OFF THE TOP by FLEDERMAUS

INTOLERANCE

A man with AIDS coming home to a small town in West Virginia is treated to threats and persecution.

Two men walking down a city street together are accosted by a group of young Latin toughs, verbally abusing the "faggots."

A self-loathing cocksucker writes to Drummer to crow about all of the straight men, the "real" men, he gets it on with.

A well-known gay activist wins a major Leather title and is barraged by former friends for selling out to the "neo-Nazi whips & chains crowd."

A well-established Leatherman gripes about all of the "naugahyde fluff" that inhabits the bars these days: "there don't seem to be any 'real' Leathermen left!"

One "slave" writes in with a complaint that another writer can't be a "real" slave because he does (or doesn't) …

A Top at a party comments, "He's a hunk, but don't bother. All he wants to do is get tied up and sucked off. I don't know why they let these vanilla types in here!"

A writer complains to Larry Townsend, "I have to put up with women at work. I don't want them in my bars even if they are wearing leather!"

Why do we expect "straight" society to tolerate our homosexuality and / or our Leather / SM personas when we have so damned much trouble tolerating each other? It seems as though every batch of mail brings news or letters from someone griping about some other type or group or individual that he / she can't tolerate: gay vs. non-gay, leather vs. vanilla, men vs. women, old vs. young, "real" vs. "not real," my kink vs. your kink, etc. Why? Why do we waste so much time and energy putting down others?

Sure, I'd love to live in a world where everyone looks, dresses and behaves exactly the way I want them to, but of course none of them would like it very much. And we all know it is only the wildest of fantasies; not even the mightiest despots on earth have been able to bring that one off. So why do we constantly bitch! Instead of focusing immediately on the one negative aspect we see in another, why not emphasize the good points? You don't have to become a Pollyanna to do this. There is a huge middle ground between the Pollyanna and the Put-down Oueen. Surely we can find a way to better enjoy our differences, to appreciate our diversity, or at the very least, to tolerate those we might not love, or like, or even care to associate with.

It's not too late for a New Year's resolution!

CAUTION: Every decision a person makes, including the decision to get out of bed in the morning, has some degree of risk associated with it. We strongly believe that each competent adult must set for themselves the level of risk he or she is willing to accept. Some avoid crossing streets in heavy traffic-others stunt-ride motorcycles without a helmet. However, to intelligently confront and accept risk, a person must understand the dangers.

While Drummer hopes to educate its readers on a wide variety of topics, its main purpose is to entertain! Works of fiction presented in this magazine are just that - fiction! They are not in any way intended to suggest or describe activities that anyone should-or often could-actually do. They are meant for entertainment only. In other than fictional pieces, we will emphasize safe sex with respect to contagious diseases and safe and sane behavior with respect to all activities and will try to point out all activi-ties which deviate from generally recog nized safe-sex - as well as safe-and-sane - play activities. However, Desmodus, Inc., its officers and stockholders, the editors and staff of Drummer, columnists, authors, artists and other contributors to this publication and other organs of Desmodus, Inc. cannot be held responsible for accidents, injuries or other misfortunes that result from proper or improper application of information imparted or ideas generated by materials in Drummer, or from other Desmodus , Inc. products. 8

CAN'T FORGET THE MAN FROM INTERCOURSE

Please! I lost contact with a special person and I need your help in finding him. You see, I traveled to the National March on Washington DC (11-Oct-87), and while in the Dupont Circle area I met this man in a bar. We lost contact, and now I want to see him again. What to do?

I live in Sunnyvale, CA. Am six feet tall, GWM, 197 lbs, BB, dark hair with mustache . I met this guy in a bar on P Street, being with my friends from West Hollywood ; with all the activities, we forgot to exchange phone numbers. Now we are apart and I can't forget him. Help me find him. He has light hair, medium build, and was wearing a blue baseball cap with the words "Intercourse, Pennsylvania" on it. From our conversation, I remembered that he reads Drummer, so I do believe someone out there can and will help me find him.

Anybody … reading Drummer magazine … if you are this person … please send a letter (c / o Drummer) today. I'm healthy, eager, and waiting. Thanks in advance.

"Pet Skunks" Sunnyvale, CA

LONG-TERM S / M RELATIONSHIPS

You are really doing a fine job dispensing a high-volume flow of fiction and information concerning leather and S / M. I suppose that if I among others do not see what we "want," that is because we are not participating in the writing of such. One subject I wish you would invite people to address is long-term S / M relationships . Can one really live as a slave, and can a MASTER really endure the burden of responsibility for a bottom, maintaining the intensity of control and sexual / sadomasochistic action which was the initial attraction, for five or more vears?

PDP Vancouver

Ed.: This is the question our new columnist, Guy Baldwin, will be confronting on an ongoing basis in his column, "Ties That Bind." See page 30 of this issue.

WHO SHOULD TELL WHO WHAT?

This is my first try at your Dear Sir classified ads … the ads are great, your magazine is beyond comparison, but please consider adding one instruction to your "How To Reply" paragraph. Instruct the advertisers to include their ad number when they write back to the person who has sent the response. In the set of letters I am sending to you for forwarding, I have no way of knowing who is writing back to me unless they equate their ad number to what I have written. If I write two people from the same state, and each person has a different need or fetish and there is no ad number in the reply, then I do not know who is who and cannot respond in kind as to the original intent.

I just absolutely quit writing Advocate box number people because they did not have sense enough to let me know their ad number … hopefully, Drummer readers have more of their wits about them.

In high hopes of some good responses to bright horizons … or dark dungeons! Anonymous

Ed.: Your idea is a valid one but it should be the responsibility of the person answering an ad to request that the ad number be included in response to his letter. Most people who receive correspondence assume that you are writing "just" to them and do not consider that you would need more identification than a letter in return.

<math>-JET</math>

A MAJOR ESTHETIC HOMAGE!

Jameo,

Before any more time passes, I must congratulate you on the excellent layout you created on the feature-obituary I wrote on Al Shapiro (Drummer 106). "They" say that great art is a marriage of matter and form. You took the time, guite obviously, to read the article on Al, and then go back and study his style of magazine design. Your layout was in itself a great tribute to a great artist, because, not only did you match the content of the piece, you actually created the same art-design that Al himself would have!

I'm sure Al's laughing along with your presenting him skipping through the splashy title. I tried to capture his joy, his artistry, and his truth; you accomplished the same. And I'm glad. Art directors are the great unsung heroes and talents of publishing. Any magazine would be proud to have you designing its monthly presentations . I've noticed other of your work, but this time, with you working on my work and on my friend, I must acknowledge the hand of a true graphics professional , the soul of an artist, and the heart of a man.

Thank you for making these final words on Al Shapiro look so inviting, so readable, so wonderful. He would have loved it, and, for him, as well as for me, and the friends and fans who loved him, thanks for the extra effort you took on what someone less sensitive might have hacked up as a throwaway piece. Never have I received so much oral and written "fan mail," and always I turn the compliment to include you, pointing out what you so successfully accomplished.

Jack Fritscher, PhD Sebastopol, CA

SEALED WITH HOT IRON

After reading "Bonds" in issue 106, I had to write. First I thought to myself, how many of us are bound to our Masters by having been branded? I believe more than want to admit it. I certainly am proud of my branding. It has been 10 years since my Master put his brand on me. I was also taken out in the woods in handcuffs and completely nude. I was spread-eagled with four spikes already in place; and once tied down, my Master put another spike in the ground, to which he tied my balls. My cock became hard very quick.

There was no doubt in my mind what my Master intended to do. He had always said there would come a time when I would be made his slave forever. It was time. While I was tied down, my Master built a fire and placed a branding iron in it. The brand was quite small. He grabbed my hard cock and wrapping an inch or two of rubber around my cock just below the head, he then slipped a metal hose clamp over my cock head and began tightening the clamp. The tighter the clamp the harder my cock got and the bigger the head. It looked like a big purple

plum. Looking at my big cockhead, which looked enormous in size, I realized where he intended to put his brand and why the brand was so small. My cock was throbbing and jerking against the bondage.

My Master just smiled, stood up, and pulled his enormous cock out of his leather pants and pissed all over me, especially aiming at my cock and balls. Once he stopped, he sat on my chest and slowly fed his studmeat down my throat. By this time I had learned to take his enormous meat without choking. He was very pleased and it didn't take long for him to give me my reward, a large load of sweet cum. I didn't lose a drop and cleaned his cock completely before he pulled it out. I know the tight clamp on my cockhead kept me from shooting my load. My Master was aware of this because he teased my throbbing meat with a leather cock whip.

He decided the brand was ready and wasted no time placing it on the head of my cock. Even with the pain my cock went crazy and continued to throb and jerk. My Master removed the brand, untightened the clamp, and my flood of cum shot 4 to 5 feet into the air, splashing down all over me. My Master said, "You are my slave forever." That certainly was the truth. I was his slave before the branding but became his total slave after. He was always the Top; there was never any doubt by either of us.

That was ten wonderful years ago and we are still going strong. Over the ten years I have had both tits pierced, cockhead sliced, one ear pierced with guite a large ring in it, my entire body including my head shaved. I must keep it all shaved except my crotch. He keeps that area shaved himself. Since my Master enjoys my mouth and calls it his pussy, I had all my teeth pulled to make it a better pussy for him and his studmeat. I have no regrets, I live to serve and service the stud. He gave me permission to read "Bonds" and to write this.

Mike, a Grateful Slave Troy, MI

EXPOSE THE HYPOCRISY OF SODOMY LAWS

Last summer, I had written to a number of gay publications to appeal for a volunteer willing to be arrested with me in civil disobedience of sodomy laws. You had asked to be informed of the results of my project.

Unfortunately, after writing to some 36 papers around the country, I did not get a response from anyone who was willing to go this far. However, I did manage to stage a less dramatic action with an activist from Philadelphia, who prefers that his identity be confidential. This action took place on the day of the National March.

I am disappointed that no one has come forward yet for a more serious challenge to sodomy laws, but I have some hopes that more gays will be willing to participate in actions that entail a lower degree of personal risk, as described in this letter.

Now that the National March on Washington is behind us, the gay community must seek action to continue our struggle for justice under the law. I would like to describe a type of civil disobedience action that can be used by individuals to chip away at sodomy laws, without great personal risk. I had undertaken such an action in DC, in addition to the civil disobedience at the Supreme Court.

Since I was not able to find a partner willing to be actually arrested for sodomy, I found a compromise approach with a volunteer who also wanted to make a personal statement, but did not want to be arrested or face publicity.

What I did was to call a non-emergency number for the police, give them my name and hotel address, and announce that I would be committing an act of sodomy as soon as I hung up the phone. I invited them to attempt arresting me if they wished, and hung up. had already put on a condom before calling. My partner touched his mouth to the condom for a few seconds, and then left the hotel room quickly, before the police could arrive. Under DC law, any oral-genital contact, including cunnilingus, constitutes technical sodomy, whether a sex act is actually completed or not.

As it turned out, the police never did show up. If they had come, I would have confessed my "crime," but refused to divulge the name of my partner.

Afterwards, I mailed a notarized confession of the sodomy act to the DC Police. Considering that the police failed to make any arrest in my case, arrest should be unlikely for other gays who carry out similar actions, particularly if the sodomy act is not actually witnessed.

I think that this type of action, if done by enough gay people, would begin to have an effect, Each call helps to harass the straight establishment, and illustrate the absurdity of what it would mean to have police trying to barge into bedrooms. If the police fail to show, this helps to expose their hypocrisy, and the futility of the law.

Whether large numbers of gays join in this type of action or not, I recommend doing it, if for no other reason, then for the sake of bolstering your own pride and sense of freedom. It is difficult to feel as defeated and helpless once you have openly defied straight oppression.

TRK Randolph, MA

Ed.: You tell our readers what to do when the police do not show up but what do they do if the police do show up and arrest them?

<math>-JET</math>

warm autumn haze blurred the sere outline of the Sierra Afoothills as I navigated the final stretch of bumpy dirt track leading up to the Double Diamond.

I checked the printed instructions for the hundredth time, then parked in front of the largest of the barns, the one with black trim outlining its sliding double doors.

Easing cramped muscles from behind the wheel, I stepped onto a gravelled drive and surveyed the outbuildings and corrals with intense excitement. For the past week, since I'd made up my mind to come, my imagination had been revving in overdrive. The result now bulged beneath the zipper of my jeans and strained against the metal of my favorite cockring.

sensuous relief and the immediate stirrings of renewed lust. The treatment I'd received excited me. I felt dependent on these men, eager to tie myself to them with bonds of submission. If they wanted me as their plaything, I was willing!

They handled me easily, professionally. This was clearly a well-drilled routine. I wondered how many other young men had unwittingly volunteered their bodies to the Double Diamond's milking crew.

They weighed me, measured me from crown to heel, took cuticle, blood and hair samples, and recorded my blood pressure and heart rate from static and treadmill positions. I balked at the treadmill, but relented when Smitty wrapped his meaty fist around my naked balls and gave a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

Ted marked the readings on a chart which was clipped to a thick file folder. If the file was mine (and I was sure it was), the boss had done his homework.

"OK, stud. We got the basics. Now it's time for the main event."

Ted pointed to the table.

The air in the room was warm, but I shivered anyway. I moved to obey him, wanting to submit but torn by fears and doubts. I had no way of knowing just how far these men intended to go, and once on that table there would be no way of preventing them from working their will to the full.

I moved too slowly and my handlers were impatient. Ted grabbed my legs and Smitty hoisted me up, over and down onto the cool vinyl padding. Methodically they strapped me in, face down.

Actually I was grateful they'd given me no choice. This was fantasy time, bubbling up into hot, pulsing life. As the straps bit into my flesh, a mixture of fear, curiosity and a desire to be used seethed up inside. My cock was rigid.

Ted secured my ankles and thighs to the oddly-shaped extensions. These were narrow, formfitting metal restraints which molded themselves snugly to my limbs.

Smitty tightened chest and hip straps around my torso and fitted my wrists and forearms into angled depressions at my sides, cinching them tight with padded straps.

My head extended over the table's top edge, allowing me to study the undercarriage and its maze of hinges, levers and gears. Except for my neck and toes, everything was immovable. Well, not quite everything.

The torso support ended just below my navel, leaving my groin fully exposed. My cock and balls dangled freely below.

Testing their work, I flexed my body against the straps and allowed the sensation of vulnerability to flood me with arousal. Except for the lack of head support it wasn't an uncomfortable restraint. The table's designer had done his work well.

Ted and Smitty moved close to my face, their crotches so near that the heavy scent of their sex was overpowering. The redhead's enormous tool glowed an angry pink as he rubbed it, the glans and foreskin slick with joy juice. The youth's aroma was like sharp-scented hay, curing under a moist sun.

Smitty's black bush exuded a stronger, ranker odor, more like the horseflesh he groomed. The eye of his dick was a slit half an inch long, flicking open and shut with each manipulation of his cocksheath. Wiry black hair ascended the shaft almost two inches upward from the base. It rippled and flickered with an oily blue sheen.

Rob reappeared, distracting me from the cockflesh teasing my mouth. He carried a tray stacked with bottles, tubes, and several large plastic syringes. These he left on the bench as he turned to

The Southerner was still nude. He moved to stand directly in front of me, adding his formidable equipment to the array of phallic energy confronting my face. Of the three, he most closely resembed my friend Jim, even to the dimensions of his handsome dick. How I longed to suck that meat into my mouth, taste its flavor and explore its velvet dimensions!

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They watched me quietly for several minutes, working their cocks into rigid extension, knowing that my own was straining to break free of its sheath, begging to be touched and stroked.

Abruptly, Rob squatted down to bring his eyes level with my own. I saw him signal to Ted.

"Stud," he said, "we give our bulls the best possible care. I know you're in top shape. Ya wouldn't be here if you weren't. But we need those sperm bags full-ta-burstin' with more o' that rich city-boy cream. And for that, Mother Nature needs a little boost.

"We use a special feedin' formula on our milkers. It's guaranteed to keep a stud in heat and it kinda speeds up his juice production. Can't use it too often, and the taste ain't much to brag about, but it does get results and that's what counts."

As Rob spoke, Ted manipulated the hand cranks on the gears beneath the table. His adjustments elevated my ass, lowered and spread my legs in a wide "V" and tilted my chest upward. My asshole was now wide open to invasion.

Ted's long fingers found the exposed hole. I felt him apply something slippery, then groaned as the lubricant was forced past my sphincter up into the rectal sheath. He teased my love bud briefly and then withdrew.

"Smitty, I think it's time to measure that shit chute for girth. It'll keep his mind off other matters."

The image of Smitty's oversized ram splitting open my hole was a slap in the face. As I opened my mouth to scream a protest, Rob fitted it with a rubber mouthpiece. Through this he pushed a blunt-tipped plastic tube.

I tried to gag but Rob gripped my throat muscles just below my jaw and massaged gently as he pushed the tube past my pharynx and into my throat.

I struggled, trying frantically to cope with the tube as my ass was prodded by something warm and frightening.

"Relax, hotshot. Just relax."

Rob stroked my spasming throat. He tousled my hair and locked his eyes with my own, seeking control of my fear,

"Just relax and open up," he crooned. "I've got your choke points, buddy. Just go limp and let us work on your meat. Smitty's big, but he's been into smaller holes than yours without doin' any permanent damage."

In his right hand Rob took up a plastic syringe. It was filled with a brown-colored substance and its snout was connected to the tube down my throat.

Smitty had his meaty hands on my buns, kneading and stretching them. His cockhead still rested outside, but he pressed insistently, pushing against the rigid muscle guarding my hole. I fought him, unable to accept the thought of that pole entering me.

Suddenly I felt his hand around my nuts and his baritone voice rumbled in my ear.

"Relax, stud. Don't fight me or I'll mash these 'til they scream for help."

Smitty had tapped my threshold. My nuts are my weakest link. It broke my panic and I went limp under him.

As the muscle relaxed, Smitty seized his opportunity. He pushed in with a short, smooth thrust, sliding half his girth into my hole.

Pain seared, flashed, and then throbbed with my pulse. The impaler's stake of the Middle Ages must have been worse, but not by much. Smitty was one of those guys who never get fully erect until they're inside the tent. He didn't move any further, but he didn't have to. I could feel that column of flesh expanding and growing harder as he paused to allow my body to adjust.

It was painful, even excruciating. But as my lungs bellowed in and out and as I felt the wonder of having taken that fiendish tool inside myself, self-satisfaction began to melt the pain into something else.

Rob caressed my shoulders and neck, feeding me praise.

"That's it, stud. The worst is over. Just relax and welcome that banger. You just swallowed one honey of a horse dick. Now let it roam around inside the corral.

"Smitty's an expert at plowin' ass. We always let him break in the new stock. He can ride that chute for hours just buildin' up his load and stayin' hard as a ten-penny nail.

"When he's done humpin', that hole'll be looser'n a whore's cunt!"

Smitty moved inward another deliberate inch.

I screwed my eyes shut at the fresh jab of pain, willed my asshole to stay loose and was very glad Ted had been so thorough with the hose.

It couldn't have been choreographed better.

Rob depressed the plunger on the syringe and before I knew it, his evil mixture was coursing down the tube toward my stomach. Never having been force-fed, I was unprepared for the weird sliding sensation of an untasted fluid flooding my gut.

As the plunger struck bottom, Smitty thrust himself completely home.

I screamed as best I could. It sounded like someone being strangled and drowned at the same time.

The pressure in my ass was unbearable. I dared not move lest something inside rupture. For the first time, outrage added its

Chuckling at the expression on my face, Rob eased out the mouthpiece and the tube. As the formula dribbled on my tongue I was glad he hadn't forced me to swallow it by mouth. It was a nauseous blend of sweet-sour-bitter, with emphasis on the bitter.

I spat out the tube, trying not to gag. "Now ya see, stud. That wasn't so bad."

I grimaced, unable to answer.

"That's real potent stuff; all kinds of hormones, sugars, fatty proteins and some kick-ass stimulants. In about ten minutes or less you'll think that dick o' yours's been plugged into the big outlet up in the sky.

"Those balls'll start churnin' like crazy and you'll be buildin' up one heck of a head of steam!

"Speakin' of steam, I think you could use a chaser to wash down the taste o' that mush. How 'bout it?"

With no further preliminary Rob eased open my jaws and slipped in his hooded, hardened cock.

When I'd first glimpsed the Southerner's elegant shaft, I'd fantasized about cleaning its golden brown sheath. That musky glove now filled my mouth and slipped between my tongue and palate like warm silk.

I inserted my tongue under the loosely draped skin and Rob crooned over my head, thrusting gently in and out, allowing me to play with his sensations. I discovered a slight amount of salty headcheese behind the lip of the crown and I savored its taste.

The pleasure of sucking this powerful creature's dick wiped all else from my awareness, except Smitty's reciprocating pile driver. The aroma of Rob's sweaty crotch filled my nostrils, complementing the taste of his sex. He pistoned slowly in and out but made no effort to force himself into my throat. His cockhead was far too large to swallow.

For my part, I responded with heat. I sucked and slurped at the hard, smooth head as it entered; suctioned and tongued the meaty foreskin as it retreated.

Rob and Smitty moved into sync and their thrusting acquired more power. As Smitty rammed in, Rob pulled out. They became a single instrument reaming me fore and aft.

The dull pain in the corridor of my gut eased and I drifted rapidly into a strange state of rising hunger. I knew what great sex could produce, but this was different. It was a hunger to be used, to be filled up and contained, magnified a hundredfold. The pressure in my cock was unbelievable.

I wouldn't have believed it possible to remain so hard while being assaulted so totally. And yet I was. The hunger turned the pain into fire and the flame's focus throbbed like a drum beneath me.

Thrust and withdrawal, thrust and withdrawal. A circuit closed

somewhere in my brain, flooding my belly with lava. I struggled uselessly to add my own thrusting to the energies pouring into me, and my cock ached with need

Rob and Smitty suddenly ceased their plunging and I felt the flesh in my mouth stiffen like an iron rod. A second later, hot wetness spurted against the back of my throat.

As it geysered in, I locked my lips around the twitching crown and gulped the Southerner's cream. Tart and thick, it came in spastic jerks, his hands clutching my curls and gripping me in place. Locked in that grip, I slipped out of ordinary time. My senses shifted into a slower, dreamlike tempo hooked directly into my gonads.

Rob's cock seemed to pulse and eject in slow motion. I floated in his ocean, a thick, white ocean of taste and scent, and I imagined that this must be the texture of perfection. His juice was

And then he was gone, leaving my tongue hanging loose with a cooling memory. The musk of his sweat clung to me and his taste lingered, but I still needed his heat and his juice. I wanted more,

Smitty moved and awareness returned of the fullness in my gut. I shifted to that connection and heard myself begging for the Slavic cock, pleading with it to fuck me, fill me and rekindle the fire.

I whimpered and strained, but the fullness remained immobile .

Briefly I was aware of Ted. He held the video camera close to my face, its red eye winking. The creamy sabre between his legs bobbed up and down and I drooled at the sight of it. But he retreated and I was again alone with my frustration.

At the sound of splayed feet striking concrete I looked up to see an apparition in black. It was a huge Black Angus bull being led into the room by Rob.

In my overstimulated state the two seemed somehow one. Fascinated by this intrusion of new energy, I marveled at the naked grace of the man leading the naked power of the animal.

Rob guided the beast into the nearer of the chutes and closed the head gate around its massive neck. Positioned not more than six feet away, the bull shook itself and rumbled deep in its chest, fixing me with one white-orbed eye. I could see every detail of its powerful body, including the profile of its massive penis.

Rob worked quickly. Heavy leather kick guards were buckled around the murderous hind legs and a metal tail gate was butted

Rob found the hose Ted had used on me and played a stream of water over the bull's anus, hindquarters and sides. Squatting soft cloth.

The animal's nuts were huge almond-shaped organs, each larger than a large grapefruit. They hung in a pendulous velvet bag, nearly even with the animal's hocks.

As Rob handled the outlandishly oversized testicles, rubbing and massaging the tender skin of the sac, the bull's phallus erected. The speed with which it emerged from its sheath astonished me.

An enormous pink javelin, the prod slipped beyond the lips of the sheath and jutted outward and down, expanding as it advanced. The bull rolled its eye, whipped its heavy tail from side to side and bellowed deeply, whether in protest or arousal I couldn't tell.

My own dick quivered at the sight. I was mesmerized.

His preparations complete, Rob dropped the hose and hunkered down once more in front of me.

'How you feelin', stud? You a little warm between the legs, a little spaced out? Is that horse cock o' yours yearnin' for pussy, or maybe a hot, wet mouth?"

He teased me unmercifully, playing his fingers over my wriggling tongue and stroking himself just beyond its reach. Deliberately, he stoked the chaos raging inside me.

"Told you that stuff was wild. You'll be in heat for hours,

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Tomorrow we'll give you another shot, 'cause we need a good supply of what's buildin' between your legs.

"But right now we're gonna stage a little contest.

"This is a milkin' contest between you and that big mutha over there, name of Blackie IV. It ain't rightly fair, as he hasn't been milked in two weeks. But maybe you'll surprise us, stud."

Smitty reached beneath my ass and collected my balls. They ached at his touch, though he only hefted them in his hand.

Rob grinned at the groan this produced.

"Yeah, stud. I know all about it. Piss and vinegar! Been there a few times myself. You just sit tight and if Blackie decides to cooperate, we might let that pisser of yours follow his lead.

"'Course, if he don't cooperate, you'll just haveta wait 'til he does

"Smitty, I think it's time to switch poles."

I couldn't see the big man's face but I could feel the reluctance with which he removed himself from the socket of my ass. I had no idea how long he'd been impaled there, but his meat now felt like a normal part of me.

As his cockhead eased itself free there was an audible "pop," followed by a sense of gut-wrenching emptiness. I felt eviscer- ated.

Rob stepped aside as Smitty moved to my mouth, his glistening prick dripping pre-cum and ass juice. Ted flanked him, his right hand jacking his rigid tool, his left cupping his nuts. There was a barely contained ferocity in the redhead's eyes, a current of pure savagery too long restrained.

'Clean that pecker real good, hotshot, and Ted might close that hole of yours. You want it closed, don'tcha?"

The inhibitions I'd have normally felt had fled me, lost somewhere in the haze of my brain. All thought seemed centered in my cock.

Grunting and slurping like a pig I attacked Smitty's tool with all the flexion I could bring to bear. I sucked in his hairy balls and sponged every inch of his dark shaft, not forgetting the piss slit in the crown. If he'd offered me his asshole, I wouldn't have hestitated to clean it, too.

When he was satisfied, Smitty pulled away to be instantly replaced by Ted. The kid was boiling hot and excited.

'Yeah, cocksucker! Suck this raw dick. You want it up that hole of yours, you suck it real good!"

He had my hair in his hands but I needed no encouragement. Frantic to please him, I slurped up and down his blue-veined pole.

When he began whipping me in the face with it, I completely lost my bearings. The begging and whimpering being recorded on tape issued from a part of me I never guessed existed.

When his cock was slick, Ted took pity on me. Gripping the short hairs dusting the small of my back, he positioned the head of his shaft near the slack band of my asshole, bumped it to gauge resistance and with a single relentless thrust, entered me as far as my intestines would permit.

My howl of pain drew an answering bellow from the bull, which shook itself savagely against the chute. Rob told me later that the redhead's plunge thrust him almost as far as the first crinkly red hairs of his crotch, nearly eleven inches into my gut. Nobody had ever been able to take all of it.

Ted slapped my ass viciously.

"Shut up, pig! You ain't been stuck yet. Loosen that gut so's I can ram it all the way in."

I have a big body and a long, narrow waist, but I knew there was no way that Viking sausage would ever bury itself completely.

The shaft wasn't as thick as Smitty's but its monstrous length probed my gut in a much more painful manner. The knobby head, so much bigger than the rest of the shaft, impacted like a pile driver at the end of each thrust. These, I knew, were controlled to avoid rupturing me, but it was some time before Ted

When that moment arrived, I opened my eyes and tried to slip into a new rhythm of satiation. The scene before me helped.

With a grip on the lashing tail, Smitty was pushing a shiny black torpedo-shaped object into Blackie's anus. About a foot long, it trailed a double electrical wire, hooked into a small control box resting nearby on the floor.

The bull resented the intrusion. As Smitty's right fist disappeared into the pink hole, the bull kicked out helplessly at the leather guardstrap.

I could only sympathize. Each of us was being buggered, but at least my intruder was hot, throbbing and very much alive.

Rob produced a second set of wires, also hooked to the box, and slipped on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Each wire was fixed to a shiny copper ring and these he slipped over the thumb and middle finger of his right hand.

Rob adjusted two dials on the box. As he twisted the second knob, Blackie jumped like something bitten. The bull loosed a startled bellow and its phallus leaped outward another two inches. I was so close to the action I could see the veins in its prick distending.

Rob and Smitty worked as a team. Smitty held a clear plastic collection tube around the blunt tip of the jutting penis and Rob coated his ringed hand with a gel-like substance and began stroking the full length of the quivering dick.

The bull rolled its eye wildly and thrashed its head and tail from side to side. Rob masturbated it methodically, feeding weak electrical pulses into the shaft from below while the electro-ejaculator resting above the bull's prostate gland delivered the same pulses from above.

The animal began a humping motion, responding with its orgasm.

The bull's joy translated itself to me. How I wished that gleaming shaft was mine! I itched for that stroking hand and whimpered as I imagined the electric fire dancing through my cock.

My dick throbbed with a dry, insistent heat. I pleaded with Ted to jack me off; I begged him to touch me, to rub my tool the way Rob was caressing the bull's. The building tension was a fiendish torment, a monumental itch I was impotent to scratch.

Ted responded, but not by touching my cock. Maintaining his slow stroke, he leaned over and reached both hands under my chest, finding my nipples.

"You want that, don'tcha?" he whispered. "Sure ya do, stud. Watch that bull dick fucking that hand and tell me how bad you want.

"Tell me, stud! How bad you wanta cum?"

Ted's fingers bit into my nipples and his dick probed the sides of my gut. He took perverse joy in my helpless need and I could only plead for compassion.

Blackie's moment arrived. His jism boiled out of the long slippery ram and hit the bottom of the plastic tube with a "splat. Rob squeezed the thick tubes of the animal's sperm canal,

In less than a minute Smitty held half a cupful of warm white bull juice—the expensive essence for a progeny of little Black Angus calves. He patted the beast on its neck and took over as Rob stood, nudged the equipment toward my table and turned to

Still wearing the ejaculator rings, he grinned down at me.

"OK, hotshot. Now it's your turn. You ready to fire?"

His comedic behavior was lost on me. I was mired in a mindless need to explode.

"Smitty, you shut the front door and we'll put this studball out of his misery."

Smitty appeared and dangled his jutting cockhead in front of my mouth, offering but not forcing it. With no hesitation I sucked in the fat head.

Smitty took hold of my shoulders and Ted gripped the cheeks of my ass. They set up the same motion I'd experienced before and I felt the flames begin to roar.

When Rob at last took hold of my twitching cock, salty wetness

dribbled down my cheeks to mingle with the taste of Smitty's meat. The electricity in Rob's fingers seared into me, an intensity I'll never forget.

Slowly, deliberately, Rob matched his moving hand to the strokes of his buddies. Like a maestro wielding a baton, he played my prick with finesse.

There is a certain space found rarely in orgasm—an exhilarating intermediate zone between the real and the unreal. It has a smooth, rapturous texture utterly beyond any description.

There, in the brief instant before I exploded, I wallowed in bliss

A voice intruded, someone shouting in release. Someone else bit into the muscle of my back, the way a stallion nips a mare, shattering the mood. And then I spurted.

Smitty's cream flooded my mouth and Ted's spastic contractions announced the fury of his rut. The redhead loosed a rowdy yell and slapped my butt as his fluid gushed out.

The Southerner worked my shaft and balls, squeezing and kneading me like a kitten nursing its mother's teat. The electricity now burned in a different way, a dryer, hotter flow. It spiralled me into a twisting frenzy and I writhed and slammed against the pelvic straps, trying to overpower Rob's hand.

I would have screamed myself hoarse if Smitty's spouting cock had permitted it. I twisted, thrust and jetted out my soul.

Eventually, there was no more to give.

Rob squeezed out the last drop and the rams at my mouth and ass withdrew, rather abruptly. I was covered with sweat, left open and spent like a gutted building after a battle.

They made me clean their tools. Then they left me.

Ted's cum dripped slowly from my asshole, the muscles too distended to hold it.

My cock, which should have been lifeless, twitched rebelliously in semi-erection. I marvelled at the brew they'd fed me. Their chemist had a genius for the ergometrics of lust.

My head dropped and I dozed.

I came alert to find Smitty, his hairy body clad in jeans and boots, unbuckling the straps. The bull was gone and the sky outside the window was a deep rose pink.

"We got chores to finish, kid. And you need some shuteye. Tomorrow's a full day, so grab some rest while you can."

The big man was gentle. He massaged the strap marks on my legs, back and arms, then led me to the corner near the lab door. A small cot with a clean foam pad was bolted to the wall; he sat me on it. A short chain had been welded to the cot frame at one end.

Smitty picked up a metal collar, its two halves joined by a padlock. The collar and two leather wrist locks, joined by separate tethers, dangled from the business end of the chain.

My jailer slipped the cool metal around my neck and snapped the lock in place. My wrists were secured to the leather tethers and their smaller locks were also clicked shut.

I could feed myself and cradle my head on my arms, but the rest of my body was out of reach, including my genitals.

Smitty rubbed my ears affectionately.

"Don't worry, kid. You won't haveta spend the whole night by yourself. That'd be cruelty to the livestock and the boss'd be pissed.

"That cock o' yours oughta be burnin' again soon, so you'd best stretch out and try to sleep. Once we've bedded down the other critters we'll be back to do the same for you."

He stroked me once and then tossed me a blanket.

"Now do like I say, kid. Get some rest. There's another milkin' in a few hours and tomorrow's a real hair-jerker. You'll need it."

He turned and padded out.

I examined myself as best I could, but found no serious damage. My asshole throbbed and there was lube still smeared on my cock and balls. The urge was there, but with no way to grip myself, I stifled it. I judged there was less than sixteen inches of slack in the chain, so it only made sense to do what he'd told me. I rolled over on my belly and drifted off.

(Continued in Issue #113)

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SEXUAL TORTURE INITIATION CEREMONY

For centuries harsh treatment has been used to promote soldierly bonding, but lately the British have been carrying it too far, or at least so says a News-week article. During November in West Germany, a British Army court-martial convicted four soldiers of the King's Own Scottish Borderers of torturing a young private during an alleged initiation ceremony. He said his assailants had burned him on the testicles, forced him to march with string tied to his genitals and ankles, and sexually assaulted him with a broomstick .

Meanwhile in London, the

YOU ARE THE SOLUTION

Erotic film and martial arts superstar Chris Burns has now opened a self-defense studio specifically designed to combat "Fag Bashing." He offers a relaxed, non-pressured environment , without the harassment and embarrassment due to being gay that is often found in other self-defense courses. The course is designed for both gay men and lesbians, regardless of age, creed, size, ability, beginner or advanced student of martial arts.

Master Burns offers the finest in private or group instruction in Kung-fu, Karate, Judo and other traditional forms of the martial arts. This includes instruction in many types of weapons . (We have all seen Chris's most formidable weapon. I wonder if he includes instructions on its use?)

If interested in his San Francisco courses contact him at (415) 621-0297.

TOUGH SHIT

SEND YOUR BEST SHIT TO DRUMMER PO BOX 11314, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94101-1314

550 men of the Coldstream Guards Second Battalion were confined to Wellington Barracks under house arrest while officials looked into charges that some of them had hauled an 18-year-old recruit from his bed and beaten him. It was the second such attack in months on the soldiers, sullying the reputation of one of Britain's proudest units, part of the Buckingham Palace guard of Queen Elizabeth II.

These recent revelations heightened a fear of growing brutality among enlisted men. Since January 1986 the British Army's Special Investigation Branch has received 75 separate reports of ill-treatment. Twenty produced convictions, 30 were dismissed and 25 are still under investigation. Given the soldier's code of silence. these figures may well be too low.

BLOW DRYER COMING SOON: Now this is "safe-sex" humor, but only your car can determine if it is truth in advertising.

ROYAL SHOPPING GUIDE

Throughout the city of Lon-don and other parts of Britain, windows to tradespeople providing myriad goods and services , from hats to harpsichord tuning, bear the proclamation "By Appointment to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales," or three other members of the immediate family-Oueen Elizabeth , the Queen Mother or Prince Philip-but not, be it noted, by Princess Diana, who hasn't the authority. Anyone who has supplied or provided a product or service to any of the royal residences (it must be a reasonable service used at that royal household) for not less than three consecutive years may make application to the Lord Chamberlain for a warrant .

Leon Harris, in an article for Signature magazine, notes that under WHIPMAKERS "By Appointment to Her Majesty the Oueen" Swaine Adeney Brigg & Sons is listed as the Queen's whipmaker and "offers a faintly frightening variety of lengths, shapes and firmnesses to suit your needs." (I know several people who would definitely NOT be frightened.)

If in addition you need other "royal" items, consult the complete list of warrant holders in the Dec. 30, 1985 supplement of The London Gazette, available for 2.30 pounds at Her Majesty's Stationery Office, 49 High Holborn, London WC1.

SFPD NOT HAPPY WITH FUZZBALLS

According to the current issue of the San Francisco Police Officers' Association Notebook: "Anyone who has been with the department for a number of years remembers the thicker, heavier pant (known as elas-tique weave) which was issued to members. When the Democratic National Convention was coming to San Francisco, the department wanted everyone to have a new pair of pants available to them and decided to change to the readily available LAPD-style pants (also known as the serge weave).

"The difference has been sub-standard. The serge pants did not have rear pocket flaps, wore much faster, looked sloppy because they did not hold a pressing, collected lint and 'fuzzballs' and suffered excessive wear at the crotch area."

The department has been requested to rewrite its specifications and go back to the old-fashioned pants "as soon as existing contracts and red tape will allow."

Sound interesting? The only way you can answer this ad is to call the computer bulletin board it was listed on. There are many kinky computer bulletin boards all around the country. Some of them cater to only one fetish. like the shaving bulletin board called The Razor's Edge. A bulletin board in San Francisco called Alcatraz uses a prison theme and "is designed primarily for Gay and Bi-Sexual men who have chosen an S / M (Sensuality and Mutuality) life-style". Daddy's BBS attracts ads from "Dads/ Sons," "Big Brothers / Little Brothers." Folsom Street BBS "is open to anyone but geared toward the gay Folsom Street Man." Rough 'N' Ready "caters to the rough 'n' tumble, S / M crowd, and Kinks and Fetishes." The S.F. T-Room "caters to the gay or bi-sexual male and is the place where you can live out any fantasy fetish you wish electroni-cally ." One of the oldest message services is called Kinky Kumputer, "where most anything adult and kinky is welcome !"

Why bother using a computer to meet people? One of my friends finds it easier to contact kinky playmates through the use of his computer "than to stand around a smoky, crowded, leather bar, where no one talks to each other." He says he can be very specific about what he is looking for when placing an ad, and he loves coming home after work each day and checking his computer for mail from someone answering his ad to play.

In addition to kinky bulletin boards, there are User Groups for technical information about specific types of computers or programs. Some have meetings, others exchange information and tips via their own computer bulletin boards.

There are many types of bulletin boards: the AIDS information bulletin board has been in operation since July 1985. It offers statistics from S.F. and Atlanta, also articles and opinions about AIDS. The

COMPUTERS LEATHERSE

BY HAL SCOTT

From: Grunt Marine To: Men

Subj: Motorcycles / Man-Fur / Man-to-Man / Sex

Howdy Men:

Check out my stats under: Grunt Marine. If interested, I'm looking for buddie(s) who, if we hit it off, would be interested in developing an on-going, friend / fuckbuddy … system is supported by user gifts and donations, and calls are limited to one hour maximum . There are bulletin boards that allow you to call them and play games on their system. Others let you copy the games (download) to your own computer and play them when you want.

Most communication programs use the terms "upload " and "download" when referring to transfers of files/ data / programs from one computer to another. Some people confuse the terms and use download for both directions of the transfer, because they think of it as sending the information "down the line." The terms always refer to your computer, so "download-ing " means you are receiving and "uploading" mean you are sending. If you send a file to another computer, then you are uploading and the other computer is down-loading . Just remember that uploading = sending and downloading = receiving.

Depending on which bulletin board you call, you might be asked to register or to answer a questionnaire about yourself before you can read any hot messages. Some of the boards require you to leave a message with your real name and phone number , so the system operator (sysop) can call you by phone (voice) and decide if you're the type of person they want on their system. A few of the boards use the term "validate ," which means different things to different sysops. One board has you answer a personal questionnaire and leave a kinky personal message , before you can use the kinky sections of the board, and calls this process "validation ." Some of the boards require a fee, up to $20.00 per year, before you can get access to all levels of the board.

Once you are connected on the board, the instructions (or "commands") you need to know will vary. Some of the boards have many sections to them, and different commands in each section. I usually print out the command menu and place it in front of me so I can navigate through the board quickly. Most boards will give you a "help" menu if you type a question mark at the different menus.

To get started you need a communications package, This consists of software (programs) and hardware (computer, telephone, and modem) to be able to call other computers, so you can send and receive that won-

derful kinky information sitting in someone's computer. There are many communication programs on the market to work with your modem. Some of the more popular ones are ProComm, Pc Talk, Xtalk, Bitcom and Relay.

The hardware needed is called a "modem." The word modem is an abbreviation or acronym for modulator / demodulator . It converts the computer data into tones, sends them to the receiving computer via the phone line, and converts the tones back into computer data. Connect your modem according to the instructions.

Once you have your mod-em connected properly and you have the program loaded in your computer, you are about ready to start. You should learn how to use the communications software. If there is a setup or configuration program, do that first. Some of the more common commands you need to know are how to dial another computer , how to save the information you receive if you choose to, and how to disconnect when finished. As you get more familiar with the program you can learn more of its features.

When calling computer bulletin boards you need to know some basic facts about how the data is transmitted. The rate of data transmission is called "baud rate." Most kinky bulletin boards and personal computers use baud rates of 300 or 1200. The "Hayes Smart Modem" will adjust the baud rate automatically when answering calls (answer mode) to allow the fastest baud it can handle. Some of the newest equipment can use 2400 baud, but few of the kinky bulletin boards can handle that rate. The higher the baud rate the faster the information can be exchanged between computers. This is important because most bulletin boards limit your access time; therefore you save time with a faster baud rate, and you wait less for the information to be presented on your screen. The baud

CODES:

[#] = 2400 Baud supported

[1] = Fee charged

[2] = Validation - Request access in writing via U.S. mail to Sysop

[3] = Registration online

(Either thru Questionaire / Comment / Chat with Sysop)

[4] = Validation - Request access by phone call (voice callback)

Acropolis [#] … AIDS Action BBS … (415) 863-9718 AIDS / Substance Abuse AIDS Information Network … (415) 626-1246 Latest AIDS Stats AIDS BBS … (415) 626-0258 AIDS discussions Alcatraz Federal BBS [1,3]… (415) 431-3037 S&M B&D (300 baud) All My Modems [#,4] … (415) 864-1522 Campy Alternatives [4]… Alternative Lifestyles … (414) 933-7572 Milwaukee, WI Apartment … (718) 486-7988 Queens, NY Athelete's Bench … (818) 304-0383 Los Angeles, CA Backroom [#,3,1] .Muli-line 16 users . (718) 849-6699 Kew Gardens, NY Backroom II [#,3]… (201) 431-1216 Freehold, NY Bath House … (818) 796-0069 Pasadena, CA Bear's Den [2] … (312) 561-2382 Chicago, IL The Bear's Den … (415) 550-2445 GauNet node The Bear's Lair … (415) 572-9563 San Mateo, CA Bernal Bear's Board … (415) 648-3014 FidoNet node Bourbon Street North … (504) 928-7395 Baton Rouge, LA Campus [#,1] … (201) 659-7424 Jersey City, NJ Christopher Street [#,3] … (201) 992-5660 Nutley, NJ (213) 656-6554 West Hollywood, CA Christopher Street West … Closet [3] … (201) 530-8574 Redbank, NJ The Club [#]… (415) 626-9419 Gay Men only Crossroads … (414) 438-9029 Milwaukee, WI Daddy's BBS [#,4] … (415) 769-0918 Dads & Sons Dial-A-Buddy … Dial Your Match [1] Computer Dating . . (716) 283-2362 Niagara Falls, NY Doug's Den [#,1] … (617) 245-9464 Boston, MA Dragon [3,4] … (312) 759-0946 Bolingbrook, IL (215) 855-3809 Philadelphia, PA Dru-Com … Dungen … (718) 894-8066 City unknown, NY Elite [3,4] … (516) 759-3657 Long Island, NY Encore … (212) 534-7250 New York City, NY Ethos … (408) 578-5325 San Jose, CA Flying PC / AT … (703) 556-0253 Falls Church, VA Fog City BBS [1,3] … (415) 863-9697 GayCom mode Folsom Street [4] … (415) 821-4497 Leather & Tech Fountains of Pleasure [3,4] … (313) 996-5531 Ann Arbor, MI Genesis … GLIB (Gay & Lesbian Info Bureau) [#] . (703) 578-4542 Arlington, VA IKE [3] … (918) 744-9456 Tulsa, OK Inferno [#,3] … (609) 886-6818 Cape May, NY Isle of Man [1] … (303) 447-1942 Denver, CO Joystick [1,3]… (818) 952-1311 La Canada, CA Kinky Kumputer [#,4] … (415) 550-7377 Since 1984 rates of the sending and receiving computers have to match in order to exchange information.

You always need to be sure that several other parameters match in order to communicate . These include the number of data bits, stop bits and parity. As long as you set them the same as the computer you are communicating with, you will be OK. If the computer you are calling is using 8 bits, you must do the same. This tells the computer to look for 8 pieces of data to make each character or symbol. For example if you were sending the letter "a," it would take 7 or 8 pieces (data bits), depending on the system you are calling , to make up the entire character. Your computer needs to be able to tell the first bit from any other bit in the letter "a." To do this, the computer uses control signals called start and stop bits. The start and stop bits surround the data, thereby separating the letter "a" from any other characters. One start bit always precedes the data bits and you can't adjust it. After the data bits are sent, one or two stop bit(s) follows. These are used to separate the data. They tell the computer which bit of - data is first, second and so on until the seventh or eighth data bit is received. I find most of the kinky bulletin boards use 8 bits and one stop bit.

Parity is used to check for errors. There are three choices : odd parity, even parity or no parity. If the parity is set to odd, then the 7 or 8 data bits must equal an odd number , and if the parity is set to even, then the data bits must equal an even number. Most kinky boards don't use parity , and are set to "no parity." Again, just set the parity on your system the same as the computer you are calling.

When you are shopping for a modem, some of the factors to consider are price, speed and whether the mod-em is internal or external to your computer.

The advantage of an internal modem is that it is plugged directly inside your computer and doesn't take up any desk space (one less thing to clutter up your desk). The only connection you need to make with an internal modem is to the phone line (from the jack on the wall to the computer, and then from the computer to the phone).

Both internal and external modems usually have a built-in speaker, so you can hear when the connections are made. This is really nice, because you can tell if the line is busy or if your modem is connected. Once the connection is made the speaker is turned off, so you don't have to listen to the noise.

The advantage of external modems is they come with a series of indicator lights to tell you the status of the connection. These are not available on the internal mod-em , and you must rely on the program to give you this information. The lights are labeled but some people find the labelling very confusing and they ignore the lights anyway. Some people believe there is an advantage to the external modems because you can connect your modem to different computers if you want to, without having to go inside your computer to do so; but you still must have the proper cables, and you might have to change some of the switch settings on the modem if it is a different type of computer.

The external modem is usually more expensive because it must include a case to house it, and a power supply for it to work (the internal modem gets the power to operate from your computer's power supply). The external modem can cost as much as $300 more than a given manufacturer's internal modem. The external modem requires more connections than just the phone line. It needs to be plugged into an AC wall socket and also has to be connected to the computer. You must use the correct cable to connect

This list is from The Club BBS San Francisco, California the computer to the modem. This depends on the modem and type of computer you have. To save time and aggravation , talk to the sales person when buying the modem to get the proper cable.

Some older modems allow only one transmission speed (300 baud). You can get mod-ems with combinations like 300 / 1200 baud; the newest ones for personal computers have 300 / 1200 / 2400 baud. These 300 / 1200 / 2400 baud modems are more expensive but can save you money (on long distance phone bills) by decreasing the time needed to transfer the information (again, you can only transmit as fast as the highest rate the bulletin board you are calling can handle).

Elsewhere in this article is a list of the kinky bulletin boards throughout the country that you might want to contact. Where I have the information, I've listed baud rate, parity and data and stop bits. Where I don't list them, start by using the following setup: 300 baud, no parity, 8 data bits and 1 stop bit. If that doesn't work, try changing one element at a time (leaving the baud rate at 300 because that's the one in most common use) until it works. For example, first change to odd (or even) parity , leave your modem set at 8 data bits and 1 stop bit. If that doesn't work, change to the other parity, leaving data and stop bits unchanged. If you're still not working, go back to no parity and change to 7 data bits and 1 stop bit … etc. Eventually you'll get connected.

Another possibility is to use your question mark (?) as soon as you're connected. You may get a help list, and on it there may be a way of contacting the sysop. If you cannot get the information you need that way, try calling another BBS in your general area and see if they can tell you how you need to set your modem to reach the BBS you're interested in.

Good luck to you, and happy cruising.

Photos by Brahma Studio

As if SM relationships weren't already complex enough, many of you who are relationship-oriented must at some point come to terms with the ever present problem of PURISM. I refer to the need some folks have to make judgments as to whether your relationship is a "true SM relationship" or if you are a "true Master" or a "true masochist" or a "real slave" or "really into the scene."

Sometimes, it seems as if a great conclave had been held somewhere, at which time standards for perfection were somehow agreed upon (imagine that!). One would think that a group of people at that gathering were selected as Judges , selected on the basis of some sort of erotico-ideological purity to enforce Ideals of SM Correctness. Over the years, the letters printed in Drummer bear this out. As recently as Issue #109, there was yet another slave acting as Judge regarding the bottom correctness of a person he had never even met.

As a therapist, I see plenty of unpleasant fallout when people in relationships, or wanting them, try to fit themselves into two-dimensional "ideals," For example, one purist "ideal" suggests that a "true slave" obeys his Master's every command. None of those Judges out there had to sit with me in the therapy room as I counseled a young man who, earnestly wanting to prove to a Top that he was slave material, got himself arrested for following an order that was irresponsible.

There is also some notion among the purist Judges that so-called "true" Masters and / or Tops never switch or go under, or do otherwise "bottom" things. Certainly some of the Judges frown when Tops tell their bottoms to pinch tits or slap ass. And the Judges go positively crazy when Tops switch their keys to enter a relationship as a bottom.

Let's Not Take the Olde Guard Judges Too Seriously

Likewise, bottoms who come out as Tops are often not taken seriously by other bottoms until a decent (?) interval of time has passed; they are Judged to be unpredictable, or not authentic , or some such. There are even Judges who have put Tops down for kissing bottoms.

It is at once amusing, ironic and depressing to recognize that some in the SM / Leather scene employ the same oppressive "you-are-not-OK" tactics to standardize SM behaviors that non-SM people use to "normalize" us. One would think that we get enough of that judgmentalism from outside the SM community; surely we don't have to do that to each other.

The last time I checked, I noticed there is no single right way to do anything. There seem to lots of ways to be a "real" slave, or Master, or rock star, or stockbroker, or anything else. Relationships are no different. The definitive rulebook has not and cannot be written. The range of human variability is too wide, SM and SM relationships will not be boxed in by the Judges no matter how much they may pontificate.

Only you are qualified to assess the correctness of the relationship you are in. After all, only you could possibly possess the information about how the relationship feels. There are lots of people out there, both gay and straight, who have the so-called "correct" form of relationship and who also just happen to be miserable as hell. The better litmus test is whether or not the relationship works for you, not whether it conforms to someone else's ideal.

Let me illustrate. I have seen two Masters each having dinner with their slaves at two separate tables in the same restaurant . Naturally, the waiters at each table placed menus before both Master and slave. At one table, the slave picked up his menu and gave it, unopened, to his Master. The Master ordered dinner for both and later paid the check. At the other table, the Master picked up his menu, unopened, and handed it to his slave. The slave ordered dinner for both, and later, it was he who paid the check. We see at once that each Master and slave have worked out this situation very differently. Though the form of each relationship appears opposite , both are "correct" for the men involved.

In SM relationships, as in life, things are not always what they seem. This fact is what makes Judging relationships both difficult and silly. I know Tops who order their bottoms to wear white sneakers into leather bars as a humiliation-does that mean the bottoms aren't "really into the scene"? I also know of very sadistic Tops who are not into leather at all, who will go into bars in casual wear with their leathered out bottoms and proceed to work over their submissives in public. According to the old guard stereotypes, it looks like the preppie ought to be the bottom, or even vanilla, but in this instance the truth turns out otherwise. It's still true what they say about books and their covers.

If for some reason, it works for a bottom to dress on the left, then who is to challenge? Perhaps he wants to fend off novice Tops that night, or needs to switch for the first time in a while. If Tops want rings in their whatevers, then that must be their prerogative. Who says that it's the Top in relationships who has the best judgment in all matters? We all know that in some things bottoms may have some superior ability that wise Tops will not want to waste just to prove who's boss.

Your relationships in kinky life must be free to take whatever form is needed to meet your needs and the needs of your partner(s). That form must also be free to evolve as you grow and change. You who are willing and able to be that free and flexible deserve praise for your honesty, love, commitment , and imagination. The Judges who shake their fingers at those who may shape their relationships to the beat of a different drummer are simply revealing the choices they make for themselves. Variation can add richness to the scene, and we will do better to encourage experimentation and diversity than to scold those who leave the stereotypes behind in their own search for happiness and satisfaction in the world of SM relationships.

Guy Baldwin, M.S., has a private practice in psychotherapy in Los Angeles, where he works primarily with those on the sexual frontiers. NE

VISIONII DA

It had once been a great planet of fools. Extravagant fools. Fools who had gone to war with fate itself. There were few fools left. There was few of anything-left. Most of the planet and all of the manmade extravagance had been blown to radiated dust. The only extravagance left was the extravagance of natural extremes. The heat during the day was extreme. The lack of heat-the cold—at night was another extreme. The planet seemed to wear her new extremes like a bittersweet whore with a facelift. Under the makeup she was much the same as she had always been: intransigent. Uncompromising. All that remained from the age of the war with fate were a few of the planet's more vicious creatures.

And sand.

Dry endless miles of it. Magnificent red mountains of sand. Yellow mountains of sand. White mountains of sand. Windstorms and visionheat. What had once been fertile was now infertile. Dry deathless heat. Pagan scintillating hypnotic heat. It was never the heat of the day that killed. It was always the nightmares, the visions, it would be your hallucinations which killed you. Life forms turning inward looking for sustenance. Sucking at their own juices.

It was forbidden to look at the sun.

Not even a fool would look at the sun. In the shimmering distance they could hear sand wolves crying. Yelping. The sand wolves would follow them great distances-circling. Always circling. If one brother fell, which was rare, the crying of the wolves would stop. The wolves would approach silently. It had not taken the two brothers long to learn the methods of killing sand wolves. One longhaired brother would fall while the other brother hid behind a dune, preferably a small one. The wolves approached cautiously. When the first wolf went to sink its teeth

into the supposedly dying human, a knife could be driven deeply into the animal's lush belly. Speed was essential. The human behind the dune would chase off any of the remaining wolves providing that the creatures were in no mood for a stand-off. Most of the time the wolves ran. The blood from the sand wolf was bodywarm but blood was blood. Liquid was liquid and all liquid was precious.

They became very good at killing sand wolves.

Blind witches had directed them to truth many times. Truth was their name for those few places on their broiling planet left with water. Whisperdreams of what had once been great flowing rivers. Oasis was truth. Truth was water. They had camped on a river once-it had been a good flowing truth. There had been green. Until the river had turned to a stream. And the stream to a trickle. And the trickle to mud. In one of Star's more violent hallucinations he had eaten and sucked at the mud. The mud turned to dust. The river of truth vanished. And the brothers moved on. Nomadic. They had not made love since the last truth. The closest they came to it was the sharing of their precious urine. No moisture could be spared. They could live in the sands indefinitely. There were no other options.

Hot sand blew into Star's pale dispassionate blue eyes; eyes that were used to the bite of the winds. His older brother, Adonais, indicated that they would sleep in the moonshadow of a dune as soon as the sun had set. Often they traveled at night towards truth. In coolness. In cold, But lately they had met too many nocturnal animals, their biggest enemy being man. Of this they knew, They were young, longhaired blond, ripe with a clean sort of masculinity , fair, and they would bring a king's ransom as a pair of slaves. Of this they knew, avoiding other men, nocturnal and otherwise, for they were well aware of the fate of desert slaves. They were still strong. Their hallucinations had not yet begun to dominate their psyches. They had survived.

They were not fools.

They lay naked on their hides with longknives strapped to their waists. Somewhat thin and muscular. The approaching night, wind, whose name was Athanasia, seemed to laugh bitterly at them. At everything, Adonais turned and kissed his younger brother, running his tongue down Star's chest, looking for whatever salty moisture he could find. "Drink me," his brother said. "It is time." Adonais put the large soft brown cock of his brother into his mouth. Star closed his eyes, moaned softly, and released his life-giving warm liquid—he stopped. Adonais gulped eagerly. Need. Survival. Love. Star resumed the flow and ran his fingers softly through his older brother's hair. Perhaps tomorrow they would find sweet delicious truth. When their moisture had been shared they dressed in their desert robes and covered themselves with the hides. Even then it was often not enough to keep out the intense cold that could be the deep night of the desert. They slept intertwined and blended into the shifting sands. And they dreamed.

Truth. Perhaps tomorrow …

The winds seemed to sing. The nights were getting colder and the days were getting hotter. The blind witches had called it the age of the coming change. Vast dust storms screamed their rage at them but the brothers kept walking. If one brother hallucinated the other brother carried him. It was their way. Visionheat. It went on like this for sunset after sunset. Only the blood of the sand wolves kept them alive. Predator became prey. In the desert the semantics of survival were always connected to irony. Their moisture decreased to one urination per man every other day. Adonais would drink Star, and the next day Star would drink Adonais. Perhaps tomorrow they would find another truth. And drink. Oh, how they would drink.

The last truth had been so clean, so clear, so resplendently sensual. They could swim naked. Star would dive into the vast wet coolness, take gulps of it, and spray lavish streams of truth into the open mouth of his brother. They would kiss, sharing cool liquid. Sharing. It was their way. They knew no other. Adonais had made

love to his sibling on the grass near the edge of the truth. His cock longed to fuck Star. And, oh, how he loved his brother. Star had guided his brother's devastating meat into his own tight hairless hole, begging for the fuck, needing, his own cock hard, livid, and thick with blood. Animated coupling, logical, and merged. Adonais ejaculated deeply into the wet bowels of his brother. As they lay next to the truth even then they could observe a visible drop in the levels. Star raised his legs. His eyes said all that needed saying. Adonais ate and sucked. Devouring the warm thickseed oozing from the puckered lips of his sibling's beautiful hole.

All truths eventually die. Even the planets are nomadic and cyclical. Athanasia takes the place of truth. And laughs. Rivers dry to dust. Storms mix with hate. Visionheat begins.

Their desert robes kept them intact. Clean. They could walk further than the sand wolves could follow. One pack of wolves would drop off. Another would take its place. The problem with too much blood from the wolf was that the hallucinogen found in the cells of the animal was toxic. It had an accumulated effect. Star inevitably envisioned rivers of truth where there were only rivers of dune. And he would want to run when running was foolish. Only a fool runs in the desert. Running lost sweat. Wasted it. Adonais would humor his brother, laugh with him, curse the sand, speak of past times, times with good truths, but Adonais would not allow his brother to run. Star was all he had.

They were exhausted. Both brothers were fully hallucinating visions, colors, and madness by the time they discovered-stumbled upon-their next truth. The witches had been right. It was exactly where they said it would be. Down a large boulder-strewn canyon. The descent left them breathless. It was a small, quiet truth, cold to the touch. They waded, fully dressed in their robes, waist-deep into the truth, half unconscious, grateful, almost dead. The last few miles had been the worst. Adonais steadied his sibling. Star had needed help those last few days. Adonais was strong. Very strong. Wading into the flowing truth, Star's vision and reality became one. They drank slowly, deeply, saying nothing. It was time to rest. They had found their river.

Oasis was life. Life had once been extravagant—it was now clinging to the last bitter shreds of existence. Adonais woke to the sight of his incorrigible brother naked, knee-deep, urinating in the middle of the river. It was an extreme extravagance. And both of them laughed hysterically at the desert which surrounded them on the top of the canyon until their sides ached. "You could not have done that yesterday; piss into the wind," Adonais said from the bank of the truth.

"Today is not yesterday. Today I am a rich man, Adonais!" And Star sat his bare ass down into the truth and splashed wetness onto his brother with his foot. "Today I want everything …"

"Everything?"

"Everything. Including you."

"And what if I, Adonais, Czar of this contented truth, do not desire to give you everything?"

Star pointed his now erect piece, his brown desert cock, at his brother. "Then I, Star, brother of the Czar of this magnificent truth, will just have to take what is mine." Both brothers laughed again, aware of the fact that they would eventually make love, that making love was one of the few great things left to them, that it was necessary, that it had to happen because they needed it to happen. That it would be intense, fantastic, perhaps infuriated, mad, deranged, demonic. And sweet. Inexorable. They would overflow with it. With each other in running wetness. It was as urgent as the truth which touched and sustained them.

Longknives strapped to their thin fair waists, the brothers waded downstream, naked, exploring the canyon and the river. Star's waistlong blond hair blew softly in the calm wind. The desert above them seemed like a long-ago nightmare, a blood-vision ; an obscenity from the past. Truth was now. Adonais touched his brother's hair. "I love you," he said.

Star's pale blue eyes seemed to flash. "I know. We're going to have to do something about this." Star looked down at his

blood-thick hard cock. And they laughed again. Adonais' hand smacked his brother's tightass butt. They raced toward the shore where there was a clearing. They stopped. Dead in their tracks. It was an encampment. They went closer—ruins. What had once been a place of desert tents, animals, and humans was now deathly quiet. Charred remnants of fires lay scattered about the clearing. Deserted. A dozen sand wolf carcasses hung suspended by their twisted necks from a rope connected to two small trees. Bloodless. "No one's here."

"Someone's been here," Adonais observed.

"Someone remains here," a voice said. Star and Adonais drew their longknives quickly, like cats, and turned. It was the first time they had ever been that close, face-to-face with a desert slave.

It was now a dry place of slavery. Fate had finally enslaved her creatures with the austere pragmatic adjudicated commandments of the desert. Oasis was life. "I will not harm you," the slave said, his voice dark and slow. "I am beyond harming children." Adonais and Star studied the man they knew to be a slave. The ownership tattoo on his enigmatic handsome face was unmistakable . The slave did not blink.

"We're hallucinating," Adonais said.

The slave, dressed in his desert robes, walked closer. "I am called Zealot." He smiled. "There are many visions here." Zealot touched Star's arm. He could not see. His eyes were blank. "You are naked?"

"Where are the others?" Adonais asked.

"Gone."

"Will they return?"

Zealot paused, then laughed quietly. "No." "Who are you?" Star asked. "You're a slave."

"I am called Zealot," he repeated and looked directly into the sun. "Last visions. The last are the best, you know. Are you brothers?" Adonais and Star said nothing. Brothers were highly valued as slaves. "We are all slaves, here. Bring me truth. I need to drink." The man who was Zealot sat down on a rock. He drank softly from Star's cupped hands. "You are lovers."

"How do you know?" Adonais asked.

"Only lovers can survive this far into the desert alone. Are you beautiful?" There was a long silence. Zealot quietly laughed. "You are beautiful. Let me tell you of the desert."

"We know of the desert," Adonais said.

"You know nothing."

"Tell us," Star said. "What lies beyond." "Sand lies beyond," Adonais said.

"Oh, much more than sand, young man. Much more than sand.'

"Tell us," Star said. And he sat at the feet of the slave.

"We will make a bargain," Zealot said.

"What kind of bargain?" Adonais asked. Adonais was unsure. "I will tell you of what lies beyond. And you will make love together so that I can see this one last beautiful thing."

"He speaks with a fool's mouth," Adonais said to his brother. "He drinks too much dog's blood, this one. He has visions, Star. I think he dies with visions."

"I am dying, yes."

"I want to know what lies beyond the sand," Star said.

Zealot took Star's hand into his own calloused hand and held it. "The last of the ocean lies beyond the sand. Have you seen the ocean, beautiful young one?"

"What is ocean?"

Zealot laughed loudly. "There's only one ocean left, Blue fabulous extravagant ocean, Boy! Waves of truth. You can run through the waves. Truth for as far as the eye can see. Truth as dry and horrible-and killing-as the desert. Great ships filled with slaves travel through the ocean from one desert to the other. I will tell you of this place for I have seen it with my eyes!" And the dead eyes of the slave burned with his vision.

It was now a place of abandoned hideous magnificence. Zealot told them of his ocean, of his people, of temples, and wars, and famine, and greed. Day turned into night and the two naked brothers shivered at the feet of Zealot, entranced and mystified with his tales of their world. His people had called him Zealot, the talemaker. Zealot, the fool. Zealot, the one who knew most things. Zealot, the legendslave. His task had been to tell his masters of that which they had seen but did not always understand, for theirs was a planet of the coming change. And the carnivorous Athanasia blew hot with its bloodless breath down the sweating neck of their utterly lost race of terrified souls.

It was to be his last tale. His last vision. His bargain with fate. He told them of all the astonishing things he had seen in his life. He told them of gold, of empires, of caesars, of lust, of war. And love. Love with a thousand men. It was unfathomable to them. Outrageous. All they had ever known was one another. "And they fucked me until I shit on them," Zealot laughed until his deep voice bounced like magic off the canyon's dark walls. "And then they fucked me again. And again. One master after the other, I was theirs!" Zealot turned to Star, grabbed a handful of his long hair, yanked the boy's head back, and said forcefully straight into the young handsome face: "I was proud to be theirs! Do you understand, Boy?" Adonais drew his longknife. Star told the slave that he understood. It was a lie.

He did not understand.

They asked him of God; they had heard of God. Zealot grew quiet, put his head into his hands, and told them that they were God. It was time for their part of the bargain. Adonais was told to fetch their hides. They would fuck naked on desert hides, "But you can't see us," Star said. "You're hallucinating."

"I will see what I need to see. Trust me."

They loved in front of a fire Star made to keep the sand wolves away. Their wet-sweating young bodies and tight buttocks glistened in the orange light of the fire. "Fuck me," Adonais said to Star. "This time I need to feel my brother inside of my ass—please." Star spread his sibling's legs and put his face down into the muscular buttcrack of his older brother. He kissed the small hairless hole. The hole contracted, then opened. His tongue insinuated itself up into Adonais' bowels tenderly, then violently. He sucked and ate. His anguished erection pushed itself against the shithole's lips. He eased the full length of his shaft into his brother. Star thrust. Adonais gasped from the unexpected, deeply sexual pressure. Star thrust again slowly, then adamantly, then furiously. Plunging into Adonais' numb anal depths.

The piercing haunted screams of Adonais filled the vivid soul of

Star moaned and came. Flushing the cunt of his brother with the licentious extravagance of his inabstinent semen. It was a rabid, feverish, brutal, seething bitch of a brotherfuck. Adonais spread his legs and Star ate the deposited seed with sucking relish. He put his brother's burning cock into his mouth and milked Adonais until a carnal spawn of cum warmly flooded his supplicating throat. The brothers collapsed breathlessly into an innocent mix of virginal animalistic sweat. Sleep came with visions of endless truth. Vision, Truth so vast and blue one could

They buried Zealot in sand not far from the canyon—deep enough so that not even the sand wolves would find him. Day by day they could see the level of their truth decrease and they knew that in time they would once again find the desert, for the desert would find them. They were nomadic. There were no other options. They drank the blood of the wolf because it was their way. They knew no other. Hallucinated visions came but did not yet possess them, for they were young. They made innocent love in and out of the truth, because while it was theirs it was precious and life was good. They saw no other men. Above their canyon Athanasia with her carnivorous winds sang and laughed. Vision-heat . But for now they played. And loved. And lived. It had once been a great planet of fools. Extravagant fools. Fools who had gone to war with fate.

It was now a great silent planet of eternal sand.

The modern-day reasons for getting a tattoo are as varied as the men who get them. Many find a sense of masculine acceptance, sort of an urban aboriginal rite of passage; others take this ritual past a simple "marking" to include most of the body. One such example is Tough Customer #1248 who wrote to Drummer describing why he decided to have a total body tattoo.

"Over the years I had accumulated a very heavy amount of tattoos not only from all over the USA but also from Hamburg, Copenhagen, Paris and Amsterdam. They were like souvenirs and old friends to me, but there was no coordinated pattern or style involved that could give them any meaning to a first-time observer. My piercings didn't help any, since again there wasn't any coordinated pattern, style or overall interesting effect to any of it.

"After two days with Cliff Raven, I could not believe what was happening. We have settled on a goal—all black body suit with grey shading—no added color at all. Cliff has figured out a way, as only he can do, to use the old tattoos and entirely change them by intersecting and overlapping them with the new work. As Cliff progresses, I will start changing the old piercings for different designs and sizes, plus I expect to add new ones."

Whether you decide upon a full body suit or a small butterfly on your butt, remember that the tattoo will be with you for the rest of your life. Removal is difficult, costly and normally leaves scars, so plan the design and choose your tattooist well.

ILLUSTRATED MEN

Illustrated Men is an informal association of men interested in tattooing. The group was established in September of 1983 with a "Tattooing Event" at King of Hearts in Los Angeles.

Other tattoo events were held in San Francisco and Los Angeles during the past four years for tattooing and piercing enthusiasts , with great success.

The group was founded by Harold Moss and five friends, but now has a mailing list of over 180 men from four countries.

Although many tattoo artists are gay, most prefer not to be identified as such for fear of hurting their straight business. Bruce Lee is public about being gay and does not find that it hurts his business. His reputation for quality work in a wide variety of styles continues to grow, particularly among international musicians and serious collectors.

Scheduled club activities include a Palm Springs weekend March 4-6; a tattoo party at an Orlando, Florida bar on April 9; a Tattoo Convention during October in Phoenix, Arizona; and a Houston, Texas tattoo bar party in March of 1989.

Illustrated Men stresses that tattooing is very unlikely to spread disease due to the sterilization procedures that every reputable artist uses.

Although we were unable to photograph Rick Leathers' "first" tattoo in progress , Illustrated Men supplied photos of Bill Salpietro receiving his first tattoo by infamous tattooist Bruce Lee.

FIRST TATTOO by Rick Leathers

When I lived in San Diego I was constantly encountering tattoos on the Marines and sailors I stripped down for sex. Tattooing is a firm part of the military tradition (except among officers). A heavy bottom friend of mine has, over the years, permitted various Tops to have him tattooed where and how they pleased. His body, including his head and face, is covered with "skin pics." And, lord knows, I have cruised many a bodybuilder with biker 'toos. Yet despite all that exposure to skin ink, I never gave serious thought to being tattooed myself until I made friends with a professional tattoo artist. Peter is a man of many talents and great warmth. Through communicating with him, I be-gan to develop an understanding of just what it meant to go under the needle.

A drunken sailor or a Marine egged on by his buddies may pick an interesting picture from the Flash boards displayed in any tattoo parlor, but for an aware, thoughtful man the choice and placement of his

FETISH FEATURE others and a powerful commitment to himself. After I had made that primary decision to be tattooed, I next faced the choice of what a tattoo meant to me and what I wanted it to express. Among other things, I am: Irish / Cherokee, Libra, pagan, into leather and military fetishes, barbarian art and bronze castings, and a student of ancient symbols. From these bits of myself I decided to draw the various parts that would make my tattoo both a clear statement of ME as well as a damned good design. It took me two years.

One of the unexpected "extras" that came from preparing my design was a two-year course in patience. I was not going to have anything put into my skin that I would not wear proudly for the rest of my life. At heart I am still an Arkansas redneck who believes that if I truly want something, I must be willing to put in the time and effort to track down whatever it is, catch it and tame it. Whether it's a deer, a mate, or a tattoo, I'll keep working until I get what I want. Rednecks are very stubborn creatures.

According to my religious beliefs, the bull is my spirit-animal protector. A bull's head would be the focal point of my design. The male svastika (the reverse of the one that the Nazis used) is both the traditional symbol of the Cherokee tribe and the ancient Hindu symbol for masculine well-being. The svastika would float above the bull's head. Since I'm also turned on to piercing, I decided to add a ring through the bull's nose.

I wanted the overall look of my tattoo to resemble the bronze plaques that Celtic and Nordic barbarians attached to their leather armor. A pair of two-headed serpents writhing around the whole design framed it precisely. The final result was a ritualistic, pagan, barbarian tattoo-and that's a pretty good description of ME.

The next step was choosing a tattoo artist to do the work. My buddy, Peter, was no longer tattooing, but he advised me to go to Cliff Raven's shop in Los Angeles. Raven is the best and he only hires top talents to work for him. Robert, the man who worked on me, turned out to be a lot more than a good ink pusher. He displayed equal skills in communicating to me exactly what was taking place and helping me to relax.

My chief fear had always been the pain involved. Oddly enough, that had never bothered main getting my piercings (and, mutha, they were painful). Tattoo needles are more irritating than anything else. I suppose, technically, a tattoo is an artistically organized skin abrasion. It felt like tiny electric shocks and, since the needle had to be frequently recharged with pigment , by the time the pricking started to become really uncomfortable, Robert would have to stop for more ink. A several-hour tattoo isn't agony. It's just draining. Somewhat like a long bondage session with very light whipping.

The real awareness of the tattoo hit me the next day when I took the bandage off. With a new pair of leather pants or some new fatigues I could always ask myself, "Do I like the way these look? Is this what I want?" With a tattoo these questions become absurd. The thing is ON, fucker, and it ain't comin' off. Having yourself tattooed is like making a commitment to a lover. It cannot be undone without leaving deep scars.

These twenty-four square inches of permanent ink on my bicep have had a solid impact on my self-image. I feel more of the animal in me, now that I am marked. Accepting the fact that the tattoo is on for good has encouraged me to accept myself a little less critically. Like the old drag queens used to say, "Honey, this ain't no dress rehearsal. This is Life." My piercings and my tattoo help me to focus on my animal masculinity, and to enjoy the skin and sweat and feel and smells that make being a man worthwhile.

TOUGH CUSTO

PAGE 38

THE SK

About two years ago a dynamic new tattoo artist, working under the name of MAD DOG, made his first impact on San Francisco. With modest determination he quickly made his a name to be reckoned with in the world of Tattoo Art. His unique and highly original Flash moves from style to style and technique to technique with such chameleon self-assurance that he already stands out from his contemporaries in the field. He has just returned from a highly successful tour of Europe, where he already has a following, and I thought it was high time this powerful new talent was brought to the attention of Drummer readers. Recently I questioned him about his thoughts on tattoos and tattooing:

MAD DOG interviewed by REX

REX: What motivated you to become a Tattoo Artist?

MAD DOG: My lover motivated me. He kept saying, "design me a tattoo," and I kept saying "I can't." But I kept thinking about it and one thing led to another. I'd had three art shows at the Ambush Bar in San Francisco during a one-and-a-half-year period, so I thought, "maybe I can give it a try." Why not?

REX: It's a very hard profession to get a toehold in; it's such a specialized field and few Tattooists are ready to take on an apprentice. You're one of the few people I've known who've basically taught themselves . Just how hard was it to teach yourself?

MAD DOG: Difficult enough, in that there is no real way to practice. You just have to jump in and start. I was very nervous through my first fifteen tattoos or so. I remember my first tattoo took nine hours to do, which today would take me no more than three or four. It was slow starting, but I took a "see how it goes" attitude and didn't rush things.

REX: Did you find your previous experi- ence in the art world helpful in becoming a Tattooist?

MAD DOG: Yes. If I hadn't taught myself to draw beforehand, I don't think I would have attempted it. Unless you're already an artist of some sort first, you really have no business being in the field.

REX: Tattoos have long had a sexual connotation for men. Do gay men perceive tattoos differently from straight men, or does the same impulse motivate both to get tattooed?

MAD DOG: Interestingly, the tattoo is of and by itself both a taboo and a totem. I think basically men have a tattoo for themselves—not for other men or women. It's a form of body decoration and it's part of one's masculinity, a rite of passage for many men. For instance, look at the number of military recruits who-one of the things to do is-get drunk and get tattooed. Getting tattooed crosses a certain barrier; you've stepped into a world that's now taboo. You've marked yourself up. You can no longer be buried in a Jewish cemetery, etc., etc., any number of perceptions about you are forever changed. You're now socially marked. In any form of official identification for the rest of your life, you now truly have identifying marks which set you apart from others. You've crossed the boundary of marking yourself, as opposed to the random scars life inflicts upon us.

REX: What's the hottest experience you've had tattooing someone?

MAD DOG: This was a kid from South Dakota and he wanted a buffalo done over one of his pecs. He wanted to get off on it—it was his first tattoo and he said he really wanted to have a sexual adventure with the experience. So I said, well, wear a fun jock, bring a couple of favorite cock-rings , etc., and we'll see you have a good time.

So I set the room up with a full-length mirror and sat him in this dental chair that I used to have in my old studio and started to work on him. He stripped down fully naked for all this and just jacked off a storm during the time I was working on him. There were times when I'd have to say "you must hold very still at this point," but during the shading of the body, where you want a certain randomness anyway, it was very interesting because as

TOUGH CUSTO

PAGE 38

THE SK

About two years ago a dynamic new tattoo artist, working under the name of MAD DOG, made his first impact on San Francisco. With modest determination he quickly made his a name to be reckoned with in the world of Tattoo Art. His unique and highly original Flash moves from style to style and technique to technique with such chameleon self-assurance that he already stands out from his contemporaries in the field. He has just returned from a highly successful tour of Europe, where he already has a following, and I thought it was high time this powerful new talent was brought to the attention of Drummer readers. Recently I questioned him about his thoughts on tattoos and tattooing:

MAD DOG interviewed by REX

REX: What motivated you to become a Tattoo Artist?

MAD DOG: My lover motivated me. He kept saying, "design me a tattoo," and I kept saying "I can't." But I kept thinking about it and one thing led to another. I'd had three art shows at the Ambush Bar in San Francisco during a one-and-a-half-year period, so I thought, "maybe I can give it a try." Why not?

REX: It's a very hard profession to get a toehold in; it's such a specialized field and few Tattooists are ready to take on an apprentice. You're one of the few people I've known who've basically taught themselves . Just how hard was it to teach yourself?

MAD DOG: Difficult enough, in that there is no real way to practice. You just have to jump in and start. I was very nervous through my first fifteen tattoos or so. I remember my first tattoo took nine hours to do, which today would take me no more than three or four. It was slow starting, but I took a "see how it goes" attitude and didn't rush things.

REX: Did you find your previous experi- ence in the art world helpful in becoming a Tattooist?

MAD DOG: Yes. If I hadn't taught myself to draw beforehand, I don't think I would have attempted it. Unless you're already an artist of some sort first, you really have no business being in the field.

REX: Tattoos have long had a sexual connotation for men. Do gay men perceive tattoos differently from straight men, or does the same impulse motivate both to get tattooed?

MAD DOG: Interestingly, the tattoo is of and by itself both a taboo and a totem. I think basically men have a tattoo for themselves—not for other men or women. It's a form of body decoration and it's part of one's masculinity, a rite of passage for many men. For instance, look at the number of military recruits who-one of the things to do is-get drunk and get tattooed. Getting tattooed crosses a certain barrier; you've stepped into a world that's now taboo. You've marked yourself up. You can no longer be buried in a Jewish cemetery, etc., etc., any number of perceptions about you are forever changed. You're now socially marked. In any form of official identification for the rest of your life, you now truly have identifying marks which set you apart from others. You've crossed the boundary of marking yourself, as opposed to the random scars life inflicts upon us.

REX: What's the hottest experience you've had tattooing someone?

MAD DOG: This was a kid from South Dakota and he wanted a buffalo done over one of his pecs. He wanted to get off on it—it was his first tattoo and he said he really wanted to have a sexual adventure with the experience. So I said, well, wear a fun jock, bring a couple of favorite cock-rings , etc., and we'll see you have a good time.

So I set the room up with a full-length mirror and sat him in this dental chair that I used to have in my old studio and started to work on him. He stripped down fully naked for all this and just jacked off a storm during the time I was working on him. There were times when I'd have to say "you must hold very still at this point," but during the shading of the body, where you want a certain randomness anyway, it was very interesting because as

he was jacking there was this flexing of his chest and he would sort of bump into the machine with this motion. It was really hot!

REX: How do you feel about collaborating on designs with your clients?

MAD DOG: It's always a give-and-take kind of thing. I talk to the client and I've developed this line of questioning. For instance, if he wanted a snake tattoo I'd first question him as to whether he wanted Black Work or something with color. What attitude was he looking for in the snake? Menacing, humorous, etc. I try to find out these kinds of things so I'll have a sense of direction in which to go. It really is a collaboration. Then I show the client the initial sketches I've made and there's still room for change at that point. If he wants any modifications we do it at that point. After those modifications are made, that's when we sit down and do it.

REX: I've noticed that many who get into tattooing are dismayed by all the technical , backstage mechanics of the craft, something not immediately apparent to a novice who wishes to enter the field. There are all sorts of health code standards and technical problems to be considered . Was this initial exposure to the less creative aspects of the profession off-putting for you?

MAD DOG: No. I had the fortune of being an Army Medic and I'd learned plenty about sterilization techniques; and so the use of gloves and sterilizing and that sort of thing was already knowledge which I was aware of. It's very important, particularly in this day and age.

REX: You've just returned from Amster-dam , where you've gone on several previous trips under the auspices of Rob Amsterdam. Have these trips exposed you to other types of tattoos and techniques that we don't see here in the US? How do European concepts of tattooing differ from ours?

MAD DOG: I find that Europeans are much more adventurous in terms of what they'll allow you to do in terms of design.

Basically, Europeans are much less inhibited about tattooing than we are. It's a much more common thing.

REX: Dealing with people is very much part of the Tattooist's trade. It's always struck me that you are almost a therapist to your clients, when you're dealing with what they want to put on their bodies for the rest of their lives. Do you enjoy dealing with people on these intimate psychological levels?

MAD DOG: I like it fine. It's part of the collaboration process we talked of earlier. People will end up telling you a great deal about themselves if you give them half a chance. And it comes across sometimes in very subtle patterns of expression. It's not always direct; some people can't be that open. So you must listen to what they're saying as well as how they're saying it. You've got to be around them long enough to gain some intuition as to what that person's about. Some people do have unrealistic expectations, and you've got to gently bring them back to the reality of the situation.

REX: What's the most difficult type of person to deal with?

MAD DOG: Let's put that question another way around. Some people are very easy to deal with because they're willing to say, "OK, you're the artist and this is kind of what I have in mind and now will you interpret this idea for me." Others, the more difficult you might say, will pick the idea to pieces. They'll say something like, "I want this little finger a bit more this way, I want this ear lowered a bit." They're fussy and picky. Or they might want this creature to have a big dick on it when you're viewing it from the rump end. They don't basically have a visual concept of the craft. Or they'll want something done on a part of their body where there's simply no space for a project of that magnitude.

REX: I've always thought the Tattooist's job one of working under a certain pressure . Here you are, marking someone for life, and when you put that needle down it

has to be right the first time—you don't get a second chance. Don't you find it a bit nerve-racking to realize that someone might literally have to live with your mistakes if your hand should slip at some point? Some of your work is quite intricate and tattoo sessions can last for hours. How

MAD DOG: Again, I welcome the pressure of the profession. As I mentioned earlier, my first few tattoo assignments were nerve-racking because of that factor you mention. In the beginning I did make some errors. But I've learned how to deal with making errors; you actually do get a second chance in some cases. Fortunately I've really not made that many errors. Basically the pressure you refer to is again part of mastering the craft of tattooing . It's a challenge that must be met.

REX: I know you spend a lot of time researching your Flash. Your own designs are quite original and yet you've also done some fine re-workings of classic tattoo designs. Which type of design work inter- ests you most?

MAD DOG: I enjoy both. Jailhouse tattoos interest me tremendously. I think from them developed what we now know as Black Work, where there's a great deal of fine-line shading. I made one machine similar to the ones they make in prison. I got a schematic from a prisoner in San Quentin. I made this very small machine which uses a bent spoon, a ballpoint pen barrel, two pilots from Bic lighters, a piece of guitar wire and a windshield wiper motor. This is one of the most efficient machines I've ever used, and with one little needle you can do such fine work it's incredible. It works better than my other machines.

REX: What are your feelings on Oriental tattoos? It's the one style I haven't seen you work in.

MAD DOG: I simply don't get much request for them from anyone. One of the things, however, which I don't care about a lot in Oriental tattooing is that I find it so crowded and busy that I tend to shy away from it. Full-body tattoos in the Oriental manner give you very few options to loosen up. It's almost like Slave Work. I like space to improvise a bit. The Oriental work is overly precision-oriented. So much is going on—so busy— that I think a lot is lost in the end product—what the eye can actually comprehend. Of course, that "is" the whole visual point of Oriental tattoos, but it's really not to my taste.

REX: Now let's get to the nitty-gritty: How difficult is it to get a tattoo on your cock? MAD DOG: A cock is difficult to tattoo because you're working with entirely different skin tissue from the rest of the body. It depends where on the shaft you're working as to just how painful the process can be; the further out you get towards the head the more painful it becomes, and also the more difficult it is to do. You're dealing with very spongy tissue. One of the questions I'm always asked is does the cock have to be erect in order to be tattooed, to which the answer is "no." For initial drawings or putting on the transfer an erection is certainly helpful. That's one of the fun parts; helping the person through this process. But otherwise there's also a method of folding the cock over the fingers-stretching it out for tattooing. It also takes longer for cock skin to accept inks and certain kinds of colors. If a person is cut, the area of the circumcision scar tends to be very sensitive and the corona of the head is also difficult to work around: That sort of makes a person squirm around in his seat!

REX: How do people contact you?

MAD DOG: I'm available by appointment only, at (415) 552-1297. I either go to their house or they can come to mine. Generally I go to theirs. All my equipment is very portable; I arrive with two little cases, set it up in about twenty minutes and we're ready to go. Or you can contact me by mail at 584 Castro Street, Box 112, San Francisco, CA 94114.

REX: What do you dislike the most about being a Tattooist?

TOUGH CUSTON

A TOUGH TATTOOED PAIR TO PLEASE

Top buddy has brown hair and eyes. He is 5'9", 150 lbs. lean, well-defined and very tattooed, and 25 years old. You should see the snake running down the middle of his 8" dick! Bottom buddy has blond hair and blue eyes, 5'10", 165 lbs. with beefy tattooed butt that loves to get fucked. If you live in or visit the San Francisco area and have a huge cock (send nude photo) and are man enough to help snake dick double-fuck blonde boy, they'd love to hear from you. Tops only, blacks very welcome. Write to TC 1250.

COLORFUL TOUCH-UP

Photos by Scott O'Hara

Keith Hughes, the superhot co-owner of Sparks Tavern in Seattle, Washington, already had his tattoo but decided to add color to the "snake and bird of paradise" design. The flowing color was expertly completed by tattooist LaMar Van Dyke of Seattle.

I needed information about tattoos, so I looked around the house and found a ragged set of the 1947 Encyclopedia Britan-nica . The set was old but the printing was quite clear—refer to Mutilations and Deformations . I leered at the page and sourced the proper book. I've got tattoos, they aren't ugly or demeaning, nor did I have them done to reflect rebellion or a repressed self-destructive nature-I like 'em!

In New Zealand a seafaring civilization called the Maori, so named after a famous chief circa the 14th Century, began designing and executing elaborate tattoos to be sported on their faces. This was seen by by Robin Steel world rompers and admired by many as the "art" of this quaint little people. Tattoos were soon discovered to be prevalent in China, Borneo, and India.

Those who "discovered" tattooing mutilations were mainly sailors who, either drunk or on a dare, invariably took samples and souvenirs home to Europe. At first viewed as repulsive, tattoos became the "new wave" look and gained a dark admiration. The bearer of a tattoo was often thought of as a "tough guy" or the frilly "debonair rogue."

Today tattoo parlors are abundant upon almost every continent. The tattoo has become a form of self-expression, a conversation piece or "body art." I got tattoos because I liked 'em at the time I got 'em, and I haven't ever liked 'em any less. That's good, because I've got to keep 'em for a long time!

I'm going to get more tattoos, and I'm fortunate to be able to have my next tattoos designed by a guy who really knows his art. There are many great tattoo artists, and you've probably already heard of most of them. Now let me turn you on to the BOSS!

TOUGH CUSTOM

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ILLUSTRATED MAN

This ex-New Yorker has recently begun having his collection of flash tattoos co-ordinated into a complete body design by Cliff Raven and Bruce Lee. He has multi- ple piercings and has begun genital modi- fication. He is interested in contact with men into similar trips and has a curiosity concerning electricity. Contact TC 1248.

The TATTOO PHOTOGRAPHY of Charles Gatewood

Charles Gatewood is a sociologist who has chosen to study the fringe cultures of the US instead of traveling to Samoa or the Amazon. Tattooing is a central theme that runs through his work. Bikers predominate, and many of his videos and still photos are filled with Harley riders and their mamas, but he also makes quite significant journeys into the world of erotic tattoo enthusiasts, gay, straight, and bi. From there, he has been led by tattoo people into the body piercing scene and on to the fringes of S / M.

Dances Sacred and Profane is a remarkable video about Gatewood's work. It explores his interests in tattooed people, in Mardi Gras revelers, in bikers, etc. But it reaches its climax with his documentation of Fakir Musafar's rituals of pain-induced transcendental experience. In the commercial movie A Man Called Horse, we witnessed an Indian religious ceremony in which a man was suspended by pins run through the flesh of his chest; in that movie's sequel, Return of A Man Called Horse, several men participate in a ceremony in which a hook is inserted in the flesh of the chest and they dance and blow whistles as they pull against the tethered piercing for hours until it rips free. Fakir Musafar repeats both of these rituals, the latter (with the assistance of Jim Ward) as prelude to the former, as Gatewood watches, interviews, and records.

7A7 PORTFOLIO

COMPELLING: This has always been one of our favorite Gatewood photographs. The eyes and the squid-whip-spurting cock tattoo combine for great power. But we like it even more since watching Forbidden Photo- graphs and learning that the small marks at the tip of each tail are the initials of the man's former Masters.

TA PORT FOLIO)

PORTFOLIC

Erotic Tattooing and Body Piercing is a documentary by Gatewood which centers around a special meeting of the Tattoo and Body Arts Society of New York, a gathering of over one hundred piercing and tattoo enthusiasts, Featured speaker Jim Ward, of Gauntlet Enterprises and P.F.I.Q. Magazine, presents an astounding slide show of body piercing around the world. Afterwards many heavily tattooed and pierced men and women share their feelings about the special magic, ritual, and fantasy of body arts.

Forbidden Photographs is a guided tour by Gatewood through his vast photo collection , often breaking from a still photo into a video clip of the same subject. The tour leads from the Hellfire Club of New York through Forbidden Tattoos, Pierced Genitals , Naked City, Mardi Gras Madness, and various scenes featuring Annie Sprinkle, Spider Webb, Fakir Musafar, and Gatewood himself. The photos themselves are fascinating , and Gatewood's commentary brings them even more to life.

Tattoos for Bikers is a documentary shot at the Daytona Beach Harley-Davidson gathering, the world's largest Biker Bash. It concentrates on the bikers' tattoos while showing snippets of bike contests and other activities. Gatewood gets these real-life bikers to strip off their shirts (and occasionally drop their pants), and talk about what their tattoos mean to them.

Charles Gatewood's company, Flash Productions , sells these and other videos and books about tattooing. Erotic Tattooing and Body Piercing is 60 minutes for $49.95; Forbidden Photographs is 100 minutes for $49.95; Tattoos for Bikers is 56 minutes for $39.95. Include $2 per tape for S&H. Flash Productions, Box 745, Woodstock, NY 12498. Tell them Drummer sent you. П

7 / 4 PORTFOLIO

PORTFOLIO 75 / 4

CLIFF RAVEN: One of the best known, if not THE best known, tattoo artist in the not ITHE best known, tattoo arist in the gay community is Cliff Raven. Many of the tattoos in this issue were done by Cliff, or by one of his specially selected associates at his studio in Los Angeles. In fact I would wage from the Cliff Raven studios. Drummer #8 featured Cliff decorating Val Martin's body with a magnificent temporary tattoo.

PORTFOL 10

TATTOO RESOURCES

Based primarily upon a list prepared by Rick DiOrio, Thor Stockman and others for a GMSMA program on Tattoos and the men who wear them.

Spaulding Rogers: THE supplier of tattoo paraphernalia: books, equipment, flash, inks, etc. is Spaulding Rogers, Rt. 85 New Scotland Road, Voorheesville, NY 12186. 518 / 768-2070.

Flash Productions: Videos and Books. Charles Gatewood's company. See info on previous page.

(Continued on page 56)

MOVIES CELLS AND CAGES IN THE "NIGHT ZOO"

Stick's answering machine says he's out of town for a while, but he's actually in prison. There he receives a "singing telegram" in the form of a bodybuilder who rapes him violently with the help of a guard. Cowering and listening in another cell is a blond American who looks something like George ("I Want Your Sex") Michael. He seems to be feeling Stick's pain.

Night Zoo (Un Zoo la Nuit) is gay Canadian Jean-Claude Lau-zon's first feature. It has enough good moments to have been shown in festivals from Cannes to Boston to Mill Valley to Tor-onto , and to be Canada's entry for this year's Best Foreign Language Film Oscar; but it suffers from familiarity, especially when everything it copies has been done better elsewhere.

Gilles Maheu, who plays Stick, looks like Anthony Quinn approaching middle age. The sleeveless black t-shirt he wears through most of the picture reveals adequate musculature but nothing to die for.

Marcel-Stick's real name-is paroled after two years with a goodbye kiss from Blondie, and goes out looking for trouble. He finds it in a cafe where Georges (Lorne Brass) tries to pick him up. Marcel goes with Georges to the toilet and beats the shit out of him at gunpoint,

As luck would have it, Georges turns out to be not only a cop but the new partner of Marcel's old partner-in-crime. Stick owes them money from the drug deal he went up for-the prison rape was just a gentle reminder. They follow him all over Mon-treal and hassle him constantly, supposedly only on their lunch hour.

Just so we don't get the idea Marcel's queer or anything, he picks up his old girlfriend. They slap each other around a little, then ride his bike to a dock where he fucks her standing up. That's the last we see of her—the movie's met its hetero quota.

Stick goes to visit Blondie, who's on the verge of getting out. They whisper their plans, and we hear Blondie saying, "No fag will be able to resist me." He speaks in English with French subtitles while Marcel and the cops do the reverse.

Later the blond, looking hot in black leather, picks Georges up and leads him to a planned ambush at the Hotel Bangkok. Georges gags him with a necktie and kisses him. By the time Marcel arrives Blondie complains , "That pig tried to fuck me twice." (But which verb does "twice" refer to, "tried" or "fuck"? Everybody gets one shot?) Blondie goes back to Nebraska-the movie's met its homo quota.

The sex and violence described above is the meat of a subplot that makes up less than half of Night Zoo. What it's really about is the reconciliation between Marcel and his father (Roger Le Bel). Dad is always argumentative or self-pitying , and Marcel has pretty much ignored the old guy all his life, so we don't feel much for either of them. For no apparent reason-maybe it's Father's Day or maybe it's because Pop found the money and cocaine he had stashed—Marcel agrees to fishing with Dear Old Dad.

This brings them closer together . They get closer yet when the father, now hospitalized, wants to go hunting. Marcel gets him high and takes him to the zoo to get a shot at an elephant. At last, having done with normal gay and straight sex, the movie's final image suggests incestuous necrophilia.

Fathers and sons who feel guilty about their own relationships may want to see Night Zoo together, but they'll be embarrassed by the rough stuff. Thrill seekers can find better action pictures at any drive-in.

That leaves the gay content as the only reason for seeing this movie, so a little bit of consensual, nonexploitative sex would have been nice. If your fantasies run rugged, the jailhouse rape and tearoom scenes will give you a momentary kick.

-Steve Warren

(Continued from page 52)

TATTOO RESOURCES

Based primarily upon a list prepared by Rick DiOrio, Thor Stockman and others for a GMSMA program on Tattoos and the men who wear them.

Books

Art, Sex, and Symbol: The Mystery of Tattooing, by R. W. B. Scutt and Christopher Gotch, revised 2nd edition, Cornwall Books, 1986. Covers every aspect -historical, sociological, technical, psychological and physiological—of tattooing practiced worldwide. Includes illustrated chapters on sexual aspects of tattooing, genital tattoos , and how tattooing has been used as a torture and punishment in history. If you purchase only one book for information about tattooing, this should be it.

Chapters from an Autobiography , by Samuel M. Steward, Grey Fox Press, 1981. Not a book solely about tattoos, but recommended here for Steward's fascinating account of his years as a tattoo artist (under the name Phil Sparrow), in between lives as a homosexual literary starfucker (in Gertrude Stein's circle) and a gay S / M porn writer (under the name Phil Andros).

Forbidden Photographs, by Charles Gatewood, Flash Publications , 82 pages 41 plates. Published in a limited edition of 1,000 signed and numbered copies, this book is nearly out of print. It is now available only from Flash, Box 745, Wood-stock NY 12498. $49.95 + $2.00 S&H.

The Japanese Tattoo, by Sandi Fellman. A collection of tradi-

tional Japanese tattoos accom-panied by enlightening, well written text. Now available as a trade paperback, $19.95.

Tattoo: Pigments of Imagination , by Chris Wroblewski, Alfred van der Marck Editions, 1987. Not for the squeamish, it includes some of the most imaginative and individualistic work done on the cutting edge of tattooing in the last 10 years. Also includes some authentic tribal and "new tribal" designs. Paperback $15,95.

Tattoo, by Stefan Richter, Quartet Books, 1985. A stunning and expensive coffee-table book of modern tattoos, beautifully photographed in surprising contexts and poses.

The Tattooists, by Albert L. Morse, Albert L. Morse, 1977. A good general view of American tattooing, structured around portraits of and statements from most of the major tattooists in the US as of the mid-70s.

Magazines

Tattoo, the magazine of derma-graphics , PO Box 15107, Santa Ana, CA 92705. Published quarterly by Biker Lifestyle Magazine.

Tattoo Life, Rt 8, Box 44 L 48, Winchester, VA 22801

Tattootime, Tattootime Publications , Honolulu, HI. An annual now in its fourth year. Each issue contains excellent articles and photographs, from classic tattoo subjects and styles to newest work being done today. #1 is now out of print, #2 "Tattoo Magic" is $10. #3 "Music & Sea Tattoos" is $15. #4 "Life & Death Tattoos" is $15.

Items listed above with prices are available from the Sand-mutopia Supply Co., PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA. 415 / 978-5377. MC, Visa, AmEx accepted. Allow $1.50 per book for 5&H.

DRUMMER 112

TOUGH CUSTOMER

CAVELO IMMORTALIZED IN LIVING FLESH: Completely covered with renderings of various Cavelo drawings, this TC was showing off his body art at the 1985 "Rites of Manhood" run jointly sponsored by the Seattle Dun- geon Guild, Knights Templar, and VASM.

Cavelo's drawings originally appeared in the Cavelo Portfolio published by Zeus.

FETISH FEATURE

RICK DIORIO

Photos by John Kenny

My first experience with tattoos was with my first lover. He had been in the Navy but had never been tattooed. We often got off on having scenes with tattooed guys. On a trip to Halifax we had seen a tattoo shop while on tour. We went back there on our own. It was an old place and the walls were covered with all kinds of "flash" (predesigned tattoo stencils) of hula girls, eagles, "moms," etc. He chose an old ship. The artist cleaned his arm, put a layer of vaseline on, and laid the stencil on it. Rubbing it with ink left the outline of the ship. My lover was scared shitless by now. The artist drew the first line and turned to dip his needle in the ink. I told my lover he could stop if he wanted. He said, "What? And go through life with one line across my arm? I'd rather have a whole tattoo." The final tattoo was a beautiful large clipper with big sails and small seagulfs all around. My lover was very relieved when it was over. I asked the artist which was the most interesting part of the body he had ever tattooed. He said he had done a butterfly on the head of someone's dick. Coincidentally, that guy worked at a bar nearby! We went there, had some drinks, and tried to convince him to show it. He finally said, "I don't show my pecker to just anybody!"

When my lover and I would go cruising together, he would roll up his sleeve so part of the tattoo would show. It was very effective for meeting people. I doubted then that I would ever get one. That was 15 years ago. My lover and I broke up after a few years, but the tattooing interest persisted . Tattooing is illegal here in New York City, and knowing few people made it difficult to get information. Finally, as a 35th birthday present to myself, I decided to do it. My plan was to get two fish on my arm, representing Pisces, about the size of a quarter. On the fateful day, the first design was sketched, and we decided to make it a bit larger. Halfway through, I knew this was only the beginning. I was hooked! Both the tattoo and the act felt erotic and sensual. The process of letting someone put their mark on you and enduring the pain was part of what led to the final goal.

I was now with my new Daddy / Master (we've been together for 2 years), and with his approval we added water, then a carp and coral to my shoulder. I like the Japanese style of very bright colors and fine details. Then came a large backpiece with a lion fish and two Japanese fighting fish. Still later, down the other arm, we put a sea horse and other bits of sea life. Finally (for now!), a dragonfly was placed skimming the water on my back.

I get off very much on showing my tattoos when asked. Most people who are seriously into tattooing, whether they are gay or straight, don't think twice about showing their tattoos, wherever they may be. I've developed a strong friendship with my tattoo artist, and feel proud to be wearing his art on my body. For me, being tattooed has been a great ego booster and conversation starter, and represents a rite of passage. My Daddy really enjoys my tattoos too. I have no regrets and intend to keep going. I'm only sorry it took me 15 years to get started!

TAFETISH FEATURE

LEATHER NOTEBOOK by LARRY TOWNSEND

Dear Larry,

I read your column regularly, as well as most of the other major gay publications, and I am frankly puzzled over some of the cautions you (and others) give re: keeping your toys free of the AIDS virus. You tell us to take all of these elaborate measures to clean anything that might draw blood, even down to the prickers on some cock harnesses. Yet the best authori-ties seem to indicate that the virus can't survive for more than a few hours outside the body. Is all this nonsense really necessary?

Alex, Los Angeles, CA

Dear Alex.

Put yourself in the place of someone who is trying to give responsible advice, and maybe you'll understand why we recommend all these precautions. We are not advising on how to avoid a dose of clap that can be cured by a shot in the ass, or a bout of crabs that can be knocked off with flea spray. This disease is both deadly and incurable. If you take extraordinary measures to avoid it, that is far preferable to running even the slightest risk. I, for one, am not about to advise people "not to worry about it." Besides, the extra precautions should be observed, anyway , because there are all sorts of microorganisms that may be transmitted by dirty toys. If my advice helps someone avoid hepatitis or herpes, I don't think I'm doing him a disservice .

Dear Larry,

One of my greatest fascinations is with impalement. I know that you are knowledgeable on this, because I saw several stories and articles that you wrote a number of years ago-also noted somewhere that you had done a novel on Ivan the Terrible , when this sort of punishment was fairly common, AIDS considerations aside, is there any safe way to actually have a scene involving impalement? Since I would like to be bottom in this situation, the safety factors are of particular concern. (And by "impalement" I mean being put up on a greased pole, or stake, so that you have to stand with the end up your ass, high enough that you can't lift yourself off, balancing yourself on tiptoes.) Shit, I'm getting a hard-on just writing this!

Pete, Dallas, TX

Dear Pete,

Since impalement was invented , apparently by the Mongols, as a punishment intended to result in a humiliating and painful death, it is not a game that is going to be safely played. I suppose you might lessen the odds by constructing a blunt-ended pole with a "stopper" on it, which would prevent it from entering your gut beyond 6" to 8". However, the entire situation is going to be fraught with peril, and I do not recommend it. Of course, I get a bit squeamish when I see some of the heavier electro-play and warm-weather mummification, as well; and these bottoms always seem to survive their ordeals. I am simply concerned that we not negate our own assertions that SM play can be safe and sane by engaging in foolhardy experimentation. Read on.

Dear Larry,

I have been around the SM scene for longer than I'd care to admit, and in the last few years I have attended a number of "runs" and parties put on by clubs in various parts of the country. In the course of this, I have seen a number of "exchanges " which I felt were downright dangerous, even though both Tops and bottoms seemed extremely competent, and no harm resulted from their behavior. I don't want to condemn what any other men may do, but it all makes me begin to wonder about your past assertions that the "ultimate " in SM is something other than death. Isn't there a heavy "death wish" on the part of: (1) an elderly man who submits to a whipping that would test the endurance of an 18-year-old; or (2) a guy who permits himself to be sealed in a plaster cast with just his nose and genitals protruding, on a day when the temperature exceeds 90°; or (3) a middle-aged man who enjoys being suspended by his ankles and left hanging upside-down for half an hour or more? I could mention other examples. but I think these should be enough to make my point. I would really welcome your comments.

(Name and area withheld)

Dear Withheld:

Although you may be right in projecting a death-wish mentality onto a bottom who skirts disaster in some of his scenes, I can't help but compare his mental set with that of other guys who involve themselves in any number of asexual adventures which also expose them to deadly peril. Take, for instance , the case of a race car driver, or a mountain climber-to pick just a couple of the most obvious examples. Are these men exposing themselves to mortal danger because they subconsciously wish to die, or are they doing it to prove their own skills-perhaps their own immortality? I have a very ambivalent opinion on this subject , but in this I am certainly not alone. The psychological literature is full of diverse opinions . I'd say that whichever side you choose to take, you would have ample academic company.

Dear Larry,

Maybe I'm an old-fashioned, male chauvinist fairy, but it seems to me that the bastions of male-male exclusivity are being invaded by women—the very things we try to avoid in our gay lifestyles. Why do our "spokesmen" seem to be so willing for this to happen? I note in a recent meeting at GMSMA in New York, there were women on the panel of speakers. (And one of them was an honorary member, I think.) When your Leatherman's Handbook was reviewed in the Advocate, it was a woman who did it. I go into one of our few remaining leatherbars, and what do I see? Cunt in leather! I think it's disgusting , and I know most of us feel the same way. I suppose the next thing will be a pussy tent at Inferno. (Better not print my name and address or some bull dyke will beat the shit out of me.)

Anonymous, Midwest

Dear Ano,

We are living in a changing world; there is no denying it, and if we don't accept the changes that we can't do anything about, we only make ourselves miserable. I know the women who were involved in the GMSMA meeting (one of whom was the gal who reviewed my book), and I have great respect for their knowledge and understanding of the SM scene. They are certainly not our enemies. To meet with women, particularly SM women, in either a social or academic setting should not bother any of us. (And to a large extent our bar hours are now more social than sexual.) When you go out into a public place, you always run the risk of exposure to people who affect you negatively. Since the women who seem to upset you are undoubtedly included at the invitation of other leather-men , your argument is really with them, not with the women themselves. The next time you run into a woman in a leather-bar , why not go up and talk to her? You might find she has something to offer.

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