nothy Patrick Barry

OFF THE TOP: THROWING DOWN THE CREATIVE GAUNTLET …

When "erotica" works there is an element to the mystery that is somewhat outrageously incorrigible. The most extravagant thing about being involved with Drummer on a day-to-day basis is the moral incongruity that goes hand-in-hand with holding down something called a job (work isn't supposed to be fun any more than sex is supposed to be pleasurable), where what you do all day gets you hard and horny. I am thankful that I have the kind of desk where you can't see if the Associate Editor is playing with himself. Orgasm is an occupational hazard. Incorrigible erotica as we know it is going through some repressive times, and currently the old girl needs all the outrageous incorrigibility that she can get. But then erotica has evolved through an awful lot of human history. It's this place where society's limits get stretched. And when you're out there dancing on the edge-stretching limits-you want to be putting out the best sexual razzle-dazzle possible. I want to continue Drummer's ability to open doors you never knew existed. I want to throw down a gauntlet and I want to invite you to contribute to this outrageous publication . If you have the artistic gonads.

Drummer is both a creative journey and an orgasmic destination which has experienced the impressive likes of Pres-ton , Opel, Chester, Travis, Rex, Wigler, Ward, Etienne, Cavelo (the list, here, is extensive and unfortunately I am omitting many) who have all struggled / wrestled with the likes of Drummer in a collective relationship that resembles an exhaustive whirlwind of leather seduction. All of these people, this kaleidoscopic itch, have helped to polish the razzle-dazzle of the gay male experience into a brilliant sexual symphony. With our art and our message we are involved, here, in the process of creating our own cultural mythology. Our own heros. Our own sensibility around who and what-matters .

I have often wondered just exactly what it is many of the (tasteful) writers in such gay publications as let's say Christopher Street are trying to say. And I have often wondered if any of the "Lavender Quill" boys could write anything that might actually get my dick hard. It'd be somewhat interesting to lay down a gauntlet to them-hey, boys, have any of you got what it takes to reach out to gay men in such a way as to turn them on and in the process—often—make them think.

The reality is that what separates Drummer from many other gay publications is the fact that at Drummer the bottom line remains how good the material is, whatever you've created, is it hot (?), does it reach out and relate to who we are, does it take us places we've never been or only been on the fringes of, does it make us laugh, does it reach down into us and grab us in ways only rarely touched, does it make us want to explore, expand … Does the work celebrate ? Does it have a heart and a soul? Does it have a certain sort of darkness, roughness, balanced tenderness, sensuality ? Will it get our tits all hard-and-nubby ? Our focus is sex, sometimes it's in your face, or it might only be suggested , raunch-or-whispers . .

In the next year Drummer will showcase exciting new erotic talent because we have a long-standing openness around developing, nurturing artists who grow. You'll read David May. You'll see hard-cock-and-handcuffs by Drew Nicholas, and we'll expose you to a leather-wild European photographer, Peter Van der Pers. We'll cover a week of leather-readings at A Different Light bookstore in San Francisco in November -an opportunity for writers of Leatherlit to receive some of the long overdue recognition they deserve. An opportunity for you to meet people whose work you have read and been moved by. In the coming year Desmodus will expose you to a new compelling Japanese illustrator by the name of Gen, and you'll see the publicly exhibited work of such artists as the Hun, Rex, and Chester reviewed on the pages of Drummer because this is the place where such brashly sexual contributions are valued and appraised. Stretching limits.

You'll find yourselves reading an ongoing series-"Beirut"-by Aaron Travis set in the Middle East; in the middle of men and chaos and war. You'll read an interview on piercing (you won't find one of those on the pages of The Advocate ) with Master Piercer, Jim Ward. We will interview men on the erotic fringes of video-Christopher Rage, Michael Goodwin, Jack Fritscher, all creative madmen mixing up variations of erotica very much outside the mainstream point of view. From the perspective of these folks the point of view (sex) seems radically different. You will see a vast sea of leather-clad sweating bodies when we cover the Mr. Drummer Contest.

You will be infused with hot fiction, hot action, hot fetish features, and the work of folks who are quite simply the best gay artists currently on the scene. We invite—challenge—our readers to contribute. Writers, artists, leather mad-men , photographers, creative warriors out there on the fringes. Some of the most inharmoniously talented folks I know are also plumbers, construction workers, mechanics, blue collar basic, only they have something to say and in Drummer they say it. Our readers are our contributors. If the government-powers -that-be are going to work themselves into a censorshipsweat over what might or might not appear in Drummer, then let's give them something to sweat about. Something about obsession, something about rut lust, something about wrestled fuck, something about that one time you allowed him to tie you up, something about the scene where you were spanked because you deserved it; you had it coming, you wanted it you didn't want it but you wanted it. Give me something irresistible about the taste of a certain gag, something about ecstasy and strength and leather and luxuriant domination and the serious rapture of fathomless orgasm.

Drummer throws down the artistic-sexual gauntlet. Check out our Rex Story Contest. Let it turn you on because turning people on to the beauty inside them is still a radical wonderful thing to do. Send me work that makes YOUR dick hard. Stretch my limits. Challenge my imagination. Tease my crazy cock. Stick your hand into my brain, grab ahold, and twist. Give me your magnetic inner instincts, your voluptuous visions. When it comes to the madness of creativity I am ravenous. I am addicted, I want it now. Make me beg for it. Make me squeal like the literary pig that I am. Come on, Daddy, make me squirm and jism . .

If you have the whopping balls.

-Tim Barrus

For writers, artists, photography guidelines contact the Associate Editor, Desmodus Publications, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101-1314.

POTS & KETTLES

Your review of Manifest Reader (Drummer 117) seems to fit into that unique category of the pot calling the kettle black! A total of 15 ads in your own publication, out of 97 pages are for your own publishing company's various enterprises. Your company is woefully behind schedule in the publishing of the other "quarterly" magazines they tout. Much of your artwork, photography, and stories are alleged to have been redone from previous editions. (Just read your Male Call section!) And your complaint about more illustrations is echoed in your own publication.

Maybe it is time for the leather erotic publishers to stop beating each other senseless-and start cooperating and improving upon their own product-then we all would stop having publications / publishers / reviewers that exhibit such a lack of respect for their audience. Unfortunately for us you have us where you want us-you're the only game in town. But don't become too compla-F .W./Los Angeles cent.

The above letter was addressed to Thor Stockman, author of the review. I must point out that Mr. Stockman has nothing more to do with Desmodus, Inc. than FW has. He is completely independent of Drummer and the other aspects of our company. He inquired if we would be interested in a review of the Manifest Reader and we said yes. We published the review he submitted. I think it is appropriate for us to have reviewed an important new contribution to Leather literature. I also think it is important to review it honestly, which I believe Mr. Stockman has done. (Victor Terry's review, also unsolicited, in DungeonMaster 35 is quite similar in general view.) I think that both reviews are, overall, favorable and encourage the readers to buy the new product.

However, since FW wishes to compare the Manifest Reader with Drummer, let us do so:

Drummer 117 contains 12 "house" ads (I don't know where FW found the other three to get his 15). These take up 91 / 2 pages of the 100 page magazine. In the Manifest Reader, house ads occupy nearly 26 pages out of the 100. That seems to me to be a rather significant difference. All display ads in Drummer 117 combined occupy only 241 / 3 pages, just under 25% of the magazine. All display ads in the Manifest Reader combine to 297 / 12 pages, just under 30% of the total. In Drummer 118, the total number of pages occupied by house ads is only 55 / 6 and there are only 181 / 2 pages of display ads total in the 100 pages of magazine!

It is true that we are behind schedule with the publication of the quarterlies. However, the situation is considerably less "woeful" than it used to be. In the 22 months that we have been at the helm of Drummer, we have published 5 issues of Mach as compared to the 10 issues published in the 7 years from 1980 to 1986. (Actually I don't know when the first two issues were published, they do not have dates in them. #3 is dated 1980, #1 could have been in '79.) In the same 22 months we have published 4 issues of FQ, compared to the 5 issues published in the 3 years 1984-1986. We have also published four issues of DungeonMaster and three of The Sandmutopia Guardian. Thus, in 22 months, we have published 16 issues of the various quarterlies. This is not nearly the frequency we want, but it is definitely moving in the right direction and is a considerable improvement over the previous situation.

The "allegations" of redone material are actually very sparse in our Male Call section, and are, I think adequately defended or explained when they happen. A reputation for the reuse of material that came along with the purchase is one of the images we have had to work to dispel. I do not criticize the reuse of material, good stuff can be good several times over. I do criticize its reuse without mentioning its previous incarnation. Good it may be,

"exciting new" it is not. By the way, the fact that there have been critical letters to this effect in our Male Call column is more a reflection of our willingness to publish criticism than any increase in the number of critical letters.

As for the comment about more illustrations , as you pointed out it is one that we ourselves have made, and as you can see starting with Drummer 118, it is an objective we are realizing, including not only more and better illustrations, but color nudes as well.

Man does not live by one magazine alone. I welcome the Manifest Reader to an all too small community of Leather publications. I praise John Embry for having founded Drummer and for making it THE Leatherman's magazine for the US and the world. We intend to keep it in that position. And I wish him good fortune with his new creations. We here at Desmodus , Inc. do most definitely agree that all of us concerned with leather publishing , including our readers, must work together, cooperate, to improve the status quo. But in doing so we must deal with each other honestly and truthfully, it is only by not doing this that we "show a lack of respect for our audience."

-Anthony F. DeBlase

LITERARY TIRADE

It is an extremely unusual occurrence that a review article should elicit such a strong reaction in me. However, Tim Barrus' review of Edmund White's The Beautiful Room Is Empty created such a reaction, Mr. Barrus' entire review seems to be a bitter and vituperative attack upon Mr. White, rather than an objective review of the novel or its literary merit. It is also rather puzzling why the novel itself was selected for review, since it is not of particular interest to the Drummer readership and evidently was selected as a vehicle for Mr. Barrus' tirade. There does not appear to be much question at this time that Mr. White is one of the few stars of contemporary writing, Gay or

Otherwise. His literature is elegant, polished , urbane, technically smooth, and sparks with original wit. He deals with aspects of society both Gay and in general , which are of interest as a reflection of his own personal experience. Why one should force themselves to create a leather experience when it is not a part of their psyche, as Mr. Barrus seems to insist, is beyond one's understanding. Mr. Barrus also seems to be sadly lacking of a full knowledge of Mr. White's literature . In White's wonderful novel of social advancement in a mythical decadent society, Caracole, Mr. White describes aspects of captivity and S&M both from the physical and psychological points of view with a skill and insight rarely if ever achieved by the so called writers of the leather community. It is Caracole which should have been reviewed as a representative novel of interest to the Drummer readership. In The Beautiful Room is Empty, Mr. White deals with the experience of those who are now, shall we say, of a certain age in the gay & Leather S&M scene. There are other areas of evolution and these are the aspects with which Mr. White deals with such skill in Beautiful Room, I found personal animosity at Mr. Barrus' attack, because much of the experience which Mr. White deprecatingly described is indeed my own personal experience. The angst of coming out and discovering one's gay identity within that particular quite limited and privileged subculture is something of value, merit, and certainly worthy of consideration and presentation in a skillful literary style. The reaction is that Mr. Barrus is perhaps envious of both Mr. White's skill and success and inappropriately used the review as a vehicle for bitter spite.

Andrew V. Charles / San Francisco, CA

FW of Los Angeles should need no further proof that Desmodus, Inc. allows its reviewers the "Academic Freedom" to speak their mind and think on their own. Their opinions are obviously not dictated or censored in any way by the management .

-AFD

REGIONAL EXCITEMENT!

Greetings from the newest member of the Drummer Jet-Lag set! Why didn't anyone tell me in all these years that a regional Mr. Drummer contest could be so much fun?! I've just returned from the Mr. Mid-Atlantic Drummer '88 Contest in Charlotte, NC, my head abuzz with the fabulous hospitality afforded me and the (otherwise) all-star panel of hunky, young, award-winning beef (I mean judges) by Robert E. Sheets and his coor-dinating staff! My goodness, does that young man know how to throw a party … and a contest! Made me feel like a genuine artist instead of a some-time illustrator and story teller!

I know you must have said it many times, but keep getting the word out that these contests (either competing or attending) are not just for the small "leather elite" but also for us "ordinary" men on the sidelines-lightly converted, vaguely interested as we might be! If we attend in any capacity, we're going to have a great time. That's all there is to it!

Indeed, I am so overwhelmed with the delights of this past weekend that my devious (I mean fertile) mind is already working on ideas and suggestions to make next year's extravaganza in Charlotte even bigger and more successful than it already promises to be! Just wanted to congratulate and thank you for being at the helm of the boat that produces all the marvelous "ripples" of experience and fulfillment for so many! Keep up the good work! I'm proud to be a small part of what's happening!

The Hun / Portland, OR

EXTENDS WELCOME

May I extend a personal "welcome" on Tim Barrus' appointment as Associate Editor. Your crisp, factual responses to the Male Call letters are a delight. As the man who runs the BALL CLUB and publishes BALL CLUB QUARTERLY, I especially resonate to your OFF THE TOP comment maintaining Drummer's "sense of balls." Indeed, I wish you well. San Francisco, CA

PONDERS PIERCING

As a fan of your magazine and knowing the type of magazine that Drummer is, I hope that you can help me find the information that I am looking for.

As I become more aware of my sexuality and more in touch with my feelings and desires, I am finding that I am attracted to men with pierced nipples and want someday to have at least one of my own pierced.

To date what I know about the subject is very limited. All I know is that I like it. I don't know what the history is behind this scene or how long men have been doing it or if it heightens sexual experiences or just looks good. Is it safe, and if so where would I go to have mine pierced?

If Drummer has in the past printed any articles on the subject or if you know of any books or organizations for people with similar interests I would like to know about them …

MB / Morgantown, WV

As I write this I am in the process of putting together our TITS (!) issue (Drummer 121) which you might thoroughly enjoy as Drummer explores the eroticism of male nips. We will feature an interview with Master Piercer Jim Ward of the

Gauntlet, who makes it very clear that nipple piercing can be quite safe if it's done correctly in the appropriate (clean) environment by people who know what they're doing. The most recent issue of DungeonMaster also contains two personal perspectives on piercing to give you a sense of what it actually feels like, physically and emotionally. And, yes, having your tits pierced can, indeed, heighten sexual and sensual experiences. Piercing Fans International Quarterly, a magazine dedicated to the piercing enthusiast (everything you wanted to know about piercing), can be ordered through the Gauntlet, Inc., 8720 Santa Monica Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90069. П

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

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

DRUMNEDIA

"HUN" REVIEW by Anthony Santos

The latest Hun artwork: Hun Comics 2 and 3, Kraut 1 and 2. and Great Inches from Myth.

The comics are "pure" Hun, more of the adventures of Big Sig. The Kraut series—"A Trip to Remember" and "Revenge in Vietnam"—show Hun art drawn to a client's specifications. The myth series comes closer to "the fine arts," says the Hun.

Well, to me there's no "fine art" or "coarse art," just art, and these offerings are Hun art, erotic, s / m art. They're filled with sexual energy—it's astonishing how much energy, without letup, without pause, without mercy for the characters or for you, the reader.

In one of his introductions, the Hun says he has a natural affinity for comics. He does. His personal fantasies include 10-pound cocks, nipples erect like cocks, and huge-muscled studs with bull necks and balls like small grapefruit. Other s / m artists offer different pleasures.

So let's take the comics first. I've known the Big Sig type—young, blond, huge-muscled, and innocent. (In fact I've known a whole set of them, brothers; one brother had a cock almost Hun-size. No exaggeration.) Sig is down at Shady Nook prison farm, and the jocks' waterboy. "Just the typical, garden-variety, ugly, painful, dreadful, yucky, sweaty" great Hun material in Comics 2. Number 3, "Visitors," interested me even more—some nosy, well-muscled liberal comes to bleed his heart over the terrible conditions at the

prison farm, and finds he's got to experience those conditions himself.

Here's where the Hun shows how great he can be. The story line's simple. Young, naive, beautiful stud is surrounded, stripped, raped, enslaved. How often can you depict that story, draw it, vary it, re-tell it and re-draw it? Apparently, you can forever, to infinity. The Hun does. And not just with the art work, but with the captions. I thought they'd be distracting (sometimes he has so much to say, the figures are surrounded, hemmed in, by type), but they aren't. Perhaps that's the most astonishing part, the never-ending flow of words, of erotic stimulation.

The Kraut drawings are Hun art filtered through someone else's imagination. Kraut seems to be the best kind of patron—he stimulates the artist's imagination. Here you have "normal" nipples and cocks, and a lot of brutality. The "Trip" is toyroom-dungeon s / m: bondage, gags, dildoes, and so forth. "Revenge" carries the warning, NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH!—torture: burning, cutting, the rest of the ways of agony, including a crucifixion.

The crucifixion scene is especially good—the Marine victim in agony, waiting for the spike to his feet, his body twisted in a graceful curve on the prone cross, his head thrown back to make his throat follow the curve of his body. his big cock lying on his meaty thigh, at an intersecting curve, blood flowing from his hands … Really, beautifully done.

The mythological series is more consciously "arty." No brutality, almost no action, single figures, studies of the male anatomy. Maybe it's wrong to say "no brutality"—each of these figures dominates, especially the blacks, a result of each being alone on the page, and of the greater sense of bulk (created by shading).

Especially beautiful is (what else?) Eros, a black with closed eyes, head tilted away from the observer, his navel the center of composition. The cock is curved up, unsheathed , ready to shudder and begin shooting out its white . .

To me the perfect Hun drawing appears as the opening of "Shady Nook." A young inmate is being auctioned off. He's going to be somebody's meat. He's stripped off his jock to give the crowd below a better look. A hand touches his leg, and a squared, powerful black hand reaches up to grab his big balls, to grab and squeeze and agonize. But there's no degradation in that—the stud stands defiant over them, his cock curved like Eros' into a thick curve, expressing power and sex and domination.

It's this union of domination and suffering that creates that enormous sexual energy the Hun depicts.

-Anthony Santos

aldwin

PUNISHMENT: Proceed with Caution!

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-To let the punishment fit the crime— The punishment fit the crime.

-W.S. Gilbert, The Mikado We come into the SM scene by many routes: some by way of bondage, others through dominance and submission, still others through their child abuse experiences . For others, however, the association of "pain" with pleasure first occurred during or just following punishment(s) for misdeeds committed during childhood , adolescence, or, more rarely, in adulthood. A great many men also report being aroused while watching punishment scenes in movies, or reading about them in literature.

For these and other reasons, punishment themes will sometimes take a prominent position in SM sexuality. When these themes express themselves in relationships, however, all hell can sometimes break loose, because psychologically dangerous forces often come into play. I want to warn you about them now.

First, let's get clear which behaviors I am talking about. In the "bad boy" style, a masochistic bottom makes a mistake or bungles something and gets punished by a Top in some way that is physically painful or humiliating, and maybe even erotic. If the "mistake" is trivial or was blatantly unfair (according to the bottom ), there can be lots of emotional pain and stress as well.

The Top counterpart is the guy who is always on the lookout for the error in a bottom's ways. If the Top doesn't find enough mistakes to justify a scene, He can make them up, or set the bottom up so that mistakes are inevitable. Usually, this is all done under the guise of "training " or "discipline".

Think about this for a minute, and you can begin to see the problems. First of all, in the bottom's head, he only gets what he desires (to be played with) when he fails-this rewards his ineptness, and does not reinforce skill and capability. Additionally, charges of ineptitude cause people to feel bad about themselves, whereas feeling capable and competent makes people feel good about themselves .

Following this dynamic to its logical conclusion, after a while a Top would end up with a bottom who couldn't do anything right ever! In fact, this some- times happens. Other bottoms learn only to fuck up when they are horny. This then provokes (manipulates) the Top and a scene starts-maybe. The bottom then gets to play, but pays the price of believing that he has done something "bad," or is, himself, "bad." He must believe he has done something bad in order to take the Top and His punishment seriously.

In this way, many bottoms come to lose their self-respect and self-esteem in exchange for sexual fulfillment. Critical, punishing Tops make them believe that they can do nothing right, and that they are total fuckups. This view of themselves is systematically reinforced with sex and cumming-pretty powerful reinforcement , I'd say. To make matters worse, these bottoms can begin to get very depressed, and therefore not much fun to be around, even for the Tops who create them.

Interestingly, many of the "punish" Tops that I have worked with clinically have explained that it is all for the good of the bottom, and that He was teaching something important about life that the bottom had somehow missed earlier. None made any comments (initially) about their hard dicks as though that was unimportant to the explanation of their wish to punish.

Just for you psychology buffs, here are some ideas about what is often going on inside that allows all this to happen in the first place. For the bottom, punishment may recreate the situation in which he may have come to associate pain and pleasure in childhood. Suddenly, the whipping (or whatever) is justified and "makes sense" because he has been "bad." It feels bad emotionally and good physically, but he does like the attention -very confusing to the mind.

In the Top's own head, He may be recreating an identification with an admired, punishing or strict relative, or an identification with an admired character in a movie or book-the Sheriff of Nottingham, for example, or Captain Nemo.

Top understands that when He can find errors, He can do something that will make His dick hard—an idea with appeal. Psychologically, the most common reason that He goes through all this is to explain and justify His sadism to himself-"Well, after all, he fucked up again, and I just had to do something."

Numerous hours in the therapy room with "bad boy" bottoms and "punish"

Tops has led me to some interesting discoveries . For the most part, it seems that these guys can't permit themselves to let their needs for hurting or being hurt come out without first establishing a pretext which WOULD be acceptable to society in general. Otherwise, they might feel guilty for enjoying themselves in such an unconventional way.

The punishment setup provides both of them with the "excuse" they need to get down to it. So, unconsciously, we get, "I can hit him when he is bad," and "he can hit me when he thinks I have been bad." It's all OK then-there is nothing twisted or sick.

I suspect that these men go through these mental gymnastics because we are socialized into believing that it is only OK to "hurt" someone else when they have broken the law or committed a sin. We are also socialized into believing that it is only OK for someone else to "hurt" us when we have done a bad thing.

Sadly, for a smaller number of others, this is all just thinly disguised child abuse done with an overgrown child. Both Top and bottom suffer the associated ills when this is the situation.

It is truly hard for me to imagine a healthy relationship with a Top who is constantly scrutinizing his partner's behavior for mistakes, and a bottom who has (or thinks he has) figured out how to get played with by making mistakes. Or, if the bottom is not horny, or does not want to play, he must then go to the emotional trouble of trying extra hard not to fuck something up and bring down an unwanted scene on himself. (This is fun?) (This feels good?) (This is quality time?)

One reason I doubt the health of such an arrangement is that the "bad boy" bottom can't come to see himself as a competent, effective man in the world and still get his sexual needs met. I have stated my chief bias about SM sexuality in an earlier column: I support those behaviors that add to who we are and make us feel better about ourselves and oppose behaviors that do the opposite.

Put differently, research shows us that something called "cognitive dissonance" creates unhealthy psychologies. Simply speaking, this term describes a state of dangerous internal mental conflict which occurs when the mind tries to hold contradictory emotional information.

It is clear to me that the punishment scene can create cognitive dissonance in

a number of ways. For example, the rest of the world gives us rewards when we do a good job-if we have to make an exception in our sexuality, that creates dissonance and the trouble that goes with it.

Another source of dissonance in the punishment game is that Tops do (occasionally ) make mistakes of all kinds. More dissonance happens in both their heads when He does not get punished for His mistakes. He is confronted with His double standards, while the bottom must try somehow to look the other way. Couples report that their relationship takes on an increasingly unreal quality that makes it difficult to sustain the connected feelings that are essential to the maintenance of SM relationships.

Of course, everyone makes mistakes because we are all human, and no one is perfect. Mistakes are a natural part of living and an opportunity for growth, self-awareness and development. They need to be seen in a positive light because they afford us the opportunity to learn important things about the world. To hand out physical punishment or verbal abuse when "mistakes" are made is not supportive or educational except perhaps in the most primitive way.

Endless studies reveal that corporal punishment does not work to modify behavior as well as other more suppor- tive methods. This means that the behavior modification excuse used to justify physical punishment for misdeeds, by calling it SM, just doesn't wash.

Lots of men get into the punishment scene because they cannot allow themselves to do this stuff simply because it feels so damn good all by itself. In their value system, pure pleasure is not considered sufficient justification to engage in what vanilla folks (both straight and gay) would call "hurting" behaviors. Sadomasochists call it fun, and for us, it is, when we do it right.

Most kinky guys don't feel the need to create a socially acceptable pretext for doing anything in their sexuality. They have freed themselves from vanilla values so completely that what society would say is just not important any-more —they play just cause it feels good.

My view of the punishment scene today is that it is the way that some SM people manage (but don't resolve!) an internal conflict between their sexual impulses and social rules. The emotional fallout is so great though, that I am not at all clear that it is worth it for them to pander to the internal vanilla values that tug at them.

Lastly, there is a punishment style that does not cause any of the troubles mentioned above, and it is remarkably useful in correcting unwanted behaviors. That punishment consists of the varying degrees of abandonment / withdrawal-a bottom's worst fear, in my opinion.

Ignoring a bottom is a much clearer signal than a slap when a Top is unhappy. The slap is a mixed message-anything that is physical is a mixed message . To slap for punishment one moment and slap as a reward or an "I love you" message the next is sooooo confusing to the psychology of a masochistic bottom.

Reserving SM behaviors for horny times and feel-good situations sends a consistent message to bottoms and does not confuse them. If they are good, play with them and have a good time. If they are displeasing, tell them why and how, and send them away for a while, or go elsewhere and play with someone pleasing.

I feel strongly that anyone in the Scene who is committed to the principles of Safe, Sane, Consensual is in danger of violating the "Sane" part when He uses or invites physical punishment to correct unwanted behavior. Doing so constitutes a real threat to the self-esteem and confidence of many bottoms and thus places their mental health at risk. I can't support any scene that risks any kind of health, can you?

Guy Baldwin, M.S. is a psychotherapist in private practice in Los Angeles, who works primarily with those on the sexual frontiers.

SLAVES OF THE EMPIRE by Aaron Travis Illustrated by Cavelo $9.95

Gladiators and sexual slavery set in the excesses and the arenas of ancient Rome. A tale of rape, retaliation, and resistance leading the reader on a haunting , deeply sexual journey through subjugation and the triumph of survival.

************************************** STREET, STREET, ST

THE BRIG by Mason Powell $8.95

Post-Vietnam: the darker side of military discipline—an innocent sailor steps into a world where he is stripped and broken. Sex, power, and aggression gone mad. Brutal, erotic, and unflinching in its honest physical momentum.

MISTER BENSON

Blockbuster of an underground classic packs psychological and physical authenticity into the secretly dark shadows of indestructible desire. The definitive erotic novel by the definitive writer of sadomasochism. Preston takes you places you never knew existed.

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PO Box 11314 San Francisco, CA 94101-1314 To order by phone 415 978-5377 MC, VISA, AMEX accepted Make checks payable to Desmodus, Inc.

MUD,OIL, GREASE, AND GRUNGE FEATURE

I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love; If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles. -Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

My older brother used to work on old jalopies-junkers mostly-car corpses that other mechanics (men who did not work in their parent's garage) would have had summarily towed away to the dump. My brother was an arrogant boisterous creative grease-monkey if there ever was one. His rough mechanic's hands seemed perpetually stained with a deep black combination of Quaker State Motor Oil mixed with gluttonous amounts of gooey garage grunge. My brother's hands never did come clean. His hands and his appealing badness were literally beyond restraint , rebelliousness, or religious repair.

Greaseboy was a rather amazing natural sort of mechanic who could take apart and completely reassemble a Chevrolet engine, putting it into the jolted chassis of a Ford, with the adolescent belief that a Ford with a Chevy engine will run faster than a mere Chevy with a Chevy engine . Which is what usually happened when my older brother went-for-broke with our family's cars.

We never really knew for sure what it was we were actually driving; it was usually a compromised hodgepodge of Volkswagen parts connected to impossible gismos designed to run on not much more than mechanical guesswork and greasejockey faith. Greaseboy always seemed to be elbow dirtdeep in the thick mysterious secrets of automotive sludge. I used to serve as his all too eager tool fetcher. And I'd stand there next to him in our garage, watching him repair his various junky vehicles, wondering h-o-w anyone's hands could possibly absorb not only the blackness of the inevitable grime, but my brother's hands even smelled like precious Porsche puke.

The most powerful of industrial cleaning solvents could not erase the provocative discoloration from my brother's lubricated hands. Eventually my parents just finally gave in to him by allowing the boy to live in his beloved garage-his grease-soaked environment-which only added to his fugitive desperado sensibility.

On any given evening I could usually manage to find Greaseboy jerking off in his cherished tool-cluttered grungepit. Once I caught him (he knew that I would) on his greasemonkey's dolly, pounding that big fat impulsive pink whopper he had with those amazingly black and filthy hands-pumping -as he teased me by flagrantly exhibiting / playing with his

One of the most exciting land somewhat bizarre—but then that's part of the outrageous fun) clubs to hit the club scene has to be the California-based Club Mud, which proudly boasts a membership of over 100 (many of whom are straight) mudfolks seriously into what can only be described as-wallowing. Club Mud publishes a quarterly newsletter filled with personal ads, photos, articles, erotic mud stories, and a feature called: "Mudhole of the Month." Club Mud parties—held in the Russian River area of Northern California during the summer—are notoriously full of mud-and-sport. You'll find mud events such as Tug of War, Auto Tire Scramble Mud Volleyball, Mud Pole Pillow Fighting, and—what else?—Mud Wrestling. For more info on Club Mud, write: PO Box 277, Rio Nido, CA 95471 moody erection.

The image of my working -class brother's soiled hands, wrapped tightly around his tempestuous piece of boner, beating greased beef faster than a Harley in a horrible heat, was at the time an unbelievably powerful erotic image that got burned into my subconscious more effectively and more permanently than anything brain surgery or a lobotomy could offer. Not only did I get to suck on my brother's agitated cock (which was usually hidden safely away under worn blue mechanic's coveralls) but somehow I convinced him to allow me to suck his cruel and relentlessly black hands as well.

The ironically bittersweet taste of garage grease and garage grunge was overwhelming-I came all over the back-seat of my brother's '58 Chevy Impala. We are told that cleanliness is next to godliness. Yet many of us have had occasional out-of-the-mainstream sexual experiences that transcend and surpass the constraining morality of Lava soap.

Fuck soap.

Grease and grime can set the sexual stage for a ravenous delinquent exploration into the sensually indecent, the dirtier than dirt. If climbing into sleazy slimesex, complete with a Pennzoil scene (or an inviting pigpool of pigmud) intrigues or mystifies you or turns you on, let us tease you with a funky taste of oil outrage, mud mania, greasy gearshifts, and grunge galore. By the time you've finished reading this issue of Drummer you could very well be in dire need of one hell of a hot soapy shower-OR-you'll let the smell linger for awhile on your leatherboy skin while you lick your honey fingers into sordid ecstasy.

This issue of Drummer gives fiction the focus; you'll find a certain demonism in Michael Agreve's obsession with an unwashed beast. Jay Shaffer greases down his dirty pig. And Bill Starwalt offers us a trucker's vision of a pumpboy, a lonely stranger, and the corrosive tension that occurs when one tests the other-the open road invites. The one-and-only Rex will put his intensely erotic art right smack in your face-inviting you-to experience the cum-splashed, cum-stained, cum-squalid , mesmerized universe of seething sleaze. Mud, oil, grease, and grunge …

Tim Barrus

Fetish Feature is a special section to be found in most issues of Drummer. Each issue focuses 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 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 Drummer that carry these every month and we'll be happy to include yours for tattoos, boots, shaving, wrestling, or whatever you have missed!

Long before I knew him I could smell him.

Even as I wandered around the room searching out the man whose musk had first assaulted my nostrils, I understood him better than anybody else there. The moment he had raised his armpits, he had trapped me with his unwashed fragrance . Although still unknown to me, the man was already a part of me. I had absorbed him through my nostrils and translated him into a thousand tiny messages filtering through my mind. He was tall. He was short. He was fat. He was thin. He was young, old, hairy, bald, with a small cock and one as long as the space between my wrist and elbow. He was everything he had to be and absolutely nothing like what I

He was an unknown with nothing more to lure me on with but his incredible ability to assault my senses. He had raised his arms and set in motion a clock ticking from twelve backwards to the number one. He was the child unable to control its body functions and the adult plunging its finger up its asshole. He was everything uncontrolled and uncontrollable about the human body. He was the sweat pouring out of an armpit and the crusty cheese ringing an unwashed foreskin. He was handsome, homely, brilliant, stupid, all translated into one word with a question mark at the ending. He was gentle, uncaring, tough and tender with an overwhelming need to entrap through the olfactory senses. He was unknown, understood, worshipped, hated, coming forward and away in one single action. He was everybody's, he was mine alone, everything and nothing, all to different

From the instant that I saw him, hands stuffed into too tight jean pockets, boots encrusted with a month's worth of excavation , I knew that he was everything I wanted. He was unpolished, unclean, bearded, and possessed of a look that would have made most men automatically stay away. He was straight, but with a knowledge of how it felt to have a man's mouth clamped around his uncut penis. He took no pains with his ablu-

Deep into the crevices of his toes, down around the undersides of his balls, back up across his stomach and into the net of matted hairs on his chest. tions, feeling instead that water was the enemy of his carefully embellished body. He prided himself on the ring around his fraying collar, laughed when I said that he looked like he had been mucking out sewers for a living. Even his voice was gritty, carrying with it the breath of stale beer and mornings never spent gargling with mouthwash. He has nowhere to go except even further down into the gutter. So, he had chosen the backroom of a bar, hoping that nobody would notice that the underwear beneath his clothing was torn and stained from pissing in an alleyway.

He had stood against the cinder block wall, desperately wanting to fade into the grimy moulded plaster. The bottom button of his fly had fallen off, giving him (incorrectly) the look of someone easily made available. His face was scraggly, unshaven, unwashed, but not entirely unappreciated. Resting somewhere underneath the two-day stubble was a face that might have otherwise been almost handsome . But he had let it go to seed, just like he had let every other part of his body descend into a sort of elegant decay. He was almost alluring in his resemblance to the classic portrait of a convict. He even had a downward twisting mouth to add to the already sinister appearance.

Äll that was missing was a half-smoked cigareest dangling from his lips. Instead, a trickle of snot had leaked out from his nose and become encrusted in what had to be the scuzziest moustache grown upon a lip. He was, in short, beautiful , entirely perfect, matching words to his looks as I tried to make what had to be the dumbest of idle chatter. He responded mostly in grunts, appropriate considering his attitude. I responded with a crotch full of solid inches, getting harder and harder as I wallowed in his filth.

I knew that there were others watching , trying to figure out what was the appeal of the obviously misplaced man. Only when he raised his hand to scratch his head was it obvious. He stank. He reeked. Not as bad as some of the bums you see lying on the steps of buildings. Just bad enough. Bad enough to make me want to stand there with him forever. Bad enough to ask him if he wanted to go back to my place. Bad enough to listen to a long explanation about how he wasn't into guys, but didn't mind if somebody wanted to give him a badly needed blow job. His words, especially the part about the blow job, were music to my ears. I didn't want to hear fancy words like "anal intercourse" or "fellatio" or "masturbation ." I wanted suck and fuck and jerk off, and a thousand other street slogans , hurled at me. I wanted him to lie back, filthying the clean white sheets as I mixed my spit with the dirt that dribbled off his belly button. I expected no thank-you letters, just a grunt followed

by a solid eight hours of snoring.

I wanted to take advantage of him while he slept, licking the soles of his feet as he lay sleeping in my spot. I wanted him to wake up the next morning, take a crap and never once ask if he could also take a shower. I wanted to imprint him on my brain, filling in all those places that shocked so easily with the memory of his unwashed body. I wanted to walk around the next day, wondering why I had picked him up in the first place, why I had let him lie back while I sucked the stench out of his uncut penis. And finally, I wanted days of searching for him again, trying to conjure up his special odor inside my nose, wandering through a maze of grimy back rooms until maybe I saw him again and repeated my initial offer.

He was grunge. Simply and completely the lowest common denominator I could sink to. He was a scrawny, unwashed man whose world revolved around nose pickings and shirts picked up in the garbage . But no matter how crude, how unknowing he had seemed both then and now, there was one simple factor still working in his favor. He had never questioned the attraction. He had let me peel away his crudded-over boots and hold the insides to my nose. He had let me keep his socks, buried now and forever in a Baggie, not caring that his bare feet would have to be stuffed back up against a leather sole. He had lowered his body onto the bed, not the least bit impressed by the sheeted whiteness. He had known instinctively that he was not to tread lightly upon a bed of sweet-smelling roses. He was to be the thorn among the rose bushes, giving off the same scent that attracted flies to rotting meat. He knew that no matter what the meat he offered, it would be eaten. And it was.

Not a word was said as I peeled back his fleshy foreskin. He knew just how much I got off on stretching it out and licking on the underside until my mouth smelled like his cock: rancid. He knew the secret levels of pleasure I was reaching as I slowly absorbed more and more of what had attracted me to him in the first place. As my mouth became a cesspool filled up with first the taste of his cheesy cockhead, then his sweaty armpits , he relished the exchange of aromas, sweet for sour, that was taking place. He was the long lost twin brother, changing places with the one raised up to be royalty , watching as the real king turned before his eyes into a rough-necked peasant . If he was laughing all the while, I never heard him. Only his silence spoke volumes as I bathed inch after inch of him with my tongue. Deep into the crevices of his toes, down around the undersides of his balls, back up across his stomach and into the nest of matted hairs on his chest. Like a traveler on a long distance highway, I explored each twist and turn, picking up tiny souvenirs for my effort. A piece of crumb here. Last night's spilled beer over there. Maybe a crab or two along the way, but nothing that couldn't be quickly gotten rid of. And finally the surprisingly long tube of steak that jutted out from between his legs. His piece of meat. His dork. His pod that he said had only entered pussy. Now it was going to taste fag mouth. Going to go all the way inside a tunnel where only the creme de la crap was meant to be deposited.

What his cock tasted like as I rid it of its grungy topmost layer of stale sweat and drops of dried-out piss! Saving the ambrosial tip for last, I slurped and sucked on the filthy lollipop until it let go with a blast of built-up juices. That too tasted vile, coming from inside a body the closest thing to rotting. How I loved the vileness of his sour-tasting cum, knowing that each and every sperm head could produce an offspring smelling like its father. How I swallowed and swallowed , and even eked out another wad of stale spunk after he had been asleep for

Never daring to sleep so long as he was in the room, I could only make my mind a camera and record every inch of him as he lay tangled up inside the sheets. One foot stuck out at an angle and it was that foot that became an object of disgusting worship. I slobbered over it like it was his dick I was tasting. It was in fact a mass of five tiny dicks, each one topped with a nail encrusted with the proof of too little bathing. I had thought about cutting off those nails and saving them inside a jar, but decided not to. Who knows what I could culture from his toenail clippings? Maybe the next beast that devoured the city. Maybe my next meal.

Or maybe a week's worth of fantasies. But all I needed was one night's worth. He knew that instinctively. He departed willingly, leaving behind only the stench from his socks carefully preserved in a self-closing plastic bag. Every now and then I reach for that bag, open it up, and relive the moments of degradation. He was vile. He was unclean. He had manners like a dog with diarrhea. He dirtied up my sheets and left me with a mouth that smelled for three days afterward. He never once ran his fingers through my hair or told me that he loved me. Not a single word of comfort escaped his lips. Not even one of appreciation for the masterpiece of cocksucking I had performed on his raunch-laden dick. Never once had I held him close to me. I couldn't. He stank too bad. Never once did we kiss. He wouldn't. He was straight. Never once did we talk about the weather, or the latest Broadway play, or anything at all. All we talked about was his cock. And

DRUMMER 120

how I had to suck it. And how he had to pee and where the bathroom was. And what the hell I needed his socks for, but he gave them to me anyway. I was nothing to him. Just a cocksucker who was desperate for a dick. I tried to tell myself that I could have others. But I knew that he was the one I wanted. I saw the looks I got from others as I walked behind him, obviously out to eat his dick. They weren't nice, those looks. They didn't make me want to show my prize to the world.

But I showed them all, I did. I took him home, I peeled him down, I bathed him with my tongue and knew that he would let my spit dry on his skin for at least another day or two. I let him sleep molested in my bed, secretly wondering if he would ever stop farting. I fed him eggs and bacon in the morning and washed the plate and silverware in scalding water. I soaked for hours after in a tub of almost boiling water, peeling off all traces of remaining dirt, trying to rid myself of nagging guilt and horniness as I purged the flesh and pounded my cock.

What was it that drove me to such acts of degradation? What twist inside my head made me follow an unwashed scent until it was registering on my palate? What longing made me breathe the air in crowded bars, hoping that sooner or later one nostril would pick up something recognizably unbearable? And. finally, what self-destructive streak made me want to seek him out again? Him, the man with the three days' dirt packed around his fingernails. Him? The man who belched all night long and farted even while I sucked on his cock for the third time that evening? Who was he to run a line inside my head and make it a one-way path from obsession to action. Who was that asshole, anyway? A mud-caked Jesus whose feet I had to tongue bathe for salvation? A bum whose cock itched one night so he found the nearest faggot to scratch it? None of the above? All of the above?

No the answer didn't come as I sat soaking. Nor did it come the day after or the day after that. I sat and thought. I contemplated and drove my head up against blank walls. The answer was after all deceptively simple. Who was that man? Everybody. Nobody. He was a fantasy. A night of deadly reality. He was past, present, and future, all rolled up into one sour-smelling ball that was mine for the catching. He was everything I needed, hated, loved, rejected, worshipped , denied, and even sometimes. most times, despised. He was grunge. Simply grunge. Only grunge. And I had always known it. Even before I had smelled it.

I had known it. I had loved it.

CLASSIC MUD from the DRUMMER files

Greased Pia by Jay Shaffer

When I saw the vice-grips I knew just what Mike was thinking. He knew where he wanted them hanging and he needed some help in putting them there.

He stroked it. He nuzzled it. He rubbed himself against it like a cat. His hands were the hands of a lover. He circled around it to wind up in front, facing away, spreading his thighs and crouching until the tire could split his asscheeks and the tread could touch his hole. He waited to be mounted. He bent down forward, molding his jock and its contents hard over the curve of the wheel, reaching his hands up to rethread his tits. My headlight shone hot on his back and his ass: The hair flashed from straw into gold. He pumped himself over the rubber. He opened his eyes and stared back past his shoulder as he opened his butt to the beast. He groaned. He writhed. He ground his teeth and sweated. Across the garage, I could feel his heat. My nuts screamed-they needed adjusting. I opened my box up and took out my tool.

And Mike backed away again. He ran himself right up to the edge, and stopped. He tensed, grunted, held stock still and waited for his wave to pass. Mechanical control. Standing, stepping forward, he moved away and turned around. Faced the bike. Aimed his crotch at the light. Focused on its focused beam.

He hadn't cum, but he'd come close. The cloth had soaked up a wide slick of his lube—it was drying to stain in the heat of the bulb. His breath was still choppy, but now his chest heaved and his belly rippled under a carpet of golden fire where the hair that ran across them caught and shimmered in the glare. He held his arms out from his sides. He dropped his chin to his chest—and waited.

Whatever the signal was, it came. He gave himself over again to the bike. Straddling the tire, he sat. Pressing his belly flat over the light, he stretched back and fondled the seat. He caressed it all with that animal grace, moving sure hands across his lover, feeling its mechanical throb. He sat up and hunched up and shoved his jock in through the fork. He grabbed the throttle and rolled it, ran up the revs and rode them hard. His back arched. His chest grew. I took a deeper breath. He let ao a bellow that started out low and rose to a scream with the bike's. Throwing his head back, he howled. I spit-lubed my hand up and pistoned my dick, expecting to follow him over the edge.

Again, somehow, he pulled up short. Somehow, so did I.

Sweat soaked his body in rivers that ran down through patches of dirt and grease. I checked and found that I was drenched, my pants around my knees, aching to shoot but wanting to wait to see what came next. The wait wasn't long.

He ripped himself free of the old fantasy and started to set up a new one. He nudged the kill switch. My ears roared on in the silence. I worried for a minute that he might hear my gasps for breath. If he did, he never showed it. He just walked around collecting an assortment of things in a pile. A can full of something-I couldn't see what. Screwdrivers, all different sizes. Clamps and straps and cotter pins. A dropcloth and rags. A couple of pair of vice-grip pliers. A full plastic bottle of oil. He hesitated, shook his head. Stood in thought, staring at nothing. Slipped back somewhere into his trance.

Lifting one leg up, he slid off the boot. Set it and its sock down precisely. Stood barefoot on his filthy floor to lift up and strip off the other. Now he was naked, except for the strap. He began to hum a single note. Quietly. He stood for a moment and waited again. Then he started to circle the bike.

Carefully, smoothly, he touched his fingers to all of the parts that weren't hot. He leaned down to clean some with a brush of his lips and his tongue. Made love to the metal in a way I'd never dreamed. Covered it all and came back to the start.

He picked up the dropcloth like some sort of vestment, folded and carried it over to cover the seat and the tank. He laid two rags over the handgrips. Standing back to survey his work, he rubbed his crotch once and yanked his hand away. Then he turned back for the oil.

And turned the oil on himself. He unscrewed the top, held the bottle up high, tilted it slowly and watched as the clean black-gold slime rolled down his arm to his face. It fell on his shoulders. It fell on his chest. It slid down his back and his belly to

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catch in the hairs and the waistband of his jock. It dripped and ran down over his ass, over his legs, over all of that pale bright skin to the floor. He cradled the bottle in both of his hands and set it back down by his feet. He bent from the waist. His ass aimed right at me, all white muscled flesh and secret shadowed promises. I bent to take off my own boots.

Mike stood back up in a slow, rhythmic wave, drawing both hands through his oil. Massaging and rubbing his calves and his thighs. Grabbing hold hands full of ass: moving on. Stroking his belly and kneading his tits. Throwing his head back at last as he fingered the lube through his hair and his beard. The bike's light bounced off his wet skin with a new kind of gold liquid fire.

He mooned me again reaching back for the bottle and poured out a palmful to rub into his pouch. The one-note hum never stopped. He reached back down into his pile of tools.

One hand held a hoseclamp, now, both wide and big around. The other raised a screwdriver. He turned toward me slightly so I looked at his side and slipped the clamp over his jock. The screwdriver handle went into his mouth while he used both his hands to adjust. He grabbed himself hard through the oiled elastic. He yanked down his dick and his balls. The hose clamp as cockring. Satisfied he'd placed it right, he pulled the 'driver from his mouth to turn the screw and clamp it down. His tongue was still out when I looked back up, trying to follow the plastic dick. It slipped back in, reluctantly, once the ring started to squeeze. Mike bit and chewed his lip. A habit I had seen before. A sign of concentration. It would never look the same again.

The hose clamp hung down from the base of his belly. The screwdriver went back in his mouth. His oily, tight-stuffed bag of hard parts throbbed and seemed to grow. I could almost see new dickblood swell it every time his heart pumped.

My boots were loose, now. My pants slumped on their tops. I waited for Mike to turn again: He did, and I got naked.

He bent over to put down his screwdriver and pick up something else. He faced me when he stood. I started to think that he knew I was there but decided to speak when he spoke. Not before. If he saw me or not I just couldn't stop stroking.

I love my bike. I give it the best I can of everything—gas, oil, parts, service—and it treats me right in return. I wish I could do it all myself. I can't. I'm a lousy mechanic and I just don't have enough time. That's why I take it to Mike. I may love my own machine, but nobody loves bikes the way Mike does.

I caught him at it one night.

The day I finally bought a Harley the first thing I did was to bring it in to Mike. He took one look and had a religious experience. Just a Super Glide, used; basic black and nasty. Nothing fancy. That's why I like it. Mike was transported.

"Fix it, buddy," I said. He didn't answer. He probably didn't hear me. Mike looks at hot bikes the way I cruise hot men: For a while, nothing else exists in the world. I trust him, though. I've trusted him for years. I knew he'd do what I wanted, and more. I didn't know how much more. I left the two of them alone.

My dinner that night was a pizza, delivered . I'm no cook, either. When the heartburn and headache hit well after midnight and I couldn't find a seltzer in the house, I began to wish I'd poured a bowl of corn flakes. The store down the street was open all night, but the bike was in the shop. I tried to use mind over matter. Nothing worked. I swore as I pulled on my jeans and my boots and shouldered into a jacket. The bike could have waited a day to see Mike. Now I had to walk. I already felt like shit.

I wasn't very nice to the graveyard-shift cashier. He didn't seem to mind. Even brought me a glass of warm water and dropped the little tablets in. Plop, plop. We talked while the fizz went to work. Not about anything much. Just enough to let me know he'd noticed me and make me think about noticing back. He laughed when I belched, a little too loud. I felt a shitload better. Time to go home. Punching his shoulder, I told him I'd see him. He groped himself as he said he hoped so.

The flirting did more for my mood than the bubbles: I felt fine on my way back up the hill home. I spent more time looking around me. The world looks different at night and on foot.

Take, for instance, the light on in Mike's shop. I hadn't seen it on my way past, before. Or heard the muffled thunder that came with it. Dual pipes. Shorties. In that shop a Harley idled. I decided to stop for a look.

The door was unlocked. Seemed kind of stupid. I didn't have a chance to think about it much. Unlocked, it opened—and that's when I saw Mike. He was riding my Harley to nowhere, buck-fucking naked but for boots and a jock.

He had the frame up on blocks, so the rear wheel hung in the air. Probably had the chain off, too, although I was on the wrong side to see. I trust Mike. He's careful. I knew he'd never hurt a bike. But I'd sure never seen him like this.

I had never seen an act like this. I had christened bikes with buddles. I'd had rides that felt like sex. That was why I'd bought the Super Glide: I wanted the feel of the best. I had spitshined and rubbed up some earlier bikes just for the love of the touch, but what I saw now was different. Mike was in some kind of rapture.

He always works in coveralls. I had never really seen him. At least, not as a man. He just never had seemed to have sex on his mind, or anything other than bikes. I guess, for him, the two are one. Now I could see his raw fantasy—and the man looked incredible naked.

I paid no attention to his hair and his beard. I had (sort of) seen all that before.

His oily, tight-stuffed bag of hard parts throbbed and seemed to grow. I could almost see new dickblood swell it every time his heart pumped.

But his bare back, his shoulders, his arms caught my eye with the hard ropy muscles the cloth had kept hidden. His chest was squared and dusted with light brown hair; it sported two hard, finger-sized tits that seemed to be pointing my way. His ass and thighs moved in all the right ways under a carpet of hair like his chest had but thicker and darker and damp with sweat. His skin glowed a stark sunless white in the pale blue light of the tube at his bench. Dark shadows traced all his moves. He had no tan. No color at all. He had no need for the sun.

He leaned forward out of my seat as I watched, toward the handlebars and down. Listening. Feeling, too. That jock full of nuts was flattened across my fat bob tank and bouncing with the vibration. I adjusted my basket. Mike slowed the idle and smiled.

He looked like a demon, A man possessed . Then he leaned down still further-and went down on my bike. Ran his tongue down the clutch lever. Moved his left hand to lick the grip. Nibbled on the cables. Opened his jaw at last and wrapped his face around the end of the bar just like it was a dick—until his lips were mashed and he gagged. He worked the throttle, milking it out and raising the revs and grinding his pouch on my tank; squirming and straining and matching his pitch to the bike's. I was getting hot myself. Out of my jacket, I slipped off my belt just as Mike slowed things down to cool off.

My machine settled back to that punch-fucking purr that the big Harleys have when they're tuned. My mechanic pulled back off my hand-grip. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be having some trouble keeping control of his tongue. His hands clenched and flexed as he caught his breath. At last he was able to sit back up straight. He swayed, but he stayed up and cocked an ear. I held my breath. I shouldn't have bothered . He wasn't hearing anything but songs of V-twin love.

He left the bike running and swung up and off. One clean sweep of animal grace. There seemed to be a lot more to see of Mike when he felt this way. The unusual width of his shoulders. The icy heat of his hard pale flesh, under the grease spots and hair. The way he moved his body. The way his touches showed his lust. I was watching his matina dance.

He stood, not quite still, beside the machine—all jockstrap and boots and grease and sweat, eyes closed, head rolling , ass grinding, thighs cording. Fucking air. Playing his tongue on his chest and his shoulders and lapping at things only there in his mind. Always in tune with the engine. Always in touch with the bike.

With oil-slicked fingers he brought up two cotter pins and clamped them between his teeth. His hands then went straight for his tits. He squeezed. His eyes were closed. His hum grew a little louder. His pelvis kept a new rhythm. He was just where he wanted to be. With one hand he reached up for one of the pins, spread it by feel and made it at home at the place where his chest met a nipple. He grimaced and flicked it a fingernail snap. He did it again with the other. He grabbed hold of both and twisted them-hard . The tone of his hum climbed a note. I reached up and worked my own tits on his lead.

He twisted and flicked and snapped them; did everything but yank them off. I pretty much did the same. I was almost disappointed when he bent back over, in spite of his grease-shadowed ass. But when I saw the vice-grips I knew just what Mike was thinking. He knew where he wanted them hanging and he needed some help in putting them there.

No banners were torn, no words were passed. It just happened. He held two pair of pliers out to me on upraised palms and we both knew it was time we touched. I walked to him out of the shadows.

Close up he smelled of motor oil and shone like a machine. His throat hummed the sound of an engine at idle. He was waiting to be driven. Waiting for me to drive. I took the tools he offered. His hands fell to his sides.

I made a fist and punched his chest. I stroked the flesh, hard and smooth and slick, and punched again. Each time we touched, his hum climbed in volume and in pitch. I shifted the pliers between my hands and stroked him with open fingers before I struck again. The pause in his humming when each blow landed sounded like a plea for more. I was only too pleased to oblige. I held the tools between my knees and used both hands to grasp. He gasped when I yanked on his nipples again and settled back into a faster hum.

I stepped away. I watched his eyes and watched him watch my hands. I adjusted the vice-grips to clamp closed and bite down on anything small put between them. I opened the catches and walked toward him slowly, one ready pair in each hand. He shuddered when they touched his skin. I teased him with the metal touch, running them up in his armpits and stroking them down on his flanks. When, together, I brought them home, he gasped and held his breath. I stopped. Mike forced himself to breathe again. Resumed his hum just where he'd stopped. Put himself back where he needed to be.

I flicked each side once with its own vice-grip titclamp and shoved them in toward him as far as they'd go before I clamped them down. He howled. He clenched his fists and writhed. I reached up to stroke his oil-soaked hair and bent his head forward and down. He leaned. The pliers swung out toward the floor. I nudged them with my knee. I brought his face into my crotch, reached down across his back, collected his wrists and held them together and fed him the length of my cock. His sucking was something mechanical; his rhythmic perfection was just what I wanted. He made no noise except to hum whenever he could

catch his breath. The note of his lust was still rising.

My own revs were mounting too fast. I backed myself out of his mouth and turned but held him bent down in his crouch. I circled him like he had circled my bike. I looked at the junk he'd assembled. I decided I'd do what he wanted me to. I'd just do it all in my own time.

Standing behind him and holding his wrists I stood to one side for a swing. The slap, when it landed, sent oil droplets flying and started a nasty red handprint. I landed another on top of the first. I rubbed the oil in hard. I lubed his flesh and turned up the heat; he answered by raising his hum. I moved him and turned him to shine the bike's light on his ass for a close look at what he'd been flashing my way.

My breath caught. If his ass had been a moon before, I had managed to turn it to Mars. Red. Angry. Very hot. Ready for my exploration.

The can I hadn't recognized held some kind of grease. The top was off. My hand went in. I brought up a glob of the stuff to his ass and scouted him out with my fingers. The hole was more than willing. He was open and ready for more.

I was tired of leaning over to hold his hands. I needed somewhere to park him for service. The bike was up on blocks. Mike would go up on the bike.

I walked him over. Sat him down. Made sure the vice-grips straddled the tank and gave them some yanks for good measure. Pressed his face down on my speedo and found me some cable ties down in his pile. I let go his wrists and swung them down. I fastened his arms to my fork. I caught myself humming in harmony with his rising pitch. I kneaded his shoulders. I reached for his screwdrivers.

The pile held seven or eight of them-each with a different-sized handle. Each with a different-type shaft. Their usual use didn't interest me now. The shape of their handles was perfect. Picking them up all together, I held them out like a bouquet. I touched them to Mike's nose and face. does. He must have been ready. His mouth flew open. His tongue went nuts.

His asshole was open, too; ready and greased. The screwdriver handles fit fine. With graduated sizes first and then two and three at a time, I gave his ass a screwing that would keep him adjusted for hours. His sweat rolled. His oil shone. He opened up and took it all. He quivered and shook and kept raising his hum. His thighs clamped the sides of my cloth-covered seat; his hose-clamped pouch swung down free. I grabbed it. I squeezed it. I yanked it back, holding its hot-oil slickness hard in the palm of my hand. I used it to pull him back down on his handles. I used it to lift him up high. The hum he sang started to falter. The asshole was begging for more.

I pulled out the screwdrivers, dipped up more grease—and decided to go for the elbow. But something was missing. Mike's humming had stopped.

The silence was total and much too loud. We needed some music. The kind that Mike loved.

I checked the blocks. I looked at the sprockets—just as I'd expected, he'd pulled off the chain. I adjusted the dropcloth and the man stretched across it to make sure my bike wouldn't injure its slave. I grabbed hold of the cloth-covered throttle and thumbed the sucker to life.

The purr was perfect. The look on Mike's face said it all. The look of his business end wasn't bad either: He was ready to let me drive in.

His greasy hot pucker spread around my hand like a cylinder cradling a piston. The fit was perfect, the lube was right, the idling rhythm was easy to find. If Mike was still humming I no longer heard him, standing on my bike's off side, stroking his back with my right hand and fisting his ass with my left, feeling the heat from his thighs and my engine, sharing his lust for his hard metal master, moving in tune with its song.

I reached up across him to reset the choke: It made the mixture much too rich, but I knew it couldn't last for long. Mike was close already. He just revved himself up and took off.

The scream he let loose now was like some kind of metal howl. The motions he made looked just like an unbalanced machine. He howled and he babbled and he drooled on his dropcloth. His body convulsed and he strangled my hand. Somewhere deep in his belly a pump kicked in, powerful and overprimed. Down against my forearm, hard and round, the last valve squirmed and danced and gave itself up to the flow it couldn't hold, not anymore, not like this, and it opened and let loose the hard hot streams of slick white oil that shot into and out through the filtering cloth of his overstretched jock. He would have spun off in every direction if I hadn't tied him down. He shuddered and jerked. He writhed and gasped. The noises he made were inhuman. They were perfectly tuned to the bike.

Whatever his fantasy cliff was, he'd sailed off it fast and hard. Now I figured he'd land the same way. I slipped out as smooth and as quick as I could. The sob I got made my blood run cold.

His mechanical orgasm over, one spent bike slave now needed loose. I cut the engine. I cut his ties. I freed both his tits from their clamps. I sat him up and held him, hot and oily, to my chest. I kept touching him in places that I knew the bike could never reach. He melted and flowed in my hands.

I still can't cook. I'm still no mechanic. These days I'm in bed by nine—but then I'm up again just after midnight. I sneak into Mike's shop just the way he knew I would the first time he watched me walk past. Lord, I love to watch that man make love to those bikes. Nobody loves bikes the way Mike does.

Especially now that they love him back.

LAST YEAR'S

STORY CONTEST

Last year's Rex Story Contest was so successful we decided to make it something of a Drummer "literary tradition." Featured, here, is last year's third-place winner, "High Performance" by Bill Starwalt, which was artfully inspired by the above illustration. Now, it's your turn to let the infamous Rex inspire the hidden literary artistic/ sexual beast in you.

The Rex Story Contest continues …

It was to be Dirk's last summer vacation working the old now deserted ramshackle filling station. It was unrelenting prairie hot. It was the soundless arrival of one violent man. It was the summer Dirk would hear the distant drum beat within himself … he Red River snakes an ever-changing path through the prairies between Minnesota and North Dakota. The people in towns that border its banks like to think of it as a valley, but to men from other places, it's a landscape unrelenting in its flat boredom. To a man of the prairie, its delights are more subtle, more rewarding for the effort expended to find them. Most pass through as quickly as possible on highways as straight as the rows of wheat and beets that flank them. Those who stop to look and listen are forever changed.

It was to this land that Dirk returned each summer to work at his uncle's filling station at the point where the town of Hallock merges with the fields. Dirk was familiar with the two old pumps and ramshackle garage which he had known since childhood . The setting had always served as a landmark for his memory. That summer would be the station's last. Dirk's uncle Oscar had taken a bad fall on last spring's ice and had moved to the convalescent home. Soon after, two shining and impersonal gas stations opened along the interstate across town, signaling the end of both the old station and Main Street.

For Dirk, it was a bittersweet finale. It was his last year of summer vacation. Next year would bring his graduation from the university and entry into the world of 9 to 5. He knew that the innocent pleasures of small-town life would abruptly end, along with the station, come September. Secretly, he hoped for a dramatic event to preserve Oscar's station and this moment forever. Yet, as he whiled away the hours waiting for customers at the station, he thought of the stifling boredom, as inescapable as the July heat he now endured. "Nothing exciting in this valley anymore," he thought and smiled. "Not like when I was a kid."

On that holiday weekend the temperature was unbearable, the town deserted for the cooler environs to the north and east. Nothing stirred the air but the shimmering heat that rose from the fields and made the horizon dance. Not a single car had disturbed the station's weedy gravel all morning , and in the burning white light of midday with several beers already down, Dirk decided to close early. "Not a damn fool would drive these backroads anymore," he muttered and kicked at the loose gravel that did nothing to hide the baked earth beneath it.

He opened another beer and leaned the chair against the station wall. Balanced there on its two legs, he kept his face in the little shade provided by the eaves. He stripped off his stained work shirt, tipping the perspiring bottle to his mouth and letting the cool brew slide across his expectant tongue, as small rivulets of foam escaped the corners of his mouth. With his other hand, he swept away the sweat that drenched the thick mat of black hair on his chest. He wished that he could shed the rest of his sweaty clothes and hot boots, but in an hour or two he'd be at the creek, swimming bare assed in the deep, cool pool beneath the cottonwoods. Just the thought took him away from the oppressive heat and he began to stroke his chest, imagining the slow caress of the water's current. He reached to touch his hard nipples, imagining the river minnows that enjoyed nibbling on his tits. Dirk began to lose himself to his fantasies . .

Pinching hard on his erect nipples carried Dirk on waves of alternating pleasure and pain to that day in early June when he and his best friend Mark had gone to the creek. Mark had always been more than a friend. And that day in the cool waters Dirk had realized the full meaning of his feelings. Wrestling in the shallows had been their

Through a glaze of sweat and tears, Dirk could see the man's powerful biceps glistening with sweat as the stranger stretched and wound the rubber tightly around Dirk's ankles. mutual passion, and that day Mark had grabbed him from behind, locked him in a tight bear hug and held him close until Dirk's struggling exploded in orgasm. Chagrined , they never mentioned the event again, but it remained vivid and powerful in Dirk's mind. Even now he longed for the embrace of those powerful arms. Trapped in a jockstrap and tight, worn jeans, Dirk's cock slowly throbbed in its prison. He reached down and clenched his huge ball sack in his tanned and grease-stained fist and squeezed hard, savoring the moment and quelling the urge to shoot his load right there in front of the station.

Suddenly, from beyond the fog of Dirk's fantasies, came a deep and insistent voice. "Hey, BOY! Are you fuckin' deaf? Are you gonna pump me or are you gonna keep playin' with your prick till we both give up?'

The chair legs shot out from under Dirk. and he crashed to the ground. In an instant college boy was on his feet, flushed scarlet with embarrassment and face to chest with the stranger who had destroyed his daydreams . The dust was slowly settling around a pickup at the pumps. Dirk hadn't heard a sound when it pulled in. He stared for a moment at the huge chest before him. The man was twice the size of Dirk. The boy fought back an urge to look the stranger in the face. "Regular or premium?" Dirk asked shylv.

"Premium, and without attitude, asshole, or I'll tell your mommy what you were up to! Check the oil, too, boy."

Dirk's cheeks burned as he walked to the truck. The stranger went around back to the rest room and Dirk felt relieved at not being closely watched. The pickup had obviously been on a long haul, it was more mud and dust than metal. Through the grit on the plates, Dirk could just make out Alberta. Looking over the disarray of the pickup, the boy noticed the bed of the vehicle was littered with an assortment of greasy machine parts, tools and chain. "He's probably one of those dumb assholes that works the oilfields, and now he's ornery as hell 'cause he hasn't seen his woman in a year. Yeah, he's beating ass to get home to her before he has to turn around again." The pump stopped with a shudder. A back-splash of gas muddied the dust down the side of the pickup and dripped slowly into the gravel at Dirk's feet. The boy grabbed a sponge and squeegee and gave the windshield a sloppy once-over, leaving large streaks of mud concentrated on the driver's side. "I hope the fucker hits a cow," Dirk laughed. He reached under the searing hot hood, found the latch and threw the hood open just as the stranger reappeared from the station.

"Aren't you finished yet, boy?"

If there was anything Dirk couldn't stand, it was being called "boy." Inside, he raged at the thought, but something told him to hold it in. "This guy could be dangerous, but holy shit, I'll be damned if he isn't the hottest man I've ever seen." A rugged face with deep-set hazel eyes that burned hotter than the sun on Dirk's back, A bad haircut left the man with a ragged, unkempt look. Dirk realized why he had resisted looking at the stranger earlier, as the sight of him now caused Dirk to drift back into fantasy. The boy dreamed of the grip of those powerful arms.

Dirk leaned into the engine, searching for the dipstick. His college boy's tight butt in sweat-streaked, frayed Levi's presented itself to the stranger, sparking desire for more than gas and oil. A palpable tension hung in the still air like the insistent buzz of the grasshoppers. Below their whine, Dirk could hear breathing and the crunch of gravel as the man slowly approached.

'What's the problem, boy? Can't reach that far?" The man circled Dirk's wrists with his hands. The boy was paralyzed with a hit of adrenaline and his knees went weak.

'Get your hands off me, man, I can do this myself!" Dirk protested as he tried to struggle free of the big man's grasp.

"I don't think so, boy. You need a real man to help you with a big machine like this. The oil's fine, but it looks like I'm gonna be about a quart low any time now … " He closed his hands around Dirk's balls, and continued, "even though that hefty dipstick of yours registers full to capacity." He laughed at the mock seriousness of his own voice, but Dirk saw no humor whatsoever in it as the stranger pushed the boy toward the old garage doors.

Dirk yelled, "What the hell do you … "

He was cut short with a bark, "Shut the fuck up, boy, and you're not gonna get hurt! Now we're gonna do a little body work in the garage. Open that door before I break your fuckin' arm off!" He wrenched Dirk's arm even higher up the boy's back as Dirk flung open the creaking doors of the old garage that hadn't been used in years. "Good boy!" the man crooned in mock appreciation. "Now, back to the truck and drive 'er in." The man half pushed, half carried Dirk by his wrist back across the gravel.

"Damn it! Let me go, asshole!" the now frightened kid shouted as he struggled to regain his balance and his freedom.

The stranger grabbed Dirk's belt and heaved the boy painfully on top of the hood of the pickup. "I watched you earlier, boy, and I noticed that you needed a cleaner rag to do the job right. Now lick it! Wet it down and lick it clean like you should have done the first time." Dirk could feel the grit between his face and the glass as the man ground the boy's face into the dirty windshield . Panting, Dirk stuck out his tongue and licked the glass as he was told to do. 'Open the door, fucker! I said OPEN it!" the stranger bellowed. "Now, get in and drive her nice an' easy into the garage.

Dirk's heart and mind raced. Shaking violently, he turned over the engine and threw the stick into first. The gears ground and whined and Dirk's blunder was met with a sharp, hard backhand to the head that set his ears ringing. Dirk fumbled again for the stick shift, carefully slid it into gear and slowly rolled the truck into the dark recess of the old garage.

"I see you're enjoying this as much as I am, kid!" The stranger put a knife to the boy's throat. With his free hand, the man groped hard into Dirk's pulsing crotch. Dirk squirmed in pain. His balls twisted painfully in their tight confines. "Yeah, boy, I'm gonna show you what it really means to play grease monkey. I'm gonna give you a lube job and check your points and plugs! So get out and close the garage door!"

The door slid to the floor with a loud crash, but there was no one but the boy and the man to hear it.

With the knife again at Dirk's throat, the man marched the boy back into the garage where the oven-like heat brought back reality. The smell of old, oily rags, gasoline and lubricants mixed with the scent of the two sweaty men in an intoxicating blend that again made Dirk's cock rise. "I'm gonna have to do something about that damn

e reached knon an luge ball saak in his the / state / of [×16+] Marakestavariman prick of yours," the stranger grumbled. He forced Dirk's arms behind the boy's back. He viciously bound Dirk's hands together with rubber tubing until he was satisfied that Dirk wouldn't be able to stretch and wriggle free. Dirk fought the tight rubber that pinned his wrists, but the more he struggled, the more the tube constricted.

Dirk felt a blow to his belly and fell backward in delirious pain. The boy wanted to scream but couldn't make a sound. He found himself gasping in a shallow pit of sand where countless engines had been drained of their oil and where he now contributed his own sweat and rising vomit. Over the pounding in his head, he could barely hear the man behind him saying, "Just kicking your tires there, boy. I want to make sure you're gonna be a good used machine before I buy you. I've just got a few more tests to do to prove you're not a lemon."

Several minutes passed, filled with sounds, pain and emotions that Dirk had never before experienced. He could only move his body slightly as he tried to see what the man was doing behind his back. Again, the boy tried to free his hands. "I'm gonna kill that fucker! I'll tie him and cut him up!"

Suddenly the big man loomed above him. He lifted Dirk's boots and began to bind the kid's feet with more rubber tubing. Dirk tried to shift his legs, tried to kick at the man's vulnerable balls and massive, stiff cock, but the boy was paralyzed by his erotic fear. Now frantic, Dirk thought, "Don't tie me … please, please don't tie me up! I'll be good … I-I'll do what you want. Don't hurt me. I promise to be a good boy, sir!" Through a glaze of sweat and tears, Dirk could see the man's powerful biceps glistening with sweat as the stranger stretched and wound the rubber tightly around the kid's ankles.

"Boy, we're gonna see how many gallons your tank holds … " Roaring blackness obscured the rest of his threat, sweeping Dirk into oblivion.

In time Dirk's mind eventually cleared and he tensed his aching limbs-realizing that he was hogtied and helpless. Not only had the man tied his wrists to his ankles, but the stranger had also bound the boy' knees and arms above the elbows. Another tube stretched from the kid's feet to his neck, where it wound tightly at his throat. Any novice at this," Dirk thought, as he tried to stretch the restricting rubber far enough to move a few inches. Exhausted, college boy soon surrendered to his captor's bonds. Dirk attempted to clear his throat and discovered his mouth gagged with a rough, oily cloth held firmly in place by another tightly stretched tube. The sickening taste of the old rag crept down his throat and filled him with anger as the big man stepped into view, the shining knife still in his grasp.

The stranger lightly rested his boot at the back of Dirk's head. "You're not gonna give me any trouble, kid." The man pushed steadily, his heel digging deep into Dirk's skull as the boy yelled into the gag and strained against his bonds, fully expecting to suffocate beneath the man's heel. No amount of struggling could stop the slow torture, heightened by the man's loud laughter and obvious enjoyment of his domination. "Yeah, holler all you want, you little bastard, no one but me and you can hear it." Dirk could feel himself falling into a dark abyss of resignation, and he calmed himself with the fact that this was the end.

The stranger wrenched Dirk's head from the sand and slapped the boy hard and repeatedly into recognition of his pain and the situation. Again Dirk was wild-eyed and struggling. "I'm not gonna snuff you, not yet, boy! You've got a lot of work to do for me yet, and besides, I like seeing a dumb fuck like you tied up, gagged, and struggling—scared shitless." The garage filled with the sound of the man's haunting laughter. Then, he split Dirk's jeans and jock with a quick flash of his knife, exposing the firm, steam-these balls off right now, so you won't try anything," the stranger whispered close to Dirk's ear as he slid the dull side of the blade beneath Dirk's outstretched scrotum.

Dirk yelped into the gag and his cock jumped involuntarily in response. "Yeah, that's what I like to see, boy-a good spark. I'm just gonna have to tie these up and save 'em." He slowly bound Dirk's balls in tight bands of rubber, stretching them until they stood out full and shining. He continued up the rigid shaft of the kid's cock, encasing all but the massive head, slick with precum, until it glowed to match the orbs of Dirk's bound nuts. "Nothing I like better than a rock hard set of dick 'n' nuts tied tight and your servicing, boy,"

The stranger stepped behind Dirk's back and the boy heard the rip of denim as the man drew the menacing knife up the slit between Dirk's tight cheeks. "Hottest butt I've seen in years." Male fingers slipped deep into the hairy crack between Dirk's sweaty cheeks. The stranger felt for the tightly clenched hole, and pressed hard against its locked door as Dirk hollered into his gag in a mixture of intense pleasure and panic. "I see this has only been driven to church and back on Sundays. Let's give it a test drive."

The man pressed harder and harder with his thumb until Dirk couldn't resist it any longer. Lubricated by sweat, the man's finger slid abruptly into the hot, tight hole. "Hmmm, not much clearance. I'll have to stretch this out." Dirk squirmed as one by one, the man inserted the fingers of his huge right hand. An unnatural pleasure filled Dirk's head as finally, the man coaxed the first, second, and then third joints of his fingers into the hot, moist manhole. "Not bad, not bad, boy! Guess I'd better flush it out some." He roughly rolled Dirk over, his fingers still deep in the tense asshole. He began to spread the hole wider. Carefully guiding with his fingers, the man fed the tip of a large metal funnel into Dirk's helpless ass and thrust it deep into the boy's gut,

Terrified, Dirk screamed into his gag, "Let me go!" The man reached for his unfinished beer and poured its contents into the waiting funnel, laughing as it drained deep into Dirk's ass.

'You move a muscle and you're a dead work, then stepped to his truck, found his litre of Canadian whiskey and returned to his prisoner. Taking a deep swill of the hot liquor, he emptied the remainder of the bottle into the funnel and chuckled, "A little antifreeze will keep you running good. I want you in high performance!"

Dirk tried to back the pressure of the liquor out of his gut, but the man's steady finger over the opening of the funnel kept the liquid deep in the boy's bowels. Dirk tried to shift to his side but the man's grip kept the boy in place. Soon, the alcohol in Dirk's gut made its way to his head and he began to swim in the intoxication. Soon the beer and whiskey would pour from the kid's

DRUMMER 120

Slowly the man withdrew flicked the drops of cum from his still-hard cock and cuffed Dirk hard alongside the head. ass.

Dirk writhed drunk in his bonds, the thick gag silencing his frantic protests as the man stepped to the workbench. Dirk heard the crashing sounds of heavy metal as the stranger pawed through the tools in search of something to satisfy his needs. "Uh-huh, there it is, just what we need, boy."

The man strode back to Dirk's side, a large plumber's wrench in his hand. Groaning and shaking his head no, Dirk again submitted to his captor's upper hand-there was no contest. The man smeared the long handle of the wrench with axle grease and with deep breaths said, "Yep, I thought so, your cylinder's gonna need a new plug." He spread Dirk's ass, slathered grease over the tight hole and pressed the handle against the resisting sphincter. Despite Dirk's shouts, the man threw weight and purpose into the wrench and finally, Dirk's asshole opened to the invasion. Dirk could feel it slide slowly and deeply into his gut and realized that to resist its advance was more painful than to allow it to fill his ass with the hard chill of metal.

"That's right, relax and let it in. Feels good, don't it?" the stranger growled, glancing at Dirk's throbbing cock. Again, the man grabbed the wrench and pulled it almost all of the way out of Dirk's hole. And then-in -again. "Yep, that shaft's got a good stroke now," he said, oblivious to Dirk's deep animal-like moaning.

The man grabbed Dirk's hair and pulled the boy roughly to his knees. Dirk's head spun and he began to fall sideways. A quick cut behind Dirk's head removed the enforcement of the gag. Dirk allowed the man to pull the rag from his mouth. "I want you quiet, boy. Do you understand?" Dirk nodded , running his dry tongue over salty lips. With a wry smile, the stranger reached and pulled an oil spout from his back pocket. "What did I tell you, boy? You're low on lubricant. Over a quart, I'd say, judging by your dipstick! I don't want you runnin' too hot!" the man laughed as he stepped toward Dirk, waving the spout in the boy's face.

'Open up!" the stranger shouted. Dirk jumped, the chain rattled, his cock and balls danced, the steel in his ass probed even deeper and he almost lost his balance. Deep within, he could hear the booming of the drum, cajoling him, urging him, giving him courage to accept. He locked eyes with the dark stranger and in that powerful exchange, surrendered his will to that of his more powerful master.

He opened his mouth and himself to whatever his master desired.

A hank of hair in his fist, the man pushed Dirk's head back and slowly inserted the spout between Dirk's teeth, then deep into the boy's throat. Fighting the urge to gag, Dirk concentrated on the burning gaze of the man's eyes. The spout descended deeper and stopped only when Dirk couldn't open his mouth any wider. "That's my good boy, you hold it there and don't you move a muscle." Standing inches from Dirk's face, the man slowly unbuckled and removed his belt, laying it carefully over Dirk's shoulder. Button by button, he opened the fly of his jeans. The long dark hairs of his forearms brushed Dirk's chin and the boy moaned as the heavy, sensual smell of the man filled his nostrils. The man reached into his jeans and withdrew the glistening meat of his full, uncut cock and stroked it lovingly in Dirk's face.

Liquid released. At its sour taste, Dirk choked and piss streamed from the corners of his boy mouth and down his chest, dripping from his tethered balls, "Take it slow, boy, 'cause you're gonna take it all." Dirk concentrated on the warmth of the piss in his mouth and opened his throat to accept the humiliation. The man filled the kid's mouth with more urine and waited for the liquid to drain before filling it again and again.

"Yep, at least a 10-gallon tank," the stranger said, shaking the last golden drops from his cock head. "Might as well top it off," he resolved. And the man began to stroke his cock again until it stood hard and straight above Dirk's receptive mouth. "You've passed, boy! You're gonna be my personal grease monkey, uh-huh. Nobody else can do service like you, boy! Yeah, I'll be back, an' you'll take care of my machine again," the stranger crooned as he slid his wet, pungent cock up and down the spout, rocking his towering body back and forth in time to the repeated plunge of his meat.

Dirk lost himself in a world where his body no longer existed, only waves of sensual, dangerous energy kept him in touch with his surroundings. The drum beat in his head drowned out everything but its own insistent call to arms, that he must follow. Long denied, its sound crashed through all doubt and hesitation.

Dirk realized that he himself was the drummer.

Both men simultaneously burst with raging orgasm. The stranger roared, pulled the oil spout from Dirk's mouth and thrust his cock deep into the boy's throat, where spasms shook both of them to the core of their experiences. Dirk was over the edge. Gulping wildly at the man's cock, the boy could only want more. Dirk felt the stiff rod of the wrench deep within his ass, and rocking on his heels, fucked himself as hard and deep as he possibly could, knowing that the wrench was as strong and uncompromising as the man himself. He now knew that to be beaten, bound, gagged and fucked afforded the greatest freedom of all. To surrender himself totally, he had to examine the very depths of his own soul.

Therein he found the wings to fly.

Slowly the man withdrew, flicked the drops of cum from his still-hard cock and cuffed Dirk hard alongside the head. Dirk did not flinch. His gaze did not stray from his master's as the man gagged him tightly again with the rag. The man stepped quickly to the door of the garage, threw it open and turned to Dirk. Staring long and hard at his bound conquest, he grinned slightly and said "I'll be back." With that, he swung himself into the open door of the pickup, roared the engine to life and backed quickly out of the garage. With the squeal of tires and crunch of gravel, he was gone. Dirk laid his spinning head in the sand to wait.

Late that night, Dirk was discovered by another traveler after the boy had managed to crawl to the door of the garage. After a trip to the county medical center to certify that no damage had been done. Dirk sat distant and impatient in the sheriff's office answering incessant questions. "You're damn lucky to be alive," the sheriff said, "That man could have done a lot worse. I just can't believe something like this happening. That kind of nonsense happens in the cities, not here! He must have been from outstate, right? OK, you've given me his description, did you get the make, model and license of the car?'

From within, Dirk heard the now familiar staccato rhythm as his answers were transcribed . "Uh, I think it was an '85 Honda hatchback-blue, and, uh, the license … umm, GV529, from Colorado … "

STORY CONTEST

Feel the sensuality. Let your imagination sweat with lust. Enter the 1988 Rex Story Contest and let leather-readers everywhere into your private fantasies.

Write a story that would fit the Rex illustration featured here and send it to us by the first of the year 1989. The stories will be evaluated by Tony DeBlase, the publisher of Drummer, myself, and appropriately enough, Rex.

The first-place story will be published in

Drummer; the author will receive $100 cash and a subscription to Mach. Other stories may also be selected for publication. All stories must be between twelve and twenty-five pages in length. Submissions must be typed, double spaced, and can be sent on an IBM-compatible 5¼" floppy diskette in ASCII format (a printout should accompany the disk). Send SASE if you want your manuscript returned.

—Tim Barrus

We're cheap and easy! Only four bits a word!

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mEd Thompson

9 / 18 / 46 6 / 21 / 88

The word respect immediately comes to mind when visualizing the leather, the commitment, and the spirits of the proud souls who've been featured as DRUMMERMEN over the years. DRUMMERMEN have been a contributing—forcewithin well-worn. And respect…

The people who knew this intense amazing leatherman now visualize his soaring spirit with their love and their words.

Tim Barrus

MEN OF ACTION: This poster by Terrell was originally a publicity piece for Action Male magazine, the less specialized successor to Gay Bondage, which JimEd produced for House of Milan. I had always been intrigued by the action but doubted its authenticity. JimEd assured me that it was indeed authentic. Terrel was at the time his lover and bottom and it shows a scene they frequently did together. JimEd was the model for the Top in the drawing. He also ended up being the model for the bottom, since Terrel and JimEd were the only two men they knew who could get into that position, and Terrel obviously found it difficult to do a self-portrait while hanging from his balls! Print #001 was a gift from JimEd after he understood just how much I really had appreciated his earlier publishing efforts.

Fledermaus

It was a Rope Fetish Night at Touche in Chicago The was a Kope retrish Night at Totation in Chicago and Patrick was near the door Sudsy came in wearing a apop body harmess and Patrick asked him who had done it. "Your grandfather," was the response. Patrick was puzzled a much of what I know about body harnesses from Gordon. Gordon, of course, had done Sudsy's harness. Genealogies in academia are not uncommon, and it is a common pastime among graduate students to study the genealogical relationships of various student / teacher influence patterns. The practice is not uncommon, either, in SM and related "sciences." Gordon had indeed been my "father" for body harnesses. I had heard about his harnesses and had been trying to create them for over a year before I finally met him and received lessons. He was also interested in learning the variations I had come up with on my own before meeting him. Gordon taught me body harnesses, but another man had definitely been my "father / tutor / mentor" for basic ropework.

I was a novice Top when, on December 31, 1975, a few minutes before midnight, I spotted someone I very much wanted to work on. After welcoming the new year, we went home and I tried everything I then knew how to do. It was obvious my new friend was mainly interested in bondage, so when we parted around noon on January 1, planning to get together again that evening, I pulled out every book I had and studied the bondage photos. The focus of my study that day, and for many years after—Gay Bondage 1, 2, 6) 3. These marvelous issues from House of Milan, credited to "Master Tau" provided step by step instructions in HOW-TO tie a guy up. Clear, detailed photos were both hot and instructive. And the accompanying text was clear and concise. On January 2, 1976 I tried many different bondage positions and my newfound friend was impressed. After more than 12 years together I am running out of ways to tie him up, and I impress him more these days with my cooking than my ropework. But it was Master Tau's instructions that really helped get it all started.

A few years later, it was again Master Tau's example that I followed in starting my own publication, Dungeon Master. I wanted a publication that would be instructive in basic S&M, something people could study and learn from. I was greatly indebted to Master Tau, for many reasons.

Over ten years after that fateful New Year's Eve I was finally able to express my gratitude in person. JimEd Thompson was Mr. San Francisco Leather 1986 and a contestant in the International Mr. Leather Contest, Andy and I were the new owners of Drummer and I was an IML judge. Andy and I met JimEd and Chris at the precontest press party. I expressed my long-felt appreciation for the influence he had had on my own development, and was continually impressed by his performance over the weekend.

When we announced an opening for Associate Editor of Drummer, Dungeon Master, and the other magazines, Jim Ed was one of the first applicants and his background made him an obvious choice. It was a hiring decision I have never regretted. We worked very well together and I came to admire him even more. His muscular body, his "wing nut" ears, his sharp chiseled features, his often stern "public" facade, concealed a man who was not just intelligent but wise; not just caring but compassionate; a man who was witty and warm.

I appreciated him years before I met him. After we began to work together on a day-by-day basis, I also came to respect him, admire him and love him. In the all too brief time we had together, I never stopped learning from my mentor.

Tony DeBlase / Fledermaus

<math>{\bf I}</math> was first introduced to JimEd in late 1969 by a mutual friend, Candy, in Honolulu. She introduced him as a "brother she had adopted." At the time he was working as bouncer in a gay bar called the Clouds. Being a straight man, I was at first uncomfortable (JimEd was the first gay man I had ever met), but his charm and good humor soon put me at ease and we became friends. He told me that I was the only straight man who could tell him a gay joke without him being offended. Later, JimEd, his lover Bobby, Candy and I shared a house in Volcano, Hawaii. Those were good times.

They eventually moved to L.A. and about a year later (1971) we reconnected. I had been working as a layout artist for a bondage publishing company, House of Milan, and was learn- ing bondage photography. In 1974, I got him a job doing layout art at H.O.M. and taught him how to use a camera. His first solo project was a magazine called Gay Bondage. This was H.O.M.'s first gay publication. It was pretty good for a first try and soon JimEd had developed a real talent. He did some great work such as "Action Male" and "Men of Action" before he moved up to San Francisco.

In 1981, I moved up and started Loving SM Productions. JimEd worked with me on several film projects and starred in my first video production, Journey into Pain, and later, Pain Suite. These videos attest to his acting skill, and his skill and sensi- tivity as a dominant. The success of these productions is due in a large part to JimEd.

In our discussions, JimEd told me of sexual activities I hadn't even thought were possible, such as fisting. Though I am still straight, he helped me to expand my sexual awareness and not to fear the realization of my fantasies. He took me to see the stage version of The Rocky Horror Show. My favorite line was, Don't dream it, be it!

In recent years, our lives followed different paths and we saw very little of each other. In a conversation we had on a visit a few months before his death, he told me that he felt very lucky. He had found the lover he had always wanted, had won the title "Mr. Leather, San Francisco, 1986," and had edited Drummer, which had been a longtime ambition. (When JimEd was working for H.O.M. in the mid-70s, he said that someday he hoped to be good enough to work for Drummer.) He said it was good to know in advance he was going to die so he could put his affairs in order and prepare.

JimEd believed in reincarnation. A painting he gave me in 1974 shows his feelings towards death. It is a hand outstretched. Flying into the moonlight from that hand is a man shape with colorful butterfly wings. It is captioned, "Butterflies are free …" Goodbye, JimEd, the world is a poorer place without you.

Russell Bud

Photos from MR. DRUMMER VIDEO 1986 (see page 48 to order)

"That's your competition," I was told when someone handed me a newspaper photograph of JimEd Thompson in a leather harness. Taking in his stature, physique, and dramatic style at a glance, I answered, "There's no competition— he's the winner." Dozens of leatherguys were still checking into the hotel in Chicago, the city where the International Mr. Leather contest occurs each year, and many of the contestants had never crossed paths. Much of the leather world was still new to me, but JimEd struck me as being an archetypal Leatherman in image.

And in person he and his lover, Chris Burns, were quite as striking. At a leather party the night before the contest, both parted the crowd like Moses parting the water, leaving a wake of astonished admirers. Oh, and maybe a few envious twits-JimEd and Chris later told me that they'd overheard one person say as they passed, "Those guys are not nice. Their mean and obscene reputation had obviously preceded them once again.

I'm looking now at a photo of them taken at that party, and it's clear why they provoked strong reactions-they pioneered, for example, a leather image I can only describe as a wild mix of Pumped-Up Punk, Samurai Swordsman, and Road Warrior. Both stood side by side, proud of each other, sporting slightly spiked brush-cut hair and just enough oil on their skins to catch the light. Chris wore a padlocked chain round his throat, chains on his arms, and tit-rings. JimEd wore knives, a miniature sword piercing his nipple, and a spiked harness; a leather arm-guard had a window cut away to reveal a dragon tattoo. In one hand, JimEd clutched a leather jacket with these words emblazoned on the back: EXPECT NO MERCY.

These guys were so beyond-the-beyond that I immediately took a liking to them before being introduced. At the contest itself, JimEd Thompson, Peter Gallo, and I were judged the winners—and the voting was so close as to make the ranking academic. The three of us went on to enjoy the glory and endure the headaches as much like a team as possible, traveling together to our home cities, and riding floats near-naked in gay pride parades. We fried our butts sitting on the hood of a parade truck in San Francisco, dressed only in boots and leather jocks. On these occasions, as Fundamentalists were waving banners such as AIDS Is the Wrath of God, I had the pleasure of mooning them in return. Curiously, this shocked a few leatherguys, who felt that an International Mr. Leather should conduct himself with the dignity of the Pope or the President. But JimEd, who had grown accustomed to my usually reserved behavior, simply widened his eyes and then roared his encouragement. individualist, with an limEd was a strong of community. He had no equally strong sense patience with any would-be dictators of leather conformity. If we join the leather community to break the mold of the asexual Dress for Success fashion show, then why not be free to break even the molds of the leather world? That's the daring and critical spirit I admired in him, though my own leather gear is fairly conventional. JimEd was "apolitical," in the sense that he had no strong loyalties to the Two-Party System. But he was deeply political in the ancient Greek sense of "polis"—the public world of citizens. In that public world of the gay and leather communities of San Francisco, he shouldered his share of responsibilities.

He lived many lives in one, and had many stories to tell. Not once do I recall him engaging in any mean-spirited gossip in my presence. Of course he knew some deep dish about various characters in the leather scene, coast to coast, and even worldwide. But he presented this information like a philosopher, searching for the inner gem of meaning, whether sad or humorous. There were times when I felt out of my depth in the sudden publicity and fantasy lives of strangers after the contest, and then JimEd helped me regain my bearings with a few choice words. He loved the limelight, but he was not an egomaniac. He enjoyed the friction and athleticism of SM, but he was also a tender man. He and Chris Burns made an extraordinary couple.

In the continuing medical and political crisis of AIDS, I lost my chance to visit JimEd one more time before he died. Here in Philadelphia, City Councilman Francis Rafferty has been spreading misinformation about AIDS, as well as encouraging a climate of hatred against gay people. I myself was recently beaten by two thugs who announced, "We're for Rafferty and we're for the majority!" Members of our community have been arrested for protesting a criminally negligent state AIDS budget, and over a thousand of us protested at City Hall. But in the midst of these events, I had the sudden impulse to call JimEd shortly before he died, and even though his voice was weaker than I had ever heard it, I also took strength from his own spirit to continue the fight here at home. By remembering his generosity , his integrity, his sexual pride and playful spirit, we also remember him into our daring and diverse community, and reclaim him for our past, present, and future.

I was even less than a “baby bottom” when I was first introduced to JimEd by his old friend and colleague from the H.O.M. days, photographer Russell Budd. Budd was staying with mutual friends in San Francisco, recuperating from a back injury and JimEd was managing their apartment house.

JimEd was one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen, soft-spoken, with just a trace of what sounded like Southern drawl. We talked casually of this and that neither of which was SM-related in the least. After all, I wasn't even sure I was interested in SM, let alone that he was.

Several months later, after much persuasion and more fear to be acknowledged, I agreed to watch Journey into Pain, a visually-hetero SM video, with JimEd as The Top and said to be one of the hottest ever made. It was the first real (or even fake) SM I had ever seen, and I was utterly blown away, terrified and totally turned on. My dreams that night were hot, scary and VERY rude. My my ureams than they were, have ever since fantasies, such as they were, have ever since almost always included JimEd. Fortunately, my real life has also included him, but in very different terms. After all, there was no po that the part of me that's a seriously submissive masochist was going to get JimEd to help her live out her outrageous fantasies. And I think it was precisely that fact, that part of me was irretrievably in love with a man who was not the least bit interested in me in that way, that helped me learn one of my most important life lessons. I couldn’t, ean’t, won’t deny the wonderful fecling of being insanely in love with JimEd, but somehow I was able to move that emotion entirely into the realm that belongs to the submissive masochist, who understands deep in her soul that she's lucky to get a smile, that there was no way in the world she could get her hottest fantasies fulfilled by that man, and that, because she is submissive, that's exactly the way it SHOULD be. That part of me is able to luxuriate in the wonderful feeling of being in love and / or lust without any expectation of response from the person she's in love with.

The outcome is that I can allow myself the fullest range of feelings toward people I meet without allowing the ones that could create awkwardness to intrude between us.

What am I talking about?

A few months after I saw Journey into Pain, I gave a carte blanche to the person who is sometimes my Master. I allowed myself to begin exploring deeply into the submissive masochist part of me I had not known existed only a little while before. I became involved in SM organizations and met more people like myself: smart, exciting, some of them conventionally pretty to look at, some of them not, but all of them sharing an interest, to whatever degree, in this beautiful way of relating to others. Among the people I met were more leathermen, gay men who did not, probably never would, have any sexual interest in me. I was able to allow myself to feel all the emotions I had toward them, including the wildest of SM lust, but channeling the awkward ones (that wild SM lust) into the submissive masochist, where it stays, not intruding on what have become some of the friendships I cherish most of all.

JimEd and I stayed loosely in touch. We started out working together on the 1987 International Ms Leather activities and wound up with serious disagreements and pain on both sides. But when I was invited to edit The Sandmutopia Guardian and Dungeon Journal, JimEd greeted me as a valued colleague, an equal, laying aside previous differences of opinion in favor of working side by side on our respective publications.

I never really knew where I fitted into JimEd's life. I never knew how he valued his friendship with me. What I do know is being exactly who he is, he helped me find a very important part of myself, encouraged me at fingertip distance , was a role model in some ways as I have grown. Some of who I am is the result of having had JimEd Thompson in my life, and as long as I live, and as long as people whose lives I've touched live, just so long will JimEd live.

was a guy like no other. I've known and loved him for many years, and was always glad when our paths crossed once again.

His warm and caring ways were combined with a genuinely masculine presence. On the most personal level he was always intense, always creative, and with wonderful self-confidence. He was one of the rare individuals who managed to live the fantasy.

Those of you who didn't know him personally most likely knew him to one degree or another through his work at Drummer and other publications over the years. He's given us all a lot of pleasure, a lot of himself. And if I might add, he was instrumental in getting me to print up my current collection of drawings.

It saddens me that he died at such a young age, like so many other fine men. Let this remind us all to be aware NEVER to let our guard down, even for a moment.

You may not be here with us now, JimEd, but know that I, for one, will not forget you. Your friend, Jakal

Do you know someone who deserves to be a DRUMMERMAN? We're talking respect, dedication, involvement, and how it all comes together as leathercelebration. Send your nominations to DRUMMER, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101.

It has always been those men who have, against the grain of both homo and hetero public understanding and acceptance, made realities of their fantasies that I admire most. Perhaps more specifically, from my personal understanding and acceptance, those men who have practiced reality in the dungeons formed of their fantasies.

In the early seventies, before there was a Zeus Studios, and before he became a friend, JimEd Thompson was a champion of that fantasy closest to my closeted enampion of that rankay crosses to my closected nut—masculine men in bondage. When he was House of Milan's series editor of male bondage publications, entitled "Action Male," I wrote Mr. Thompson a fan letter thanking him for putting leatherbound Gregg Strom in my grateful left hand, leaving free my very determined right hand for extended and spirited auto-phallic abuse. I thought JimEd Thompson's vision was the second cumming. And in the early months of our friendship, I helped ensconce JimEd as my across-the-hall neighbor in an old and architecturally "Hollywood Castle" apartment building that just begged for a dungeon.

During the first few days of his residence I nearly cauliflowered my ear, pressing it against a glass pressed against the common wall that separated our apartments … listening. Listening to chains and heavy metal accoutrements clanking. Massive beams being dragged across the floor, chain-hoisted, and pounded into position. Could it be? Would he dare? Yes. JimEd Thompson was installing a dungeon in Mary Pickford's very own pre-Pickfair pad—the venerable Trianon. A Hollywood landmark. A historical architectural monument to excess. Wow!

To me, the sexiest of JimEd's qualities was his mystery. Deep, dark mystery. And despite his audacious public image, JimEd honed his private mystery to a fine art and wore it like armor. It drove me crazy that he kept his Trianon dungeon a mystery, sharing only the sounds of his technique, equipment, and muffled moans through our common wall. Late one night, or rather early that same morning, as I lay awake estimating the pounds of beefcake being hoisted off the floor in the mystery room next to mine, there came a knock at my door. It was JimEd … booted, bare-assed, harnessed, and awesome in the reality of his fantasy. Every muscle buzzing, Every ripple glistening with sweat. Every inch the Top I wanted to become, and in every commanding detail the Top

"Good morning, Mikal. I knew you were awake. I'd like to show you something.

At that very instant, the front door of my apartment became the closet door of my fantasies. When I walked through it and into the reality of JimEd's fantasies, those few steps changed my life completely. Suspended by his wrists in the center of the room (which was, by the way, exactly as I had imagined it would be) was a hooded bodybuilder of impressive proportions twist- ing slowly in the half light. JimEd had obviously been hard at work. No wonder he said, “I’m bushed. I’ve gotta crash for a few hours. He's yours." My immediate concern was that my knees would buckle before my first lesson-session commenced. My knees didn't and don't … but every session is still a learning experience.

There are five men responsible for the inception of Zeus Studios & Publications: my friend and partner Jim Haw-kins for his honesty and business acumen; author Harold Robbins for his gritty world- wise advice; my father for his understanding, acceptance, and financial backing; Colt's Jim French because he never tied 'em up; and JimEd Thompson for his teachings, vision, and encouragement. Thank you, JimEd. I miss you.

-Mikal Bales / Zeus

Mr. Drummer Contest Update

Contest Finals and Show September 24th, 1988 by Ken Lackey

PAST WINNERS

There are some advantages to having spent a large hunk of one’s life sniffing around Folsom Street. Eventually, you meet the MEN. If you're patient and observant, the leathergods who populate the pages of Drummer can be seen making the scene, and you find yourself smack in the middle of your own fantasy. If you're lucky and a little bold, you can approach these superstuds and know them for what they are: your brothers.

It has been my good fortune to get to know the men who have held the Mr. Drummer title, with the exception of VAL MARTIN, the original Mr. Drummer and JOHN GARGER, who was chosen in 1983. Considered collectively or individually, the past Mr. Drummers are much more than mere prettyboy pin-up models. They are hot fucking MEN in leather, living this lifestyle in a public sense and thereby making it easier for their brothers to follow their example. Trailblazers, innovators, warriors and mighty masculine men

In 1982 LUKE DANIEL not only captured the Mr. Drummer title, but also represented Drummer at International Mr. Leather, and was victorious there as well. SONNY CLINE, Mr. Drummer 1984, ended the long-standing "Can a bottom win a leather title?" controversy. His fantasy was not only very exciting and theatrical See the MEN Mr. Drummer '84 video), it was also revolutionary in that Sonny was the first to have things done TO him onstage, as opposed to controlling all the action himself. STEVE REISWIG, who walked off with the title in '85, also broke new ground with his fantasy presentation. In addition to showing off Steve's erotic physicality, his fantasy also had a serious theme, in which Steve, representing the Spirit of Leathermen everywhere, rescues his lover from the spectre of AIDS. This is one case where we fervently wish life would imitate art. MIKE MURRAY, Mr. Drummer '86, will co-emcee this year's event along with Marga Gomez. Mike is a man of rare warmth, charm and affability. He confides that his secret fantasy involves Drummer readers beating off all over him. We're sure our obliging readers will jump at the chance to make Mike's fantasy a reality. What do you mean, you already have? The reigning Mr. Drummer, MARK ALEXANDER is a leather showman par excellence. Besides being featured in the pages of Drummer, Mark has also appeared in videos from Buckshot Productions,

As we go to press, the judging panel for Mr. Drummer 1988 stacks up as follows:

Affectionately known as "Daddy Tight Ropes," MIKAL BALES is, with his partner Jim Hawkins, the genius behind Zeus Studios. Mikal was the Master of Ceremonies at the 1987 Mr. Drummer contest. He is the author of the classic Sado Island.

As the internationally renowned erotic artist Etienne, DOM OREJUDOS has been an acknowledged expert on the symbolism of masculinity since designing the murals of Chicago's famous Gold Coast bar. Dom has been associated with the International Mr. Leather contest, serving as dean of judges since its inception

International Mr. Leather 1988, MICHAEL PEREYRA is making friends, headlines and money for charity wherever he goes. And since being selected as IML in May, Mike has traveled all over the country with a dazzling smile for everyone he meets.

The kinkoid king of the camcorder, JACK FRITSCHER is a name that is indelibly associated with Drummer magazine. As a former editor of Drummer, as a frequent contributor to its pages, and as the driving force behind the innovative Palm Drive Video line, Jack knows exactly what DrummerMen are all about.

The reigning Mr. Drummer, MARK ALEXANDER is an erotic performance artist of rare power and has been featured as coverman of Drummer 108 and 115. We congratulate Mark on a fine year as Mr. Drummer.

Mr. New York Leather 1985, HENRY ROMANOWSKI is an officer of the Artry Foundation and is active in the production of the Mr. New York Leather contest. Henry's tantalizing form has graced the pages of several Desmodus and Zeus publications, often in the company of his very significant other, Mr. FRED KATZ, frequent Dungeon Master coverman, who will again serve as Tally

Schedule of Remaining Regional Events:

Mr. Great Lakes Drummer Aug. 19 Detroit Eagle, Detroit, MI

Mr. Midwest Drummer Aug. 21 The Dock, Cincinnati, OH Mr. Great Plains Drummer Aug. 26-27 Windjammer, Kansas City, MO

Mr. Northwest Drummer Sept. 4 Celebrities, Vancouver, BC Mr. East Canada Drummer MC Faucon, Montreal, PO

AHOT DRUMMER NGIT

MR. DRUMMER 1988 FINALS SEPTEMBER 24 8:00 PM THE GALLERIA

FOR TICKET INFORMATION, CONTACT: UP YOUR ALLEY PRODUCTIONS

(415) 864-6435

Local Sponsor: Der Wolf, San Diego, CA Regional Sponsor: Probe, Hollywood, CA

30-year-old Mark Klein, a bartender at San Diego's Der Wolf, hopes to be the third consecutive Mr. Drummer to hail from Southern California. A well-proportioned (6'2", 210 lbs.) bodybuilding stud, Mark is also very well-known for his activity in San. Diego's leather community. To see just how active Mark can be, you'll have to attend the finals at the Galleria in SF!

Forget Ferdinand and Imelda! The Marcos to look for will be representing the Southeast as the sixth candidate sponsored by Tacky's in the Mr. Drummer finals. Tacky's is the only sponsor to participate in every Mr. Drummer contest, and we're sure Marcos will be an exciting entrant. From his beefy tits to his elegant sneer, he looks ready to … perform.

Regional Sponsor: Up Your Alley Productions, San Francisco, CA

Long and lean Jim Kahl has become a familiar face around Folsom Street. Since he won his title on June 10, Jim has been working his butch ass off for charity fund-raisers in innovative ways. As the representative of the host city, Jim is organizing a special auction of all fifteen regional Mr. Drummers to be held on Wednesday, September 21 at the SF Eagle, beginning at 8:00 pm. Bid on a dinner date with your favorite stud! Proceeds from the auction will go to the AIDS Emergency Fund.

Local Sponsor: Artry Foundation, New York City, NY Regional Sponsor: Shaftway Productions, New York City, NY

If you attended this year's International Mr. Leather contest in Chicago, you'll remember John as a semi-finalist, and we're proud to have him competing for Mr. Drummer as well. John hails from Passaic Park, NJ, where he runs his own floral business. Drummer looks forward to seeing him strut his (5'8", 140 juicy lbs.) stuff in September.

Photo by M. Pratt

Local Sponsors: Vanguards MC and the Bikestop, Philadelphia, PA Regional Sponsor: RES Productions, Charlotte, NC

As we told you last month, Ric won his title by undergoing the intense personal scrutiny of a celebrity-studded judging panel, including one Mr. Drummer, two IML's, and that infamous erotic artist, the Hun. Nice work if you can get it! We applaud their choice-Ric seems to be every inch a Drummer Daddy-and again give special thanks to Robert Sheets, who produced the event in Charlotte.

Regional Sponsor: The Underground, Portland, MF

A 23-year-old Shipping Supervisor, Ioe is our youngest candidate chosen this year to date. However, his sponsor assures us he has been into leather for several years, and is very experienced (uh huh) and motivated. Joe was second-runner-up to Mitch Davis in last year's Mr. New England Drummer contest, and this year he succeeds Mitch in fine form (I'd love to succeed with Mitch, but that's another story …). Joe stands 5'9' tall and weighs in at 170 well-rounded lbs. Presently, Joe has no tattoos or permanent piercings, but wait till we get our hands on him in September!

Photo courtesy The Eagle, Atlanta

Regional Sponsor: The Eagle, Atlanta, GA

An Atlanta native and a six-footer, Chris-Minor is a politically active leatherman who has been involved in fundraising for local AIDS service organizations, as well as for the Names Project and other worthy causes. Chris divides his professional time between construction work and bartending, and plans a career in law enforcement. What's more, he still finds time to look edible, whether lounging on a fire hydrant or hanging from a chain-link fence. We're sure that Chris will more than live up to his steamy photos.

Photo by Ted Lenze

Regional Sponsors: Chutes and Falcon Leathers, Houston, TX

The pride of Houston, OK, Wes is a bartender at the Ripcord in Houston, TX. Wes rode off victoriously on his second attempt after placing third in last year's Mr. Southwest Drummer contest, proving that perseverance does pay off. Wes has a background in Social Work (I'll just bet), wears a size 11-D boot (you know what they say about that), and looks like one tough tumbleweed indeed.

Regional Sponsor: Galerie Leon, Denver, CO

Our very hairy rock-hard mountain of a man, Chuck Smuckler was just chosen at an event held at Tracks in Denver sponsored by Galerie Leon. Drummer is very glad to have this area of the country represented again and we can't imagine a better choice than Chuck, who is a former Mr. Leather Colorado and competed at IML in 1986. A landscaper by trade, Chuck is 35 years old. stands 5'10", and is a Top! He lists tit clamps, ropes and belts among his favorite toys and says he likes a man "with a strong chest."

ERE

EDMEN

Where Leathermen Meet. By placing an ad in this section, a bar or welcome Leathermen.

By accepting their ad, Drummer is telling you that the bar has been recommended by a Leather / SM club or a recognized individual in the community as a good place to meet and socialize with other Leathermen. In larger cities, these will be THE leather bars; in other areas, they will be the more general purpose bars where Leathermen do go to socialize.

Help us alert Drummer readers and travel-Help us aler Draining readers and uson- ers to the RIGHT place to go to meet Leathermen in your part of the world. Send us your recommendations and talk to the right bar owners and managers about placing one of these low-priced ads. If you see a business listed here that you think shouldn't be, -Fledermaus let us know about that, too.

LEATHER · UNIFORM · WESTERN

SAN DIEGO

YOUR FAVORITE BAR COULD BE HERE SEE ABOVE FOR INFORMATION

LA'S ONLY LEVI / LEATHER DANCE CLUB

6112 VENICE BLVD, LA (213) 935-1275

USA / CANADA CLUB LISTINGS

M-Z

Club names marked with an asterisk (*) are new to this listing or have an address change or correction. Club names listed in regular type, not bold face, have had mail returned from the address listed; if you can provide a correction, please do so.

(S / M) indicates a men's club with a primary interest in S / M; (W) indicates a women's leather-S / M club; (Mixed S / M) indicates an S / M club that includes men and women, hetero-, homo- and bi-sexual; (JO) indicates men's jerk-off or masturbation clubs; (F) indicates a special interest (or fetish) club, such as ones specializing in fisting, uniforms, bondage, wrestling, mud, etc.; (FN) is used for clubs that are primarily national or international, whose main activity is publishing ads or a roster—they may or may not have periodic meetings; (FL) is used for clubs that primarily meet locally for active sessions , even though they may have a national or international membership. The nature of the special interest is usually evident in the name. No special indication is placed beside men's Leather-Levi-motorcycle or social clubs; (X) indicates those organizations that we want to list, yet which do not fit into any of the above categories.

If any club wishes to change its listing, please let us know. Send new listings or updates to Club Lists, PO Box 11314, San Francisco, CA 94101. Notifications of incorrect addresses or defunct organizations will be appreciated.

US & CANADA Clubs have been broken into two parts: A-L will be listed in the next issue and M-Z will be listed in #120.

YOUR FAVORITE BAR COULD BE HERE SEE ABOVE FOR INFORMATION

M.A.E.I.A. (FL) PO Box 2230 Chicago, IL 60690-2230

Meisters der Manner c / o Dean P. Murray 704 Bon Air St. Lakeland, FL 33805

Men of Dungeons (SM) PO Box 780242 Dallas, TX 75378

Men of Leather 1268 Madison Ave Memphis, TN 3B104

M.L.L.A. 6204 Magnolia Lane Lakeland, FL 33805

Motorcyclemen of New Mexico. PO Box 35844 Albuquerque, NM 87176-5844

Muscle Mates (FN) c / o RS Enteprises 496A Hudson New York, NY 10014

National Coalition Against Censorship (X) 123 W 43rd St. New York, NY 10036

National Leather Association (Mixed S / M) (NLA: National & NLA: Seattle) PO Box 17436 Seattle, WA 98107-0463

National Leather Association (Mixed S / M) (NLA: BC) PO Box 76827 Station S Vancouver, BC V5R 5S7 Canada

The New Tribe MC (TNT MC) PO Box 90641 Columbia, SC 29209-0641

New World Rubber Men (FL) c / o Bill Bailey 1044 23rd St San Diego, CA 92102

New York Bondage Club (FL) PO Box 204 New York, NY 10028

New York Wrestling Club (FN) 59 West 10th St. New York, Ny 10011

Nimbus MC PO Box 68123 Grand Rapids, MI 49516

Nine Plus Club, Inc. PO Box 1267 Ansonia Sta. New York, NY 10023

Oberons PO Box 07423 Milwaukee, WI 53207

Oedipus MC PO Box 451 Hollywood, CA 90028

Oklahoma Linemen PO Box 42391 Oklahoma City, OK 73123

484 Lake Park Ave., #121 Oakland, CA 94610

Omaha Meatpackers PO Box 6474 Elmwood Station Omaha, NE 68104

The Order of the Marquis & The Chevalier ($/M) PO Box 50014 Novi, MI 48050-5014

The Original Leathermasters Club of Los Angeles (S / M) PO Box 93643 Los Angeles, CA 90093

O.R.R.O.C. PO Box 14033 Chicago, IL 60614

Outcasts (W) PO Box 31266 San Francisco, CA 94131-0266

Pacific Coast MC PO Box 954 Los Angeles, CA 90028

Pacific Northwest Wrestling Club (FL) 432 Dewey Place E.

Seattle WA 98112 Pegasus MC PO Box 395 Wichita, KS 67201

Pennsmen PO box 401 Harrisburg, PA 17108

People Exchanging Power (Mixed 5 / M) Washington DC Chapter PO Box 1161 Arlington, VA 22210-1161

People Exchanging Power (Mixed 5 / M) Albuquerque Chapter PO Box 332 Edgewood, NM 87015

*People Exchanging Power (Mixed S / M) Phoenix / Tucson Chapter 3906 W. Ina Rd. #200-314 Tucson, AZ 85741 (602) 744-3422

Philadelphians MC PO Box 20720 Philadelphia, PA 19138

Phoenix LL Club c / o Greg Adams 701 NE 81st St. Miami, FL 33138

Pittsburgh Bondage Club PO Box 8033 Pittsburgh, PA 15216

Pittsburgh MC c / o Gus Coleola 5133 Saltsburg Rd. Verona, PA 15147

*Pocono Warriors PO Box 381 263A W. 19th St. #162 New York, NY 10011

*Portland Leathermen PO Box 06706 Portland, OR 97206

*Portland Power & Trust (W) PO Box 3781

Power Circle (W) PO Box 3284 Santa Cruz, CA 95063

Praetorians PO Box 23 New York, NY 10014

Prometheus (5 / M) PO Box 57213 Oklahoma City, OK 73157

Queen City Quordinators (X) PO Box 221841 Charlotte, NC 28222

Reading Railmen PO Box 13124 Reading, PA 19603

The Recruits (W) PO Box 725121 Berkley, MI 48072

Regiment of the Black and Tans (FL) PO Box 875616 Los Angeles, CA 90087-0716

Renaissance Men PO Box 1001 Trolley Station

*River City Outlaws 2522 Avenida Prima San Antonio, TX 78218

Rivermen 1417 Logani SE Grand Rapids, MI 49506

Road Riders MC PO Box 3246 Corpus Christi, TX 78404

Rochester Rams MC PO Box 1727 Rochester, NY 14603

Rocky Mountaineers MC PO Box 2629 Denver, CO 80201

Published Quarterly by Desmodus

DungeonMaster

The Popular Mechanics of the Dungeon THE quarterly men's guide to safe and sane SM for consenting adults. Equipment, techniques, safety, psychology, philosophy, and lots of personal ads too!

Too Hot to Handle

MACH

A quarterly magazine of one-handed reading-strong action-at its best. A quantity dose of the hottest, kinkiest and heaviest leather and SM fiction, photos and art available anywhere.

The_ BROTHERHOOD of magazines _for all rme

CLUB LISTINGS=

Rodeo Riders 3516 N. Bosworth

Chicago, IL 60657

Saber MC of Florida, Inc. PO Box 030367 Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33303

Saddleback MC PO Box 561 Los Angeles, CA 90028

Safe-Sane-Consensual Adults

7985 Santa Monica Blvd., #109 Los Angeles, CA 90046

Sam Browne Society (FL) PO Box 8293 Phoenix, AZ 85066-8293

San Andreas MC PO Box 3945 Orange, CA 92665

San Antonio Mustangs PO Box 12551 San Antonio, TX 77006

San Antonio Rough Riders PO Box 551 Helotes, TX 77006

San Franciscans PO Box 683

San Francisco Bondage Club 1800 Market St. #107 San Francisco, CA 94102

San Francisco Jacks (JO) 2336 Market St. K#127 San Francisco, CA 94114

San Francisco Precision Whip Drill Team (X) 2215-R Market St. #107 San Francisco, CA 94114

San Francisco Wrestling Club (FL) 172 Prentice St. San Francisco, CA 94110

Satyricons MC PO Box 19058 Las Vegas, NV 89132

Satyrs MC PO Box 1137 Los Angeles, CA 90078

Seattle Dungeon Guild (S / M): 918 E. Pike St. Seattle, WA 98122

Seattle Wrestling Club (FL) 432 Dewey Place East Seattle, WA 98112

Selectmen of Detroit PO Box 1855 Trolley Sta. Detroit, MI 48231

Sex Magik Faeries Circle (SM) Spirit Wind 427 Oak St. San Francisco, CA 94102

S.F.G.D.I. Club PO Box 42031 San Francisco, CA 94142

Shelix (W) PO Box 416 Florence Station

Shipmates of Baltimore PO Box 132 Baltimore, MD 21203

SigMa (S / M) PO Box 30651 Bethesda, MD 20814-0651

Silver Spurs of Dallas 414 N. Winnetka Dallas, TX 75208

Silver Star MC PO Box 15152 Milwaukee, WI 53215

SMALERS X PO Box 99626 Pittsburgh, PA 15233

Society of Janus

(Mixed S / M) Southern Calif. Chapter 2554 Lincoln Blvd., Ste 381 Marina del Rey, CA 90291

Society of Janus (Mixed S / M) PO Box 6794 San Francisco, CA 94101

Somandros (S / M) 7985 Santa Monica Blvd. #109 Los Angeles, CA 90046

Sons of Apollo PO Box 7281 Phoenix, AZ 85011

Southern California Wrestling Club (FL) 3678 Roseview Ave.

Los Angeles, CA 90065 Spartan MC

458 L'Enfant Plaza PO Box 23832 Washington, DC 20026

SPASM (W) PO Box 77270 Houston, TX 77270

Spearhead 113 Scadding Ave. Toronto, Ont, H5A 4H8 Canada

Spirit of St. Louis L-L PO Box 12207 Souland Sta. St. Louis, MO 63157

Stallions c / o The Leather Stallion

2203 St. Clair Ave. Cleveland, OH 44114

PO Box 3553 Pittsburgh, PA 15230

Stiletos MC c / o Phoenix Bar 1440 San Marco Blvd. Jacksonville, FL 32207

Stingrays MC PO Box 1643 Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33302

Sunrays MC 2027 Mayo St. Hollywood, FL 33020

Sunshine Athletic Assoc. c / o Robert Race 190L N. Andrews Ave. #105

Wilton Manors, FL 33311 T-Bolts MC c / o Jacques Carle 49 Bartlett Ave. Norwalk, CT 06850 Texas Cadre

Arlington, TX 76010 Texas Conference of Clubs

PO Box 66973, Suite 1010 Houston, TX 77006

PO Box 57462 Dallas, TX 75207

Texas Riders Inc. PO Box 66071 Houston, TX 77266

Thebans MC c / o Don Gibson 950 NW 7th St. Rd. Miami, FL 33136

Toronto Motorcycle Riders PO Box 132 Station F Toronto, ON M4Y 2L4 Canada

The Tradesmen PO Box 36712 Charlotte, NC 28204

Tribe MC Box 32798 Detroit, MI 48232

Trident-Detroit PO Box 1073 Lincoln Park, MI 48146

Trident-LA

PO Box 3431 Pacoima, CA 94142

Tri-State TCC (Mixed SM) PO Box 99626 Pittsburgh, PA 15233

Tucson Knight Owls PO Box 2332 Tucson, AZ 85702

Tucson Levi-Leathermen PO Box 1774

Twin Cities 5 / M Alliance PO Box 825 Minneapolis, MN 55440

Two Wheelers of Omaha c / o Tony Zamudio 305 Turner Blvd. #8

Omaha, NE 68131 U.F.O. c / o Walter Carlton III

Tulsa, OK 74120 *Unicorn MC

2203 St. Clair Ave. Cleveland, OH 44114 *Urania (W) PO Box 499 Astor St.

USA (Uncircumcised Society of America) (FN) c / o Bud Berkeley PO Box 26011

San Francisco, CA 94126 Utica Tri's MC

Vancouver Activists in SM (VASM) (SM)

PO Box 2204 New Westminster, BC V3L 5A5 Canada or PO Box 21911

Seattle, WA 98111

Vanguards MC PO Box 2308 Philadelphia, PA 19103

Vikings MC PO Box 1323 Cambridge, MA 02142

Warlocks MC PO Box 2484

Los Angeles, CA 90028 Warriors MC PO Box 2484

Wasatch Leathermen MC PO Box 11314

Salt Lake City, UT 84110-1311 W.E.S. (We Enjoy Shaving)

(FN) PO Box 6316

Reno, NV 89513 Wheels MC PO Box 615

W.H.B. PO Box 251 Wilmington, DE 19899

Wildcats MC c / o Boiler Room 111 W. Tazewell St. Norfolk, VA 23510

W.I.N. (Wrestlers Information Network) (FL) Box 71 Station F Toronto, Ont.

Windy City Bondage Club PO Box 578606 (FL) Chicago, IL 60657

*Wings MC PO Box 41784 Memphis, TN 38174 Womanlink (W / FN)

2124 Kittredge #257 Berkeley, CA 94704

Zodiacs MC PO Box 48144 Vancouver, BC V7X 1N8 Canada

EATHER CALENDAR

If you'd like your organization's events listed here, send us the appropriate information at least two months in advance.

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

Each month we pick the hottest candid number. (Photos are not returnable.)

94101-1314.

VACUUM PUMPER: This 33-year-old Oklahoma suction pumper is 6'5", 185 lbs., blond. Also into his tits and having clamps put on them. When he's through pumping his cock, maybe he'll vacuum your carpet. TC 1207.

CUMMING UP

Diddling ISSUE 121

TITS! TITS!

TITS!

Beirut by Aaron Travis—first part in a four-part series of fanatic-fiction . Art by Olaf. The dark side of eroticism gone darker.

View From a Sling by Geoff Mains—an intense mixture of the past and the present from the author of Urban Aboriginals.

Texas Tits by Greg Nero-Tyrannosaurus tit-teasers titillate twisting toughly … tenderly.

Titwork! by Fledermaus-stretch your nipples on this one. You'll never see a pair of clamps in the same way. Lascivious lust with the Master Tamer of Torturous Tits.

Permanent Piercings: Drummer interviews piercing expert Jim Ward. Everything you wanted to know about putting a metal ring in your tits, in your cock, in your …

Cumming up in MACH 16!

Drummer's big brother explodes with feisty fiction!

Inside by David May-it all comes from inside. It has to …

Daddy Dak by Jay Shaffer-Two men and a bike. Two men and battlescars. Two men and balance.

Camp Alpha by Fledermaus. The arrogant diffidence of focused torture …

Put Out to Stud by Beast. Horsebuck finds himself a stable.

Castration Doc by LaFarge. Medical fantasy stretched to the cutting edge …

SANDMUTOPIA GUARDIAN & DUNGEON JOURNAL

A specialized SM publication for SM people—of both sexes— with serious and unique interests. Personal ads; a forum / exchange of ideas and technical information. "SMIS … "the now-famous essay y Don Miesen expands itself

ISSUE THREE

DRUMMER 120 90