TRUCKER he shadows cast long as the by young brave walked across the Steve Evans scorched earth toward the tribe's burial ground. His naked body blurred to the eye of the lone screaming hawk circling overhead, as the heat waves rose skyward. The youth didn't falter in his step as he neared the freshly charred resting place of his now de-

They had been together since birth, entering this world only minutes apart. The old squaw who was midwife to the tribe said the spirits had meant them to be twins; but they were too special to be entrusted to only one woman.

Red Hawk dropped to his knees on the blackened earth. "Why did you leave me?" Tears filled his eyes and his body shook as he looked skyward.

"Why, Crow? Why did you go?" His vision blurred as he took har dfuls of earth and rubbed them over his hard body, leaving streaks where his hands passed. "I miss your body beside me at night. The blanket is cold without you. My life is nothing if I can't share it with you."

Red Hawk's hands continued their trails of ash across his chest, stomach and legs. "Who will I hunt with? Who will I swim with?" He slid his hand between his legs and took his cock in his hand. "Who will I love with?" He continued stroking himself with one hand as he rubbed the ashes across his chest with the other. His chant-like conversation with his cremated friend continued along with the two motions. "The crow and the hawk will fly together no more. The buck will no longer flee in fear from our arrows. The threat is gone." He tightened his grip on his cock and his stroke guickened.

"The turkey will no longer run from-our spears and the fish from our barbs. I am an empty shell and have nothing left to offer you … except this." The mus-sles in Red Hawk's back firmed as did the cheeks of his ass. His balls drew up toward his body acting as a catapult for the scream that came from his lips. His cum disappeared into the charred wood as a lone hawk circled overhead. awk downshifted his rig and eased it off the highway onto the gravel. He worked down through the gears automatically as his eyes scanned the horizon. It had been twenty years since he had been back near the reservation. He had refused this run for many reasons in the past, but as the memories of his youth resurfaced, he knew what the real reason had been.

In the past Hawk had told himself he just didn't want to face the deterioration of his people's way of life. The courageous young braves no longer searched for their next kill, but killed time searching for their next job. A beer with the boys had replaced the hunt, and tourist souvenirs the prized feather for bravery.

Hawk folded his arms on the steering wheel and then brushed his sleeve across his eyes. "Damn, why did I wait so long to come back here?" He reached down beside the seat and eased the shift lever forward as the truck rolled back onto the road. "I am what I am, and they are still my people." As the KW picked up speed, he worked his way through the gears. Hawk wiped his eyes with his sleeve again as he sounded his airhorns with one long blast after another. "After all these years, I still miss you, Crow, and still haven't accepted the will of the Gods. I loved you, Crow! Damn how I loved you."

It was dusk as Hawk pulled into the truck stop and maneuvered his rig into a space with all the other trucks that had stopped for the night. He smiled as he looked out at the mercury glow surrounding the gas islands and restaurant. It was the modern-day cowboy's version of putting the wagons in a circle, and he was the Indian. He groped himself before opening the door and climbing down. If what he had heard was true, the head here had a glory hole matched by none other in this part of the country. They would line up along the walls waiting for their turn. Hawk groped himself again as he crossed the parking lot walking toward the showers.

The steaming hot water relaxed the tight muscles in Hawk's back, stiffened by long hours of driving. The discomfort seemed to wash away as the hard spray worked its magic. The only tightness left was in his nuts and he knew that too would be gone shortly. Hawk watched the other guys in the showers as he lathered himself. At forty years old, he was still hot and, comparing himself with the other men, he felt good. His uncut cock hung impressively between two muscular legs, causing his low hanging balls to push forward. Both in jeans and stripped, as now, he looked hot.

Hawk turned into the spray of water to soak down his hair and rinse off his body. His shoulder-length hair, sharp features, and almost hairless body left no doubt as to his heritage.

The two men left in the shower with Hawk had not tried to hide their interest in him and stroked their cocks openly as they watched him rinse off. Hawk stood in the water spray rubbing his body with his hands to get rid of the soap. He cupped his balls with his hand for a final rinse, and then did the same thing to his dick, before slowly sliding the skin back and forth over the head. "Either of you guys want to check and see if I got all the soap off my balls?" Within seconds, one of them was kneeling between his legs and the other was chewing on his nipples.

Hawk put his arm around the man beside him, running his fingers along the muscled shoulders of a man that knew the meaning of hard work. His fingers slid up the neck and into the damp hair before tightening his grip, pulling the hungry mouth harder against his chest. "Chew on them like a man.

They made the cowboy kneel before them and beg to be allowed to stick his tongue up their hot sweaty assholes, as they pierced his tits with splinters of wood.

Let me know how much you want them." With his other hand, he pulled the other man even closer, hearing him gag as the cock he had been working on lodged deep in his throat. "Suck it deep, cowboy. Let me feel your throat muscles tighten around me.'

Hawk released his grip only for a second and heard the man gulp in some air. He tightened his grip on both the men, driving their faces tight against his body. One of them was playing with his hot puckered asshole and Hawk knew that he was going to shoot his load. As the wet fingers slid deep inside him, he arched his back, unloading his nuts into the waiting throat. He was holding the two men so tight he could feel their bodies shake along with his as each climactic wave washed over him.

As the spasms calmed, Hawk released his grip and felt the men slip away back into their own steam-shrouded shower sprays. When Hawk turned around him from his final rinse, the shower room was empty, and he stood there drying off alone. He smiled as he dressed, thinking of what other interesting encounters waited for him. He looked in the mirror as he folded the red bandana and tied it on as a headband. The smile continued as he thought to himself, Too bad I don't have a feather. But the blue work shirt, jeans and boots were the loincloth of today's Indians. That too had changed.

Hawk was halfway through his meal when he saw a young man walking toward his table. He looked like many of the new drivers he had seen in the last couple years. Green around the edges with a cowboy hat that was too fancy and a shirt that was too new. The jeans, although not quite faded enough, did show some promise with what they held inside. Hawk was so lost in his own thoughts that the young man had to speak twice before Hawk realized that he had stopped and was standing beside his table.

"I said, do you mind if I sit down with you?"

Hawk looked up, and then around at the empty tables, before answering. "Whatever makes you happy."

The guy slid into the seat across from Hawk and set his tray on the table. "You look different now."

Hawk looked at him. "From when? Do I know you?"

The boy smiled. "From the shower room."

'Oh."

"I was the one on the floor." He blushed. "If it makes a difference."

Hawk was taken by the combination of openness and shyness mixed together. He could see this kid going through life saying what first came into his mind, and then being embarrassed by it. "You want me to move somewhere

"Do what you want. As I said, whatever makes you happy."

"OK, I'll stay." He started to eat. "By the way, my name is Carl." He reached across the table to shake hands.

Hawk looked at him before taking his hand. "I'm Hawk."

Carl's face lit up. "No shit? Is Hawk really your name?"

Hawk's face hardened. "Why? Something wrong with it?"

"No, it's great. Are you really an Indian?";

Hawk put down his knife and fork. "What the fuck is this, twenty questions?"

Carl blushed again. "I'm sorry, I did it again."

'Did what again?"

"Talked without thinking. Now I've pissed you off. I'll move somewhere else." Carl started to slide out of his seat.

"Sit where you are."

"What?"

"I said sit. You didn't piss me off."

They both ate in silence for a while with each stealing a look at the other. Carl caught Hawk's eye during one of these exchanges and smiled. "So, are vou?"

Hawk tried to scowl but there was no way with that boyish arin across the table from him. "Am I what?"

'An Indian. You look like one."

"You look like a cowboy, are you one?"

'Come on. Quit jerking me around."

"Why's it so important to you if I'm an Indian?"

That scene in the shower was hot, man. I never wanted a dick as much as I wanted yours.'

"And you've had it."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"Look at me." Carl picked his hat up off the seat beside him and set it on the back of his head. "You said I look like a cowboy. Don't you get it?"

"No."

He took off his hat. "I've made it with guys from all types of work from construction to office. Now tell me: does cowboy and construction worker sound right? How about cowboy and fireman? Now do you see what I'm getting at? It's cowboys and Indians I want."

Hawk smiled, "You got a real fantasy going there, don't you? I'm not sure I can live up to it."

Carl smiled, "If the shower was any sample, I know you can."

Hawk shook his head. "I'm not sure you know what you're getting into."

"Well, you know what the Indians did to white men?"

"What? What?"

Hawk smiled. "They scalped them." Carl matched Hawk's grin. "And tied them up and fucked them."

"Tied them to stakes and burned them."

"And tortured them."

"Made them into sex slaves." Hawk looked around to be sure no one else was listening, before continuing. "They made the cowboy do all sorts of unnatural things. They made him run his tongue under their uncut cocks and lick the sweat off their red-skinned balls. They made the cowboy kneel before them and beg to be allowed to stick his tongue up their hot sweaty assholes, as they pierced his tits with splinters of wood. They tied rawhide to his nuts and hung heavy rocks from them, stretching and pulling the skin until he thought it would tear from his body. They they would tie him over a fallen tree and beat his ass until it was so sensitive that the slightest breeze blowing across it caused pain. Then when they were finished he was tied to his horse, with the saddle horn up his ass, and run out of the camp."

"Shit!"

"What's the matter, your fantasy crumbling?"

"No." Carl blushed again. "I just shot my load in my jeans."

Hawk smiled. "Good. Then maybe we can finish our dinner."

Carl was still shaking when he spoke. 'What's dessert going to be?"

Hawk never raised his eyes from his plate, "You." he two men sat in the sleeper of the blue and white KW. There had not been much conversation between them since they left the restaurant. The glow of two cigarettes was all that could be seen. "You. Cowboy. Take off my boots." The glow of one cigarette disappeared and then there was the sound of boots being pulled off. "The socks too, you dumb shit." Hawk ground his bare foot into the boy's crotch as he finished smoking. "Get undressed and kneel beside me.'

When Hawk felt the warmth of the man beside him, he still didn't speak. In the darkness he reached out and rubbed his hand over the hard young body beside him and remembered times past, when it was another Indian boy kneeling there. It wasn't a game then, but something real being shared. Hawk was glad there was no light because he would not have wanted this stranger to see the expression on his face.

Hawk's fingers kneaded and pinched across the now-hard tits beside him. He enjoyed the soft whimper that could be heard in the dark and then disappearing again. His fingers trailed through the soft hair on the chest and followed the path it created down the firm young body until he brushed against the head of the boy's cock standing tall. The whimper could be heard again as his grip tightened around the furry sack between the kid's legs. Small sounds could be heard in the darkness and then there was a quick intake of breath as Hawk lowered his mouth over the hard cock. The intensity of his grip was countered only by the movement of his mouth and tongue. The sounds in the darkness were now moans and heavy breathing. Hawk had not sucked another man's cock since he had serviced his beloved Crow. But now in the darkness, he could imagine he was back there between his friend's legs. It was Crow's cock he had buried in his throat, not some pretend cowboy.

He felt hands on the back of his head, pressing him down further on that shaft. He could no longer breathe from either his nose or mouth, but wouldn't pull away for fear of breaking the fantasy. Then he felt the slight swelling of the shaft and was lost in the completion of the climax.

Air quickly slid by the softening cock and Hawk gasped it in like a drowning man coming to the surface. He lay back down still not releasing his grip on the boy's nuts. Their breathing returned to normal, and the only sound that could be heard in the truck was an occasional whimper as Hawk tightened his grip on the jewels he held in his hand.

Hawk sat up, and then got to knees. "Lay down, cowboy, on your back, and spread your arms and legs." Hawk unsnapped and closed the curtain between the cab of the truck and the sleeper before he turned on a light. They both squinted for a second before their eyes adjusted to the intrusion. Hawk quickly tied Carl, spread-eagled with raw hide, to the sleeper bed before

"You are to be my sacrifice to the Great Spirits to take away some of the shame." Hawk slid the tip of the knife down Carl's chest and stomach until the point rested on the head of Carl's cock.

Hawk drove his dry cock into the freshly shaved asshole, burying it all the way up to his balls. Hawk's cock drove again and again into Carl's ass. Cutting loose the gag and restraints, he attacked Carl's mouth with his tongue. he got undressed himself. The last thing Hawk took off was his headband, letting his hair fall forward, as he leaned over and tied the cloth around Carl's mouth as a gag. Hawk again explored the cowboy's body, but this time looking at it in the light. His fingers worked their magic, and Carl was soon hard again. Hawk reached down and stroked the hard smooth skin.

"I see my little cowboy is ready to play again." Hawk continued to stroke and explore as he talked. "I'm sorry I don't have my feathers anymore, so I could be more convincing for your fantasy. But I really am an Indian. A Cherokee, to be exact. I was born a hundred or so miles back up that road on the reservation." Hawk was thoughtful for a minute. "Or should I say, what the white man has left of the reservation. They took away my feathers and buckskin pants along with my dignity and my land. All I have left is this." Hawk reached into a compartment on the wall and brought out a hunting knife. The light flashed on the blade, and he could see fear in Carl's eves. "I tried to warn you, but you only heard what you wanted to hear."

Hawk lowered the knife to Carl's chest and slid the blade across the skin, leaving a nude path where the hair had been removed. "As you can see, the blade is quite sharp. Indians take very good care of their knives. You want to see just how sharp it is?" Hawk grabbed a handful of hair on Carl's head and raised the knife. Carl pulled back as much as his restraints would allow and tried to call for help. The sounds were like those of a small animal caught in a trap. With all his fear, Carl never lost his erection. Hawk released his grip and let Carl's head fall back onto the bed.

"You see, you're a pretend cowboy but I'm a real Indian. For you it's a game, but for me it's real."

As he spoke, Hawk continued removing the chest hair with the knife. "You represent everything the white man has done to my people. You are to be my sacrifice to the Great Spirits to take away some of the shame."

Hawk slid the tip of the knife down Carl's chest and stomach until the point rested on the head of Carl's cock. "I'm. going to take away your manhood just like you did to us." The animal sounds could be heard again and tears were in Carl's eyes. Hawk lifted the knife blade and started cutting away the pubic hair around the still-firm cock. "I want you to be smooth when I send you off with my message to the spirits. And I wouldn't advise your moving around too much. I would hate to slip with the knife and have to send a less than complete messenger."

Carl could feel the dry blade sliding across his skin and the pull of the hair as it left his body. Everywhere the knife had been, his skin burned as the sweat came to the surface. His whole body felt like it was on fire. He had never been so scared, or so turned on, in his whole life. He could feel the knife on his balls as Hawk spoke again.

"If I slipped now, not only would the messenger be less than complete but he would talk in a much higher voice. I would advise you not to move, because I wouldn't need much of an excuse to cut off your balls and hang them from my mirror. Indians like to keep trophies of their conquests. But I'm sure you know that already."

Hawk moved to the foot of the bed and cut the rawhide strips, and then retied them again up beside Carl's arms, giving him full access to Carl's ass. Hawk quickly shaved away all the soft hair around the tight puckered area.

"There, my little cowboy, you're ready to deliver my message to the white man." Picking up his belt from the jeans he had dropped some time ago, Hawk whipped it back and forth across Carl's ass as he spoke, leaving thin red welts. "This is a reminder of all the hurt you have given. The red welts are for the beatings we have endured, and this is for the overall fucking you've given us."

Hawk drove his dry cock into the freshly shaved asshole, burying it all the way up to his balls. "This is the message for you to deliver, my little pretend cowboy. Fuck you, and all the rest of the sidewalk cowboys out there." Hawk's cock drove again and again into Carl's ass. Cutting loose the gag and restraints, he attacked Carl's mouth with his tongue. Whatever air was in their lungs was all they had to share, passing it back and forth between them.

They both reached their climax at the same time and rode it through to the end in each other's arms. awk had finished his shower and breakfast and walked back toward his truck. He felt refreshed and content with himself for the first time in quite a while. He was almost back to the truck when he noticed the two red fuzzy balls hanging from the mirror and the note:

Here's Your Trophy—Until Next Time The Cowbov Carl Crowe

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DRUMMER 118

HAT BIND

Guy Baldwin, M.S.

MASTER / slave RELATIONSHIPS PART I: OVERVIEW

"He serves best who serves the servant." -Thom Magister

In this and the next column, I want to focus on relationships with prevailing dominant / submissive features, specifically , Master / slave relationships. These are usually seen by their practitioners as the ultimate expression of the dominant / submissive experience.

Put in simple terms, these relationships occur between the identified Master who has a defined authority and specified responsibilities in the relationship , and the identified slave(s) who submit(s) to the will of the Master.

The variation here is wide. When and where? This configuration may only happen at certain times of the day, or on certain days of the week, or in certain rooms, or when certain clothes are worn, or perhaps only in the presence of certain people, etc.

Is there more than one way to do it? You bet! Just to give you a feeling for the range of possibilities, I have seen a Master with several slaves. Some slaves have more than one Master. Some slaves have slaves, and some Masters are themselves slaves to yet other Masters. Another slave I know has a lover (mostly vanilla) and a Master as well-each knows and likes the other. And yes, I know of Master / slave involvements that have been ongoing now for many years—the partners have learned to manage the intensity and keep things hot for themselves, mostly through the development of a remarkable degree of honesty.

Written contracts sometimes add an interesting wrinkle. Again, variation is wide. Some Masters have authority in the slave's workplace (if the slave works). Some slaves have autonomy when dealing with their family; some not. Finances are not always subject to the Master's will, whereas some Masters require their slave to handle all finances. Some Masters outline various levels of submission, with deepest submission (usually very short-term) such that the slave does nothing but breathe without instructions.

I have spoken with many guys who have found ecstasy in the Master / slave scene. Most reported to me that they had to explore several different such situations first before they could learn enough about themselves to know what would work for their own particular personalities.

If this is something you have only dreamed about your whole life, look inside yourself to learn what has kept you from trying it out. It is not too much trouble to find your counterpart especially for short-term "try it on for size" scenes.

It is unfair to yourself to assume that the relationship in your mind cannot be achieved at least in part. Remember that not so many years ago, it was impossible for a closeted gay man to even imagine an ongoing relationship with another man.

Likewise, if this is your scene and you find yourself bouncing from one Master/ slave situation to another in frustration, perhaps now might be a good time to check out your motivations for wanting this sort of thing in the first place. If you only end up with bad apples, then maybe you need to refine your pickin' skills. It helps to distinguish between what you can tolerate and what you can dream about.

In designing relationships, one watchword comes from the Mistress Carolyn. Her advice: "If it ain't fun, you ain't doin' it right." I take her to mean that the rituals, rules, responsibilities, and restrictions that are incorporated into the relationship must be a turn-on for everyone, or else they won't survive for long.

One thing that I have noticed about these relationships is the great extent to which they have been negotiated. Unless these relationships are a perfect sexual and emotional fit from the beginning (and when does that happen?), they will have to be carefully negotiated . In each such relationship that I have learned about, tremendous effort had been made to carefully outline the extent of the Master's authority and responsibility and the extent of the slave's submission.

The durability of these relationships is often determined by the success of these negotiations, and the ability of the partners to remain interesting to each other. Very often, the "divorce clock" starts ticking when one or both start to get bored for long stretches.

In some Master / slave relationships, a man's entry into the position of "slave" represents an "I love you, I trust you" message. Here, a Master's acceptance of a slave represents the complementary "I love you, I trust you" message. It will almost certainly take each of them some time to define for themselves just what "I love you, I trust you" actually means. They probably won't know themselves right at first.

It is these definitions of love and trust that will determine how the relationship functions and how long it will last. It is quite normal for these definitions to change with time.

For example, "I love you, I trust you" for the first week of the relationship may mean, "I love the way you lick my boots, and I trust you not to scuff them up." By the end of the first month, it may have changed to include "I love how I feel when we are together, and I trust you not to lie to me about important things."

By the end of the first year, the definition may include, "I love you because you reveal me to myself, and I trust you with my heart." After more time (?), "I love you 'cause you know me, I trust you with my Self." Whatever. Nigel Kent once said, "If you beat the shit out of a man, he will fearn all about you."

Certainly, the same is true whether you are the owned or the owner-he will eventually find out who you really are.

My clinical work has taught me that there are also Master / slave relationships in which love is not necessarily part of the equation. In these, the dynamic can be one in which the slave says, consciously or not, "I will take certain risks (usually including obedience ) because I enjoy doing so," while the Master says "I will accept the risks of responsibility and your obedience until I lose interest in doing so."

Any of the numerous sorts of Master/ slave relationships can also include any variety of the physical S&M practices. Of course, these are optional depending on the tastes of the men involved. At various points in the relationship, the partners may agree to "switch off" the Master / slave process, and leave the physical S&M switches on, or vice versa. Usually, either partner can switch something off, but it takes both to turn the switches back on again.

These relationships can be very rewarding or they can be hell. Mixtures of both are not unknown. My observation has been that the hellish variety is more likely when the men are not honest with themselves first, and with their partner second. Secretly held feelings usually find their expression somewhere in the relationship, and will have to be dealt with sooner or later.

Next month, in Part II, I want to go somewhat deeper into the issues that come up for guys into the Master / slave scene in the hope that I can save people some time and unwanted pain. 'Til then, play well.

Guy A. Baldwin, M.S. is a psychotherapist in private practice in Los Angeles, where he works primarily with those on the sexual frontier.

STROKE SUCK fiction by Jeffery Steinberg illustration by William Lucas

"This ain't gonna work," Bob decided as he pulled his head back and let Joe's cock slide out of his mouth. Joe's mouth continued sucking on his prick but with much less enthusiasm than earlier. Soon Joe stopped as well, and both men lay back wondering what to do next.

"Suckin' cock's okay," Bob thought, "but a man's gotta hump ass-not this silly, sissy stuff." He looked over at Joe and had to admit that he liked what he saw. Joe was no loser; he was a real man in every respect. Bob studied the flaccid cock that was just inches from his face, sticking out from Joe's sweaty jockstrap. It was a masterpiece , something a man should be proud of owning. Even when soft, the long hairless monster required two hands to hold, and Bob's hands were big. A thick, mean-looking vein ran

Joe would rip the rest of his undershirt off and, forcing it into his slave's mouth, use it like a bridle on a horse. Every time Joe gave his butch filly a slamming fuck, he'd pull Bob's head back like he was a colt being broken by a new master.

down the side of it, and there was an ample amount of foreskin which gave Joe's rammer an animal appearance. Only a faint sprinkling of curly blonde hair grew at the base and on the ballsack, which was enormous and, stretched downward by the two jizz-packed balls inside, hung down like a horse's.

Bob had always figured he could service a cock like a man, putting everything he had into the job, being equal to any challenge. After all, when he paid a guy off he did it like a man, not like a frail sob-sister, and sucking cock had always been a payback. Yes, when he met a guy who took his 12-inch fucker like a guy should, Bob showed his appreciation by giving a suck-job that couldn't be beat.

Yet Joe's untamed, uncut dick was a breed of its own. Bob had had to learn how to deep-throat the bone as if he had been a beginner all along. And Joe didn't get off on passive service, either. He expected his cock to be worked on expertly, with complete dedication. Well, Bob wasn't one to give up; he gave his buddy more than the guy could ever expect and was rewarded every time with a belly-full of hot thick cream.

Bob's eyes roamed the length of Joe's tan body. No doubt, this was a hunk of pure man. From the large, bare feet to the rippled stomach to the large brown oval nipples on a well-defined chest, Joe was a man. He had large rough hands, hands accustomed to hard work. His arms were enormous machines of total muscle, as were his wide shoulders. Sitting atop a bull's neck was a ruggedly handsome face, not pretty but masculine, arrogant and cruel.

"It's just too damn bad this thing ain't gonna work out," Bob concluded as he let his head drop back onto the bed and closed his eyes.

"Shit!" thought Joe. "What a fuckin' waste!" Hard as it was to accept the truth, he had to admit that things just weren't working out for Bob and him.

From the moment he first laid eyes on Bob, Joe wanted to be buddies. He remembered that they met at Irma's Bar and Grill in the industrial district. Joe was standing at the bar drinking a beer and unwinding after work when he heard a deep, gravelly voice next to him order a beer. When Joe looked over, because the voice was firm and slightly belligerent , he got his first glimpse of Bob,

the only other man he ever came to consider equal-another real man. Bob was wearing jeans, muddy work boots and a soiled undershirt. Every inch of his hard body seemed to strain under his clothes. His chest and arms were covered with black curly hair and he was filthy with grime and glistening sweat. Joe knew that the stranger had just gotten off work and, like himself, hadn't bothered with trying to spruce up. A strong smell of sweat struck Joe, but he wasn't turned off by it. Sweat wasn't the same as stink; it was the honest proof of hard work and masculinity. The man looked at him with a smile, not a friendly smile, and the thought of running his tongue over the guy's chest and armpits flashed through Joe's mind.

"What ya starin' at, shit-head?" the

"Fuck off, asshole!" Joe returned.

A huge strong hand grabbed loe by the shirt front and the guy screamed, "How'd ya like me to smash open that pretty little face of yours, sweetie?"

"Fuck you," Joe yelled back and followed that up with a fist to the man's gut.

The fight that followed was fast, brief and intense, as fights usually were at Irma's. Trouble broke out all the time in the tavern but because nobody wanted to be barred permanently from the place they always stopped as soon as the men nearby could step in and calm things down. So, the big fight between Joe and Bob ended quickly, yet both men had delivered and received some hefty punches. Still, it was the best form of introduction possible and the two men became confirmed drinking buddies for the evening.

Yet the fight started something going in Joe's mind and pants which he couldn't, didn't want to, ignore. He wished nobody had broken the fight up. He knew he could have licked the dude, and he wanted to. Joe wanted to beat the man nearly unconscious, to

Once his cock was almost out of Bob's ass he'd pause, then, without warning, Joe would grab the man's hips and ram his massive dick in with all his might. That's when the real fucking would start. the point where Bob would have to surrender to him. He'd then shove the man face-down on a table. His hands would rip that undershirt wide open in the back so he could feel the strong back muscles. Joe imagined grabbing Bob by the hair, lifting his head, cupping the conquered man's chin in his palm, forcing his fingers deep into the man's mouth. He'd kick Bob's legs apart and would lean over him from behind, whispering into his ear, "You put up a good fight but I beat the shit out of you, so you're all mine, buddy." As he talked, he would paw at his slave, letting him know who was his new owner, letting him feel the pain of total submission.

"Now, you know the rules, isn't that right, slave-boy?" he would say. "Sure you do. From now on, anything I say goes 'cause we're a pair now and it's your duty to obey me. I beat you, baby. I beat you and you got to serve me now. And you want to, because you know who the best man is. You don't want me to just beat you up and leave you. No, you want me to make a loyal slave out of you. You want me to keep on showing you just who the real boss is. That's okay, babe-I really respect you. You're lucky-only the best get raped by me, and you're the best thing there is besides me."

Joe would have to slug his man-slave in the face and body a lot to keep him in his place. He knew Bob wouldn't stay down unless he was repeatedly forced to. It wouldn't be easy pickings for Joe; he didn't want a slave who accepted being dominated . Those types were all too easy to find. No, Joe wanted this man, wanted to break him and to go on breaking him, chancing rebellion every moment.

He would yank his muscular slave's jeans down, relishing Bob's humiliation . His hands could then freely roam over the hard round ass that was momentarily covered in white briefs. He'd rip those shorts open but not off. That ass would be covered with short rough black hairs and, hidden between the clenched cheeks would be his prize-Bob's virgin fuck hole, his new cunt.

Of course, they wouldn't be alone. All the tense muscled men would gather around the table, eager to enjoy the free show. May be there would be as many as fifty of them, all lean and laughing. Their balls would be full of the rich salty sperm that comes from a day of hard labor, their meaty dicks tender for some hot action. He'd order them to whip those stiffening bones out and they would obey because he was the best, the toughest man among them. The heavy musk smell of sweaty balls and excited male bodies would fill the room.

"All your friends are watching this. slave-boy. All those guys you pushed around are gonna see your asshole get raped wide open. They're gonna jack off while I shove my cock up your shitter, baby, and they'll laugh every time you wince or groan. Now you

better put up a damn good fight or I'll make sure every one of these hard-ons gets rammed up your pussy and down your throat. Or is that just what you'd like?"

Joe would then shove a finger up Bob's frightened ass. Yes, Bob would be scared shitless even though he wouldn't show it. That's okay, because Joe wasn't out to make his slave show fear; he wanted to watch the hunky dude take it like a man, a beaten man. Joe wouldn't jam his finger in nice and easy, either. He wanted to shove first one then several fingers up through Bob's tight sphincter -three fingers at the most.

"Yeah, baby-keep that shit hole really tight for me, 'cause now I'm gonna cram my fat rod up there. I won't even grease your hole up first. You're really gonna feel this. You're gonna like it.'

Joe imagined positioning the huge purple mushroom head of his cock right outside Bob's asshole. He knew it wouldn't be easy getting the round tight pucker to open up for his rod, but eventually he'd be deep inside his slave's guts. He could feel his cockhead pressing against the dry hole that would be shut with all Bob's strength. While the men cheered him on, Joe would shove and lean into Bob's fuck hole relentlessly. Everyone would have their throbbing dicks in hand, slowly jacking away as he tried to force the tip of his dick into his victim. The sight of fifty or more fists—big, rough fists—sliding up and down fifty or more veiny bloated fuck-rods would urge him to shove and slam his own aching crank harder.

Eventually, the virgin asshole would begin to give way. Then Joe would feel the dry muscle gradually, painfully open around his enlarged spearhead . Joe wouldn't ram it in-not yet. But he wouldn't give Bob a chance to adjust and relax, either. Once Joe's cock started sliding in, nothing could stop it from going all the way. He

It wouldn't take long to shoot a heavy load of jizz-he was so damn hot his balls and boner were aching to squirt thick ribbons of the stuff. Too bad he wasn't getting ready to pour his cum up Bob's ass-cunt, he thought. could imagine the muscles on Bob's neck strain and bulge as the conquered stud tried to keep from screaming . Sweat would cover both men and the bar would ring with cheering and laughter as the huge sausage invaded that manly asshole.

Then the mast would be buried to the balls but Joe would spend a few minutes pushing even deeper. He'd rotate his hips forcing Bob's violated cunt to stretch in new agonizing ways. Joe would allow the juices of Bob's gut to lubricate his joint before slowly pulling out again. When he did pull back, he would do it slowly so that his slave would feel like he was shitting his guts out. Once his cock was almost out of Bob's ass he'd pause, then, without warning, Joe would grab the man's hips and ram his massive dick in with all his might. That's when the real fucking would start, a fucking without compassion or mercy. Joe knew he'd want to slow down each time he got close to coming. This first rape had to be a long one, and he'd only shoot his load when he was sure Bob had been used to the limit.

Joe could imagine the total thrill of humping Bob's ass any way he wished. for as long as he wished. Nothing could feel better than balling a man like of Bob-six feet of muscle and hair. Joe would rip the rest of his undershirt off and, forcing it into his slave's mouth, use it like a bridle on a horse. Every time Joe gave his butch filly a slamming fuck, he'd pull Bob's head back like he was a colt being broken by a new master. Finally, as Joe built up for the gusher, he'd reach down and grab Bob's balls and cock. He'd pull and twist Bob's useless fuckmeat until both men were ready to shoot their loads. Bob would unload first because of the merciless slamming against his prostate. Jolt after jolt of steamy scum would squirt onto the floor while his shredded butt-hole squeezed tightly around Joe's frenzied cock. Then Joe would heave all his ball-juice up his slave's raped bung. Joe's scalding cream would fill Bob's guts, letting the slave know that never again would he be a free man.

"That was real nice, man. You pleased your owner real nice. Now, let me just take a good look at your pussy. Beautiful ! I like seeing that stretched-open hole just begging me to take care of it some more. You should see all this blood and jizz drippin' down your legs. Well, if you're a good boy, daddy'll poke you a few more times. I bet that'd make you real happy. Now open your mouth real wide 'cause daddy wants his cock cleaned. Yeah, baby-open nice and wide so I can slide my dick down your throat. Ah-real nice! It looks like I'll have to train you as my personal cocksucker, too. Okay, now lap daddy's crank up real nice. Good job, boy. Now I've got a special surprise for you. Daddy's gotta take a good long piss and I don't want you spilling a drop of that precious gold or else these men here can have you for

the rest of the week. Ah-ah- yeah, here it comes-aah. Drink it all up, baby."

The thought was too much for Joe, whose imagination was running rampant. So was the aching cock in his tight jeans. It was tough trying to talk to the man he really wished he was raping. Bob was the toughest guy he'd ever met and already Joe's dick was aching to get to know his new buddy better.

"I gotta take a piss," he said and went to the head. Joe thought about nothing else except jerking off to that persistent fantasy he'd had while drinking beers with Bob.

Once in the head, he began pulling out his stiff poker. He couldn't pull his stiff cock out his fly, so he yanked down his jeans and white briefs and began massaging his balls and pulling on his uncircumcised shaft. Fortunately , nobody else was in there but that wouldn't have stopped him. Joe stood facing the pisser, yanking his dork like mad. It wouldn't take long to shoot a heavy load of jizz-he was so damn hot his balls and boner were aching to squirt thick ribbons of the stuff. Too bad he wasn't getting ready to pour his cum up Bob's ass-cunt, he thought.

Suddenly the door of the john slammed shut and, looking up, Joe saw Bob standing across from him, grinning like a motherfucker. Joe wasn't fazed in the least; he did what he wanted to. It didn't seem to shock Bob much either. He knew what it was like to carry a fresh load in your balls, needing nothing more than good satisfying relief. Bob knew Joe had his territory staked out, that he owned his turf by virtue of brute strength and nerve, the nerve to expect whatever he demanded. Being a newcomer in the area, Bob figured he either had to fight or fuck whoever already thought he was top dog because Bob needed to run things himself. Seeing loe jack

The sight of fifty or more fists-big, rough fists-sliding up and down fifty or more veiny bloated fuck-rods would urge him to shove and slam his own aching crank harder. his fat twelve inches off in the head convinced Bob that he was going to enjoy taking over the stud's turf, beating him down to submission and fuck-ing the man's shitter wide open. He was already starting to like the guy.

Leaning his back against the door, Bob pulled his fly open and let his jeans drop around his knees. Bob openly eyed the hairy stud's massive muscular thighs, the huge phallic bulge straining against a well-worn jockstrap. Joe slowly fisted his crank while he watched Bob massage his basket with a big hand. Suddenly, the hand pulled the front of the jock aside and a massive ballsack and cock plopped free. Joe was stunned-this was the perfect dream tool. He'd never seen anything as great. The heavy fleshy scrotum hung low with two fist-size nuts and was covered by a thick jungle of black hair. The fuck-pole was enormous, veined and dark, brutal looking. It was circumcised: the flaring head was fat and mean, built for heavy-duty fucking and shoot- ing. Joe knew his own rammer was every bit as deadly as Bob's, so he continued to stroke himself, challenging his new buddy to match his arrogant action-stroke for stroke.

It wasn't going to take long getting those pokers to dump their cum. Both studs had been teasing each other all night-their fight was just a warm-up for the bigger action. Bob moved quickly over to where Joe stood and, grabbing his cock at the base, rubbed its bloated head roughly against loe's thigh. Joe pushed his crotch against Bob's and fisted both cocks in both his large hands, working them together. Their mouths quickly began working against each other, tongues deeply exploring each other's mouth. They didn't kiss in affection. Each man was looking to get his share of stimulation-the other's was arrogantly taken for granted. Both men knew they were the best; both men meant to claim ownership over the other. The contest for domination had begun and it turned both on like no other scene in the past could.

Joe could feel himself on the edge and he threw his head back and clenched his jaws for that first big jizz-jolt of pleasure. Bob started yanking his bone harder. Both throbbing shafts were aimed at each other. Joe's heavy balls pulled quickly up toward the base of his cock and with a deep growl the steamy cum began spurting out in thick ropes. The first wad landed on Bob's dick head and fist. The rest drenched his thighs and dense pubic bush. When Bob felt the hot scum coat his hand, he gave a low bull's grunt and drained his balls all over loe.

From then on they were always together-drinking, jacking off and even swapping blow-jobs. But things just couldn't go on like this indefinitely . Having the other's tight unfucked ass-cunt became the only concern for the two master studs. Though their friendship was great,

fucking was the ultimate goal. Unfortunately , though each man wanted to fuck his buddy, neither was willing to take it up the ass.

So there Bob and Joe lay, naked, horny and frustrated. They didn't talk about the dilemma—there was no need to. Neither hunk was going to give in. The whole situation was beginning to torture Bob because he wanted that tan, smooth rump more than anybody's he'd met. Sure, he could get hundreds of eager. willing bottoms, but none of them compared to Joe. Joe was a man: he wasn't weak. Getting into his asshole meant everything to Bob. He couldn't just walk away from the problem. He wanted to be with Joe, to own him totally.

Joe felt exactly the same. But he also knew that the biggest reason he wanted Bob was because, just like himself, Bob was pure Top, a total master. He could respect Bob's aggressiveness since he was just the same. Joe knew his buddy needed to be the fuck-master in every way, that there was only one asshole, one potential slave who could measure up to Bob's strength and power. That was himself, and he knew only Bob could satisfy him in the same way.

"If he ever got me down," thought Joe, "he'd go at me until I was completely beaten and raped bloody. Man, I can't even imagine what that'd be like, being totally dominated by a dude like Bob. But, then, if he fucked me I'd be his property and not his buddy. That'd ruin everything."

"Hey, Joe," Bob interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Y'ever do anything ya didn't like because va had to?"

"Sure, Bob."

"Ya know, when you make a deal or bet," continued Bob, "you pay up, right? Even if you don't like it."

"Sure, Bob. If I don't like payin' up I pay up even harder. I don't back out

Joe slowly fisted his crank while he watched Bob massage his basket with a big hand. Suddenly, the hand pulled the front of the jock aside and a massive ballsack and cock plopped free. on a deal."

"Yeah—and you don't let nothin' scare you either, huh?"

"No," said Joe flatly. "What are you gettin' at?"

"Well, Joe, I was thinkin' that we oughta flip a coin for it-who gets fucked. That means neither one of us loses 'causes whoever gets bottom hasn't lost no fight. It's just a deal, ya know?"

'You could just fight me for it," said Joe with a challenge to his voice.

'Oh, yeah?" It was clear at that moment that neither man really believed he could win such a fight, which was saying a lot. To admit that the other dude could overpower him was proof that each man was hooked on the other. But neither would willingly say "uncle." There had to be some way of solving this problem while keeping the same power balance going.

"Well, what do ya wanna do? Flip for it?" asked Joe sarcastically. His heart started to pound.

"Sure. You got any better ideas?"

"Well … I dunno, man. I don't think it's such a good idea."

"Fuck it!" Bob cursed, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "This whole thing's fucked!" Joe looked at him surprised. Bob's tightly held display of frustration excited him. It was the same as admitting defeat.

"Hell," said Joe. "Okay, man. Let's give the damn thing a try. But I think you oughta see if you have any rope. Shit, if you lose the toss I'm gonna tie you down before you have a chance to chicken out."

Bob didn't need any more prompting . The thought of having a 50-50 chance at tying Joe up and using his buddy for his complete pleasure was enough to get him searching his place for the rope he knew he had stashed somewhere.

When he was out of the room, Joe walked over to his wallet and pulled out a large silver dollar. He smiled to himself as he brought the coin with him back to bed. The large coin was a real silver dollar. His dad had given it to him when he was a kid. Boy, when he was a kid, Joe really thought his old man was the biggest, toughest, fairest man in the world. He never left that coin out of his possession all these years. It was a real coin but somehow it had authentic heads stamped on both sides. Joe knew he couldn't lose a toss with this coin, and he laughed smugly as Bob returned with a coiled length of thick rough rope. "Yeah," Joe thought, "I got the perfect solution , now."

"See, I got a silver dollar here," he said to Bob, showing his buddy the coin as it lay heads-up on his open palm. "I'll flip."

"Sure, Joe. Wadda ya want-heads or tails? I'm gonna win anyway, baby."

"You really think so?" Joe smiled at his powerful friend, looking at Bob's massive fucker starting to get hard. "Well, then," Joe said, "I'll take tails." П

FETISH FEATUR

RESPLENDENT RUBBER

Eraserdick. Hip boots and waders. Industrial helmets. Gasmasks. Wetsuits and wet scenes. Mudfilth. Oilfilth. Fuckfilth. Enemaletloose. All over everything. All over him. All over you. Piss-shock. Rubbershock. Shockwaves. Rubbertop. Rubberbottom. Sheets. Controlled sound. Controlled touch. Sensory deprivation. Sensory overload. Sensual skill and sophistication. Welcome to the rubber scene. It all began in the late 1970's around the spring of '79—in London at the time there was a place full of rubber called the Five Senses, and to this day, although the place is now gone and this scene is much more complex, the concept that this is a sexual universe that specifically focuses on each of the five senses (with the option of controlling and stimulating one sense at a time: sight, sound, taste, hearing, and touch) remains the operating sexual precept behind the sweat-hot allure of rubber. Today we have the New World Rubber Men and as a club it'd be difficult to beat their enthusiasm-rubberfervor. Rubbersheets is the official "underground newsletter" published by this buoyant group of ecstatically depraved spirits; one cannot escape the sense of outrageous sexual sport on the newsletter's rubberpages (Rubbersheets, 1044 23rd St., San Diego, CA 92103). There is even humor (cartoons)! New World Rubber Men is about rubberbonding with rubberbrothers. And rubberparties. The list of sexual possibilities is only limited by one's sense of imagination. Consider innertubebondage. Cut up your own rubberstrips-tie, stretch, struggle. Fill your fire-boots . The rubber scene is growing as more and more rubberoptions become apparent as we (safely) explore unconventional ways to actualize our rubbersexuality. Rubber hoods. Rubber videos. Rubberslaves. Drysuits. Wetsuits. Take the plunge into

DRUMMER 118

Fetish Feature is a special section that will be found in most issues of Drummer. Each issue will focus on a special turn-on, including news and information, fiction, photos, art, etc. for each fetish. A special feature will be the Fetish Tough Customers section. Send in your special photos for the Fetish TCs and send in your letters, stories, likes, dislikes, etc. for these upcoming fetishes:

Have you missed getting into the Fetish Feature that is your particular turn-on? You don't have to wait until the subject rolls around again. Send us your photos, letters, club news, etc. There are regular columns in Drum

TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A RUBBER FREAK. RUBBEROTI

BY JACK FRITSCHER

Rubber baby-buggy bumpers. I confess. That's how this kid started out in rubberoticism, moving on immediately to harder stuff like rubber training pants which led inevitably to my summer-camp rubberized swim briefs: mine and the blond hunk of a Norwegian lifeguard whose own latex trunks, white in the style of the Fifties, rubbed up against my hardening 10-year-old body every time he helped me climb into the rubber inner tubes we used for floaters on Lake Winnekaka.

He once asked me why I kept falling through the rubber ring and always needed his help to mount up again when I knew he knew that I knew I could easily handle the inner tube myself.

Cuz you're the coach," I said.

Yeah, buddy! I couldn't tell him I was in love with him, watching him standing cock-deep in his stretch-latex trunks. But I’ll never forget those summer days being lifted in his strong arms, held for a moment against his great chest and nipples, feeling him drop my butt through the rubber ring into the cold water with the back of my knees and shoulders burning against the sun-hot black inner tube.

LIFE WAS RUBBER-DUCKY

Once a smart kid gets a good game going, he tries to keep the adult playing it until the adult wears out. I so worshipped that big-shouldered Scandinavian power-swimmer by the time I was 13 that when, at 23, I first saw Tom of Finland's lifeguards, their huge bulging cocks stretching out their (I imagined latex) briefs, I realized that my attraction to rubber was so far twisted from innocent swimwear fashion that it was in fact fetish. Tom was drawing what I was living. Life imitates life.

My own Dad helped me along the rubber brick road. He was a mechanic running his own ship in the double garage behind our house. His fatherly nightly kiss smelled of internal combustion, exhaust, grease, oil, gasoline, Camels, and the rubber of inner tubes and tires.

'Hug me again, Daddy.''

And he did. What "Sick Click" of trick rubber-loving there was those nights was in me only, not in him. He had no idea in his head what was in my churning little brain pan. Funny, isn't it? He was the innocent. I was the burgeoning pervert. He had no idea that I loved him not only as a Dad but as a blue-collar rubber man who changed tires to make a living for us.

DADDY MADE ME RUBBERMAN

On Halloween, the year I was 11, I announced I wanted to go trick-or-treating dressed up like the comic book character Rubber Man. My Dad, swear to God, helped me out. He took tire inner tubes, cutting and gluing them into shape to fit around my legs.

"They have to be tighter, Dad." (Even when you're a little pervert fetishist, you want everything exactly right.)

"Tight you want, tight you get," he said,

He re-cut the tubes for my legs. He sliced up one of my old bicycle inner tubes to lengths that fit my arms. My mother hee-hawed and said I looked like the black rubber garden hose, but she too was game for what they thought was a gag, and, using my swim trunks as a pattern, sewed up a pair of black rubber briefs that fit me like a glove, in fact, like the black rubber gloves my Dad took from his garage and slipped on my hands. They were so big he had to tie them on around my wrists with black rubber bungee cords wrapped around my arms about six wonderful times.

My sister, who later turned out to be the best fag-hag a brother could ever want, made fun of me, saying the bike inner tubes on my arms made me look like Hildegard, the cafe chanteuse whose trademark, she said, were black gloves that rose all the way up her arms to

curtesy Tom Amob her biceps. Fuck Hildegard.

I was Rubber Man.

So good old sis came up with the idea of making me a rubber vest as a kind of shirt for my naked torso. It's great when a family can get behind a kid's fantasy costume for Halloween. My older brother, whose cock was the first cock I ever sucked, dragged out a black gas mask to cover up what he said was my ugly face. (As the perfect older brother, he later on introduced me to my first Trojan rubber, rolling it down my always-erect teenaged dick himself. God! I love fraternal sex education!)

Anyway, that Halloween, my brother was pretty rough putting the gas mask on me. He nearly tore off my ears and nose, and when he cinched down the straps, he pulled them fast and clicked them tight. The rubber shock to my simmering pervert brain was instant the moment the gas mask locked tight around my face and my only breath came whistling through the masks's hose dangling in front of my mouth like a long black rubber dick. Then my brother got the bright idea that I wear his black rubber fishing waders on my feet. I had rather fancied wearing my black swim fins, but he convinced me I could cover more houses and get more candy because I could travel faster in waders than in flippers.

My mother thought I'd be too hot with the waders on over the inner-tube leggings my dad had made me. Mothers are always right. I was sweating up a drench, but I liked it, so Mom lost out when everyone voted I looked every inch like Rubber Man with my brother's waders turned down and tied off with more black rubber bungee cords circling around my thighs.

I was in Rubber Heaven.

THE MAN Maybe all us guys like Halloween so much because as kids we could get away in public with our first beginning approaches to our incubating fetishes. Without a blush.

At the age of 11, for one brief shining night, under the full moon, I became Rubber Man, heroic, strong, invincible, armored in tight black, steaming rubber. Actually, at least three housewives, just like the housewives in TV soap commercials who sniff their husbands' shirts and gag and reach for the TIDE, tossed my candy at me, making me stand back from their door because, they nagged, I smelled dirty like gasoline.

Ah! The secret of male fetish gear was blooming into my boyhood understanding like a raunchy night flower. This was male power: making women stay away from me. (Don't get me wrong. They're okay as people.) But Female Repellant! I liked it. I wanted to bottle it. After all, what repels the female attracts the male to the male! That's the secret of butch homosexuality.

Now that I am a man, I have not, repeat, have not, put away the things of a child. I'm one of those lost boys straight out of Peter Pan. I want to keep on playing. And I do.

RUBBER:

CLOSET Leather, I love, and rubber, the next fetish step beyond leather, I worship. When I was editor BONDAGE of Drummer, a model who was engaged for a rubber bondage shoot failed to show. That was bad, because we were tight on our deadline. The camera man and the Rubber Bondage Top grew impatient. I had intended to direct the still photo shoot as a fourth party, but, what the hell!

'I guess I'll have to play the rubber victim,'' I said. "But you're a Top," the Rubber Bondage Top said.

"If you, my man, are a good Top you can top a Top," I said. What an asshole, I thought, every Top's a Bottom. Fuck top and bottom. Versatility is where it's at. Tops need topping too.

[Editor's note: The results of that shoot you can see in Drummer 24.]

THE ART OF HIGH-TECH

Currently, a rubber freak doesn't have to cut up inner tubes to become Rubber Man. The new LATEX sophisticated advances in high-tech latex have made tight, form-fitting full-body rubber suits, hoods, and codpieces de rigueur for lovers of the rubber gum tree. Witness the exquisitely elegant rubber photography of Robert Mapplethorpe in the 1978 annual Son of Drummer and his 'Biker Cigar' gracing the cover of the aforementioned Drummer 24. Witness some of the great rubber artists like Martin of Holland, Domino, and the incomparable REX.

Martin's scatological European drawings integrate rubber gear as breath-control and force-feeding tubes for sewage flow. Martin is not for the garden-variety vanilla fairy. His rubber sexploitation plumbs the depth of the rubber fetish whose radical roots like in bondage, submission, and the warm womb waters where we once all floated amniotically in our own piss and shit.

Domino's sleazoid New York vision of greasy, sweaty men in rubber work-gear runs the gamut: "fly" fisherman in waders; pissing, rubber-shrouded firemen; and cigar-chomping sewer workers (force-fucking face with big uncut dicks), sitting, swathed in rubber jackets and boots, in open manholes. Domino's drawing, "Hunting Party," features three burly rednecks in rubber-booted hunting gear piss-raping a bound, naked, cocksucking young hiker with a double-barreled shotgum aimed hard as a cock at his bouncing balls.

The fascination of REX with rubber gear is recurrent subtext of his drawings: a circle jerk of seven fully geared firemen shooting their loads; handsome men with long tongues sucking out used rubbers; full rubber-suited, rubber-helmeted studs, who look as at home in their rubber as the fabled SEALS of the USN look in their scuba gear on rubber rafts; Nazi torturers in high rubber boots and open rubber raincoats exposing massive, dripping, hard cocks; tough dam builders, standing calf-deep in water wearing rubber bib overalls drenched in piss. REX dares venture even into the world of medical rubber: gloves, surgical gowns, restraints, rubber catheters, rubber ether masks used by mad doctors who know that man is the ultimate experimental animal! nert daba RUBBER

COMPLEMENTS While leather has been somewhat devalued by its trendy "fashion" availability, as well as by LEATHER the theft of its mystique from the true leather community by spiked-haired punks of both sexes, rubber and latex have become the latest hallmark of the sexual, sensual sophisticate. Fortunately, rubber / latex gear is much more pricey than leather, so it's not likely to be co-opted by the unimaginative mass consumers who so often imitate our hard-driven style. Unfortunately, rubber / latex doesn't last forever. There's not a rubber man alive who doesn't keep a bicycle patch kit in his game room. Every rubber aficionado has his current gear plus old gear worn out by heavy sexual mileage.

THE NIGHT EXPLODED

MY RUBBER SUIT My full-body one-piece rubber suit that covers a man from toes to the top of the head—the attached helmet having only two breathing holes—came one day to an explosive sad end. After clipping a fuck-buddy's toenails, and then covering the still-sharp little buggers with wool socks, I baby-powdered him completely and had him step into the suit feet first. Very carefully. His dick was immediately at fullstaff. Next I inserted his arms into the sleeves and began to slowly zip up the suit's only opening, a zipper that ran up from the small of the back to the top of the head. I faced him toward a large mirror, so that he could see his white flesh transmogrified into an abstract black-rubber form of his bodyshape.

For several minutes, I let the hood hang down on his chest. I wanted him to drink in the mirrored vision before pulling the eyeless hood over his head and zipping it up tight to the crown. He was crazy with the new-found rubber definition of his body. As I began to work the hood's noseholes over his face, he suddenly dropped in lust to his knees.

He wanted to suck my cock!

What a jerk!

The scene wasn't about sexual cocksucking. It was about sensual, complete-body rubber encasement. Some guys just don't get it!

Anyway, my friend—I should say, my former friend—was a bit of a porker. As he dropped like a black-rubber mummy to his knees to suck my hard dick, his plump, no, his fat thighs split the rubber suit in a tear from the knee 24 inches up to his bubble butt. The sudden flash of white skin appearing through the jagged tear of black rubber looked like lightning splitting a dark night sky. At that moment, I could have gotten into nonconsensual S&M! But gentleman that I am, I didn't. Gentleman that he wasn't, not only didn't he apologize, he didn't even offer to help repair the $350 unit, which turned out to be unrepairable.

So goes life when you're burning rubber in the fast lane!

What is it about some of these unevolved guys who don't understand that some trips, especially fetish trips, just aren't about cocksucking? Go figure!

RUBBER:

FUTURE SEX The possibilities of black rubber latex are endless.

If leather is our heritage from the Brando Fifties, black rubber is Future Sex.

A man hasn't lived until he's been tied up with an inflatable rubber hood over his head, the hood fitted with at least seven gaskets that inflate rubber pads tight over his ears, both his eyes, up his nostrils, and back into his throat. The double-skinned hood's internal rubber skin presses against the head and face tighter as the hood's outer skin expands when air is pumped into the cavity between the two skins. The exotic feel of one's head, isolated, sealed in pressurized bondage is incredible. The sense deprivation is profound: no sight, no sound, only the smell and feel of black rubber ballooning out around the head and squeezing ever tighter across the face.

24 HOURS SKINTIGHT RUBBER BODY BAG

IN A

The world's greatest rubber gear is available custom-made and mail-order from England and is distributed on a limited basis in specialty stores in the US. The only rubber device that

Imagine a zipped sleeping bag that lets your head stick out. Then visualize the sealed latex body bag, laid out on the floor like a flat rectangle with a rounded helmet at one end for enshrouding your head. The only opening is at the foot. The Top drops the foot of the two ply rectangle like an inner-tube over your powdered head and works it down your shoulders and torso and legs, form-fitting you all the way, until he inserts your head inside the soft darkness of the latex helmet. A hard rubber breathing tube forces your lips apart and is your only connection to the outer world.

Lying flat, so enshrouded, with your arms tight at your sides, you hear a motorized airpump switch on. Air begins to inflate the double rubber bag around your body. The pressure builds with the sensually slow inflation. The inside skin of rubber molds to your body. The air outside that skin is itself trapped inside the outer skin of rubber which is inflating like a large rectangular balloon. The more air pumped in the tighter you are squeezed by the inner skin, until your arms and legs and whole torso and head are virtually crushed together immobile by the air bag surrounding you on both sides and top and bottom.

You float, free of gravity, inside a skintight rubber sheath, inside a layer of dense air pressure, inside an outer casement of industrial-strength rubber latex.

There is no quick way out.

The rubber body bag takes half as long to deflate for your escape as it took to inflate for your encasement. This trip to the moon on gossamer wings is not for the novice; but for the man wishing to probe his deep inner space where there is no time but the beating thump of his own heart-clock, the rubber body bag is the epitome of rubber bondage, whether used for sensuality or for punishment.

Ground Control to Major Tom!

A finger, outside the bag, pressed over the breathing tube can take total control of your life. You know exactly where you are in the universe. A wisp of popper lets you know exactly where you are in the cosmos.

RUBBER

STRETCHES If I weren't gay, I'd be pissed. We seem to have more fun than anybody. No wonder straights EROTICISM regard us the way they do. They don't hate us. They're just jealous. And we're fools if we don't continue to press on, pushing out the envelope of safe-sexual sensuality. When a homosexual becomes a homosensual, he reaches beyond suck / fuck to total body orgasm. Rubber is the new frontier. It's positively California Cosmic, man!

RUBBER VIDEO

As many writers do, I've recently crossed genres, moving into video, trying to capture visually on tape some of the fetishes I've tried to celebrate in words. Most all filmmakers start out as writers. A vision is a vision on a page or on a screen.

Under the intentional pun-name of Palm Drive Video, dramatizing, among other fetishes, cigars, muscles, beards, and sexy athletic gear, I fell in, without benefit of a casting couch, with a B-A-D rubber companion. His name: Keith Ardent.

Keith, hung with 9 long, thick, veined inches, stretches a hairy 6'2" and weighs in at a muscular 185. He's a real piece of work! Actually, he's the First Major Erotic Star of the 90's. He's appeared with the outrageous video master, Christopher Rage, and with the bondage-and-muscle-dedicated ŽEUS studios. Because all his video starring roles had been in films with casts of thousands, I figured to shoot Keith solo: talking nasty to the viewer and flaunting his big dick and engorging his steel-radial 2-inch nipples with a dual tit-pump vacuum machine. Talk about high-tech Industrial Sex! Keith is more versatile than a turnstyle. Not only goodlooking, he's twisted sexually, and sensually, very nicely, thank you. As a matter of fact, Keith Ardent, one of the world's great Sexual Stunt Men, is a one-man E-ticket Sexual Theme park.

THE SMELL BEAST

OF THE RUBBER, The point of this? Ta-DA! The world's first rubber fetish video. Following in the rubber-boot THE ROAR art steps of Martin of Holland, Domino, and REX, the video, 9-Inch Pec Stud in Black Rubber, is OF THE RUBBER a nasty 90 minutes of spit, piss, verbal abuse, and rubber gear: a full-length black-rubber police raincoat, rubber hipboots, gas masks, rubber tanktop, rubber pec harness, and rubber ballwrap stretchers.

When two fetishists get together, things go alimmering.

Keith pulled his rubber gear from his bag piece by piece while I pulled from my footlocker rubber that would make my Dad proud—except, of course, for the full rubber suit that exploded. Our rubber gear combined perfectly; everything that rises must converge. The sight and scent and sound and feel of rubber and oil turned Keith into the complete video Rubber Man who was the dream invention of my boyhood, and spun him even further into a roaring Rubber Beast Manimal exhibiting his world-class rubber tits!

WHEN YOU WISH

UPON A STAR You have to be careful what you wish for in your fantasies when you jerk off, because, sooner or later you'll conjure up that fantasy in reality!

DIAL

800-R-U-B-B-E-R When I collided with the ardent Mr. Ardent, our rubber fetish scene wasn't just one more great time that happens between sickoid guys and then evaporates. The video camera caught it all. If you don't own at least a Camcorder, you owe it to yourself to get one now. You deserve it! Years from now, when you're more wrinkled than a new Goodyear tire, you can relive your most memorable scenes—your very own Performance Art—with your hot palm driving your hard cock while you watch yourself and your fuckbuddy on your 40-inch screen. The video camera is the devil's own tool and you'll have a hell of a good time whether you shoot for your own private pleasure or, as Keith did, to share his sexual madness with men too numerous for him to ever meet personally.

Kodak photos and Polaroids are perhaps a bit passe. They catch only one click of reality. Video is a million “clicks” per hour. You can run clicks in slo-mo; you can fastforward; you can find the one frame that kills you and freeze it on screen until you cum. (You can even buy a gizmo for your VCR that will print out an instant snapshot of any given frame on your video tape.)

You can see change occur. You can see fetish passion gain momentum. You can see your

Super-ego become your ld.

Keith in the Palm Drive Black Rubber video starts out as Keith and then changes before your very eyes, like Jekyll and Hyde, into Keith, the living, spitting, hip-booted, harnessed, gas-masked Rubber Man pumping his enormous Rubber Beast cock with both fists, roaring that he's become a "fucking human rubber dildo, man!" All the while, the dual tit pumps are suctioning his tits out ready for the rubber bands he rolls down tight around their meaty 2-inch base: twin dials of ecstasy with an 800 number for Alpha Centauri.

Keith Ardent in Pec Stud in Black Rubber is called out here not so much for a Carson Show plug, but rather as an announcement of (1) a rip-roaring Documentary Video of rubber passion, (2) an erotic Performance Art Video for men who worship rubber already, and, perhaps, (3) even as a Training Video for men curious about bonding into the rubber mystique.

Keith Ardent's solo rubberoticism video is a world's first!

Forgive me waxing on. Writing is a lonely profession. You do it by yourself for hours, days, IS A weeks, months, years at a time. Shooting video includes at least one other person in the

LONELY HUNTER creative process and the socialization on a sexual-esthetic level is exhilarating. Men who already know the joys of sweating man-skin in tight black rubber, understand the psychology behind the physical applications of the fetish gear detailed here. You don't need to be employed by Sigmund Freud to talk of womb experiences, toilet training, bondage, pain, pleasure, and the high quality of homosensuality.

Ah, RUBBER! Thy name is Lust!

Latex is a one-way trip. It's like heroin. It's so good, don't even try it once, unless you mean to join Sergeant Pepper's Rubber Band. Once a man takes a rubber ride, he evolves onward sensually, incorporating all the aspects of latex which is so totally adaptable to heightening all the other pleasures of cocks, balls, tits, fists, bondage, and the mondo way beyondo!

Men who have yet to Go for It, to experience the transcendent move from leather, which one never leaves behind, to the joys of rubber, are in for greater tricks-and-treats than I ever got that first Halloween night when my sweet, innocent Dad turned me forever, heading down the home stretch, into Rubber Man!

RUBBER CARE 101 by Vulcan Jones

Here are some tips for keeping your latex gear in good shape and looking great.

CLEANING:

This is important if you want to look your rubbery best! Often during play, gooey stuff of all sorts gets on your rubber—KY, cum, lubricants—all can and will stick to your stuff and dry there. It will need to be washed off unless, of course, you are into the sleazy rubber look. There are also good health reasons for cleaning cum off your rubber these days. So .

If you don't get goo on it, don't wash it, just add a new layer of polish before you wear it again. This means that you must look it over some before you take it off to see if it needs washing or not.

(1) When needed, wash your item by hand in warm water with a mild detergent (a little dish soap is fine). Wash inside too. This takes about as much time as it takes to wash your hands. Rinse completely and allow to air dry. We let ours dry overnight so there is no trace of moisture.

(2) If the rubber / latex is worn on the body (shirts, pants, gloves, chaps, underwear, etc.), it will be much easier to put on your body if the inside is first covered with a fine layer of powder such as baby powder or unscented talcum powder. The item should be powdered before treatment with any shiners or polishers you might want to use later. Shake excess powder off. Wipe any powder that has gotten on the outside surface off with a dry rag before applying any other treatments.

(3) Polishes and treatments are usually easier to apply while the garment is being worn—it stretches the rubber out smoother. If there are places you can't reach with the garment on, treat them before putting it on.

AFTER IT'S ON:

Rubber folk have been using a number of products to keep their rubber wear shiny; here is what's available that we know about.

Probably the ole standby has been ARMORALL. It must be applied to clean dry surfaces in even coats, and be allowed to dry some between applications. It can produce a good shine if you work carefully with it for a while. It also helps protect the rubber.

More recently, CLEAR GUARD has been available, mostly in the auto care products section of larger auto parts stores. Follow the directions on the bottle, but remember not to use cloth that will leave lint on the surface or the lint will be lacquered right onto the surface of your garment. Something like a white sock is usually just fine.

EXPECTATIONS carries a silicone spray lubricant that is sprayed directly on the surface on the item, but it leaves it feeling oily, it smudges, and will rub off on anything it touches—like your car upholstery or someone's wallpaper.

The best product we have found is something new called BLACK BEAUTY LATEX POLISH. It is available in kinky stores and by mail order (we hear that Sandmu-topia will have it soon). It comes with good directions and is easier to use than the others. It won't smudge or stain. We have learned that this product makes the article more shiny with each successive application, but that the item must dry completely between applications. Nice!

WARNING: DO NOT USE ANY POLISHERS ON ANYTHING THAT YOU PUT INTO SOMEONE'S BODY-THESE POLISHERS HAVE CHEMICALS THAT COULD BE TOXIC IF ABSORBED THROUGH MUCUS MEMBRANES!

OIL BASED PRODUCTS WILL DESTROY YOUR BEAUTIFUL LATEX! Expect trouble from mineral oil, vaseline, Crisco, any of the white "lube" products, motor oil, suntan oil, etc. If you should get oil on it, wash thoroughly as soon as possible. USE WATER BASED LUBRICANT: ELBOW GREASE GEL, KY, FOREPLAY, ETC.

OF RUBB

Story and Photos by Steve Patten

Rubber. You've seen it. You've thought about it. You've read about it in stories like this and seen it referred to in ads. You've seen it worn in your local bar. If you're lucky, you have a friend, or have been with someone, who has some rubber gear. Better still, you have some for your own enjoyment. The object of this article is to better acquaint those of you with this interest, the fetish of rubber, the similarities and differences with leather, the different forms this fetish can take, the types of rubber, where to get the gear, and how to meet others into the fetish. state of mind. Where one is coming from and where one wants to go. It can be an attraction to anything from a rubberized raincoat, to hipboots, to a complete body covering. And, yes, it can and often is incorporated into other scenes, like bondage and wet scenes.

When you are around rubber your senses are tantalized. You become sharply aware that there is a lot more to this material than you may have at first thought. You see the rubber as a smooth material stretched over the body. A material with continuums and continuity. It flows and directs the visual to all aspects of the surface. This becomes more acutely true with the body-hugging thin latex gear. Before you even get close enough to feel the rubber, your sense of smell has been tinged with a unique aroma. Rubber has a very distinct smell that can range from slightly sweet to a most acrid sinus-opening invasion of the olfactory bulbs. All types of rubber can vary in smell depending upon the use it is put to. Industrial rubber protective wear used in the oil refineries and fisheries takes on the pungent smells of those occupations. When mixed with the odor of rubber, these create a whole new smell sensation. There is nothing quite like walking into a room that is crammed full of rubber gear; rubber boots, raincoats, diving gear.

Before you get to touch this interesting material, again close your eyes and listen, because rubber gear also has a special noise. It can sound like most anything from a peculiar squeaking sound as it moves across itself, to that familiar sound of feet sloshing in rubber boots just in from a storm. It can even have an interesting thump kind of sound as you hit the material.

Open your eyes and go up and touch the rubber. Feels strange, doesn't it? It is smooth, but with the lighter latex gear it also clings and stretches, while it's quite stiff in the heavier gear such as with hipboots. With most items of rubber, the sensation of touch is directly transmitted to the skin of the wearer. This is also true with variations in temperature, you can feel heat and cold more readily than with other materials . I know what question is on your lips. Yes, indeed rubber has a distinct taste of its own. It may be a mild flavor like that of a condom, all the way to the strong taste of rubber used in an industrial environment. Some may not have any taste at all. very different from leather in all other properties. One of the most frequently heard comments is "That's rubber, it's not leather." The sexual qualities of rubber are different and possibly better to some degree. You are able to extend the erogenous zones of the body by the use of latex and other rubber items. If your interest is more in heavier rubber, it can be more restrictive and will insulate you more from the environment. However, the lightweight latex items such as shirts, briefs, tights, and catsuits, will transmit even the slightest touch. It is more stretchy and conforms to every slight contour of the body, becoming a second skin. Latex, like some items of leather, can provide a feeling of anonymity as it covers every part of your body.

As I have said, rubber is a fetish. You will find those men who like fire equipment such as turnouts, jumpers, overcoats and head gear like gas masks, face shields and hats. Others will opt for the heavy insulative look and feel of wetsuits. Here the interest may be in scuba diving and military frogmen. Perhaps even deep sea diving with gear like "Koala" and "Viking" suits is your turn-on. Some have a compulsion to wear the chest-high waders, raincoats and hats of the fishing industry. There are those who work or would like to work in the various industries that use rubber suits in the work environment. I have a friend who cleans the inside of very large holding tanks for refineries and wears his rubber suit and gas mask for the duration that he is in the tank. He swears that his work goes by so much quicker. Could it be that his mind is elsewhere. Then we come to the gear that most of us associate with rubber, latex gear. Here are items of clothing that are sold in specialty stores, through ads or by mail order. Some of the items are hoods, gloves, vests, shirts, briefs, pants, booties, full body suits also known as catsuits, body bags and on and on. This list could go on for some time and the variations with each item can be extensive. It's up to you, where you buy from and whether it is custom made or over the counter.

Probably the majority of those into rubber are most attracted by the feel and look of the rubber. This is something that can either be experienced entirely by yourself or shared with others that have this common interest. Many like to associate with others that have rubber gear, to touch, rub, cuddle, smell, taste, and just see each other covered in this erotic material. Such a group of rubber enthusiasts are not necessarily into any other scene than the eroticism of rubber. Not all are turned on only to being around rubber, many like to combine this with other action. Just by the very nature of rubber, it's a natural for wet scenes. It's waterproof and washable. Besides the obvious water sports scenes, there could be scuba diving, going out in the rain, even just using the garden hose or washing the car. A trip to the nearby lake or to your friend's swimming pool. Also, don't forget your own bath tub or shower, or better still your hot tub. Another outdoor scene could include mud, try it, you'll be in for an interesting experience. Even scat becomes more acceptable when combined with rubber. Remember, rubber is waterproof and provides a good barrier between you and whatever.

Rubber very naturally combines with bondage and immobilization also. It is in itself both restrictive and somewhat yielding at the same time. But only just enough to frustrate the bottom who is bound by it. I find that immobilization can take on a whole new meaning with rubber. But be very aware of the need to avoid cutting off the blood flow, it's even easier with rubber than with other bondage. Utilizing latex gear such as blow-up hoods or inflatable body bags effectively restricts movement with minimal chance of restricting blood flow. Such items also provide great sensory deprivation, insulating you from the environment . You no longer feel, hear or see anything, you can't - move hand or foot, you just can turn into your own mind and trip. In this sense rubber can act somewhat like the isolation tanks used in research facilities. Rubber can also be used as a form of self-bondage. Wearing latex which totally covers your body, you feel a slight restriction of movement and confinement, just sufficient to keep you constantly aware of your latex second skin. Are you interested in medical scenes? Then again rubberize yourself. Rubber is most effective here. Lay out a latex sheet, pull on some latex gloves, insert a latex catheter and give your patient the exam of his life. To really get into the operating room mood, put a respirator or a gas mask on your patient for some controlled breathing.

Another material needs a mention at this time. This is plastic and this can be associated with rubber to some extent. Common everyday items such as saran wrap, plastic bags, plastic tape and plastic sheeting can be utilized. These can in some cases give almost a similar sensation to rubber and are certainly cheaper and more available. Plastic works very well for confinement and controlled breathing. It can be a tremendous trip to be under a plastic sheet, like a painter's dropcloth, with a couple of other guys in rubber and to let the oxygen / carbon dioxide levels change. A real head trip here, but do watch the safety aspect and don't overdo it. Because plastic is cheap, you can just throw it away after you've had your enjoyment with it. While still on the subject of plastic, one point worth mention is that the cheaper varieties of plastic wraps cling better than the more expensive Saran Wrap and some other freezer wraps.

I hope that by now you are intrigued with this new medium. How do you acquire the gear that's out there? As mentioned, plastic wraps, etc. are the easiest to find. Your local grocery store or paint or hardware store are your most likely sources. For hip-boots , wetsuits, fire fighting gear you need to find a specialty store that caters to those interests. Don't forget garage sales, flea markets, swapmeets and surplus stores. I have found a surprising assortment of gear at these places. It may be more difficult to track down latex gear and special items for medical and bondage scenes. There are several good companies that you can order through and they also supply many local leather stores. Ask at your leather store and create the interest. If you want something custom made or altered, you have little choice than to go through the mail order houses. Another alternative is to take a trip to wherever the particular manufacturer is located.

It will be entirely up to you how and who you meet who shares an interest in this fetish. There are contact clubs catering to this interest. You can place an ad in this or other publications or even your local press. Wear some of your gear out to your favorite bar. See how it is noticed and how it brings out those into this scene. One of the leading groups catering to this interest and to which I belong is the New World Rubber Men. It's largely through this group that I've had the opportunity to experience new areas of this exciting fetish.

TOUGH

HORNYRUBBER RUBBERLOVERS: Sleazy son and delicious Daddy travel and play frequently. Check out this Toronto-area action. And you thought Canada was just for Royal Mounties … TC 1291.

THINK YOU'RE A HOT DRUMMER-MAN ? CAN'T FIND THE RIGHT STUD OR THAT PERFECT BOTTOM?

Each month we pick the hottest candid photos for Tough Customers. Send your black and white photos (color photos are acceptable but do not reproduce well) with your name and address printed on the back, state that you are of legal age, sign your name and we will assign you a confidential TC Box number. (Photos are not returnable.)

To answer a TC ad, put correspondence in an envelope, seal, apply postage and write (in pencil) the TC number on the back flap. Put this inside another envelope along with fifty cents for handling, and mail to Tough Customers , PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314.

ONCE IS NEVER ENOUGH

Greetings from the Great White North. In spite of the best efforts of the Canadian government, we survive P.S. I've also ticked off the box for a (indeed thrive) beyond the great northern frontier of your lower 48. Enclosed is my subscription renewal. That, in itself, should communicate my sentiments concerning your great publication, while also voicing my opinions on Canadian censorship laws. I intend to read (nay, generally indulge) of whatever materials I deem appropriate (and can get across the border). Drummer definitely fits the bill, so keep up the excellent work!

Now down to business. Where oh where has all the great fiction gone? I am still of the opinion that "Cock-walk " and "Fly" by Don Perry are two of the best pieces ever to appear in Drummer. Why nothing by this writer since? "Bound for Glory" by Mason Powell also hit a lot of the right notes, and the artwork by The Hun that preceded each installment certainly helped set the mood. "The Trough" by Adolf and "Studball Ride" by Will Thomas also shook the foundations. Don't get me wrong, for I enjoy the obscure, mildly tumescent pieces as well. But let's face it, I subscribe to Drummer for the ball-bursting fiction that literally leaps off the page. particularly enjoy the pieces that explore man's limits of endurance. Most vanilla sex encounters, whether in fiction or on video, provide for 1 orgasm apiece by each participant. Since when is once ever enough? Maybe Gonar's encounter with the High Priest in Part 3 of "Bound for Glory" (Drummer 93) came closest to the sexual fulfillment I'm trying to describe, where man's physiological limits are met. You can describe all the men. torture sessions you want, but the most satisfying cross between pain and pleasure has to be continually being brought to orgasm by increasing ishes, I would like to point out to you whatever stimuli are required to accomplish this. No, I'm not describing supermen or the physiologically impossible. Experience has taught me that any man is capable of surprising himself as to what can be accomplished . There is something about the helplessness of fatigue, the complete lack of ability to raise an arm to pre- vent something from continuing, that enhances orgasm dramatically. Sexual fatigue is a kind of bondage in itself, and to have a man feel his drained balls searching deep within themselves for one last orgasm has to be the ultimate sexual experience.

I hope I've communicated my overall satisfaction with your continuing efforts at Drummer. I will be in San Francisco June 11 through 18. Maybe you'll get lucky and I'll help you explore your limits!

BIB / Toronto subscription to Mach.

BIKES-AND-BIKERS

How about doing another Boot Fetish issue? The one you did was only fair but should have been much better, given the interest in boots on the part of your readers. And how about an issue on motorcycles? Bikes are a fetish or at least an integral part of the boot and leather fetish scene for some of us bikers. You know there are gay bike clubs and a club specifically for gay Harley owners.

BT / New York City, NY

Issue #111 on tattooing was great! Sure, it could have used more photos of tattooed men. If I'd known about it in time I would have sent you photos. I'm an Easy Rider-type-gay biker who is very heavily tattooed. And PR of Bridgeport CT can go hang himself in his closet; he's out of his mind. I attend straight bike club events and I've never had a single problem although everyone knows I'm gay and they can all see my tattoos because I wear them proudly. I'm also bearded and enjoyed your issue #113 on hair and shaving-GREAT !—I wish that you would do an issue on beards. I love to keep a man's balls in my beard as I suck him off and my beard (which is very long) likes to fuck ass. You can't miss me when I'm in San Francisco. Look for the heavily tattooed bearded nose-ringed little heavy man-he will be me. And you'll always find me in leather. I live in it! I don't play at it. Give us more, Drummer, of what we need—MEN—good real

Tattoo Bear / Rootstown, OH.

As a follow-up to your series on fet-that you have overlooked a most important one: motorcycles…and specifically Harleys!

There is a national club of gay Harley owners and a similar group in San Francisco. They are not the usual "bike clubs" where motorcycles are secondary and often rare. A registration/ certification for a Harley is a must. And, of course, most of us are into leather in a big way.

So how about an article on this scene? Hot men in action on Harleys! PD / South Carolina

We will definitely consider a Bikes-and -Bikers feature. Contributions to the fetish features have been less than we hoped and anticipated. To make a Bikes-and-Bikers feature happen, all it will take is for you who are into the scene to send us photos, letters. Why is it important to you? What about it turns you on. What do you like to see and do? Tell us, and we'll publish.

-AFD

COMPLAINTS-AND-PRAISE: BOOTFUCKED

Whenever there's a company take-over or merger, it seems reasonable to assume that the parent company will extert all effort to-improve. For me, BOOTS issue #113 would have been a real turn-on but the pictures in my copy were so gray it was almost impossible to tell skin from leather. If Drummer is to be a leather rag, let's return to the feel, aroma and appearance of well-worn leathers your competition continues to display.

Duanae M. Smith / St. Louis, MO

CIGARS IN BOSTON

While I don't have the latest issue of Drummer in front of me, I did glance at it last night, and was sorry to see the letter about cigar smoking at 119 Merri-mack . I consider this bar to be the friendliest leather bar in Boston, although it is listed as a Country / Western, Perhaps the doorman had just received a lot of comments about the "heavy smoke"-or perhaps the "smoke-eaters " weren't working that night. I don't know. But I apologize for the inconvenience. I'm sorry, too, that the management did not have the common courtesy of responding to your letter to them. What can I say, I am just another 'patron" and have nothing to do with 'policy." As a "native Bostonian," however , I am upset that visitors get the wrong impression. We can be a friendly crowd of people!

JFM / Boston, MA

NEW DESMODUS SM PUBLICATION!

What a pleasant surprise to pick up my first copy of The Sandmutopia Guardian & Dungeon Journal! I have never before seen an S / M sex magazine that caters to ALL sexual orientations, gay male, lesbian, and straight. This type of format has been a long time in the coming.

When I attended the National S / M

Leather Conference in Washington, DC in conjunction with the March on Washington this past October, I followed with some interest the suggestion that a national S / M "clearinghouse" organization be formed. It was at that meeting that I was first exposed to the organization, People Exchanging Power (PEP). Although PEP welcomes all interested persons, it appears to be aimed particularly at the straight community. My thought at the time was how "right on" it was to have the input of a straight organization at our conference.

Though I am exclusively gay myself, I think it is important within the context of an informative publication like The Sandmutopia Guardian and Dungeon Journal to be inclusive in scope. The gay / lesbian and straight / bi S / M com-munities really need to join together for the exchange of information (and to overcome society's stereotypes). I have a few straight friends who enjoy S / M sex, but find little or no organizational support to help them explore their favorite fantasy worlds. Working together through publications like yours, they hopefully will be able to grow in their sexuality. The Sandmutopia Guardian and Dungeon Journal gives me, as a gay male, an unprecedented opportunity to share information and support with my straight friends that was never before possible. We can now turn to guidance from the same source.

Jeff Schmidt / San Francisco, CA

We're glad you enjoyed our new creative baby. The second issue of Desmodus' Guardian is now out and features : Bizarre Bazaar (surprises from the supermarket), Party Ethics (basic SM party guide), Rope That Works by Fledermaus, and other articles covering everything from the political to the humorous.

-TPB

MUDFUCK!

I picked up your magazine for the first time today and what should I see but an upcoming article on my favorite fetish—MUD! When will this issue be published? It seems impossible to find anything on muddy men. Real men love to get down and dirty! My favorite play is rolling around and jacking off in the mud. I hope that you'll have lots of great pictures.

John Reed / Memphis, TN

Our Mud, Oil, Grease, and Grunge issue (#120) will be forthcoming in a couple of months. Participate! Send us those pics now!

-TPB

MORE BOXERS!

I just had to write a line or two to express my gratitude and my enjoyment , appreciation, and love of the boxers pictured in issue #115. Even though there were only six pictures of boxers I enjoyed each and every one of them very much. But, of course, there was one picture that put me in "climax" more often than the others (page 41)- the boxing stance is perfect!

M.A.A./Montreal, Canada

SEVEN / SEVEN!

Your issue #114 has one of the hottest men that I have ever seen and I want to see more of him. He is on page 91 left hand side wearing the leather vest, white jock, black boots and a tag with the number seven on it. I sure would like to meet that dude. What is his name and where does he live? I enjoy your magazine and will continue to buy it especially if you print more photos of that guy in that picture. Keep up the good work.

Cliff North / San Francisco, CA

This is the fourth letter we've received on this man. He obviously struck a chord—or something—with a lot of you! We'll do our best to track him down and show you more of him in Drummer.

-AFD

SHAVEFUCK

First, since this is my first letter to your magazine, I would like to compliment Drummer on being the best gay magazine around for our kind. Second, I want to thank you for the article that appeared in 114 on hair and shaving. It was a big turn-on.

However, there were some points expressed by Mr. X that I would like to disagree with. Dry shaving may be the way he likes shaving (he can see the skin appear quickly), but in my opinion wet shaves are better. Mr. X also likes his men (and himself) smooth (the human body should not be hidden by hair). He is a Top and that is his prerogative . As for myself, being versatile enough to be either a Top or a bottom … it just doesn't matter. I can be hairy or smooth; so can my lover. I don't think a person has to be "A Greek God" to be into shaving. I wish you'd do an issue on watersports.

Rocky Herbert / New Orleans, LA

Unfortunately censorship has now pushed watersports into publishing's forbidden zone. We'll probably even get complaints from distributors about the photo of the Cadillac Kid pissing in issue 117! When "morality" becomes less virulent, we'll be happy to present lots of wet photos.

-AFD

MORE SPANKING!

I thoroughly enjoyed issue 110. The spanking issue. As one who has as his goal not only to freely give spankings to the entire white homosexual population but heterosexual and bisexual populations as well, I found this issue to be a long-awaited treasure. Boy, would I like to get my hands on coverman Ronnie Le Beau's buns! I do have one question: I'm wondering if your fiction is really fiction or do these stories really happen. DS / Philadelphia, PA

Our fiction is proudly just that— fiction—the twisted result of some very strange and somewhat deliciously deranged imaginations. I get a lot of cum-stained manuscripts. And none of our fiction is true. These things could never happen. And if you believe that, Desmodus has a bridge for sale that you might give some serious thought to purchasing. It's near Brooklyn.

-TPB

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LAYARD'S CAMP,

by ELRIC MARS he musk of the young man's sweat had filled the small cabin quickly, and lingered in a dense mist throughout the nightlong session. The orange glow of the single lantern highlighted the ridges of muscle down Cooper's long back and across his outstretched arms and shoulders. He wore only a singlet around his hips, and that was soaked through, clinging tightly to his buttocks. My whip—I call it Falcon for the way it whistles and dives-had flicked all parts of his torso firmly but not hard. His wide slab looked like creamy granite streaked with fine red lines.

HMS Severn swung slowly in the current to give me a view through the porthole of Raker's Cove, where I would be landing when the pilot boat came for me in an hour. So this had been a farewell party, kindly provided by Captain Hobbs as a gesture of appreciation. I had administered punishment to his crewmembers on several occasions during the three-month voyage from Spithead. He had pointed out the handsome dark-haired foretopman, Cooper, long before, but I had declined. Yet I thought of no other while I was laying Falcon across spreadeagled bare backs at the gratings. My eelskin uniform pants could not conceal the bulge in my groin, but only Hobbs knew the subject of my thoughts during those ceremonies.

Cooper had been insolent and uncooperative when he came to my cabin, but after the first dozen clawed his back, he showed marked respect.

He took the next set of lashes so well I unbound his wrists from the overhead beam and brined his welts. Instead of begging me to stop, he asked for more, more on the back but also across his high, proud chest. I obliged him. The jacket of throbbing welts he wore roused us both. "Stand steady!" I ordered as if I were his captain. He took the position. I leaned over his bent back and licked along the stripes I had crossed it with. My hands went under his wet armpits to find the jutting nipples on each side of his hard chest. When I pinched them, he demanded "Harder!" without saying "Sir." I gave him the hardest thing I had, holding his corded belly with my left hand while unbuttoning my fly with my right. Ripping away the singlet from his hips, I aimed my cock as I had aimed Falcon at the bare backs of his mates. Seaman Cooper responded with quiet dignity; Lieutenant Taut of His Majesty William IV's Corps of Floggers behaved like a mad dog.

Shouts from on deck told us that the boat had come for me. My sailor begged to ashore as my bodyservant, but I said "No." As I remember now what kind of life awaited me on the island, I wish I had said "Yes." Layard's Camp was the most notorious of the penal colonies in Van Diemen's Land, as Tasmania was then called. Fifty years later the memory of it has been conveniently erased. That is why I am writing this account and sending it to the state archives. I am not ashamed of my part in that Hell. I am as proud of it as the day I received the letter from Admiral Flood. He recalled my record as Master of Punishments on the hulks at Spithead, and my four years of service as Head Overseer on the sugar plantation of Senor Castir in Sao Paolo. "Your skills are better applied," his letter assured me, "to the penal colonies in Van Diemen's land. Your philosophy that the whip should be used to strengthen men's endurance and

fortitude-not destroy them-is quite in keeping with His Majesty's purpose of rehabilitating these criminals." He went onto tell me briefly of the island settlement commanded by Vernon Layard, once captain in the Royal Hussars and veteran of Waterloo. "As his friend," Flood concluded, "I can assure you that no man will appreciate your skills as he will."

"Welcome, Lieutenant Taut," Corporal Jeffries shouted as the boat brought me to the wharf at Raker's Cove. "Commandant Layard sent me to bring you to the camp." Although I judged the man several years younger than me, his face showed the effects of a harsh life, more severe than those of the two convicts that stood at brace several steps behind him. They were clad in the regulation piss-yellow coarse cloth marked with the King's broad arrow, but Jeffries wore a uniform that was certainly not regulation dress. His jacket and trousers were black, and the high cap on his head of stringy hair bore the insignia of George III, dead these sixteen years. The two lags put my trunk in the back of a one-horse cart and I climbed in beside the corporal. We were soon traversing the Bush, dry, hot, dusty, hardly shaded by the thin-leafed trees called Gums. From some of them, a bird laughed hysterically, and another whistled like Falcon, but there was no crack of rawhide on flesh at the end of the call. My face was attacked by clouds of flies that seemed indifferent to slaps. "Maneaters, we call 'em," Jeffries said, looking over at me, then to the figures of the two cons trotting alongside the cart. I used his words to open a conversation. "Why are you not in regulation uniform, Corporal ?" His eyes shifted back to the horse track through the Bush. "You'll have to ask the Commandant, sir," he said sullenly.

I shifted the subject to one that I thought would elicit warmer response from him. "Are those examples of the charges in Layard's Camp?"

Jeffries' glower turned to a twisted smile. "Damme, sir, beggin' yer pardon, no sir. Those scum have been here even before Lavard bought it."

I noticed that "bought" but said nothing. "They aren't much to look at any more, I admit. The only love they get is the kiss of the lash or each other's mashin'." My groin warmed in anticipation. "I will give them a kiss, Corporal," I said quietly.

He understood at once. "Peel!" he shouted over at the running cons. Without slowing, they both pulled their shirts over their heads and tied the arms around their waists. Across their meaty backs a network of fresh welts came down in even spaced rows, jumping as their muscles rolled.

"They already ate two dozen of 'em for bein' late with the cart this morning," he chuckled. I took Falcon out of my portmanteau and uncoiled it. Jeffries glanced over and stared at it, licking his lips. When the lash flashed out and tore across the cons' bare backs with one swipe, they grunted "Tankee, sir!" and the corporal grunted, "Cheesisgawd!"

"You seem to have high standards of discipline, Corporal," I said as I coiled the whip and put it back in the bag. He nodded. His face was stolid but there was pain in his eyes. "Aye, sir. Layard demands it of all of us."

I reached over and grabbed the half-hard lump at his groin. "You too, Corporal?" I said through gritted teeth.

In answer, he tied the reins to the seat board and peeled back his black uniform jacket. My mouth dried instantly at the sight of the lattice of welts covering his tightly muscled back. "I shared the lags' punishment," he said in a low voice. "They was my responsibility, you see, sir."

I said, "Discipline for all, Corporal?" He jerked his head and looked over at me defiantly. "You too, sir."

I was about to admonish Jeffries for his insolence, but the cart horse suddenly slowed at the top of a hilly rise. "Trail goes down to the landing, sir," he said quickly as if reading my thought. Only then did I notice what a well-groomed animal the cart horse was and remarked on it. "Ah, yes," he showed the twisted smile again. "Commandant sees to it that his stable is well cared for, sir." He looked over at the sweat-slicked backs of the cons running alongside. "Special punishments for neglectin' the horses, sir." My cock jerked at those words. In blind response I took out Falcon again and blasted its tip over the cons' backs. "Uggh! Tankee, sir!" they grunted, sullenly this time. Then the trail began to decline in a series of switchbacks down the face of a cliff; the flat blue sea stretched unbroken to the horizon.

"How far, Corporal?" I said, as I replaced my whip in the bag. "An hour's pull to the island, sir," he said. Down below I saw the figures of six men standing around a longboat on the strand. It would be their "pull"—and my pleasure to watch them.

By the time we came in sight of the island, the convicts who had been heaving at the oars of the boat were well marked by Jeffries' "colt"—a piece of knotted rope he wielded with full force across their naked, muscled backs. Although the tightness in my groin belied my words, I ordered him to go easy.

Just before we arrived at the wharf, we passed a coral reef jutting out from the island headland. There was a gang of convicts working on it, cutting out blocks of the stone and loading them on a barge secured to the lee side. Even at a distance I could see that they were huge men and that their bodies were naked except for black boots. They were chains attached to cuffs on each man's right ankle and head-size iron balls at the end of each chain. Each time they had to move a few paces in any direction, they bent and lifted the balls. They also had to bend their bodies to heft and drop the heavy sledges gripped in their big hands. The bent-over position made them vulnerable to the goad whip of the only dressed figure on the coral strip. "That's Burke, sir," Jeffried told me as we were rowed around the tip of the reef. "He's a con, too, but Commandant promoted him to whipman. You'll see why, sir."

The overseer was much younger than his charges, and not as heavily muscled. His black uniform must have made an aggravating heat to endure, and produced the scowl on his handsome face. Booming surf and shrieking gulls overhead drowned out the words he was shouting at the work gang, but I knew what they might be. The chained men suddenly froze, stood at brace, and saluted us in unison. Then Burke stepped behind the one at the right end of the line and flailed his whip furiously across the broad back of that worker. I counted twelve blows delivered in a span of a minute or two. Burke's mouth moved again, and the convict turned his back to us, showing the fresh grid of livid lines down his muscled slab. "Burke's welcome to us, sir," the corporal explained drily.

Both Jeffries and I looked down at the long bulge in my tight trousers as we disembarked. He grinned and nodded at it but said nothing. The stiffness remained when we came to a platform set on four iron wheels and a track of rails. Four convicts stood by as we climbed on it and sat in a crude seat. The "horses" then moved us down the track at a good gallop. Although their bare

backs showed many old scars, there were no recent welts visible. "This duty is reward, sir," Jeffries said. "They've worked a month without punishments." A short time later, we arrived at a platform, got down, and were escorted by two black-uniformed, redcapped guards to a gateway in the stone wall that loomed forty feet high and several hundred feet long in both directions. I heard the familiar sound of rawhide cracking on flesh and the gate rose slowly. As we walked inside to a courtyard, I looked to the left to savor the sight of six half-naked convicts straining to hold the chains that operated the gate. Behind them, a guard as powerfully built as they cracked his goad whip in the air and the cons lowered the gate after us. When it was down, they snapped to brace position and saluted.

"Another reward duty for that lot," Jeffries told me. I wondered what kind of labor was assigned as punishment if these tasks were rewards.

From the courtyard we entered a well-designed, beautifully landscaped main building that would have graced the grounds of any English country house. Once inside, though, I recognized the atmosphere of His Majesty's prisons. The stifling air stank of a hundred bodies, an odor that I must admit had become perfume to my nostrils. Metal grated on metal beyond the barred doors of every corridor, and that din was punctuated by sounds like pistol-shots and the cries of seagulls. More music to my ears.

We passed big men wearing convict garb but holding muskets across their wide chests. When we reached the top of a staircase, Jeffries stopped and knocked at a heavy door. The sounds of human anguish came from behind it, but stopped when the knocking ended. The door opened and we were assaulted by a bellowing voice.

"Damme, Corporal, you have interrupted me!"

I saw the bright red face of a man in his sixties, a man dressed in a glittering white and scarlet uniform and gilded cap. My years at the military school in Devon had made me familiar with the dress of army units. This man wore a uniform that had been discontinued after the fall of Napoleon!

"What is the punishment for that offense, Corporal?" the man asked through a rictus-like smile. Jeffries stiffened his body and replied, "Sir, punishment for interrupting is a dozen well laid on, sir!"

"Then you will report for it at 2000 this evening," the officer said quietly. He looked over at me and the smile relaxed into a genuine one. "Lieutenant Taut, I have been expecting you. Come in and sit down."

I did so. He went over to a long desk but remained standing. On the wall behind him were maps and a rack of instruments used in chambers of torment. Only then did I glance to the opposite side of the large, high-raftered room and see the frame made of thick wooden beams and the man stretched up over it.

I could not see the convict's face but I could gauge his young age by the slim, smooth-skinned, half-naked body. My professional eye quickly calculated that he had taken two dozen lashes from a single-thonged whip-not the regulation cat-o-nine-tails. Nothing about Layard's Camp seemed to be in keeping with Army regulations.

As if reading my mind, the Commandant spoke: "First off, Lieutenant, I must tell you that I believe all that my old friend, Admiral Flood, tells me about you in his letter." He pointed to a paper on his desk. "You and I share the view that men who have been-through various circumstances-condemned to hard labor, forced labor, should be disciplined but not destroyed by that discipline." Without looking over at the convict hanging from the Punishment Frame, he jerked his right thumb in that direction. "Indeed, I may go too lightly on my charges." I took another side glance at the youth; it may have been just a single thong, but the whip used on him had been laid on with sufficient force to tear the skin open. I said nothing.

The Commandant walked around his desk and stood in front of me. I instinctively jumped to my feet and held my torso in a brace position. Layard was not a tall man; I towered a good foot over him. Up close, his face showed refined features now lined by age. But his hair and jaw whiskers, and the sweeping mustache that had been de rigueur for Hussars riding with Wellington, showed few white hairs through the thatch of dark red bristles. He was sizing up my appearance at the same moment. "By gawd, sir," he blurted, "you are a specimen. Second only to horses, I like men. As you may have noticed on your way here, I have only the most powerfully built of men in my charge." I blushed properly and said, "Thank you, sir."

Suddenly he slapped his right hand across my face. "One of my regulations, Lieutenant, is this: no man speaks to me without obtaining permission first."

I gulped and nodded. Sweat sprang out behind the rough cloth of my uniform jacket and trousers. I could smell it at once, and by the twitch of Layard's thin nostrils I knew he smelled it too

He looked over at Jeffries and nodded. I saw the corporal walk over to the rack behind the desk and take down a short whip. "I will examine that large torso of yours, Lieutenant," Layard growled at me.

I quickly pulled off my jacket and strutted my muscles. He raised a hand and rubbed it roughly down my chest and belly. Walking around behind me, he rubbed hard down my back. "Humm. Do you know the feel of the whips you use, Lieutenant?" I nearly bellowed my reply: "Yessir, in the Corps of Floggers we take stripes from our mates, sir, as part of the training!" Then I realized I had again violated the regulation of Layard's Camp. Before I could apologize, I felt the hot streak of Jeffries' whip across my back.

Layard's face reddened with anger. "You see that bar overhead, Lieutenant? Take hold of it." Hooked up, and jumped to grab the wrist-thick iron rod that crossed the apex of the chamber. "Wide!" Layard barked sharply. I regripped the metal

so that my arms were fully stretched on each side. "As the corporal here knows, I make little distinction among the men in my camp. All take discipline. Just last week, Jeffries enjoyed administering punishment to Sergeant Collins, his own superior, hey Corporal?"

Behind me I heard a chuckle. "Ohh, aye sir. But he ain't got the slab this'n's got!"

I felt my face and torso flush with indignation to learn that this little Napoleon was violating regulations further by letting lower ranks touch superiors in such a way. "An' this'n has earned somethin' by questionin' our uniforms and such, sir!" I glanced down and saw Layard's angry face spasm. "Then proceed with his discipline, Corporal," he said quietly.

For the next few minutes I knew what the young convict at the frame across the room had felt. The whip that streaked across my back was a short thong, but it was laid on with the power of a strong—and skilled—arm. I silently counted ten blows before Layard stopped it with a nod at the flogger. My back muscles screamed by tightening and flexing, and I could feel the flesh ridging up into welts. The sight of them brought a grunt of appreciation from Jeffries. I looked down again and saw Layard staring at my crotch. He raised his right hand and rubbed the hard bulge beneath my trousers. "Good. You have the proper responses for your assignment, Lieutenant. Dismount !" Het go my shaking grip on the iron rod and dropped to the floor, then strutted into brace.

Layard's angry countenance had smoothed out and he smiled gently at me. "Understand, Lieutenant. This is not one of King George's prison settlements." I noted the reference to the long-dead monarch but did not dare say anything. "I purchased this island some years ago, long after I retired from His Majesty's mounted regiment. I make the regulations; I say how they will be enforced."

I nodded and said, "Permission to speak, sir!" He fairly beamed and nodded back. My words were slow to come, and spaced by the need to draw in breath as the pain of the welts continued to seep into my flesh. "Sir, I am trained as a flogger; I act only as my superiors order. I am an officer, though, and will not rest easy if any man from the ranks is permitted to touch me

I heard Jeffries' grunt of surprise behind me and saw Layard's eyes go wide. "If you were not so well recommended by my friend, Flood, I would send you packing right now for such insolence! But I like courage and expect it in all my charges. And you took the kiss of the whip well, Lieutenant. Now I must see you demonstrate your skills with the lash. If you do well, I will make an exception for you from my policy of treating all men the same."

The Commandant's lips twisted up into the rictus of a grin that I had marked when we entered the chamber. "Corporal Jeffries," he said sternly. "You have assaulted an officer! What is the punishment for that?"

Jeffries stammered in reply, "Ughhh, siir, iit, it is three dozen lashes well laid on, sir."

Layard did not try to stifle his laugh of delight with his own ruse. "Well then, Corporal, you will take down Foster here," pointing to the youth still hanging from the Punishment Frame, "and take his place."

I watched Jeffries do as commanded. Layard turned to me, eyes glittering. "Proceed, Lieutenant."

I felt my cock jerk as I barked the traditional orders: "Prisoner will strip to the waist!"

Jeffries pulled off his jacket. His torso was stocky but thickly muscled. I saw that the copper-color nipples at the sides of his chest plates were already as hard as pebbles. His trousers were tented by what was surely an enormous cock. He was eagerly anticipating his punishment.

"Bind or not?" I asked.

"Not, sir!" he shouted back with a defiant look at me.

"Assume position!" leffries stepped around the prone figure of the young convict he had taken down from the wooden frame and stretched his body between its four corners.

"Who counts?"

When Jeffries said, "I do, sir!" I heard Layard murmur a hissing "Yesss!" I looked over at the rack of instruments behind the Commandant's desk. "Permission to use my own whip, sir," I said. As Layard spoke in agreement, Jeffries exclaimed "Ohhgawdd!"

"The prisoner will remain silent except for the count," I barked.

I retrieved my portmanteau and took out Falcon. Layard eyed it appreciatively as I uncoiled its seven-foot length. My bodyslave on the Brazilian sugar plantation had made it for me from the hide of the best of that country called a tapir. Its three strips were braided tightly and cured in a brewed solution that roughened their surface. Young Raul had implanted short barbs along the last foot of its length so that even a flicking touch would tear the flesh.

The Commandant spoke loudly, impatiently I thought.

"Commence punishment!"

The measured style of flogging I developed at the Corps had earned the derisive criticism of my superios there. They taught that discipline should be administered quickly, forcibly, and mercilessly. Seeing a man's muscled backslab well striped always sent a surge of pleasure through my body and raised my cock to readiness. But there was, in my view, far more pleasure for me, and more ritual to impress all on-lookers, in using a slow, graduated force with each stroke. And I am not now nor was then a vicious man. If the prisoner showed courage and endurance during punishment, I shortened the sentence or rewarded him in some other way. Thus, my flogging of Jeffries was a demonstration of my professional philosophy.

Falcon flew forth from my right fist, whistling in the large chamber, to claw the tops of Jeffries' thick shoulders. It sliced across the middle of his back and then the bulge of skin just above his trousers. He did not move anything but his mouth as he gave me the count. I knew he must still be feeling the pain of his punishment that morning when he shared the convicts' dole at the stables. So I was doubly impressed and further inspired in my work.

The first dozen strokes filled in the spaces between those three marks. As he called out the numbers for the second dozen, I put more force behind my arm. When I saw Falcon was opening up many of the early welts, however, I reconsidered my technique. For the last half dozen, I flicked its tip lightly over the corporal's shoulders. He jerked his torso back when the barbs scratched his chest plate, but hissed, "Thankee sir"

because I was letting up on his back slab.

"Are you going easy on him, Lieutenant?" Layard bellowed behind me. I turned and looked back. The Commandant had removed his own jacket and cap, revealing a torso that was well muscled in spite of his age. His right hand clutched his bulging groin while the left fingered his nipple. "Lay on, damme, lay on!" he blurted.

I did not dare disobey, especially since this was a test of whether I would remain or be sent back to await a ship from the mainland. His words, I admit, roused my own blood lust. My head rang and I felt the familiar dizziness I had first experienced when I enrolled in the Corps of Floggers seven years before. Not caring whether I had permission or not, I pulled open my fly and took out the now empurpled flesh sword.

I looked over to Jeffries. His broad bare back was beautifully striped from thick neck to slim waist, from flaring side to side. A slime of sweat covered the expanse of it. I looked down to see that my own chest and belly glistened with the same liquid. The smell of us filled the room with an acrid odor unlike the sweet musk of sailor Cooper. At the back of my reeling brain, I remembered that last night session, and my rigid cock strained further into the cool air around it. The flattened mounds of Jeffries' ass quivered as I blasted the whip across them. The rough black fabric was torn away in strips so that just five blows left him as barebottomed as a baby.

His count stopped. "What is the count, prisoner?" I growled.

His head lifted and turned to the right. "It is …" he panted, "it is thirty-one, sir … Not my ass, sir," he cried out, "not my ass again, sir!"

I held Falcon and looked back at the Commandant, then turned so that he could see the state of my cock. "Request permission to cancel the final six strokes, sir!" I said as evenly as my excitement permitted.

Layard's voice was deep and he spoke as if he had been running a far distance. "Do you permit any man to tell tales on you, Lieutenant?" I knew he referred to Jeffries' tattle about my questions concerning regulations.

"No, sir!" I said.

"Then you must instruct the corporal on that matter."

I grinned for the first time during that long morning of torment. Turning, I dropped Falcon and stepped up behind Jeffries.

I reached around and raked my fingernails across the bunched sinews of the man's bare belly. "You are not as young as Cooper," I hissed in his right ear, "but you are here and now, Corporal!"

With both hands I pulled apart his flattened ass cheeks and thrust my sword into the hot wet cleft. He bucked back and grunted.

I began pumping as slowly as I had laid on my whips-and for the same reasons. Each thrust took the sensitive rim of my glans deeper into him.

"Gawwdd!" he moaned. That plea turned to bursting cries of "Criiss! Chriss!" when I leaned down and bit into his lacerated right shoulder. But I elicited a full-throated scream from the corporal when I slid my mouth down to the welts at the top of his back and pulled strips of flesh from their crest.

Suddenly, I was staring into the face of the Commandant. Layard had come around in front of Jeffries. His eyes were glazed and his mouth fixed in that same rictus. "Again, Lieutenant, make hm scream again!" he burbled, spraying flecks of spit.

I made Corporal Jeffries scream five more times, each louder and more shrilly than the last. Then it was my scream that all of us heard. I usually shoot my slime for some time, but I remember this as the most prolonged spasm of the countless times I fucked the men I had just flogged. Layard's face disappeared from my clouded vision.

When I stepped back and wiped by flesh sword with the tatters of Jeffries' trousers, I heard the Commandant's voice. He spoke coolly, evenly, as he had when he explained his regulations to me. "You show satisfactory skills, Lieutenant. I will retain your services as Head Overseer here for a trial period of a month."

I turned and saluted. His eyes flashed as they flicked down my physique to my sopping crotch.

'Corporal Jeffries, front and center!" he barked. With stumbling steps, the man came around me and pulled his torso into brace, slowly. When I saw the patch of blood above his half-hard cock, I knew that it had not been my chewing across his welted back that had drawn the screams from him. The thatch of pubic hair that any man has in that spot was gone. The gruesome condition of the skin there showed that Layard had viciously torn the hair away in one lust-powered pull:

The Commandant kept his eyes on the corporal's face as he spoke. "Wash and oil yourself, and you need not report for duty until tomorrow. Rest!" Looking over at me, his face now as tranquil as I would ever see it, he added, "And you rest too, Lieutenant. You have had a long trip, and a tiring task to perform so early in your stay. There is much to be done here, but it can wait a few hours." And he dismissed both of us.

There was much more to be done, and I did it, not for a month but for five years. That veteran of Waterloo had me turn back the clock of his Camp's life twenty years, had me administer the brutal discipline of the armies and navies of an era before the sobbing reformers brought an end to the flogging of Englishmen. For those five years in a Hell of my own making, I stripped the flesh from hard-muscled, naked backs bending in heavy labor, and stretched from punishment frames. Should I write of those years? Or should I confine this memoir to just the first few hours of that bloody age? Though wizened now, my flesh sword moves as if urging me to continue my task. I wonder whether anyone in the future will find as much pleasure in reading my memoir as I have had in setting it down on paper.

DRUMMER 118

ISSUE 119 is an exciting artistic Drummer contributor who has designed / constructed a series of six individual erotic works which, when put together piece by piece, form one masculine collage of intense sexual imagery. Drummer wi

Dear Mr. Townsend,

I am 37, a bottom, and have been interested in leathersex since my early teens. While I have had some lengthy (6 month) involvements with Tops over the years, I have never been able to forge any kind of long-term relationship which combines the qualities of affection and an "equal partnership" in areas outside the sexual arena, with a leathersex component. I either find myself a third with an already established couple, or (more commonly) find that my partner only wants an anonymous "fuck buddy." What is it that keeps people from combining affection into a scene? Or is it just me? I have seen other people seeming to enjoy the type of relationship I really crave, but there is no way for me to know if everything is really as it appears on the surface—to me, as an outsider.

Dear David,

As I have maintained from the time of my earliest writings on the subject of SM relationships, there is no way to predict one person's or couple's behavior on the basis of somebody else's behavior. People are simply too different. Because you have been unable to establish the type of relationship you really want, does not necessarily mean that such relationships do not exist. By your own account, you apparently found one or more that lasted for six months. In some ways, I think the most fortunate thing that can happen to a "relationship-seeking" bottom is for him to be taken in hand early on and trained by an experienced Top. This way, he comes to accept the real-life standards of his first Master, and in doing so he finds a fulfillment that he probably would not have found later on, when his fantasies have had time to conjure up an impossibly perfect situation. In other words, you have to reach a point where you stop seeking an unrealistically idyllic relationship, and settle for something that really exists. As for affection-sure, affection is very much a part of any long-term relationship (or should be). But by its very nature, an SM relationship calls for affection to be displayed differently from the standards we are taught to expect as we grow up. We are provides a wonderful blackboard on which people can sketch their sexual/ emotional fantasies. Yet these are often as unrealistic for anyone else as they are for us. Maybe that's why our divorce rate is so high, and why you are certainly not alone in your quest for Mr. Right. If you really want a long-term relationship, you He said he would reach across the are probably going to be forced to accept something that is not quite as perfect as your fantasies.

Dear Larry,

In some of your past commentaries you have advised guys not to wear cockrings and ball stretchers when they go to bed to sleep. I wear a leather cockring all the time, taking it off only when I shower. After years of doing this, I can't see that it has had any adverse effects. Comment?

Ralph, Detroit MI

Dear Ralph,

My advice about not wearing stretchers to bed was merely to avoid the possibility of someone hurting himself by having his circulation curtailed when he was not awake and able to do something about it. A regular cockring does not pose the same danger, especially if it is well fitted and not too tight. In fact, it can sometimes produce some wonderful dreams.

Dear Larry,

I have always enjoyed amyl, or "poppers ," when I have leathersex, or even when I just jack off (which is about all one dares to do these days). Unfortunately , one place after the other has made them illegal, and now I can't find anywhere to buy them. When my present supply runs out, I've had it unless you can suggest an alternative. Will someone mail them to me from someplace? Also, how harmful do you think they really are?

P.H., Atlanta GA

Dear P.H.,

I can't help you buy the stuff, because I don't know where it may still be legal to sell it. As to the dangers, this has remained a bit nebulous. I think that heavy usage in a situation where one or both of the partners might be an AIDS carrier could heighten the risk. Using it at home when you do a solo IO session is, of course, not putting you at immediate risk of infection. However, some health experts feel that even this can be dangerous, because prolongued use may cause permanent damage to your red blood cells.

Dear Larry,

I am sorry to write you such a letter, months ago. The man said he was a Master and when I answered from Denmark , he wrote back from New Jersey and said he would accept me as a "slave by mail." I said I would like that. and then he started sending me these letters that got more and more awful. ocean and punish me if I did not obey. He told me to do some terrible painful things, like wrapping my balls in rope and pulling it off fast to make them spin. He mailed me a big plastic butt plug and told me to wear it all day when I was at work. He said his friends would come and get me on their motor-bikes if I did not do it. I think he is very dangerous, but I don't know what to do about it. I wish I had never written to him.

K, Copenhagen, Denmark

Dear K,

I think you have simply run into a man with a lot of imagination, who is enjoying himself by expressing his fantasies in his letters. You know he isn't really going to do anything to you. He's playing the game he probably thought you wanted him to play.

Dear Larry,

As we gradually see every bathhouse in the United States being closed, I wonder what you-as a liberation activist in addition to an expert in SM-what do you think about the situation? Lars, Miami FL

Dear Lars,

As one who worked for years to help establish our right to our own bars, baths, and other businesses, it upsets me greatly to see the authorities closing down the bathhouses. On the other hand, it upsets me even more to think of the number of guys who have literally fucked themselves to death on those premises. I don't buy the argument that "they'll just go somewhere else." There isn't anyplace else where a man can lie on his belly and get fucked by a dozen men a night. I think the bathhouses should close until this crisis is over, but they should close because we all have sense enough not to patronize them.

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

DRUMMER ISSUE 116

ETISH FEATURE F

DRUMMER 118 85

PHOTO FROM THE DRUMBER FILES

DRUMMER ISSUE 113

TISH FEATURE

FETISH

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Mr. Drummer Contest Update

As we go to press, three of the 1988 Mr. Drummer regional finalists have been selected:

Tacky's, Ft. Lauderdale's Levi / leather bar, staged the Mr. Southeast Drummer contest for the sixth time in a two-day competition emceed by Mark Alexander , reigning Mr. Drummer. The winner is Marcos, a 24-year-old student who sponsored himself in this contest. He's 5'8" and weighs 170 tasty-looking lbs. Tacky's awarded Marcos a $2500 cash prize and judging from his photo he seems worth every penny.

Both Mark Alexander and Mike Murray (Mr. Drummer 1986) were first victorious as Mr. Southern California Drummer in contests held at Probe in Los Angeles. This fall they'll be sending us Mark Klein, a bartender at Der Wolf in San Diego, which sponsored him in the regional contest. Mark is 30, 6'2" and 210 lbs.

The new Mr. Northern California Drummer is Jim Kahl, who won his title at the SF Eagle in an event sponsored by Up Your Alley Productions. Jim stands 6'4", has pierced tits and a Ph.D. in Chemistry!

<math>-KJL</math>

Contest Finals and Show September 24, 1988

Fifteen of the hunkiest leathermen in the world will enact their hottest fantasies for you on the stage of San Francisco's huge Galleria. The show is being produced by Up Your Alley Productions and proceeds will be split among several gay charities around the country. Reserved seating, great entertainment , and acres of black leather and male flesh! BE THERE!

Leather Pride Weekend

The Mr. Drummer Finals form the apex of a full weekend of leather activity that will start with a party at the San Francisco Eagle on Wednesday Sept 21. On Thursday night Mr. S, Alan Selby, will host another of his infamous Fetish and Fantasy parties at the Powerhouse. In previous years virtually all of the S / m clubs in the Bay area, male and female, gay, straight and bisexual, have contributed segments to an entertaining and often riotous program for this fundraiser for the AIDS Emergency Fund. Up Your Alley is sponsoring a Leather Pride party in the Ballroom of the San Franciscan Hotel on Friday, Sept. 23. And on Sunday thousands of leather men and women will come to their street for the annual Folsom St. Fair. All in all, it's a great way to wind up the summer.

Come to San Francisco to cheer on your Mr. Drummer regional winner and join in one of the biggest Leather parties going. For information on Mr. Drummer contest packages, with and without lodging, contact Up Your Alley Productions, 584 Castro St. #504, San Francisco, CA 94114 or phone Jerry Vallarie at 415-864-6435.

As this issue goes to press the following contests are about to be held. We will publish the results in the next issue of Drummer:

Mr. Dixie Drummer June 19 The Eagle, Atlanta, GA Mr. Northeast Drummer June 25 The Garage, NY, NY Mr. Southwest Drummer Chutes, Houston, TX July 3 Mr. Mid-Atlantic Drummer July 3 Charlotte, NC

The following Regional contests are scheduled for even later in the year. You still have time to enter, or at least plan to attend.

Mr. New England Drummer July 24 Underground, Portland, ME Mr. Rocky Mountain Drummer Aug. 6 Tracks, Denver, CO Mr. Midwest Drummer Aug. 14 The Dock, Cincinnati, OH Detroit Eagle, Detroit, MI Mr. Great Lakes Drummer Aug. 19 Aug. 26-27 Mr. Great Plains Drummer Windjammer, Kansas City, MO Mr. Europe Drummer Aug. 27 Eagle Bar, Amsterdam Mr. Northwest Drummer Celebrities, Vancouver, BC Sept. 4 Mr. East Canada Drummer MC Faucon, Montreal, PO

DRUMMER 118

SSCA PROGRESS REPORT

Safe-Sane-Consensual Adults (SSCA), created at the Dallas Planning Conference last February, is an outgrowth of the SM / Leather Contingent to the October 1987 March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. The Dallas Planning Conference resulted in the creation of SSCA and election of a nine-person Interim Steering Committee charged with organizing responsibilities. Subsequently the steering committee was expanded to include regional representatives from the Pacific Northwest (Judy Tallwing McCar-thy , Portland, OR), the Rocky Mountains area (Cooper Aaxton, Denver), and Metropolitan New York City (Barry Douglas, NYC).

"SSCA is an historic coalition in that its constituency is pan-sexual. It seeks the active participation of heterosexual, bisexual , lesbian and gay people," Stacy Dennen, ISC Co-chair, reminds us. The empowerment of the steering committee required that women and minorities occupy visible positions of leadership in the new coalition.

The Interim Steering Committee accomplished a lot of work during its meetings Memorial Day weekend in Chicago. They refined the draft Statement of Purpose and a companion statement of Goals and Objectives. Three proposals for a voting structure were determined. Representation , including organizations with a strong provision for individuals, was determined based upon creation of ten geographic regions encompassing the United States and Canada.

An outline for Bylaws was established. Administration of SSCA was also considered by the committee. A consensus was established that a well populated Board should set policy for the organization. A smaller Steering Committee should be responsible for ongoing administrative functions. Standing committees responsible to the Steering Committee could be established for particular activities and special interests. Major decisions would be referred to the national constituency for a vote by the membership as a whole.

Membership, voting and a dues structure were crucial items of business. Three categories of organizational membership were proposed: Full member organizations (with full privileges and voting rights); Associate member organizations (limited participation, no voting rights) and Supporting members (Businesses, no voting rights). Dues or other financial obligations would be dependent upon membership classification.

SSCA's proposed Statement of Purpose mandates promoting the rights of adults to engage in all safe, sane and consensual erotic activities. Initial programs will serve to increase communication and coopera-tion between individuals, organizations and business within the community.

Los Angeles community activist, Sheree Rose, explains the importance of this national coalition, "SSCA is a national body that transcends your sexual preference . We are a family of kinky people, both heterosexual and homosexual." She continues, "We are all in this together. Our community is coming of age.'

SSCA is writing a report of its progress thus far. It will be available by July 1st to interested organizations and individuals. To receive information about SSCA or to participate in its forthcoming comprehensive survey please write SSCA, 7985 Santa Monica Blvd., #109, Los Angeles, CA 90046. Donations are appreciated to cover mailing costs as well as to support the work of this coalition.

—John Ferrari, Co-Chair

LEATHER MAY DAY CELEBRATION

The National Leather Association and the Seattle Dungeon Guild co-sponsored a well-attended May Day celebration in Seat-tle on April 29 through May 1, 1988. Play parties, workshops, bar nights, and a contest served as a successful microcosm of NLA's annual Living in Leather conference.

Friday night's mixed gender party com- peted with Sunday's Mr. and Ms NLA contest as the highlight of the weekend. "The energy of Friday's party matched that of any male-only leather run I have attended," commented Jerry Crumpley. "Heteros, lesbians and gays indulged their pleasures next to one another with the greatest of ease and comfort."

Topics of Saturday's four educational workshops were Novices; Show and Tell (or My Favorite Toy); Piercing, both temporary and permanent; and Whipping.

Sunday night's contest culminated the weekend and continued May Day's pansexual theme. Four women and six men competed within the same contest for the titles of Ms and Mr. NLA. Winners Steve Maidhof and Cherie Matisse were chosen because of their commitment and acute sensitivity to representing both men and women in the leather community. Maid-hof is a founder and former President of NLA. He keeps very busy producing various local events for Seattle's leather community . Matisse has over 20 years experience in political activities. She is coordinating the fashion presentation for Living in Leather III. The title holder will represent NLA at their respective International Mr./ Ms Leather contests.

Participation of organizations from British Columbia and Seattle contributed to the weekend's success. The May Day celebration is an example of how the leather community can work and play together, overcoming the separatism our community has historically confronted.

–Iohn Ferrari

IRON CROSS 16th ANNIVERSARY

The 16th Anniversary celebration of the Iron Cross MC of Montreal was held May 27-29, 1988 at the clubhouse in Montreal. The man of the year award was presented to Mr. Fred Windholz of Monson, MA.

Iron Cross Club banners were presented to The Philadelphians of Philadel-phia , PA; Felines Club of Montreal; and Men Of Dungeons of Dallas, TX. Five men were presented club crests as new full members of Iron Cross.

Attendance numbered 150, including members and guests who came from 12 states in the USA and 3 provinces in Canada. The banquet was at Holiday Inn in Montreal at which time the awards and club crests and prizes were presented, followed by an excellent entertainment program.

Upcoming events on the Iron Cross MC agenda include: Aug. 20-21, Corn Roast Program in Montreal; Sept. 17-18, Corn Roast Weekend in Monson, MA; and a Member's Christmas Party in December.

—Don Warden, Mystic, CT

INTERNATIONAL MUD IS COMING!

Saturday, Aug. 27th is the date for the next Club Mud party on the Russian River. It will carry on till Sunday, and includes

BBQ and camping facilities. The party, entitled International Mud Day will include events such as Mud Pole Pillow-fights , Tug of War, Wet T-Shirt contest, T-Shirt Ripping contest, Mud Wrestling, Greased Human Pig contest, and a Shower with a Friend contest. All Club Mud members in foreign countries are urged to attend. All events are fully clothed. Discount prices apply until July 31st. For more information on the party, or how to become a member, write: Club Mud, Box 277, Rio Nido, CA 95471.

-Bro. Duke ED: Watch for a report on this and other Club Mud activities in Drummer #120 featuring Mud, Oil, Grease and Grunge!

LIVING IN LEATHER III

After our first two widely successful conferences, the National Leather Association is finalizing plans for Living in Leather III, the National Leather / SM conference , to be held October 7-10 at the Seattle Center in Seattle, Washington.

The National Leather Association, founded in August 1986, is a chartered nonprofit organization dedicated to the support of the leather / SM / BD lifestyle and those individuals and organizations who practice it. Gays and Lesbians have been leaders in the fight for freedom of sexual preference and practice for adults in this country. They began the NLA to support these lifestyles and decided from the beginning to open the organization to all responsible adults who support its goals knowing that unless we all join together to form organizations to fight for our rights, we will lose them.

But the NLA is not just a matter of so many members, so many organizations, etc. The NLA is people! A few of the people who make the NLA are:

A powerful lesbian organization in New York City …

A small group of male bikers and leather-men in Idaho …

A senior member of the gay community in Maine …

And an activist in Atlanta …

The NLA is a straight couple from Aberdeen, WA.

A transvestite in Guerneville …

Puppies in Los Angeles, and Louisiana, and …

A man dying of AIDS in San Francisco, and Seattle, and …

The NLA is Tops and bottoms, experienced folks and novices, getting along together. Most importantly, it is a group of individuals—you and me—all of us, in our splendid varieties.

"When we started the National Conference approach, we wanted to provide a forum of education, discussion and unity for all men and women who participate in the leather / SM lifestyle," said Jan Lyon, Chairperson LIL III. "I think that the growth of the NLA and the conferences of the last two years have done an amazing amount of good toward maturity of those goals. I expect the attendees of LIL III will experience continuation of that growth and affiliation this October."

Registration for the 3-day conference is $65 with discounts for members and couples that can make it as low as $35 each. Housing is available beginning as low as $28 / night (double occupancy). For further information contact NLA-LIL III, PO Box 17463, Seattle, WA 98107.

-NLA / Seattle

MOD SIZZLE

M.O.D. (Men of Dungeons), a club for practitioners of the safe and sane art of S / M, held a sizzling "event" March 20. An outstanding feature was that everyone participated in the activities, which included play piercing, permanent piercing on a potential new member who has over twenty piercings, most in the shaft and head of his penis, flogging, whipping, bull whipping by Doc, tit torture, CB&T, bondage , suspension, a sensual demonstration by Stuart, shaving by slave phillip and slave howard, and abrasion. Participants were from Dallas, Austin, and Irving, TX as well as from Chicago. Several remarked it was the most friendly, successful "event" they had ever attended. In July, participants are expected from Switzerland and Germany! MOD is really not a social club. but for the fulfillment of needs through

safe and sane S / M. To contact, please identify yourself as practitioners of S / M giving references and experiences. Write: MOD, PO BOx 780242, Dallas TX 75378 and / or call 214 / 350-6164 in the evening. phillip, secretary M.O.D.

DOUBLE FEATURE AT THE DRIVE IN

The Barbary Coasters MC is proud to announce our 23rd Annual Gold Rush Run during the weekend of July 29-31. This year's run theme will be Double Feature at the Drive In (Elevator Girls in Bondage and Horror High!). The run will again be held on the banks of the Clavey River amidst the magnificent scenery of the Stanislaus National Forest in the Sierras . We have planned five scrumptious meals and a well stocked bar for your enjoyment. Please join us in the fresh mountain air for the fun, games, as well as entertainment under the stars in the wonderful outdoors.

Registration is $85 until July 18 and $95 until July 23. Contact Barbary Coasters M / C, PO Box 14251, San Francisco, CA 94114-0251.

-Vern Rowe, Road Captain

SECOND CONFERENCE ON SEXUAL LIBERTY AND SOCIAL REPRESSION

The Committee to Preserve Our Sexual and Civil Liberties announces the second Conference on Sexual Liberty and Social

Repression for Saturday, September 24, 1988 at the SEIU Hall (240 Golden Gate). The purpose of the conference is to provide a forum for the exchange of ideas, to encourage coalitions and networking among individuals and groups; to educate; and to promote outreach. Panels will discuss topics relating to sexual and civil liberties, analyzing causes of oppression and suggesting ways to deal with the effects of that oppression. In addition, there will be a panel, tentatively scheduled for Friday, Sept. 23, to update issues dealt with at the last conference. The Committee has selected this particular weekend, which coincides with the Folsom Street Fair, to allow visitors to enjoy less structured activities as well. For further information contact the Committee at PO Box 1592, San Francisco, CA 94101-1592.

-Journal of Sexual Liberty

THERE'S A PLACE FOR LEATHER IN GAY GAMES III

Please consider this brochure, which has been prepared especially for people who enjoy the leather lifestyle, as a personal invitation for you to become involved in Celebration '90: Gay Games III and Cultural Festival.

The Canadian committee planning these third international Gay Games has made two commitments that I personally hope the leather community makes positive use of:

"We are committed to the Games being inclusive of all members of the lesbian and gay communities who support our beliefs and philosophies. We hope these Games can unite the diverse groups of people within our gay world and bring an end to discrimination against ourselves."

"We are committed to raising the profile of the cultural festival as a statement to the world about our varied gay lifestyles. The festival will include everything from main stage entertainment to specific workshops and public information sessions. The leather community needs to be represented in this panorama!"

Whether you choose to join your local city's sports team, enter on your own or participate in the cultural festival, make sure leathermen are part of Celebration '90—we'll be incomplete without you!

Barry G. McDell, Director

1170 Bute St.

Vancouver, BC, V6E 1Z6, Canada (from a flyer distributed at IML '88)

Club Lists: Overseas

This issue should contain the overseas club listings. However, Beat Rudi of ECMC is undertaking a major revision of this list for us and it is not yet completed. The revised overseas list will appear in Issue #121. Part 1 of the US & Canada list will be in the next issue, #119.

LEATHER CALENDAR

International Mr. Leather 1988

The first decade of International Mr. Leather contests was achieved on May 29 when a record number of contestants and other leather men and women assembled in Chicago to celebrate what has become one of Leatherdom's biggest events.

The show itself was excellent and in many ways the new location was even better than Park West, Lynn Lavner and Al Parker were co-MC's, I'm certain that all Drummer readers are thoroughly familiar with Al Parker's attributes. Lynn Lavner is a "short, left-handed, Jewish lesbian from New York" who wears black leather while she plays the piano, sings, and makes you laugh. She was superb, you'll be seeing more about her albums in a Drummer Media column soon. The other entertainers were Dena Kaye, a country music singer, and Village People, celebrating their 11th year. As David Hodo said, "you can see that little has changed." Some of their physiques have, but their music is the same, in fact identical to what they did 10 years ago. year the "costume" element of the contest is less and less conspicuous. Sure, there are still a lot of special new pieces the contestants get for the event, but now most of them look and behave as though the leather is REAL to them, not just a costume. The accessories they carry and wear are not just props, they are tools, implements, extensions of their personas.

Each year I have been struck by the higher and higher percentage of contestants who could have made a great IML. This year there were many contestants that I think could have done well as International Mr. Leather 1988. Many of the contestants combined the ability to articulate their thoughts well, an intelligence and sincerity that gave those thoughts substance, and a solid leather image that manages to capture attention and respect. Most of these men are already excellent spokesmen for their leather communities.

But we did have to judge and select. I didn't fall deeply

Great memories, but some growth on the part of the group to keep up with the growth in our community would have been nice too. Party time is fun to remember, but life is different now.

However, the REAL stars of the evening were the contestants. Competing this year were 42 men from 19 states, the District of Columbia, two Canadian provinces and from Europe. Mr. Europe Leather '88, Vincente Jimenez from Barcelona, Spain won the title previously held by IML '87, Tom Karasch, this past year in the annual contest in Hamburg, Germany. The contestants varied considerably from 5'7", 135-lb. Tom Coker from Seattle, Washington, to 6'5", 230-lb. Mitch Davis from Boston, Mass. and from 21- year-old Carl Oliver from Madison, Wisconsin, to 44-year-old Jerry Werkheiser from Honolulu, Hawaii.

The judges were Dom Orejudos, who is the artist Etienne and, along with Chuck Renslow, one of the founders of IML; Mr. Marcus Hernandez, leather scene columnist of San Francisco's Bay Area Reporter; Lou Thomas, formerly owner of Target Studios and now Editor of Manscape 2 and other magazines; Tom Karasch, International Mr. Leather 1987; Andrew Day from Mr. Chaps Leatherworks in Hamburg, Germany, sponsor of the Mr. Europe Leather Contest; J.D. Evans, owner of two leather bars, Texas Drilling Company and The Eagle, both in Atlanta, Georgia; and yours truly, returning for my third year as a judge of IML. As in previous years, the judging was a difficult task.

There have been times in the past when the contest was referred to as "International Mr. Naugahyde" or "International Mr. Borrowed Leather." But if it was true then that most of the contestants were pretty boys who dressed up in leather for the weekend, it is certainly no longer true. Each into lust with anyone this year as I did with two or three last year, probably because things were moving so quickly with this number of contestants that I didn't get a chance to. Or maybe it was because there were just too many desirable ones to choose from. Had I been a buyer at a slave auction, instead of a judge at a contest, there are many I would have bid upon … so many broad backs that would look good with whip welts, so many juicy tits just begging to be squeezed and bitten, so many well-filled pouches waiting for my fingers to circle and pull and squeeze and massage and … But, I'm getting sidetracked. I'd like to describe each of them to you, and write a fantasy centered on each; but no time or space now … but check out Drummer 120 for color photos of several of them exposing parts of their anatomy that were not displayed to the judges! (Dammit!)

When the judges' votes were counted, there was a clean sweep for southern California. Second runner-up was Brian Dawson, a 40-year-old architect from Long Beach who was sponsored by Floyd's. First runner-up was Peter Morrison, a 31-year-old school teacher from Los Angeles sponsored by Gauntlet II. Peter is the lover of the current Mr. Drummer, Mark Alexander, and they recently appeared together on the cover of Drummer #115. International Mr. Leather 1988 is Michael Pereyra, a 29-year-old landscape nurseryman from San Diego sponsored by Hard Labor and San Diego Leathermen. Michael was an audience favorite right from the start and there was little difficulty seeing why (see his photo on the back cover). The looks are fantastic and the personality that comes through is every bit as beautiful.

Best wishes to all of the winners, and to all of the contestants. I can guarantee that you will be seeing much more of several of them in Drummer! Tony DeBlase

Cumming Up

Drummer 119

BEARS AND MOUNTAIN MEN…

GRIZZLY FICTION

Wes Lockwood looks at Zeus and Tightropes, the video.

BEARDS, BEARS, AND BARBAROUS BUTTS

GRIZZLY ACTION Jack Fritscher!

"I will try anything once."

And Jay Shaffer does exactly that with—Hounded.

Drummer outrageousness. Have dog will travel…

DRUMMER DRUMMER DRUMMER DRUMME DRUM DRUMMER DRUMMER DRUMMER DA DRUMMER DRUMMER DRU RUMMER CHAEL PERPY INTERNATIONAL MR. LEA HEROGES