COWBOYS

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THE GUIDE

HOUSTON

BARS

THE BARN

Located in the heart of the Mont-rose section. The Barn is one of Houston's institutions and will be of special interest to Drummer readers. Eleven years old, The Barn is the home bar for two leather / western clubs, The Texas Renegades and The Sundance Cattle Company (the latter open to both men and women) as well as the western dance group The Montrose Cloggers. A converted two-story home with beautifully landscaped patio, The Barn has a schedule of weekly events designed to please the palate. The original "Steak Night" is on Tuesdays, when you can get a 16 oz. T-bone and all the trimmings for only $4. Breakfast and lunch are also served at very affordable prices. Especially interesting is the "Sunday Feed" on the patio which features a selection of Polish dishes. Recently seen sampling the Polish fare were Adolph and Eva.

BRAZOS RIVER BOTTOM

Hugely popular, the big, dominant country / western bar of Houston is the Brazos River Bottom, locally known as BRB. It has a weekly schedule of events designed to wear out even the most tireless cowboy.

The Brazos River Band, a remarkably excellent local group, performs live Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings . Free C / W dance lessons by instructor David Royalty, are held on the large dance floor every Tuesday at 9 P.M. Steak Night is every Sunday at 6 PAGE 56

P.M. and you can get a 16 oz. T-bone for $4.

Weekend evenings, a bootblack will spitshine those cowboy boots. A C / W shop, The Brazos Back Pocket, sells C / W clothing and accessories, including a wide selection of cowboy hats ranging in price from $30 to $1200. A beautiful patio and quiet, glass-enclosed game room with an acre of pool tables completes this complex. Brazos River Bottom, 2400 Brazos, Houston (713) 528-9192

CHUTES

A favorite with Houston's leather-men , Chutes is a large bar at the edge of the Montrose. It has everything-an Eagle Leathers shop, game room, two large bars, a big patio with stage, two private parking lots. Chutes is the home bar of Houston's most unusual social clubs such as SPOT (Short People of Texas), which has a monthly party.

Weekly regular events include: professional male strippers every Friday; the SM Dating Game, a hot and sometimes hilarious takeoff of the TV show; a theme party every Saturday. A live DJ plays pop and disco. The clientele leans heavily toward leather, as does the entire staff and management . Drummer readers will feel most welcome. Happy-hour prices are in effect noon to 10 P.M. every day. Highly recommended. Chutes, 1732 Westheimer, Houston

(713) 523-2213

COUSINS AND TOUCH OF LEATHER

Cousins prides itself on being the friendliest bar in Houston. Each afternoon this small bar at the edge of the Montrose district becomes a boisterous , toe-tapping country / western establishment full of cowboys. A stranger won't leave alone unless he runs for his life. An afternoon cocktail at Cousins is one of the best cures for depression available without a prescription.

With two regulation-size pool tables, Cousins holds cash pool tournaments every Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

Worth a visit in itself is a small shop at the rear of the bar, Touch of

Leather, that sells unique custom-made leathers. Very high style!

Cousins opens at 11 A.M. Monday through Thursday, 7 A.M. Friday and Saturday, noon on Sunday. The leather shop opens daily at 5 P.M. Cousins / Touch of Leather 817 Fairview, Houston (713) 528-9204

HEAVEN

This is Houston's avant-garde video dance bar—as high tech as you can get. There is a large pentagon-shaped bar with five huge video screens adjacent to a large, sunken dance floor. Houston's most popular disco, its interest to Drummer readers will crowded, Thursday's male strippers are a feast for the eyes.

Cover charge varies according to drink specials and entertainment, between $5 and $7. For those short of cash, an automatic teller machine by the front door is a handy solution. But before you spend your money, check out what's happening that evening-occasionally Heaven can be a hell of cologne and fuzzy sweaters, and on others it can be, well…heaven! Closed Mondays, open 9 P.M. to 2 A.M., with after-hours every night. Heaven, Pacific at Grant, Houston (713) 521-9123

HOT ROD

Houston's newest gay bar, Hot Rod, is located at the exact center of the Montrose-ten steps from six of the most popular bars in the city. Not a copy of any of its neighbors, Hot Rod has its own wonderful identity—a masculine dance bar. Created to appeal to the macho male, Hot Rod opened late last year amid much secrecy and expectations. It fulfilled them all. The look and the clientele are very 'San Francisco,' and the tone is set by extremely handsome bartenders dressed in Levis and leather.

Hot Rod has a large dance floor, a high ceiling with exposed beams and a patio. The live DJ plays mainstream

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dance music. Hot Rod has already become a favorite for masculine men who like to dance. Eagle Leathers has a new shop in the rear of the building. Happy-hour prices are from 4 P.M. to 8 P.M. daily and Hot Rod goes after-hours Fridays and Saturdays. Hot Rod, 804 Pacific, Houston

JR's

JR's has a beautiful, open, clean atmosphere, very similar to the finer gay bars in San Francisco. Lots of windows, potted palms, hanging ferns and body builders in Levis and T- shirts. Of special note is a $10,000 state-of-the-art video installation, and the bulges at the Tuesday-night jockey shorts contest will bug your eyes out.

IR's is always crowded, a live DJ keeps the tempo upbeat, the atmosphere pleasant, without being piss-elegant . It is also next door, across the street and around the corner from a dozen other gay bars, being right in the center of the Montrose district. JR's opens at 11 A.M. daily (noon on Sundays). Especially recommended for happy hour.

JR's, 808 Pacific, Houston (713) 521-2519

The most famous bar in all Texas, Mary's, has an international following of faithful. Whatever wild tale or outrageous story you've heard about Mary's-no matter how incredible-it is probably true. Yes, this is the place. Housed in two small buildings, it is unique in the world, from its front windows featuring a newly painted, witty graphic each week, a main bar with bootblack, rear patio with stage and huge movie screen, to the rear building with second bar and Eagle Leathers shop.

It is said if you sit at Mary's bar long enough, everyone you know, or might want to know, will someday come walking in the door. Wild, crazy, mellow, rich, poor, shy, aggressive, leather, drag-the clientele of Mary's has crossed over into a world of its own that defies definition or comparison . If you go to only one gay bar in all of Texas-make it Mary's, naturally. Open early, closes late, always busy. Mary's, 1022 Westheimer, Houston (713) 528-8851

tition between gay bars for a dwindling number of gay dollars has grown intense. Some of the weaker bars have already become casualties of the "bar wars." The MMC, on the other hand, still ranks as the largest-grossing bar in the city. Opens noon daily. Montrose Mining Co., 805 Pacific, Houston (713) 529-7488

611

As one of the five most profitable bars in Houston, the 611 pleases many people. Always busy, always filled with plus happy-hour well drinks until 8 P.M. In addition to the handsome interior bar, the 611 has a beautiful patio bar, as well as a leather shop run by "Boots."

Drummer readers will be happy to know that the 611 is owned and staffed by leathermen. The crowd is masculine. Don't go expecting a quiet cocktail-this is an energetic bar. 611, 611 Hyde Park, Houston (713) 528-9079

STUDIO 13

Houston can lay claim to the largest and most fabulous black gay bar perhaps anywhere in the world. If big. muscular, black football-player types turn you on, run (don't walk) to Studio 13. Housed in a beautifully remodeled two-story residence, Studio 13 has two patios, balconies, a sunken, ground-floor disco and a hot cowboys or men in leather, this is a heavy cruise bar with lots of action. Right in the middle of the Montrose district, it opens daily at 7 A.M. (noon on Sundays). The daily beer bust offers draft at ridiculously low prices,

MONTROSE MINING COMPANY

This is Houston's most popular gay bar. Decorated in a rustic mine motif, it has a large patio, game room, and lots and lots of men. Every weekend the MMC hosts Houston's biggest beer bust and this is the place to be. The MMC has brought a new meaning to the term "happy hour," frequently all but giving away the drinks, and thus giving birth to a new term in Houston-the "bar wars." Houston is going through a period of severe economic depression, and the compe-

RIPCORD

As Houston's dominant leather bar, Ripcord is definitely the place to wear your black-leather best. A must for Drummer readers. Situated on a side street in the Montrose section, it is easy walking distance to a score of Houston's best gay bars. Ripcord opens every morning at 11 A.M. (noon on Sunday) and closes at 2 A.M. The live DJ plays a cross section of music. Built around a large rectangular bar with billboard-size blowups of leathermen on the walls, it also has a small shop, open evenings, run by "Leather by Boots." Boots' main store, located right next to Ripcord, is open in the daytime.

Ripcord has "sleaze to please" and the most hardcore of leathermen. Ripcord, 715 Fairview, Houston (713) 521-2792 high-tech second-floor "quiet bar" and game room. Of all the bars in the Montrose, Studio 13 opens the latest, 10 P.M., but goes after-hours nightly. It has a $3 cover charge-and it's worth it. Thursdays is talent night with cash prizes, discount drinks on Wednesdays . A friendly clientele and staff make everyone welcome. Definitely for those looking for an equal-opportunity lay. Studio 13, 1318 Westheimer, Houston

VENTURE-N

Houston's only downtown gay bar is owned and staffed by leathermen who are very active in our community, both locally and nationally. Established ten years ago, it is at its best late at

night when the real men come out to play. The main barroom has 22-foot-high ceilings with a balcony overlooking the large bar below. This is the original duplex bar of Houston, with cruise views from all angles.

Open noon to 2 A.M. daily, beer bust and discount well drinks 5 P.M. to 10 P.M. The Venture-N has a beautiful small patio with a balcony. Drummer readers will want to visit this bar for sure, as it is one of the few in Houston that aggressively caters to our crowd. Ask for "Big Jim" Dondson.

Venture-N,

2923 S. Main Street, Houston (713) 522-0000

RESTAURANT

POT PIE

As the name suggests, Pot Pie specializes in a variety of delicious pot pies. Open 24 hours a day, 7 days, it serves breakfast all the time. It is the favorite meeting place of the gay community in Houston. This is where the gay bartenders go at the end of their shifts for late-night breakfast. The food is excellent and modestly priced, the menu large and varied- the chicken fried steak worth special mention. Nicely decorated, clean as a whistle, conveniently located at the center of the Montrose and its dozens of gay establishments, Pot Pie is one of Houston's hidden assets. Private parking, patio, excellent service, 4-star breakfasts, highly recommended. Pot Pie, 1525 Westheimer, Houston (713) 528-4350

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SAN ANTONIO

BARS THE BOLT

San Antonio's newest look is to be found in The Bolt. Centrally located, this high-energy video dance bar has captured the local dance crowd with its unique look. Unusual neon sculptures float over the black-marble dance floor where a live DJ spins contemporary upbeat music. There is no cover charge and something special is happening every night of the week. One of the most popular attractions is the Monday night gathering of professional male dancers. Definitely check out this San Antonio hot spot.

The Bolt, 820 San Pedro, San Antonio (512) 224-7739

BONHAM EXCHANGE

Ironic perhaps, but then strangely appropriate, the largest gay bar in the state of Texas is back-to-back with the Alamo-Texas' sacred shrine and birthplace . An 1891 building that's part of the Alamo National Historic District, it used to be a German social and health club.

The Bonham is huge. The second floor ballroom is 60' by 80' with 22' high ceilings and is rentable for a modest $150 for special parties, complete with bartenders, sound system and live DJ. There is an equally large disco, three huge bars and a library on the ground floor. The words "beautifully decorated" do a disservice to this lovingly restored landmark . Open daily from 4 P.M. After-hours on the weekends. Minors admitted on special nights. Mixed crowd. Cover charge. Bonham Exchange, 411 Bonham, San Antonio (512) 271-3811

FRENCH CONNECTION

Located close to many other gay bars in an area of town rapidly becoming a gay neighborhood, the French Connection will appeal to many people. Friendly and informal, the French Connection offers live entertainment in its piano bar section where you can sing along on an "open mike." A favorite watering hole with many of the locals, tourists are welcome and will enjoy meeting real San Antonio gays at their home away from home.

The free Sunday buffet is popular, as is the covered year-round patio with potbelly stove and hot buttered rum on weekends. The atmosphere is relaxed and informal, yet very sophisticated . The perfect place for the right kind of person.

French Connection, 330 San Pedro, San Antonio (512) 225-2353

PAPA BEAR'S

Nowhere will you find a more uniquely designed and lovingly handcrafted bar and restaurant than Papa

Bear's. The roughhewn wood tables and chairs made from a single piece of wood, the walls each differently paneled designs made of split logs* and planks are a visual delight. Except for its large size, you might easily think you were in a hundred-year-old cabin in the Ozark or Blue Mountains.

The well drinks at Papa Bear's are all premium liquors; the restaurant serves hearty food at affordable prices. There is a comfortable projection TV with a dozen couches that are jammed for every televised Cowboys game, a small patio and a private parking lot with full-time guard. Open at 7 A.M. daily (noon on Sundays). Papa Bear's, 3530 Broadway, San Antonio (512) 822-2823

PAPER MOON

This is a very large disco and separate showroom with live combo. It frequently features live performances by such big names as Paul Parker, Lisa and Divine. The clientele is a wide mixture of types. The best nights to go are Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays when the Continentals, a male strip group, perform. These guys are the greatest!

There is a nightly cover charge from $2 to $4. The crowd is mixed. If you hit on a bad night there is always the Silver Dollar, next door in the same building. The Paper Moon will appeal to some, but not all readers. Check it out.

Paper Moon, 1430 N. Main, San Antonio (512) 225-7330

SILVER DOLLAR SALOON

The Silver Dollar is San Antonio's biggest country / western gay bar, complete with live DJ, huge dance floor, cruise bar, game area and patio bar. The Silver Dollar's weekly schedule of events is worth noting, as the management has gone to great effort to make life exciting, not just Saturday night but also the other six. Monday, 6 to 11 P.M. is "Steak Night" when for $4 the Silver Dollar serves up a 16 oz.T- bone-good food and good company. Also on Monday and Tuesday are free dance lessons by an expert instructor, 9 to 11 P.M. Sunday's barbecue and beer bust packs in the cowboys. The rest of the week features different drink specials, sometimes on an hourly basis. The Silver Dollar opens daily at 2 P.M., closing at 2 A.M. Silver Dollar Saloon, 1418 N. Main, San Antonio (512) 227-2623

SPECIAL THANKS TO THIS WEEK IN TEXAS

Drummer magazine and especially the art department would like to thank the staff of TWT for their assistance in producing this special issue, and for allowing us to reprint The Guide. For a copy of the most recent issue of TWT, send $5 to: TWT, 2205 Montrose, Houston, TX 77006.

THE GUIDE

PADREISLAND

PBD's (South Texas bar)

Located in McAllen, the largest city in the Rio Grand Valley, PBD's has a mostly local clientele during the hot summer months when the temperature soars to 100 degrees plus daily, and is full of tourists who flock to this tropical paradise during the fall and winter. PBD's is a large cruise bar catering to all types—the mix is about half Anglo and half Mexican. (English is a second language in this part of Texas, by the way.) PBD's will definitely appeal to Drummer readers. Being the new face in town is a guaranteed ticket to scoring. The men are tan, good-looking, rugged, outdoor types, as the area has an agricultural- and fishing-based economy . This means an abundance of hot field hands and horny shrimpers. PBD's opens at 8 P.M. daily, except Sunday at 2 P.M., closing at 2 A.M.

This, incidentally, is the local hangout of Jim Moss, the photographer and author of this article on Texas. Ask for him.

PBD's, Ware at Daffodil, McAllen (512) 682-8019

LYLE'S DECK (Hotel / Guesthouse)

South Padre Island is one of the most beautiful, unspoiled stretches of beach in the world. This tropical paradise, only minutes from Mexico, has so much to offer: incredible dining and big-name entertainment, sport fishing, swimming, hunting, and other outdoor activities. And, as it should be, gays have created their own special little world on South Padre Island-Lyle's Deck.

Only 500 feet from the surf, Lyle's

Deck is a huge, white-wood structure with an open atrium at its center and a huge new pool in the rear. Once inside Lyle's Deck, clothing is optional; nude sunbathing is the second most popular pastime (need you ask the first?). A complete facility: jacuzzi, gym, video room, library, community kitchen, private suites and rooms and a bunk room for day trippers or those on a budget. The only gay establishment on the island, it is the center of social activity for all the local gay surfers who work at the Hilton, Sheridan and other major hotels nearby. An illustrated brochure is available, reservations suggested. Write PO Box 2326, South Padre Island, TX 78597. Lyle's Deck, 120 E. Atol St., South Padre Island (512) 761-LYLE

SOUTH OF THE BORDER

One of the major appeals of Texas is the many wonderful border towns of Mexico across the Rio Grande River, the southwestern flank of the state. Along with great shopping (the peso is now traded at about 1000 to $1, compared to 131 / 2 pesos just a few years ago), virtually anything goes at any hour of the day or night at some of the more notorious Mexican gay bars. The best border town is Renosa, opposite McAllen, Texas. In Mexico, gay bars come and go and are often mixed. Currently, the two hot spots are Zodiac and the Alaskan. These bars will sell liquor to anyone, regardless of age at any hour! On weekends they stay open 24 hours and frequently catch the after-hours action of the U.S. gay bars across the border. On any given night (morning?) you'll find male and female hustlers lined up against the wall, available to anyone with a few U.S. dollars.

But be warned, corrupt Mexican police can spoil your fun. For the most trumped-up charge, you can find yourself in a dirty Mexican jail for an indefinite period—sometimes weeks! Also, you can buy anything you want in a Mexican drug store, but do not attempt to bring back anything , or you'll find yourself in a U.S. jail. There is no free lunch-you can pay for your folly very dearly. Care and caution should be your priority.

If you are determined to taste the sexual delights and perversions of Mexico (yes, there are donkey acts!) the following suggestions are highly recommended:

1) Don't take your car across the border. Use a taxi. They are most inexpensive. Your car, once impounded in Mexico, is gone forever. That's where the taxis come from.

2) Go with a gay guide who speaks Spanish and knows the area. A good place to meet such a person is PBD's in McAllen, about 15 minutes from Renosa. The owners and staff of this large, friendly gay bar frequently give good advice and tips on how to survive in Mexico and will introduce you to a reliable local gay to guide you. This is, of course, a most informal service. See above for more info on П PBD's.

Sooner or later, everybody comes to

1022 Westheimer 528-8851 Home of Eagle Leather

Photos by JIM MOSS

Tew men have the ability and good fortune to live the fantasy as does Paul Peña. A Texas -born Native American, Paul lives alone on a secluded wilderness ranch in the panoramic hill country of Texas. This self-contained redoubt is shared with a menagerie, including prize-winning livestock .

Paul grew up working on a ranch and continues to sustain his part-time job as a bartender by raising and showing his animals and hunting. He prefers the natural food raised on his spread and, as an avid deer hunter, eats venison year round.

Sexually this particular stud enjoys other cowboys, local ranch hands and the occasional straight dude looking for a good time. Paul admits to "doing it" almost any- where; in the barn, chicken coop, behind the wood pile and even in the blind while deer hunting.

At age thirty, Paul Peña is living a life of independence and fulfillment. Many of us living in an urban jungle envy his alternate lifestyle.

The image of masculinity expounded in DRUMMER has covered many aspects of life. It is our pleasure to share with our readers a man who truly marches to the beat of a different drummer.

-JimEd Thompson

EUROPEAN LEATHER NOTE

DRUMMER BULLETIN BOARD PO BOX 11314, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314

KARNEVAL IN KOLN

The MS Panthers of Koln, West Germany invite all of their friends from all over to the Rheinland-Carnival in Cologne Feb. 24-March 3. They have special events and parties for the entire week. Contact MS Panther Koln e.V., Postf-ach 5163, D-4620 Castrop-Rauxel .

BEARDS MEETING BEARDS

Bart, Inc. has a fun-filled week planned for Carnival in Koln. Bearded men and those who love them are encouraged to contact them at Bart, Inc., Cheruskerring 47, D-4400 Munster, Federal Republic of Germany, tel. 0251277922 or 0221-218241.

GL

MR. EUROPEAN DRUMMER CONTEST '88

The first annual Mr. European Drummer Contest will be held in 1988 at the Amster-dam Eagle Bar. Regional contests will take place throughout Europe during late 1987 and early 1988 to de- termine contestants for the finals held in early April. Look for updates in Drummer including the dates and locations of regional contests.

The winner of Mr. European Drummer will receive among other prizes, an all-expenses-paid vacation to San Francisco, California, USA to participate in the Mr. International Drummer 1988 finals.

All clubs, leather bars and motorbike affiliates interested in sponsoring contestants at regional or local levels may write for more information to Drummer, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101, USA.

Another option would be to contact our representative in Europe, Steffan Livarno, between February 15 and March 25 in Amsterdam at tel. 020- 381717. Feel free to contact him concerning contest regulations and information packets. After these dates, however, you may contact Drummer by writing to the above address, or call our office in the San Francisco at (415) 864-3456.

DUTCH TATTOO FOUNDATION

The second annual Amster-dam Tattoo Convention will be held March 2 and 3 at the Paradiso. Biker, punk, military and rock-'n'-roll tattooists will demonstrate and compete. Mr. and Miss Tattoo contest, tattoo memorabilia, rock bands, hundreds of artists and thousands of fans are sure to make this an even more memorable event than last year's convention. Reservations and information may be obtained by calling Amsterdam 250815 or 274848, or write to Dutch Tattoo Foundation, Lankges-traat 3, 10115 AK Amsterdam.

BEST GUIDE

Eden Cross Uitgevers has recently published a very complete tourist book for Great Britain called Best Guide 1987 Great Britain. The 384-page pocket edition contains everything from bars, tourist information , switchboards, hotels, bookshops and even VD / STD clinics. The city and area maps are clear and easy to follow. The guide is accurate, compact and convenient. Available from Best Guide, Postbox 12731, NL 1100 AS Amsterdam, The Netherlands, tel. 020- 905691.

LONG DISTANCE ERROR

The Club LL International mentioned in Drummer 102 is unfortunately no longer in business. The popular Amster-dam club closed last May (news travels slowly) but the parties were immediately picked up and continued by the Cuckoo's Nest leather bar; Nieuwezijds Kolk 6, Amster-dam , The Netherlands.

MAD DOG IN EUROPE

The infamous and crazed tattooist, Robert Roberts (aka Mad Dog) will be at the International Tattoo Convention and will be exhibiting his work and tattooing at Rob's Amster-dam Gallery during the last week in February and the first week in March. This is a chance for those of you in Eu-rope to see Mad Dog's incredible creations at Rob's Amsterdam Gallery, Weter-ingshans 273, Amsterdam 1017XJ.

MSC FINLAND

Club nights take place every Saturday at Tom's Club, Pihlaj-atie 26, Helsinki, tel. 484 647. This well-established club has theme parties and events all year long. Some of their upcoming schedule includes Rubber Night on March 7, Western Night on April 11 an Egg Party on April 18 (someone must write and let us know what this is about), their annual First of May Party on April 30 and Bike Run and Bik-ers' Night on May 9.

AH

Due to lack of space in this issue, we are simply listing a calendar of upcoming events and organization contacts. An expanded Leather Bulletin Board will appear in Drummer 104, along with coverage of the Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend and Contest, plus other events.

It is our desire to further communication and brotherhood within the leather community. We need your help and participation to do so; if you organization, club, etc. has an upcoming event, send Drummer the information well in advance (due to publishing schedules) to the Leather Bulletin Board, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101.

INTERNATIONAL MR. LEATHER 1987

5025 N. Clark St., Chicago, IL 60640. (312) 878-6360 Contest weekend May 23-25, 1987

SECOND NATIONAL GAY RIGHTS MARCH ON WASHINGTON

A special-interest seat on the steering committee for the S / M community has been created. We need everyone's support. Contact Barry, c / o GMSMA, 132 W. 24th St., New York, NY 10011. Be at the march and demand your rights! October 9-12, Washington, DC

TRIBE MC

Box 32798, Detroit, MI 48232 April 3-5-Do A Fool "16" Run

ILLUSTRATED MEN

Box 7091, Burbank, CA 91510 March 28-Tattooed Men Party, National Tattoo Convention, San Diego July 4-Tattoo & Pierring Celebration II. Write for details.

THE TRADESMEN

Box 36712, Charlotte, NC 28204 May 2-3—First Anniversary May 16-Mr. Carolina Drummer 1987 Regional Contest

CHICAGO HELLFIRE CLUB

Box 5426, Chicago, IL 60680 Parties held the second and fourth Saturdays of each month. September 10-13-Hellfire Inferno Weekend XVI

MR. NEW ENGLAND DRUMMER 1987

The Harbor Masters of Portland, Maine will host the Mr. New England Drummer contest at the Underground, 3 Spring St., Portland on Saturday, March 21 at 8 P.M. The public will get a chance to meet the contestants at an open reception at the Underground on Friday evening. For more information contact Ralph or Butch at (207) 774-4785.

SIGMA

Box 30651, Bethesda, MD 20814 Meetings and presentations on the second Monday of each month. Write for details.

AVATAR

7869 Santa Monica Blvd., #316, Los Angeles, CA 90046. February 25-Electrotorture/ Electropleasure. Discussion and demonstration by Fledermaus.

VASM

Box 2204, New Westminster, BC, Canada Oct. 9-11-VASM's 5th Anniversary Party

NATIONAL LEATHER ASSOCIATION

Box 17463, Seattle, WA 98107 March 29-Washington State Mr. Leather Contest May 1-3-MAY DAY! Two-day Dungeon Party. Mr. and Mrs. NLA Contest

THE 15 ASSOCIATION

Box 421302, San Francisco, CA 94142- 1302 February 22-7th Anniversary Party

THE KNIGHTS TEMPLAR

Box 14128, San Francisco, CA 94114 Write for schedule.

INTERNATIONAL MS. LEATHER CONTEST

1519 Mission St., San Francisco, CA 94103 March 21-Club DV8. The first of its kind-don't miss this one.

DREIZEHN

Box 1486, Boston, MA 02117 Monthly meetings with discussions and demonstrations.

THE EULENSPIEGEL SOCIETY

Box 2783, Grand Central Station, New York, NY 10163 One of the oldest S / M organizations in the country; meets every Monday.

THE SOCIETY OF JANUS

Box 6794, San Francisco, CA 94101 Private meetings but open to members of other S / M groups on request. Send $3 with inquiry for information.