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Martijn Bakker…Publisher Marcus-Jay Wonacott…Editor John Wood…Production Manager Brendan Ward…Art Director S.V. Frost…Art Production Stephen Sutton…House Photographer Arthur Hernandez, Jr… Classified Ads Derek Yeager… Marketing / Advertising

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Copyright $1993 by Desmodus, Inc. Published December 1993. All rights reserved. No part of the magazine may be reproduced without prior written permission of the publisher.

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Any similarity between characters appearing in Drummer and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The representation or appearance of any person in Drummer is not to be taken as an indication of his or her

OFF THE TOP

"In Search of Pride"

By Frank Norwicki, Mr. Mid-Atlantic Leather 1993

To many individuals the word pride evokes various interpretations and emotions. To some, pride of being a leatherman or leatherwoman means wearing skins and experiencing a sense of belonging. While to others, identifying with a very individualistic view of self assurance and confidence in who they are says pride. As a regional titleholder who has traveled the country extensively, I would like to share with you some of the demographic and geographic

I have encountered.

Before I share with you my experiences during the past year I would like to g i v e you some background history on "earliest" my recollection of the leather lifestyle.

I first noticed what is called leather pride at the age of eight years old. My father and his lover have been in a 30 year relationship that opened my eyes to what pride among leather folk could mean back in the 1960's. The leather environment was different back then. I remember their many leather friends socializing over dinner parties and discussing rights for "queer" men and women as the word "gay" had not yet been labeled. There were not any "leather" bars to speak of at that time so get-togethers would occur in living rooms across the city. I recall their fierce sense of camaraderie as they would walk the streets in their skins with confidence and yes, pride. the friendships they had were based around a special lifestyle, one that included honesty, integrity and honor. Years later I came to realize that what I had been exposed to was indeed leather pride.

During my adolescent and college years I was always in contact with these very men who really became part of my "nuclear" family. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I made a conscious and honest joining the leather life-style, it was more of an evolvement of friendships and intense feelings of belonging to a community that shared the same interests, feelings and respect for what they and I stood for. became Mid-Atlantic Leather 1993, many emotions surfaced. I felt that I had come full circle in remembering the experiences I had at a young age with those very special "family" members. I just kept thinking about how overwhelming the notoriety and responsibilities of being a titleholder could encompass one's life, and yet deep inside, an intense feeling of pride had surfaced. A pride that would provide strength and comfort throughout my year as a representative of the leather community.

A week after the Mid-Atlantic contest I was asked to take part in an auction for

(continued on next page)

U.S. Postal Service STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT AND CIRCULATION (Required by 39 U.S.C. 3685 1A. Title of publication: Drummer, 1B. Publication no.: 006-203; 2. Date of filing: 11 / 12 / 93; 3. Frequency of issue: Monthly; 3A. No. of issues published annually: 12, 3B. Annual subscription price: $70.; 4. Complete mailing address of 5. Address of general business office: 24 Shotwell Street, San Francisco, CA 94103; 6. Publisher: P. Martijn Bakker, 24 Shotwell Street, San Francisco, CA 94103, Editor: Marcus-Jay Wonacott, 24 Shotwell Street, San Francisco, CA 94103, Managing Editor: Same, 7. Owner: P. Martijn Bakker, 24 Shotwell Street, San Francisco, CA 94103; 8. Bondholders: Not Applicable, 9. Not Applicable; 10A. Total no. of copies (net press run): average preceding 12 months 16,187; nearest to filing date 14,400; 10B1. Paid or requested circulation, 10,940 / 12,115; 10B2 Mail subscription, 1,736 / 1,677; 10C. Total Paid and / or requested circulation, 12,676 / 13,792; 10D. Free distribution by Mail, Carrier or other means, 150 / 120; 10E. Total distribution 12,826 / 13,912; 10F1. Copies not distributed, 631 / 488; 10F2. Return from news agents, 2730 / 0; 10G. Total 16,187 / 14,400; 11. I certify that the statements made by me above are true and correct and complete. Signed: Mark Stevens, Vice President.

the Gay March on Washington in New York City. It was held in a relatively small establishment on Christopher Street called the Dugout. Walking down 7th Avenue, clad in full skins with a group friends, brought back those memories from the 60's. It felt great knowing that because of their hard work for our rights. Turning the corner on Christopher Street did not mean a hostile encounter with police but an acceptance and respect for what we are as a leather tribe. The auction raised a considerable amount of money, but most importantly it raised a consciousness of how our community could collectively make a positive effect for our rights as individuals. The money would be used to assist those desiring to attend the Washington March On Washington and thus exposing the rest of the Gay and Lesbian community, and indeed the nation, to our leather lifestyle. On my many trips to New York City I have seen that same pride exhibited in the grandest of Gay Pride celebrations to the smallest of street festivals. Leather folk are alive and well in the "Big Apple" and are composed of a unique community containing many facets of leather tradition and a burning fight for our rights of existence in an environment that often misjudges and misinterprets.

The city of Baltimore is sometimes referred to as "Charm City". The word charm does little to describe the down-to-earth friendliness and respect I have seen in this town. The leather community of Baltimore exhibits a pride that can only be described as intense. The leatherfolk of Baltimore are a very closeknit group of individuals with the undying fight to show their pride through involvement and The club scene integrates well by sponsoring many example. fundraisers and contests. I believe in the importance of such events in that it raises the community's awareness of leather pride among ourselves and to those experiencing the leather lifestyle for the first time. It provides a crack in the door for people to see just what we are about. A special applause goes to their efforts in promoting the woman's leather community. The manner in which the men and women's community support each other is very heartening. Many people from larger towns would be refreshingly surprised to see how well leather pride is represented in this city of charms.

Brotherly love is an acronym used to label the city of Philadelphia. I find this label to perfectly identify the leather family of this town. I would however add the word "sisterly" to the description of this community. Leather pride in Philadelphia is made up of a unique mixture of community service and dedication to furthering the rights of our lifestyle. The work of International Mr. Leather, Scott Tucker, is very evident in the attitude leather folk possess in this town. Scott is well known for his fight and accomplishments in promoting the rights of our community. Through his involvement with the many local and national gay rights groups he has helped raise the level of leather consciousness to a new height. In the same manner, the leather tribe of Philadelphia is very supportive and enthusiastic toward fundraisers benefiting human rights. Iapplaud their efforts in making leather pride shine a bit brighter.

Boston, Massachusetts is a town that brings images of traditions, pilgrims and Paul Revere. Those images of my childhood are actually not that far off. After all, weren't the pilgrims leaving a land where they were oppressed for their beliefs and lifestyle? The pilgrims also brought with them a stodginess for tradition and a fight for what they believed was their right to exist. So to, the leather community of Boston possesses the same burning desire to expand our rights as a people with a belief and tradition of their early ancestors. I encountered leather pride on a flatbed truck riding down Boylston Street during their gay pride day. A number of leather title-holders were assembled in their finest skins. While waiting for the parade to begin a woman came up and asked if she could have her picture taken with me. After it was taken she informed me that she was bringing the photo back to her country to show people how we stand up for our rights. That encounter stuck with me the whole parade route and maybe for just that one small moment leather pride had out shined the bright sun beating down on our backs.

If you ever find yourself in Upstate New York you must make a point to visit the town of Utica. The leather community in this region of the country are some of the most hospitable group of leather folk I have had the pleasure of meeting. There is something to be said regarding leather pride in the less populated parts of the country. Pride and close friendships are tightly integrated to produce a stronghold of resistance to those who would look down on our lifestyle. It is the smaller pockets of our community that often produce the most dedicated individuals providing service and involvement in the name of leather. I salute their efforts in offering our lifestyle to many in that area who would never have the chance to experience leather pride.

Washington D.C. has the notoriety of being the town where the laws effecting our leather community are passed. It should also be known as a town where most facets of the gay community can peacefully and productively coexist. Leather pride in the nation's capitol can be found in the extensive club scene that produce some of the most successful fundraisers I have seen. The clubs are very supportive of each other and are responsible for extending the hand of friendship to other parts of the main stream community. I would be amiss if I did not mention the "Brother Help Thyself" organization which is comprised of leather clubs, bar owners and other gay organizations banning together to distill their talents for the assistance of various needy charitable groups. These groups provide services to the community at large. It leaves a very warm feeling to see how effective and viable our strengths can be when channeled in the right direction.

Up till now I have concentrated mainly on east coast leather communities, after all, I am representing that region. However, and I do mean a BIG however, I must mention the pride I have experienced in the city which has become a second home to me, San Francisco. The "City by the Bay" has often been termed the mecca of our leather lifestyle and rightfully so. The outpouring of friendship and love that I have encountered in this town is overwhelming. From the bar owners to the local titleholders the hand of friendship in the name of leather pride is always extended to any one who is fortunate enough to visit. Leather pride is an attribute that perfectly describes this city. The leather clubs, organizations, associations and newspapers are networked in such a way to produce a most effective battalion in furthering the rights of the leather lifestyle not seen in many places. The leather festivals and weekly "happenings" offer any leather person a way to show off his or her pride through participation or support. This town has made me feel proud to be a leatherman and proud to be accepted by a community that hard work and dedication to the furtherment of our lifestyle is synonymous with the true meaning of leather pride.

As my year as Mid-Atlantic Leather draws to an end I would like to say a sincere "Thank You" to all those who have given me memories I will carry for a lifetime. The pride I have had in representing the leather community and the friendships I have cemented will serve as a foundation of continued service to a group of individuals that stand second to none. I hope I have given back to the community as much as I have received. If I have had at least one positive effect on someone or something in the name of Leather Pride, then to me my year has been complete.

With Pride, Love and Respect.

Frank Nowicki

MALE CALL

Dear Editor,

I'm an avid reader who is experiencing what I feel is a very common problem that I hope you or any of your readers may have some insight on.

There is an extremely hot Topman that I've been submitting to for the last 7 months. The scenes are extremely kinky and intense, and up until now have had no great emotional attachment. This has not been a terribly big problem until recently. While getting to know this man I've found that we share so much in common that I would like to know him in a more intimate way, that is removed from the Master / slave relationship.

I'm very serious about my submission and welcome the needs I have to be mentally and physically controlled by another man, but do not want my slave behavior to be in every aspect of my life, nor does this man want being a Master in every aspect of his. We would like the kinky Master / slave sides of ourselves without having to find two different people in order to achieve this.

The problem lies in the fact that we're afraid that if he starts to show his vulnerable side and we begin to establish an emotional attachment that it will diminish the intensity we once had. Is there a way to integrate these two very different roles? His experience in the past is that the leather sex usually suffers in the long run when he tries to become a lover in one aspect of the relationship and a Master in the other.

I would appreciate any advice you may have on this situation or if there are any couples out there living this type of lifestyle, we would love to talk with you concerning this issue.

I would also like to add that I'm not in any way implying that their is not love or an emotional attachment in strictly Master / slave relationships, but that is not the type of relationship we're looking for at this time.

Thank you, C. Phoenix, AZ

Dear C.

Sounds like you are in a perticular situation many of us find ourselves, at varying degrees, of course. My personal experience has shown me that any relationship is in constant flux and change, so there is no hard and fast theory which guarantees a successful balance between established roles and intimacy. Certainly, a lot of communication matched with understanding on-goingly should set the stage for the possibility of succeeding.

(Anyone who wishes to contribute their own point of view, please write to us.) MJW

Dear Marcus,

Just wanted to drop you a line to say thank you for the wonderful time I had in San Francisco during the Drummer contest. It being my first visit to the West Coast, I can't think of a better way to experience Frisco and the Leather scene. I was impressed with the magnitude of the Drummer finals and the Leather Expo. The Folsom Street Fair was the icing on the cake. I hope anyone wishing to experience San Francisco's Leather Scene will make plans now to attend Leather Weekend next year.

Yours in Brotherhood, Allen Grim Mid-Atlantic Drummer Contest Coordinator

Two days ago I got the last issue from Drummer (No. 167).

That is the best Drummer I've seen.

The cover-(boy)man looks good and I become very nervous when I see him.

My question is, it's possible to write you and you send my letter to Him? [YES!]

Please execute my faulty English and many thanks for helping.

All the best, Joe Duisburg, GERMANY

Dear Sir, my Master has ordered me to write this thank you letter. i am seated in front of his computer with my leather-cuffed ankles bound to the legs of the chair, my balls hanging over the front of the chair, are in a weighted stretcher and coated with Ben-Gay, my swollen cock is bulging against the metal rings of a gates of hell harness, i have a large enema butt plug stuffed into my ass--its other end has been forced into my piss slit and deep into my dick then taped in place. i was ordered to drink a six-pack of beer and hold it for the last half hour before letting it surge through the catheter and up my ass. i will have to hold the warm piss enema until my Master releases me. my tits are clamped and weighted. A wire from each is tied to the back of the chair making it impossible to move. i am wearing a dog collar which is connected tightly by chain to my ball harness- - i can not lift or turn my head, i am wearing a head harness and my mouth is stuffed with a ball gag. The top of the hood is attached to an eye-hook in the ceiling by a chain. my elbows have been tied together behind my back and to the chair with rope so that only my forearms and hand-cuffed hands are free to type. The hand cuffs are connected by rope to the ball harness and dog collar. Right before being bound i was permitted to blow my Master. He has ordered me to hold the cum in my mouth and not swallow it until He says so. I feel it sliding over the back of my tongue and insides of my cheeks. There are clothespins on the insides of my thighs and earlobes. My Master truly looks forward to receiving a copy of your magazine each month. He just got the latest issue. When i finish writing this, He promises to release me, whip my ass until it bleeds and then allow me to relieve myself before He rapes my ass and reinserts the butt plug. I will remain catheterized with the other end of the tube down my throat and taped to my mouth and bound immobile for the next 24 hours during which time i will have the privilege of being my Master's toilet, urinal and sperm depository with nothing else to eat or drink. i will be spending the night in my Master's closet on my knees with my hands bound over my head to the hanger bar with an electric cock ring around my dick and balls to provide me hours of intense pain. For both of us, i thank you and look forward to another issue next month. boy New Orleans, LA

CRUS WHERE EATHERMEN MEET

By placing an ad in this section , a bar or other business is telling you that they welcome Leath-ermen .

By accepting their ad, Drummer is telling you that establishment 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.

Help us to alert Drummer readers and travelers to the right place to go and 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, let us know about that, too.

Francisco San Inquire about our

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LEATHER BULLETIN BOARD

Marcus The Merciless

The Leather Community Exposed

By Marcus Hernandez

When I was afforded the opportunity to write a monthly column for this publication, I thought a lot about what should be included and / or covered. After discussions with my publisher, editor and various leather people around the country, it was agreed that profiling certain leather men and woman without leather titles would be appropriate and innovative. After all, leather title holders, male or female, are only as effective as their leadership qualities inspire others in their own community and people they meet while traveling to other areas of the country and sometimes overseas.

San Francisco's Jerry Roberts is a leatherman, biker, fundraiser and much respected in the leather communities of Northern California.

Photo by Marcus Hernandez

The people who do all the shit work, cleaning up after parties and events, art work, pouring beer, licking envelopes or planning stage events and whatever expertise they contribute to any successful event or fundraiser, hardly, if ever, get the credit they deserve.

While many of these people are content with the knowledge that they helped make an event a success, in my opinion, a list of names and acknowledgments in a program just doesn't do it.

Lining up personalities for future issues, I was amazed to find the ones worthy of a profile more reluctant than eager to be lauded or recognized for their efforts.

Furthermore, I would like to think that the leather titleholders get a lot of publicity and photo coverage if they 're lucky enough to live in a city with local publications that realize the leather / SM community deserves photo and news coverage for all the fundraising they do. Unfortunately, this is not always the case. Major and minor leather title holders and personalities will never be relegated to any position not befitting their situation in this publication.

With those thoughts in mind, and realizing that a lot of leather S / M events are of major interest to many people, I'll try to include major events of interest coming your way; and lastly, considering that sometimes too much intensity / anxiety prevails when dealing with major and minor issues and personalities in our community and its people, a little levity in the form of humorous anecdotes is in order. It is imperative that we laugh with each other rather than at each other. Let me know how I'm doing.

Jerry Roberts

Fortunately for San Francisco's leather community, when Bay Area native Jerry Roberts made his first foray into a leather bar some 11 years ago, the first two people he met before he even got in the door were Doug Deal and Zach Long. Doug was the manager of a Mexican restaurant in San Francisco's leather zone, South of Market, and later became the owner of Mister S Leather Company; Zach was actively involved with establishing a gay youth center and later became Leather Daddy of San Francisco. Their encounter would change his life forever.

Jerry later met his first leather lover, Duke Armstrong, himself a political and

(continued on next page)

A NOTE FROM OUR EDITOR:

In our ever-increasing efforts to bring you the most accurate "poop" occurring in and around our Leather Community. we would like to expose to you, our loyal readers out there, to our latest addition. For many years he has been familiar to a multitude of Leatherfolk from his byline in San Francisco's Bay Area Reporter,…

"Mr." Marcus. Well, you won't see a "Mister" anywhere near this column! However, you will see details on what is happening and who's making it happen all around the nation and even the world. We say WELCOME and beware…

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P.O. Box 2226 Clifton, N.J. 07015 Phone 201-238-0305 / 779-2782 Fax 201-238-9564 fundraising activist. The combination of these three men and their involvement in leather pride, activism and fundraising produced this month's profile man about whom the major opinion in San Francisco's leather community is resoundingly positive.

He's always there; he's always helping execute the plans, big and little, for fundraising, biking events, doing leg work and finding time to support and advise men and women aspiring to leather titles.

Jerry says one of the proudest moments of his activism came when, he harassed, cajoled, encouraged and helped a leather man reach the pinnacle of the leather community when he was chosen In-Mr . ternational Leather, that man was Lenny Broberg, a leather-oriented athlete and fund-raiser who, at the time, was more interested in who won the Gay World Series pennant than who won Mr. What's- His-Name-Leather. Many title seeking people, too many to list here, have sought Jerry's advice and accepted his help. They have never been disappointed .

But Jerry's involvement with the 11-year old Bare Chest Calendar annually produced by the San Francisco Eagle for the AIDS Emergency Fund is his forte. For at least the past four years, not only has he actively pursued and encouraged men to enter the competition, once all 12 are selected, he rides herd on "his" 12 winners to get out and sell it, travels to various locales with them to autograph and sell it and never lets up in promoting the product- -to the point of expending his own personal funds for travel, advertisement and late night appearances with them.

There's more: like supporting bike clubs on one-day and weekend runs; working with other volunteers to complete a project, especially the creation of San Francisco's Leather Pride Float in the gay freedom day parade--another moment when his pride was at an apex. His efforts did not end with helping create the concept, but pouring the beer and working with other fundraisers to pay for it, getting the leather people to ride on it and arranging a 30-member motorcycle contingent to escort the float. The applause, admiration and love that greets the contingent each year by the thousands who see it -- to Jerry Roberts- -is better than winning the million dollar lotteries.

Was this the kind of person the creative people at Desmodus, Inc. had in mind when they created the Leather Pride flag back in 1989? He certainly is entitled to wear that pin!

Jerry Roberts will never seek a leather title for himself, nor join a bike club or get elected to the presidency of a group. He will not volunteer to do anything unless he knows he will do an outstanding job. When I asked him if he tires of it all, had he picked a successor or some young leatherman

Jerry Roberts was chosen to lead the 30 motorcycles that escorted the Leather Pride Float in San Francisco's Gay Freedom Day Parade in 1993, a project which he worked very hard to make a reality. Photo by Marcus Hernandez not worthy of grooming to carry on all the good things he does, his response was: "No. I don't intend to ever stop doing any of this until I am just not able to do it."

His dedication, caring and sensitivity to everyone he meets, not to mention his pride in being a leather man, has inspired many people in San

Francisco to emulate him. The consensus, and while it may sound like a trite cliche, is that, " those are some big leather boots to fill", it is the absolute truth. No one can dispute that. Nor would they even try.

Two biggies coming just in time to lift you out of the winter doldrums after the holidays and they're both on the weekend of January 14-17: one in Portland, Oregon ("Portland Uniform Weekend 2") and the other in

Washington D.C. (10th Anniversary of the Centaur Motorcycle Club's Leather Weekend with the Mr. Mid-Atlantic Leather contest).

In Portland, cop, firefighter, military and assorted uniforms will inundate the City of Roses according to the American Uniform Associations's steering committee member, the indefatigable Andy Mangels. Almost a dozen events over the 4-day holiday weekend will afford you the delicious opportunity to interact with a lot of other uniform mavens: a meet and greet at the Dirty Duck on Friday. Shop 'til you drop at uniform venues with discounts and bargains (no sales tax in Oregon!) on Saturday, a paintball game at Mean Streets in the afternoon and a uniform dinner at The House of Louie that night.

Sunday, the Cascade Bears host a champagne uniform brunch at C.C. Slaughters and a uniform / bear beer bust at the PDX Eagle in the afternoon; No Host dinner at Lotsa Pasta that night and on Monday (Martin Luther King Day), tour the Portland Police Museum affording an opportunity to buy police memorabilia. Info on accommodations and the package is obtainable by calling Andy Mangels at (503) 228-6935.

The Centaur Leather Weekend package in the nation's capital will cost you a total of $30 and is considered the best bargain and one of the biggest and best leather events right up there with IML in Chicago and Intl. Mr. Drummer in San Francisco.

Here's a club that has got its act together with leather, cocktails, contest pin, the contest itself (usually over two dozen contestants), comp drink tickets all over all weekend, a lunch, a brunch. door prize drawings and shuttle buses. The brochure says: "and a lot more we don't dare print". Registration must be received by Dec. 27, so send your $30 to Centaur MC, P.O. Box 34193, Washington, DC 20043-4193 or call (301) 735-5568. (Read "Off The Top" by Frank Nowicki on Page 5)

Straight Harley Owners aren't the only ones having fun cruising the highways and byways. Comes now what could quite possibly be the first gay chapter formed this past June during the Harley Davidson anniversary. Members in the midwest and on both coasts already. If you're interested, contact Great Lakes Harley Riders, P.O. Box 341611, Milwaukee, WI 53234-1611. Tell 'em Marcus the Merciless referred you.

Who's winning male and female leather titles enroute to International Ms. Leather (March 1994) and International Mr. Leather (May 1994)? Names, photos and the usual suspects! Live, laugh, love and whistle while you lurk. just do it in leather.

The Merciless

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LEATHER CALENDAR

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Balls! They've always fascinated me. A cock gets hard, pisses or cums…not much variety there. Large or small, cocks have never been as interesting to me as balls. They dangle in the heat, hug the base and move all on their reason. I used to watch while we'd lie in bed of cocks in the cold, swirl own for sometimes no my first lover's balls watching TV. They'd rise up, turn, droop, swell and deflate with seeming disregard for his mood or interest. At times I've even fantasized there is an independent- minded little creature in there, a mind of its own. Some sacks are deeply furrowed and some are as smooth as plums. Some have thick veins squiggling down each side of the ballsack. Some are covered in fur, some are peach-down coated, some have no fur at all, shiny-smooth as a baby's butt. Ihate shaved balls. Stubble irritates my lips and tongue. If a man has shaved balls, them. I eat ass,

I won't go near fuck him, and

R. A. W.

him on his way. I hate men who tamper with nature's best body decoration…hair.

Some balls have long shaggy fur at the bottom of the sack…perfect for nursing on while you roll his balls around in your mouth. I love the kind of ballsacks that lengthen when sucked on, letting you get his balls way inside your mouth. I love gently rubbing them in my palm while I suck his cock. I love groping a man through his pants and cupping his balls while thumbling his cock. It's almost as if working on his cock is just an excufor playing with his balls.

Danglers are my favorite sort of balls. The ones that droop down his thigh when naked, and press out on the seam of his crotch when he wears clothes. The kind of balls that, when he's hard, get swollen and hug his cockbase. Donkey balls…long fat dangling eggs of flesh…my favorite. Hairy or not, those kind of balls make my mouth water at the thought of kissing them, rubbing them, swallowing them. Seems to me that the lower they dangle and rub the groin, the riper and richer the ballsweat that gathers behind and around the balls. The hairs that fringe balls like wreaths sop up the juicy moisture and save it for my tongue and nose. Even if his balls have no hair on the actual ballsack, I crave the fur that fringes around his balls, and the wafts that the hair gives off. Docockssweat, I wonder? Who cares? Balls generously spread their sweaty nectar to the shaft above them.

I love it when a guy's bare-assed, sitting facing me with his legs spread, and even when he leans back, his long ball-bag still droops low enough to rest his balls on the seat under him. That is one long skin-bag! When a guy with a heavy-hanging sack like this lays back, his balls cover his asshole and sop up the smells there, adding to the pungent bouquet. I love lifting his ball-satchel to find his asshole, rubbing my nose in his hairy plums while I snort my tongue up his hole..do I sound obsessed? You bet!

Subways in summertime are a great source of snatched glimpses of balls. Shorts abound on Manhattan subway cars and most shorts are loose enough to allow the eye a quick shot of a flopping ball-bag. Some balls are bold enough and BIG enough hen I rub them close to my nose while he cums, luxuriating in the musk of his cum-balls. to pop out the sideof the guy's underwear or jock…nowthat's big gorilla balls! His face lets you know how good it feels when that plum escapes the confines of cotton, Then, he'll quickly realize someone (like me) might catch a look at it and he either crosses his thighs or pops it back in. If you're real lucky, he won't give a damn, and just let the swinging orb air itself! Even when I have a guy in my bedroom, I like him to keep his jockeys on for a while. That way I can pull his cock out the fly of his shorts. Then I scoop up his balls and let them flop down to my chin while I suck him off in his drawers. I fill my mouth with his cock, while his balls fill my palm. I gently jiggle them in my hands like giant hairy dice, while I suck him off. Then I rub them close to my nose while he cums, luxuriating in the musk of his cum-balls.

When a guy's near cumming, sometimes his balls swell up so hard and red it looks like they're about to explode with blood and cum. Other guys' balls turn a bright shiny pink, showing every vein, just before he blows his load. Some ball-satchels tighten so hard with thick skin around the balls that it looks like a furrowed ball of brown armour around his nuts.

Best of all I love just cupping and kissing a guy's balls in my hands…the seat of so much of his power and yet so sensitive to touch, so easily inflicted with pain. Crossing a leg the wrong way, too-tight pants, or rolling the wrong way in bed can wrench tears from the toughest stud.

I guess it's not for nothing that a bad-assed tough guy is called "Ballsy". Big bulls balls takes a real man to handle. They can dangle and hurt. The bigger they are the more pain they can invite. It also takes a real man to let them be played with, the aching down there being the most agonizing male pain there is.

Maybe it's just because I'm an artist that the visual treat of a beautiful pair of balls gets me so excited. The artist in me also looks for those things of beauty that often go unnoticed by the layman…no pun intended. However, and sadly so, many of the great masters of male erotic art too often treat balls as merely spheres, overlooking their myriad folds, veins, furrows, and fur. Heroes of mine such as Tom of Finland, Harry Bush, and Bill Ward ("Drum") forsake the detailing of the complex beauty in ball-bags and concentrate on big cocks. Balls in their artwork are treated over simplistically, as minor globes supporting the much-desired and sought-after hard-on. I give a fuller, more finely and richly detailed picture of the glories in intricately-wrought testicles and the satchel that encases them. I will painstakingly re-create the particulars of the variations in size, shape and texture that a man's nuts can assume, depending on his state of arousal, his state of mind and the amount of heat being generated between the thighs of a stud displaying a big set of danglers. Balls vary as much as cocks, and can all too often be overlooked … but never by this man's eyes!

I was in the gym last week and my eyes were given a delicious treat of a low-slung pair of plums, covered with platinum fur. The guy was coming out of the showers. It's a basically straight gym so he covered his hard wet body with a towel. Six feet tall, a nordic powerhouse body, and no hair above the waist, only on his downy-coated legs. And those balls! He walked towards me, eyes downcast, feeling my own eyes on him. His nuts swung at least two or three inches below the towel. He probably thought they were covered, but they were heated and hanging low. I never saw his cock…who cared? Those balls had me beating off for days.

The most amazing pair of balls I ever saw or played with were on a guy named, impossibly, "Paulie". His real name: Paul DeMarco, Brooklyn Italian. They love giving

each other nick-names that are uniquely and sometimes comically descriptive like Fat Johnny, Louie the Log, or Bingo Bang. Paulie was the least appropriate name for this spitfire Ginzo, but he later told me they gave him that name because he had girl's eyelashes and a woman's full mouth.

Paulie is pouty-lipped trash. Five-seven or so. Thick, hairy Ginzo legs. A bowlegged strut bending forward at the waist. Coffee-colored skin, shiny and flawless as his toothy grin. Coiled black curls frame his irresistibly arrogant handsome face. A natural athletic body, hairy only form the waist down. Like a centaur. His nipples were in perpetual erections. Hard brown pellets free of any hair. Only a "lovetrail" of black tufts coiled from his navel to his cock. His long armpit hairs were more like beards. The only flaws were his fingernails…short, stubby and never very clean. Who gives a fuck when the rest is so goddamned edible?

Paulie visits my neighbor Gary across the street. My living room and studio windows face Gary's bedroom and kitchen. Through the leaves of a dying sycamore tree, I've seen my neighbor Gary drag home scores of pretty street trash. Gary seems partial to quasi-straight looking Italians: Paulie to a "T". I saw Paulie sitting on the entrance steps to Gary's building. Six stone steps leading to a long stone walkway into the foyer. Paulie had cut-off denims on that were so short they barely came below his balls. Your typically arrogant, cocksure piece of Ginzo flesh.

I have almost equally obsessive love of legs as I do of balls. Paulie had the pleasant power and beauty of Italy in his hairy limbs. I got my binoculars. I placed myself carefully so as not to be seen. I zeroed in on Paulie's legs. His parted thighs let a slash of white shorts show under his cut-offs. I couldn't believe that he hadn't padded them…with oranges!

Paulie was airing his balls in the slowly cooling July night air. The streetlight was just to the right, above him, lit his balls beautifully. His danglers pressed his cock forward, like a pillow under a royal scepter. He smoked. He slowly scissored his thighs open and closed, letting the breeze air his nuts. I switched off my living room lights and leaned closer to the window. Every inch closer meant a better view. He wiped sweat off his brow. His armpits showed the thick whorls of black sweat-catching fur. I had to have it. Now.

I took an icy cold beer from the fridge and went to the bedroom. I turned on the A.C. and set it on high so it'd be ready for us. I sat on my front steps, sipping the sweaty can, hoping for a sip of Paulie's sweaty can and balls: "Cannon balls", I thought and smiled. That's what they reminded me of…big, hard, round suckers.

It took him all of two minutes to notice my stare. He nodded a half-grin. I toasted. No one on the street. Anyone with an air conditioner was asleep in front of it. We had the block to ourselves. He waived me over. I crossed the street. Sat next to him. His heated flesh smelled riper than week-old strawberries. And even more succulent. "Paulie", he extended his wide palm. I shook and told him my name. "Sip?" I asked him. "Man, could I ever use that, "He grinned and showed me that white slash of a smile. His long eyelashes were as black and shiny as the coils under his arms. He drank and I watched the corded muscles of his neck flexing as he swallowed deep. "Great…what'd summer be without beer, right?" I heard the nervousness in my voice. "You know Gary…upstairs?" he asked me. "For years.. I see him on the street and at the bar down the block…that student bar. But we're not like close friends or anything…just neighbors." I was rambling. He smiled, and I handed him the beer again after taking a sip. "Zat mean you ain't gay…like us? he asked, warmth radiating in his face…and lust. I thanked The God of Balls for making him available. "I wouldn't be sitting next to you if I weren't, " I relaxed. "Good…got more beer upstairs?" he stood up, adjusting those moose balls in his short drawers. "Yep…and the A.C. is on."

"Piss first," he said. My bathroom is right inside the hall of my apartment .. first door you see. I walked down the hall to the kitchen to get us beers. I had just opened them and set them on the slate-topped table by my sofa when Paulie was back. Fast pisser, I thought. Then I saw his briefs flopping out the back pocket of his shorts. Naked under there… he'd seen my staring at his cotton covered balls. Fast worker this man. We exchanged more small talk and toasted to beer. Then he spread his legs and leaned back on the sofa. Jesus.. they flopped out, one on either side of the crotch-seam of his shorts!

"I'm sorta famous for 'em…ain't they somethin'?", he beamed down his huge low-slung gorilla balls. "I was jumpin' a mailbox when I was about fifteen, landed on my nuts. Worse fuckin' pain I ever fuckin' felt." He was scratching the ballsack

on the longer left one now. Making me drool. "They swelled up the size of oranges. Doctor said they'd heal OK and the swelling would go down…no real damage, "cept they didn't deflate much and the weight of all that fluid in there while they was healing stretched the shit outa the sack…lookit this." He tugged and some more and pulled out a fist of ballskin! I was in testicle paradise! He tugged some more and both balls were hanging out the side of his shorts. And there was still a hefty bulge in there…was his cock as "deformed" as his gorilla balls?

I ran ecstatic hungry fingers over the shaggy hairs at the base of his ball bag. They churned, those big plums, at the mere touch of my fingertips. He leaned back on the sofa, proud and brazen, sighing as his balls flopped about in my hands. Then the seam of his shorts tented. His cock-head was slinking out of the foreskin on his fat dark meat. I softly stroked his balls. His cock was the perfect match to his low-slung hefty balls. Veined, dark, thick and dribbling nature's best lube at the piss-slit. "Mmmmm", he sighed, "yuh gut the touch, Rich…magic fingers…nice and gentle…slow…I need a lover with a slow hand, "he softly sung the Pointer Sisters" song for me as his cock swelled to it's full pride.

He tugged open his shorts and let my eyes feast on the black nest of curls that wreathed the base of his hard shaft. That he had no body hair on his torso made his wiry briar patch all the more provocative…a bramble bush in the midst of an ven piss-soaked and swollen-purple they were the most beautiful pair of danglers I'd ever seen or sucked. My boner told him how much I loved them. empty field. A field with deep hard furrows of muscle… cof fee-colored skin and with out a freckle or blemish. He knew he was choice. He whipped his cock upwards, out of the fly of his shorts, let ting his balls dangle out the leg, into my hands. I pressed my lips to the furry skin on his balls; more sighs, and his cock throbbed into the air in approval. I took both balls in my mouth, almost gagging on the oversized globes. I nursed back on the long sack and he groaned in delighted agony. His cock let out another stream of lube seep which seeped down the shaft. I rolled his balls around in my mouth. I was stunned at the size and weight of the fuckers. He grinned at my awe-struck eyes. "Big…I don't tell lies do I?" He lay back now, relishing the licking and sucking I was giving his balls. Then he said, "Let 'em go…I wanna show yuh sumpthin'." He slipped out of his shorts, then lay back on the sofa, legs spread into the air. He took both balls in one hand. With the other hand he parted his butt-cheeks and opened his shit-hole with one finger. Then he pressed his big balloon balls up into his asshole! I was amazed. He didn't even wince with pain. That tight little hole must have been squeezing the shit out of those meaty danglers! His cock stood straight in the air, obviously delighted at the pressure on his balls.

"Wild huh? Fuckin' wild, ain't it?" he beamed at me. The sight of this hot Ginzo stud, cock hard, with his balls up his ass, made me crazed. "Now…suck 'em out…easy though…only so much pain I can take." I bent to his black hairy hole and pressed my lips to his pink pucker. I licked at first, gently opening the hole with my saliva. I then stared munching and nursing that hole. He sighed and bobbed on the sofa. Then suddenly out popped one ball, then the other and my mouth was filled with them again. This time the flavor was manhole-scented ! Man, I almost shot my load in my shorts. I tugged off my clothes, never leaving the valley of his hairy thighs, never letting those bloated beauties fall from my mouth.

He slappped his meat against my face while I sucked his balls. He was getting more excited by the minute. "Shove 'em up my ass again…easy-like, "he whispered. I pressed them, one at a time to his split-slimy slit. They went in as if his hole had sucked them up with a vacuum hose. "Now…getcher cock in my ass, too…fuck me wit' my balls up my ass…I fuckin' cream fuh that!" He was glistening with sweat. Smelled as great as only a Ginzo stud in summer can smell. I spit on my cock and aimed it at his tuft-coated fuck pipe. "Yeah…can do a lotta damage wit' a piece like dat," he was panting in anticipation of my cock in his asshole. Balls above and balls below, my cock was in a testicle hero sandwich! His balls rubbed the top of my shaft while my own swung below. The sack of skin around his balls stretched every time I plowed into his shit-chute. He winced and moaned but his hard-on never slacked. He watched me slam into him, his ball-sac against my cock hairs. The flapping around the base of his cock made him even more excited. I pumped harder and deeper, causing his cock to be pulled even more rapidly by his ballsack. Suddenly the cum just shot spontaneously out of his piss-hole . His ass gripped my cock and his balls. He howled in excruciating agony-ecstacy. Gobs of thick Italian cream splatted onto his drum-taut tummy. I slid out of him, not wanting to shoot my load inside his ass. wanting to shoot my load inside his ass.

"I kin cum again, y'know…gimme that big porker o'yers, "He reached for my cock. It was sore to cum. He rubbed our two cocks together, the juices of his ass still coating mine. "Here…shove these up yer ass, "he grinned as he pressed his swollen aching nuts against my asshole. I let him do it so I wouldn't hurt those hairy sugar-pears. I felt them roll up inside me. He lavished hand-held love all over my hard-on. He was still hard and throbbing, moaning at the feel of my ass-ring clutching his balls. I couldn't hold back any longer. I shot and the love-muscle in my ass squeezed tight around his balls. He shot again from the pressure on his gorilla balls. They flopped out as soon as I finished cumming. I felt drained, but I was still so turned on by this man that I was club-hard, still ready for more of him.

I looked down at his balls and they were so swollen and

purple I was certain I had done severe damage to them when my ass clamped down on them. "Hell, no! That dark color means they had a damnnn good time!", he reassured me, "they jes' need coolin' off, piss on 'em babe." He stood on the floor, facing my still hard cock as I lay back on the sofa. His cum-balls swung in the air between his thick thighs. I spit on my piss-hole and rubbed it to tease piss out. In seconds I aimed my hard gusher at his balls and soaked them with piss. His grinning sighs told me how good it felt. I sure as hell knew how good they looked! Even piss-soaked and swollen-purple they were the most beautiful pair of danglers I'd ever seen or sucked. My boner told him how much I loved them.

"Got some ice water?" he asked. His hard-on stared at me and his balls swung as he angled his hips at me. "Arrogant fuck. "In a glass?" I asked, standing beside him. "With ice," he gripped and squeezed my bone. "Cumming up," I went to the kitchen. When I got back, he was squatting on the slate-topped table in the middle of the living room. His balls touched the cool surface of the slate. "Yeah…feels good, that cool stone. Slip the glass under my balls, babe." I gently lifted his nuts and let them float in the cold water. "Yeeeaahh…much better…be as good as new in a few minutes." I stirred his balls slowly in a glass, soothing and cupping and caressing them. I went down on his hard-on. I stirred and slurped, and he sighed with delight. "Mmmm…coolest blow-job in town, huh?" he chuckled. The skin of his ballsack responded to the cold by folding in on itself, protecting those luscious Tootsie Pops from the icy water. Like a leathery tennis ball, the sack rolled into a fat hard sphere. His cock was fucking my mouth while I rubbed his balls. "Get it good an' hard…time for our balls to get hitched together, babe." I nursed his mule meat, trying to figure out what he had in mind. "On yer knees…on the sofa, babe." he whispered. I obeyed without thinking, but I was hoping. He took a shoelace from his Reebok and reached under my ass for my balls. He tied a tight knot around the top of my satchel and then lashed his balls to mine in another knot. His big bull's balls dangled much lower than mine. I could feel his long dong snacking across the crack of my butt. "Wit our nuts chained together like dey are, ev'ry time I pull ow…suck'em out…easy though… only so much pain I can take." back outa yer ass, yer balls will be pulled back and slap against mine… sweetest tease in the world.

His cock pried my butt open in one slow slide inside. Man, what a fuckin' hog on him! And those big danglers slapped against mine…he was right. The intense pain of the slapping was La Dolce Morte… "sweet death". He slid his cock out slowly…slowly, tugging on my balls as his sack wrenched mine backwards. God, I wanted more…that old hurt-so-bad feeling of raw lust. Then deep into me…ramming his cock and slapping his balls against mine. Ache. Gnawing pain. Tormenting, piercing hunger. He could bang my balls all night. I was past pain into a fierce pit of complete absorption into him. His balls were my balls. Cock-to-ass…he was <u>in</u> me. He <u>was</u> me. The pain in my balls became so white-hot I was sure I was cumming, but that was only the illusion of aching rapture. Faster and deeper he plowed, and when he pulled back, completely out of my ass, my balls strained at the tether. Then he'd plow back in real fast, slamming our balls n yer knees…on the sofa, babe." he whispered. I obeyed…he took a shoelace from his Reebok and reached under my ass for my balls. He tied a tight knot around the top of my satchel and then lashed his balls to mine in another knot. together. Each time he pulled out, my cock bent back from being pulled by my ballsack. Just like his cock throbbed when I had his balls up my asshole. I was more him every second, filled with him in mind and body. Finally I felt him cumming, and he pulled out.

His cumming flew onto my ass cheeks and gushed down onto our wedded balls. I shot and shot and shot…never even touching my cock. I was fueled by the man's balls pulling on mine, making my cock wave like a victory banner. My cum sprayed in all directions as my cock flapped and shot into the air. I collapsed on the sofa, soaked with our juices. He lay on top of me, his cock still erupting it's last drops onto the base of my spine. Our balls were still entwined, blazing with pain. I felt tears raging out of me…relief, frenzy, and deep, deep satisfaction. He reached over the slate-topped table and took the remaining ice from the glass that had cooled his balls. He rubbed the ice between our thighs, cooling both satchels. His touch made me want more, even though I was certain I couldn't cum again. I felt his deft fingers untie us. Another ache went through me…the ache of parting from him…becoming myself again. "Roll over babe," he patted my ass. I rolled onto my back. He lay next to me…sixty-nine position. "Lemme soothe them bobbers," as he cupped my nuts. He rubbed gently, kissing, licking and reviving the sensation to my cum-drained, numb balls. The sack loosened in his hot hands, loving his fondling. We lay there for God-knows -how-long, each caressing the other's danglers. Never in my life, before or since have I eaten, kissed or been fucked by bigger, better balls. After many nights of Paulie and bell-ringing pains with our balls, I was certain mine had grown. Such is the delightful illusion a great pair of balls can create.

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Drummedia worth the $11.95 cover price. The remaining 60 pages or so are bonus material.

Butt Boy Takes First Place by Joseph W. Bean

The lead item in this month's media is a cassette, not a video cassette, a musical recording. It comes from Thrust Recordings, and it is called Feel the Music by Butt Boy. I first ran into the tape at a friend's house in Los Angeles. although I had already heard of it earlier. In LA, I listened to a few minutes of the music, and it seemed to be everything I had heard it was: cool music for dungeon and playroom use. There are very few words in the tape--none that matter, which is good if you're playing while it's on-but there's about an hour of original music. Not being a trained critic of modern popular music, I won't try to categorize the Butt Boy music as to type, but I will tell you that I tested it as play scene music. I found it supportive and pleasant, my boy liked hearing it while he was tied up, lying on the bed (while I was writing). The music didn't get in the way for either of us when I stopped writing and starting playing with him either.

Final analysis: I like Feel the Music, and find only one fault with it. It isn't long enough. Even with the cassette player set to replay sides A and B alternately, one hour of music repeats too soon for my taste. The answer, of course, is for Butt Boy to get busy making more tapes that I can put in my 6-Cassette Pioneer deck to have six or even nine hours of uninterrupted Butt Boy sound to play in.

If you ever need dungeon music, or would just like to listen to the kinds of musical sounds that feel masculine, erotic, and a touch dirty, you should get a copy of Butt Boy's Feel the Music. The address is Thrust Recordings, P. O. Box 29212, Dallas, TX 75229. Price and shipping charges were not available to me at press time. Sorry.

Bondage Recruits.

Outbound Press, the publishers of Bound & Gagged magazine have put out a very interesting series of special pubs. The series began, I believe, with the Classic Bound & Gagged volume which was composed of the contents of the earliest (out of print) issues of the magazine. After that, there were two numbered volumes under the title Pledges& Paddles, both of which were very good for the specific category of

Outbound has produced a new--and I'd say much better-- special publication:

Recruits. The stories are all you would expect from B&G under this special title. They're hot, and they have just enough of a ring of authenticity to do the job such stories set out to do. Better than the military bondage and leathersex tales, however, is the art. Sean, Malex, and Leo are well represented here by good images that could easily stand alone and still get you up and off. In fact, some of the pictures are permitted to stand alone by being collected, along with some interesting (but less powerful) photos, in an "Art & Photo Scrapbook." But, for my money, the best of this good volume is the new work by R. A. Shultz. Four new Shultz pieces in one magazine makes the book

Urban Slaves.

The relatively new newsletter, Metropolitan Slave, arrived on the market around the time of International Mr. Leather in May. When I first saw it, I didn't notice that the publisher was also already offering A Metropolitan Slave Anthology. Obviously, thesug-gestion of the titles

From Bondage Recruits. Illustration by R.A. Shultz. so. The book and the magazine (newsletter?) are the more or less simultaneous offspring of the publisher's fertile and perverted imagination.

At first, A Metropolitan Slave Anthology was offered in a spiral bound format. Now, with new illustrations by "Beau," the anthology has been reformatted into a standard paperback book form. Oddly, the price is unchanged: $14.95

About the book's contents: First the stories are wildly fantastic, and admittedly so. You couldn't do some of these things even if you were cruel enough and stupid enough to want to. All the same, you can fantasize about them, and you very likely do. Here's how author-publisher "jeb" puts it: "Though

the book is very unsafe in the descriptions of totally fantasy S&M stories, I still consider this safe sex--you just jerk off reading it. What could be safer? Frankly, for those who equate S&M with a special love, this is not the book." (Couldn't be put better!) As for Beau's illustrations for the new edition, they're rude, crude, distorted, perverted, and perfect for the biases and styles of the text.

By now, A Metropolitan Slave Anthology is probably available in many bookstores around the country. If it is not yet available in your neighborhood. write to the publisher: Selective Publishing, Inc., P. O. Box 4597, Oak Brook, IL 60522-4597

One Million Weaknesses.

As you have probably noticed over the years, my point of view about the space in this column boils down to this: If you can't say something at least somewhat nice, don't waste space on the media in question. Once in a while, though, something not-good (or double-plus not-good) gets under my skin, and has to be mentioned. Here's an exception.

One Million Strong, a book of the 1993 March on Washington for lesbian, gay, and bi equal rights, with text by Lisa Pope and photos by Cece Cox and Lisa Means, is a pitiful thing! Despite all the reverse discrimination that is practically demanded by the rules of political correctness these days, and even allowing that there could be some corrective value in all that (which I don't feel is true, anyway!), One Million Strong goes a million or more steps past the last reasonable boundaries. This book misses the point all diversity of together, giving the impression that the sexually different populations of America are almost entirely female, with female leadership, striving only for defined weakly feminist goals. Wrong, ladies. There are gay men. there are bisexual men, there are gay fathers, there are male leaders and activists. What's more there are faeries and leather men and leather women, and plenty of other people who are not suburbanite replicas of heterosexuals.

Action alert: Take this as an opportunity, and as a reminder to seek out other opportunities. Write to Alyson Publications, 40 Plympton Street, Boston, MA 02118, and tell them you don't want to see more books that brush leatherfolk and others into the margins (or completely out of sight) while pretending to represent "everyone." Then keep your eyes open for other books, movies, videos, etc. whose producers need the same reminder. I'm libertarian enough to say anyone has a right to publish anything they like-even wrongheaded , After-the-Ball tripe--but I don't think they should be left to feel that they are being appreciated by their entire potential market while doing so. Enough said.

caricature and the text. The former, it seems, is much better informed, the latter rather sketchy, and maybe off center. Nonetheless, this is one of those "small" art books that will provide large and repeated pleasures for a long time to come. Put it on your coffee table and watch your friends and guests cruise through the pages with enjoyment, and sharing that enjoyment with you.

Members of the Tribe is published by Alyson, meaning it will be widely available wherever Jesse Helms and his friends are not censoring the bookstore stock. 127 pages, $24.95.

Badboy Books Revisited.

Badboy, that endless font of gay male and leatherman fiction publishing (largely reprints) is at it still. Among the recent Badboy titles worth investigating are Big Shots, Lewd Conduct, and the continuing "Alex Kane" series.

In John Preston's Alex Kane books, the title character is a sort of gay super hero (no super powers) who is part Hercule Poirot, part Rambo, and part Phil Andros. The books are already classics, and the Badboy editions just give them a new lease on life. Say "thanks" to Badboy by picking up all the Kane books if that sort of thing interests you at all. You'll be glad to have Sweet Dreams, Golden Years, Deadly Lies, and Secret Danger. Somehow, I missed volume 4, Stolen Moments, but I'd be willing to bet it's as good as the rest. Number 6, Lethal Silence, should be out by the time this issue of Drummer hits the streets.

Drummer readers, and leathermen everywhere, know and appreciate Aaron Travis. His Slaves of the Empire has been feeding leather sex fantasies for a decade (and has been available in a Badboy book since 1992). More recently, Drummer published the author's "Beirut" (issues 121-124, 1988). The entirety of "Beirut" is now presented by Badboy as half of a new book called Big Shots. The other half of Big Shots, also by Travis, is "Kip," originally serialized in Stroke. "Kip" is good reading, but having a lasting edition of "Beirut" is more than enough reason to own Big Shots (especially at just $4.95!).

Lewd Conduct, the last piece of Badboy publishing to be praised here this month, is a collection of stories by John Rowberrry. Are you scratching your head a bit? Rowberry is no ordinary mortal; he is one of the original parents of gay male leathersex fiction. The 13 stories in this book are mostly (if not all) reprints, many of them from early issues of Drummer and Mach. Take a look at leathersex past by reading John Rowberry's Lewd Conduct. At the very, very least, it's a refreshing dip into yerster-thinking. At most, it'll get your dick and brain in synch very pleasurably.

Oops & Cumming Distractions

First-I didn't get the promised Florida stories in this month. Sorry.

Second-

What's cumming up is Larry Townsend: A Celebration of The Maestro of Leather Publishing. (Hope I can get that together for next month!!)

An International Drummer XXXIusive!

ON RUSSO! WHAT A PIECE OF WORK! Rock-hard, handsome , hung, and always horny! He cruised into San Francisco airport like a SMART BOMB! He climbed into my red Ford F-100 pick-up truck. "Hey," he said. "Who-ah!" Ithought.

He tossed his GYM BAG full of SWEATY JOCKS and MUSCLE-MOLDED LEATH-

ERS between us. At 27, 180 pounds, this YOUNG BROOKLYN-BORN "GANGSTA" is the kind of WHITE-BOY BODYBUILDER whose SWEATY PITS and BULGING CROTCH make you want

BY JACK FRITSCHER Inside info special to DRUMMER

to shove your accelerator to the floor.

"You ought sell your jockey shorts," I said. "And your socks, jocks, and toilet paper."

"I do," he said. (Never kid a kidder.)

BLOCKBUSTER DON stripped his tank top off his broad shoulders. TWEAKED TITS ON BIG SUCKABLE MEATY PECS. The left one TATTOOED! His neck is a column of muscle thick as an engorged cock. He tossed me his tank top, sweet-tasting, I tell you, when I sniffed his warm summer 'PIT SWEAT.

He laughed.

I laughed.

We both goddam laughed.

Don Russo's sense of humor puts a man at ease. HAT A FUCKING SEX BOMB!

None of the 'Roid'Growth-Hormone "attitude " that usually spoils the DROPDEAD GORGEOUS. This dude is human, friendly, playful, approachable. You could take him

I drove him north, through San Francisco, up across the Golden Gate Bridge to the Palm Drive Video Ranch fifty miles up the 101 Freeway. I'd seen his movies. In the flesh, he was as hot as on screen. City-bred, now living in Boston, where he works as the very friendly "BOUNCER" at the PEARLY GATES of the--what else?--PARADISE BAR, Don tripped out on the Northern California country-side spreading out in the summer sunset.

"Faster," he said.

"Harder! Deeper!" I wished.

We sped up behind an 18-WHEELER TRUCK.

ruise alongside him," Don said. He had shot three videos for CLOSE-UP CONCEPTS of L. A. in the preceding four days. Drug-free, he is, and always raring to go. HE POPPED HIS 501's. HIS DICK BOINKED OUT HARD, THEN BOINKED HARDER.

"It's SHOWTIME," he said.

"You're a fucking exhibitionist," I said steading my pick-up alongside THE TRUCKER sitting high in his rig.

The next 20 minutes was TEASE-4-2. Me AND the Trucker! No shit! This is true. That trucker suddenly got the POSE-AND EXPOSE TRIP of his life! Men who drive America's highways see just about everything. This trucker trucked right with us. Trucking can be a fuck-ing bore, so he enjoyed the free show OGGLING DON'S PUMPED ABS, PECS, BIG-GUN ARMS, AND RAGING-BULL HARD-ON FISTED UP TO THE MAX. We drove parallel till I hit the gas. The trucker blew his horn three times in salute and probably went home and fucked his old lady silly. Good thing gals don't know what guys are thinking ! hat kind of SEX MAYHEM is 8 n n Don Russo's trademark. Too bad for me. As a profes- sional video-maker, I never touch the talent. Keeping the sexual tension of NOT DOING THE DEED makes the SEX END UP ON SCREEN! How we artists "suffer" for art. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.

"Russo," I said. "When I was editor of DRUMMER, I'd have PUNCHED YOU UP on the COVER and in the CENTERFOLD. In fact, because the movie option on my leather-muscle novel, SOME DANCE TO REMEMBER, is on, I'd re-write the part of the southern blond bodybuilder so you could play the part. It's just too bad Robert Mapplethorpe never got you in front of his camera."

"His photos are awesome."

"We were lovers for three years. Something most people don't know:

Don Russo his first ever magazine cover was DRUMMER."

("The Mapplethorpe" talent I did fuck!)

"I rounded up Robert's San Francisco models. You'd have been great in those LEATHER-HOOD AND PISS PIC-TURES we shot out at the BUNKERS by the Golden Gate."

"PISS is one of my main turn-ons. Can you shoot me pissing?"

"Glad to. But we can't put it in the final video." "Shit."

"Yeah." t Palm Drive, we spent four days BURN-ING UP THE GYM, THE WOODS, and a COUPLE OF DON'S CO-STARS. PORN-STAR STEVE PARKER broke his toes in all the excitement, after having shot the PDV video LIGHTING RODZ where he shoves METAL SOUNDS AND CATHETERS down his ENOR-MOUS COCK. We had to find Don a replacement.

One phone call. To a gay friend's straight brother. Problem solved. STEVE THRASHER is, truly, straight: A TOUGH CEMENT CONSTRUC-TION WORKER who is California -progressive enough to be open to anything. "Just because I made this video," Thrashersays, "doesn't mean I'm gay. It means I'm laid-off work." His wife said, "Honey, just as long as we pay the rent." What a couple!

"Don," Isaid. "Thrasher's, like, STRAIGHT."

"Nobody's perfect," he said.

ARRIVED THRASHER SWEATY AND DUSTY from his summer softball league. The two had never met. I threw them in front of the camera. WHAT HORSEPLAY between TWO JOCKS: ONE WITH BODY-BUILDER MUSCLE; ONE WITH CONSTRUCTION BRAWN. They fucking tore into each other. Half-way through the shoot, BEATING RUSSO with THRASHER with HEAVY CHAINS, the GUT-PUNCHING shouting got so loud and rowdy, I had to quiet them down. Maybe for both of them, ONE HOMOMASCULINE, ONE STRAIGHT, something unspoken was on the line. (Don't ask me. I'm only the director.) What went on in their heads when DON FORC- IBLY SAT HIS BUTTHOLE DOWN ON THRASHER'S FACE and ordered this YOUNG MAN, SOME WOMAN'S HUSBAND, to tongue out his ass! All I know is that Thrasher shot his BIG UNCUT COCKLOAD!

"What a trip!" Don said. "I've never been on screen with a straight guy before."

"I'm not sure what 'straight' means any-more ," I said.

Don slept in our guest room. Showered. Clean. Fresh. Muscles glistening with sweet summer sweat.

PERSTAR, BRUTUS, who. besides appearing on DRUMMER'S COVER more than any other man, is a CHAMPIONSHIP BODYBUILDER contestant with a MASSIVE DICK measuring close to TEN INCHES, and a VOICE that could do "Shakespeare in the Park." Brutus also lives with a woman. (Go figure!) He's never before appeared on screen with another man ACTUALLY having sex. When Brutus arrived, lintroduced him to Don. THE BRUTE-STER took one look ("Just one look! That's all it took!"), grasped the handshake, and pulled DONNY RUSSO TO HIM PECS TO PECS.

DON RUSSO HAS THE KIND OF FACE & BODY & DICK & MUSCLE THAT MAKE STRAIGHT MEN FORGET THEY'RE MARRIED!

Think of what he does to gay men! My "professional piety" of abstinence from SEX WITH MODELS made me a candidate for one of those LEATHER STRAIGHT-JACKETS that "ROB" offers for sale out of Amsterdam, London, and San Francisco!

Shit! Shoot!

The Palm Drive set literally STEAMED. The mirrors clouded up. The still camera lens fogged up. Sweat beaded up on the lens of the Panasonic video camera . BRUTUS AND RUSSO WENT AT EACH OTHER LIKE TERRITORIAL LIONS! I'm not sure it was acting. I think I was directing a MUSCLE TUSSLE, FIGHT. FOR-THE-TOP docu-MEN-tary. The title was inevitable: WHEN BODY. BUILDERS COLLIDE! on Russo is quite a gentleman. He speaks only good about his many co-stars and directors, especially JOHN STEVENS of CLOSE-UP CON-CEPTS , MIKAL BALES of ZEUS, and the infamous legend LARRY TOWNSEND for whom he has posed for a PHOTOBOOK OF BONDAGE. Russo would make a perfect INTERNATIONAL MR DRUMMER. He has the COMMUNITY CON-CERN , the POISE, the LOOKS, the COMMAND

PRESENCE, the articulate VOICE that fairly drips with Brooklynese when he assumes what he calls his "Guido, the Mafia Gangster " persona. He's dedicated to sex. And-- sorry, fellas--to his lover. B-U-T…that doesn't mean he can't date when he's on location. If you say your prayers to HERCULES, APOLLO, and DIONYSIUS every night, you might catch bires!

INQUIRING MINDS NEED TO KNOW: Russo causes traffic accidents. Men (and women) fall up stairs.

Restaurants go quiet when he enters and all heads turn. But he is unaffected. He is so secure in his BOUYANT MASCULINITY he can make fun of the usual HANDSOME MUSCLE-GOD conceits. He's quick to tell funny stories about himself, like, when he and his lover were shopping in a Boston mall for dishes, and a woman shopper said, "Young man, your wife is a very lucky woman." Don grabbed his lover's arm, and replied, "Darlin', this man is my 'wife!"" fter four days, after three veryVeryVERY separate videos, and after more than 500 gorgeous color photographs, I was exhausted, and DON WAS STILL READY FOR MORE when the time came for his flight back to New York.

So, hey, Bud, you go buy a video camera! FUCK! It's really HARD to edit Don Russo's videos. My dick is raw from watching the footage! We entertainers who wrap the meat for you in videos and in DRUMMER have to get off too! So I DO IT in the EDITING which stokes the temp up for you, because I can't DO IT on the set. I mean: You try to direct and shoot and design a HOT, COHERENT, IN-FOCUS, MULTI-ANGLED video, with LIVE-ACTION SOUND, while your dick is crawling hard down your leg and you are too professional to toss the camera into the corner, and say, "Fuck video! COME HERE, STUDNUTS!"

OH YEAH! DON'S PERSONAL TURN-ONS, besides

PISS, are HEAVY BALL PLAY, MUSCLE WORSHIP, COCK-SUCKING, SWEATY GYM WORKOUTS, TICKLE -TORTURE, WHIP-PING , 'PIT SNORTING, GUT-PUNCHING, SPITTING, ASS-LICKING, TIT-PLAY, constant JERK-OFF, and HE'S TOTALLY PERVERSATILE!

HUW.RARY!

Plus! DON IS A TWIN! Can you stand it? HIS BROTHER is a STRAIGHT PROFES-SIONAL BODYBUILDER living in Europe! (And, NO, sorry! Here's THE SCOOP: they neverhad S-E-X!) Let's hear it for THOSE

GENES, gay and straight! © Jack Fritscher (Text and photographs)

DITOR'S NOTE: Don Russo's PALM DRIVE VIDEOS are: 1) ROUGH NIGHT AT THE JOCK STRAP GYM with THRASHER; 2) WHEN BODYBUILDERS COLLIDE with BRUTUS; and HOMME ALONE (GONNA FUCK YOU UP!). Jack Fritscher's classic 90's novel about the Golden Age of the 1970's, SOME DANCE TO REMEMBER, is available at bookstores, from Palm Drive, as well as directly from INTERNATIONAL DRUMMER'S DESMODUS, INC. 562 pages, $11.

Having gone to the "old, family doc" for a lingering cold, Asa found himself almost naked and very vulnerable in front of an extremely handsome stud of a physician. Soon the not-so-innocent examination turned into submission, bondage and hot medical-style sex. Yet the young man's ordeal is far from over, for he has more to experience from the masterful Doctor MacGregor… and faded jeans. He carried Asa's hiking boots in one hand and a topcoat draped over the other forearm. He wiggled the boots onto Asa's bare feet and laced them tightly. "The coat is mine, so it should just about cover you from neck to ankles," the doctor said. He held it up by the collar.

Naked, Asa slipped his arms into the sleeves. The silk lining cooled his burning skin.

Gingerly pressing Asa's throbbing rod against his belly, MacGregor whipped a row of loose stitches on either side of the fat member. Asa felt above all the pleasure of the MD's warm, gloved fingers on the underside of his cock.

When MacGregor finished and removed his hand, the pressure remained. Asa peeked at his crotch. Twenty zigzag stitches stretched the loose skin on either side of his cock and tacked it to the skin of his belly. The pressure of MacGregor's fingers had been replaced by the pressure of his own skin.

MacGregor dabbed away the trickles of blood that had collected in Asa's pubic hair. The doctor tested his work. It was strong; it would hold.

MacGregor left the room. When he came back he wore a plain, dark green sweatshirt

THEGO HI

The hem of the coat brushed the toes of his boots.

"Good," MacGregor said. Kneeling, he buttoned the coat.

In the full-length mirror on the back of the door, Asa barely recognized himself. The outrageously oversized top-coat made his head look small. His brown hair stood His straight up. hands, with their frippery of black silk, were no longer human. He opened the coat as a girl would raise her skirts, and nearly fainted at the sight of his proud pole. Even in its prison of thread it throbbed hungrily. His aching balls crowded at the base of it as though they were ready to fire.

A creaky elevator took Asa and the doctor to the subterranean parking garage. The lukewarm air smelled strongly of mildew and more vaguely of new paint.

By Matthew Walker Illustration By R.A. Shultz

DRUMMER / 170

The doctor's Trooper was alone in the garage. As Asa climbed into the passenger's seat, the coat fell open. He closed it, but MacGregor reached over and spread it apart, pulling the heavy cloth back along the younger man's hairy thighs until his cock and balls were exposed.

"I like to see my handiwork," the doctor said.

Asa nodded. His cock, still hard, leaked pearls of precome and lubricant on the placket of the overcoat.

A wet snow had come and gone while they'd been in the office. Scraps of it lingered in the shelter of the curbs, but the streets were merely wet. MacGregor kept to the frontage road, waiting patiently for lights that seemed to be timed backwards.

Just after they passed Snelling Avenue, MacGregor glanced at Asa's bare legs and bound cock. He said, "Close the coat now." With a grudging, last-minute flick of his turn signal, he drove into the parking lot of the Roundtree Medical Center. He waved to the slack-jawed attendant at the guard stand.

"Keep your hands in your pockets," MacGregor said, "but make sure you don't pull the coat open." He parked near the building, in a space with his name on it, and switched off the ignition. Tenderly, with an almost fatherly smile, he smoothed Asa's hair. "Trust me. This'll be great."

Asa returned the smile. "It's been great so far, Doctor, Sir."

As Asa stepped gingerly to the pavement, a chilly gust parted the coat and ruffled the hair on his legs. His balls shrank against him for comfort. Keeping his hands in the deep pockets of the overcoat, Asa hugged his arms to his side. He rushed to MacGregor's side.

They entered through the emergency room. The duty nurse-Jill, according to her identification badge-was a young beauty with long straight hair. She gave MacGregor a big countrygirl smile. "Evening, Joel," she said. "What brings you here so late?"

MacGregor put his arm on Asa's shoulder. "This is my cousin. He's in town for the week, and I thought I'd give him a tour of the facilities."

Simpering, Asa hung back to avoid shaking hands. Even in the heavy overcoat, he felt naked. The constant itch in his fingers reminded him that he would never again be an ordinary person.

"Sure," she said, politely ignoring Asa's aloofness.

"Go ahead. It's a slow night. For once."

The doctor led Asa to the nearest elevator, which they rode to a dark hallway on the top floor. At the end of the hallway was a door with a nameplate that said, "DR. JOEL MAC GREGOR, M.D." MacGregor unlocked the door and switched on the light.

The office was barely large enough for the desk and two visitor's chairs, but it had a private bathroom; through the open door As a could see a sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower stall. Three walls were painted a cool shade of blue and hung with small, framed impressionist posters. Bookshelves covering the fourth wall sagged under volumes of medical lore.

"All the offices on this floor used to be patient rooms," said MacGregor. "They remodeled them when they added the new wing." Pointing toward the bathroom, he said, "You can shit out that water in there. Put up the seat first. When you're done, don't wipe-I don't want infections. Stay put and wait for me."

Asa nodded. "Yes, Doctor." He showed MacGregor his useless hands. "Would you unbutton me?"

MacGregor stooped to open the coat and unlace Asa's boots. With a smile and a pat on Asa's shoulder, he left the office. As a shrugged off the coat and hung it over one of the visitor's chairs.

In the bathroom, Asa raised the toilet seat and squatted over the porcelain. He reached for the buttplug but, remembering the doctor's warning about infection, pulled his hand away. Crouching lower over the bowl, he pushed against the wide smooth plug and shat it out with a burning jab of pain and a loud pop.

The tepid water passed from him in a violent spray, wetting his hairy ass and thighs. When he had nothing left, he was ashamed to realize how little fluid there had been inside him-not more than a quart, surely. He forced out the dregs.

After a few minutes, MacGregor returned. He filled the doorway with his body. "Done?" "Yes, Doctor," Asa whispered.

"Hop in the shower. Make the water good and hot."

Asa obeyed, closing the flimsy white curtain behind him.

Using both his paws, he turned the hot water tap on full and added a little cold to it. The first icy spray chilled him, and he crouched against the far wall. As it warmed he melted into the scalding stream.

Just as Asa reached for the soap, MacGregor called from the other side of the curtain. "Don't touch anything," he said, and a moment later he brushed the curtain aside.

He was naked and hard. Against his pale skin the red fur on his chest and arms and legs seemed lucent. His body was broad and rippled and perfect. At its root his cock was nearly as broad as his wrist, and it tapered only slightly before swelling into the plum-sized unhooded glans.

"Mind if I join you?"

Asa felt like a rabbit blinded by headlights; he couldn't stop staring. "Please," he squeaked.

MacGregor stepped in behind Asa and drew the curtain.

Asa pressed himself against the doctor's furry chest, feeling the rippled muscle of his hairy belly, the monstrous length of his cock, the comforting strength of his arms.

Straddling Asa's legs and drawing close so that the boy's cheeks grasped his hard cock, MacGregor reached for the soap. With lathered hands he caressed the flat expanse of the younger man's chest. As a sank deeper into the doctor's arms and turned his head. Mouth open, he sought some part-any part-of MacGregor's body.

The doctor gently soaped Asa's cock and the stitching that held it in place. The soap burned. MacGregor rinsed his hands and cupped them over the purple head of Asa's cock, letting clear water sluice away the suds. He washed the boy's balls, handling them delicately. Softly he bathed Asa's fingers, again diverting the strong spray with his own hands.

Finally, Asa felt the whole bar of soap slip between his ass cheeks. He humped against it. Impatient, he turned and, standing on his toes, pressed his lips against the doctor's. MacGregor returned the kiss, slipping his tongue deep into Asa's mouth.

Feeling blunt fingers on his nipples, Asa moaned and sucked MacGregor's tongue deeper into him. Careless of his stitches, he moved against the doctor's body. With aching hands he stroked the firm mounds of the doctor's ass. He poked tender fingers into the deep cleft.

"Don't touch."

"Sorry, Doctor."

Asa sank to his knees and came eye to eye with the doctor's thick member. It was beautiful. Pink from the heat of the water. Plump and pulsing. A snarled vein rising in high relief near the base and snaking to the underside.

Asa spared it nothing. He opened wide and stuffed himself with it. It split his throat and gagged him with inches still to go. He worked on what he had of it, slobbering over the head and the soft, yielding underbelly, squeezing the fat head with his throat.

MacGregor moaned. "Relax," he said. "I'm coming in." Cradling Asa's head in his hands, he entered slowly. Asa made himself go limp. The shaft slid smoothly into him, choking him, blocking his air. As soon as he had it all, MacGregor pulled out and slammed back in.

Breathless, Asa reached again for the doctor's butt and dug his fingers into the hard muscle. The movement spurred the MD to a gallop, and Asa greedily slurped the fat pole through its rough progress.

Suddenly, MacGregor pulled out. He turned off the water. "Not just yet. There's more."

Again wearing the boots and overcoat, Asa followed

MacGregor through the labyrinthine hallways of a lower floor. The walls and floor were trendy shades of rose and teal, but the old passageways seemed as cramped and stuffy as an old attic. The acoustic ceilings were yellowed and ancient.

At last they came to a door marked "SUITE 6." Looking both ways to make sure the hall was clear, MacGregor unlocked the door and ushered Asa inside. The doctor locked the door behind them and switched on the lights.

They passed through a reception area the size of a closet and into a small square room with a bed, a toilet, and a small screened-off changing area. An enema room.

MacGregor helped Asa out of the overcoat and onto the high bed. Squatting, he unlaced the boots and set them aside. He held Asa's foot in his lap, stroking it. "I imagine you know how this works, a queer like you.'

Asa blushed. "Yes, Doctor."

"This isn't for pleasure or sport. I need you clean as a whistle for what I have in mind."

On the doctor's orders, Asa lay on his left side with his right knee pulled forward slightly. He kept his eyes on the wall and listened to MacGregor's preparations: the crackle of cellophane, the gush of running water, the smack of wet latex.

Closing his eyes, Asa felt MacGregor's shadow fall over him. A moment later the small nozzle entered him and the flow began. The water was warm, so warm that he felt with perfect sharpness and clarity how deep it went and how full it made him.

The nozzle slipped out. MacGregor said, "You need to keep it for five minutes. Can you?"

"Yes, Doctor," Asa said. "For you I can."

"Good boy."

MacGregor stroked Asa's hair and the back of his neck, and his touch made the time pass. After what seemed an hour, the doctor helped Asa to the toilet.

"Twice more."

They repeated the process, this time with Asa on his right side, facing the doctor. Leaning over from a stool beside the bed, MacGregor kissed Asa's mouth, licked his chin and ears, nipped his tits with his teeth, stroked his bloated belly. The five minutes seemed to end in the blink of an eye.

"Once more."

This time, Asa lay on his back with his legs spread and waited for an eternity while MacGregor made some final preparations in the next room. The water ran clear.

MacGregor led him by the hand into the adjacent room.

At its center stood a surgical table with a glittering chrome base and a black pad on top. The brilliant pool of light in which it sat washed the rest of the room into obscurity.

The table was low; Asa climbed aboard without help.

MacGregor scooted him down so that his ass was even with the end of the table and his legs were hanging uncomfortably in air. The good doctor stretched Asa's hands high above his head and, using cloth bandages, bound them to the side rails. As before, the layers of bandages were gentle but inescapable.

MacGregor kissed Asa. "This will be uncomfortable," he said, "but since there are no stirrups, this is the only way. I'm sorry."

Then, incredibly, Asa felt himself being bent in half.

His legs flipped over his head so that MacGregor could bind them to the side rails just below his hands. As his feeling of helplessness grew sharper, his dick grew stiffer, lurching hard enough to strain the stitches.

MacGregor stepped away, and a moment later the lights came up, so harsh and full that there were no shadows anywhere in the room. The ceiling was high, and on three walls glass panels marked where galleries would be. A video moniter was mounted in the center of each wall, just beneath the windows.

Lower, banks of instruments and rows of cabinets stood against the walls in arrangements that seemed familiar to Asa from old television programs. A video camera on a hefty tripod stood to one side, pointed directly A white trolley with an at his ass. incomprehensible jumble of equipment sat near the table, and just barely within his line of sight was the cable that connected it to a fifth monitor at the head of the table.

From the distant rush of water, Asa knew that MacGregor was scrubbing in an adjacent room. He watched the entrance to the enema room, on his left, and it startled him when MacGregor approached from the opposite side.

The good doctor was naked again, except for rubber gloves and a condom. His fat cock looked fatter in its prison of latex. Asa licked his lips.

"Ready?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Good boy."

With his little finger, MacGregor flipped a switch on a piece of equipment. The wall-mounted video monitors leapt to life, all four showing a Technicolor closeup of Asa's clenching hole. Its gape did not look nearly as obscene as it felt.

From the trolley at the foot of the table MacGregor took a long black tube and a packet of lubricant. He greased the slim end of the tube.

"This is an endoscope," he said. "It's meant to go down your throat and peek inside your belly, but I'm using it for a different purpose."

Two slick fingers entered Asa's ass, and the boy grabbed at them with his hole. MacGregor spread the opening and slipped the tube through. He reached to the trolley and flipped a switch.

"Look at me," he said. "Look at my face and nothing else."

Asa obeyed, staring into the doctor's emerald eyes, though MacGregor's eyes were trained on something above the boy's head. As a resisted the impulse to follow the MD's gaze.

Vaguely, at the edge of his vision, he saw MacGregor stuff the slim tube up him. He could feel clasping fingers inside him, adjusting and shifting the instrument. They moved in a careless, bluff way.

"Now. Look at the screen above you."

Asa twisted his head, looking over his shoulder. In a dancing circle of light in the center of the monitor, he saw the pink, veined interior of his own ass. The slick and moist and smooth walls made for a strange landscape.

The tunnel narrowed to a clenched black star. MacGregor poked his finger in, and Asa saw the digit, fatter than real life, advance toward the tiny camera. Three spread fingers coaxed the hole to admit a minute spot of light. Four, and Asa dimly perceived the breadth of MacGregor's palm on the other

Dizzied by the outrageous view and the strain on his neck, Asa closed his eyes. Then, glancing from monitor to monitor, he watched the progress of the doctor's fingers from inside and out.

Soon Asa had MacGregor's whole hand. The good doctor grasped the scope-a sudden fade to black-and pushed it deeper. When the hand moved away, the view of Asa's tunnel seemed vertiginously long, though it comprised only a few inches.

Without warning, MacGregor lowered the table, and Asa's view of all the monitors suddenly improved. In the monitor to his left, he watched the doctor plump his dick. unroll the condom another centimeter, and take aim. The slick fat pole slid smoothly into Asa's hungry, prestretched bum, and the scope showed it speeding forward like the engine of a bullet train.

Rubber and skin alike stretched taut from the friction of the inward thrust. MacGregor's piss slit opened as though to swallow the tiny camera through the condom.

Wiping sweat from his cheek, MacGregor said, "I hope you don't expect me to believe this the first cock you've had up your sweet twat."

"No, Doctor. But if I'd known … "

MacGregor grinned. "You little slut."

The doctor withdrew slowly so that he would not bring the cable with him. Even so, it shifted slightly against Asa's prostate. The pressure fed the boy's own cock with precome. In the monitor over MacGregor's head, his cock grew millimeter by millimeter as he pulled out.

MacGregor entered with a patience that merited sainthood, but to the endoscope he was the picture of haste. At the end of the thrust he bumped the scope. The image on the screen shook and went black, but when he pulled away Asa saw that the scope had not shifted much.

The doctor managed about a dozen strokes without dislodging the scope. But soon he began to pick up the pace, and the tube snaked willy-nilly around MacGregor's cock. As a gasped from the unexpected pleasure of it, growing woozy as he watched the careening outward progress of the camera.

At last the tube slipped free. MacGregor let it fall and slammed into Asa in celebration. He rode hard, swinging his hips and stretching Asa's hole in every direction. Asa mustered all his strength to clench his asshole around the hard, driving shaft. He begged like a cheap fuckflick whore: "Harder, faster, fuck me, fuck me, please."

With a pair of scissors from the trolley, MacGregor freed Asa's cock. Bearing the freakish frill of black silk, the thick pole leapt up and fell back under its own weight. The wounds seemed to beat with a separate pulse and, for a panicked second, Asa thought he felt them gush blood. The head thumped against the foreskin stitches.

MacGregor lowered the table another inch, so that his cock thrust downward into Asa's hole. The solid head smacked the prostate on every inward thrust. Bolts of cocklube spat from Asa's piss slit. Asa groaned and closed his eyes.

The doctor slapped his thigh. "Open 'em. Keep watching the monitors."

Breathless, Asa obeyed, choosing the monitor over

MacGregor's head so that he could also watch his beautiful Master. The doctor's head dropped back, and the sweat in his beard rolled down his neck. In their nests of damp red curls, his nipples were hard and as big as the tip of Asa's little finger.

Without warning, MacGregor stopped balls-deep. His face twisted and he whispered, "Fuck." A second later, from nowhere, Asa felt himself coming. The feeling raged through his whole body like a lightning strike. His brain and balls and cock exploded all at once.

What seemed like years later, Asa woke to find MacGregor freeing his fingers. His cock was, at last, soft. He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head with sore fingers. His hands and cock were darkened with bruises. His ass ached from its stretching, and he thought he could hear air whistle in and out of his hole.

MacGregor-dressed again in his sweatshirt and jeans-kissed him. "How's your cold?"

"What cold?"

On the way out, MacGregor asked Jill, who was still on duty in the emergency room, to send a janitor to Suite

She gave him a knowing smile. "I'll bet you spilled some coffee in there again."

"In the enema room too."

"You're just too careless, Joel."

"There's where you're wrong." He winked at her.

It was late and a fresh snowfall had begun; traffic was light. Hypnotized by the buildings and lights sliding by, Asa thought of his airless apartment with its view of the dumpsters. In the hope of making it his home he had filled it with things he didn't need: a VCR and stacks of fuck-films, cookbooks he couldn't follow, the king-size bed in his queen-size bedroom, plants that withered with depressing haste. He never wanted to see any of it again.

In ten minutes they were back at the building where MacGregor had his office hours. Asa's Rabbit was alone at the far end of the parking lot. The doctor parked beside it, facing the same way so that Asa could slip from door to door without walking around the car.

"I'll trade you your clothes for my overcoat tomorrow," MacGregor said. "I don't feel like hassling with the guard right now."

Asa felt a tear slide down his cheek. He looked at MacGregor, at the strong line of his jaw and the brilliance of his

CLOSE-UP VIDEO

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Y BALLS FEEL YOU INSIDE ME." beard. The sweatshirt he wore concealed nothing of his perfection. The bulge and curve of his shoulders and chest were plain.

"What's wrong?" MacGregor coaxed the tear onto his finger.

"My balls still hurt. I can still feel you inside me."

He opened his hands. "I can still feel the holes in my fingers and my cock. I can-"

Leaning over the gearshift, MacGregor silenced him with a wet kiss. Even after he broke the kiss, he did not pull away. He spoke with his lips almost touching Asa's. "You think we're going our separate ways, don't you? That you'll never hear from me again? Or that next time you come into the office I'll pretend nothing ever happened?"

Asa turned his head; his vision clouded with fresh, hot tears. "That nurse said … I figured you must have all kinds of guys like me drooling after you."

MacGregor grasped his chin and pulled him back for another kiss. Again, the doctor did not pull away.

"You're dead fucking wrong. I've used that room and that equipment before, sure, but only by myself. I've brought guys in for a little fun on the examination table"-he squinted through the windshield, looking vaguely toward the upper floor where his office was-"but you're the first who's come in as a patient, the first I've taken to the medical center, and the first I've made into a pin cushion."

Drawing closer again, he reached into the gap between buttons and tweaked Asa's nipple. "Now. You're going to get in that car, and you're going to follow me home, and tomorrow you're going to call in sick, and we're going to play hide the sausage all day long. And then, when I can't get it up any more, I'll take you with my hand and we'll start all over. And after thirty-five or forty years, when I'm so arthritic I can't make a fist, then we'll think about stopping

"Now get going. The faster you move your ass, the faster I can use it. It's too late to be fucking around in this neighborhood."

Breathless, Asa said, "Yes, Doctor. Thank you, Sir."

He opened his mouth, begging another kiss. MacGregor obliged him, then lightly smacked his sore cock. "Get going. Doctor's orders."

Driving slowly and keeping Asa in his rearview mirror, MacGregor took the frontage road to Hamline Avenue, then doubled back and drove east on University Avenue, toward the Capitol. The way home took him by it daily, and he rarely looked at it.

But tonight it was flooded with pure white light, and the gathering snow glittered in the corners of the dark windows. Framed in a whiff of mist, the white marble dome rose like a promise of heaven.

END OF STORY

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DRUMMER C L A S ı

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Compare the cost:

Non-Members$470 - $510* Members$185 ($240 outside the U.S.)

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Shaved, uncut, tattoo, pierced, outdoor, nudist, phototrade, Young men / women. Like all races, rubber and to hear your first experiences with any of above. Prefer Audio Tapes to letters. (714) 272-5274. Mark, 1640 Via Pacifica, F- 105, Corona, CA 91720 9207LF

ENGLISH DISCIPLINE

Former English Boarding School Dir., perfect, seeks colonial butts (experienced or novices). 43yo, 5'11", 175#. In excellent physical shape; swim, run, and Nautilus. Reasonable limitations considered - training sessions neither extreme or brutal. Nonetheless, expect a firm, no-nonsense administration of strap, paddle(s); tawse, cane, belt. Or receive strop fully clothed, through sparkling white Jockeys, to the bare ass. Applicants should have a semblence of self-worth, cockiness, and resistance which will be the basis of conversion to respect and obedience. PO Box 14056, Cleveland, OH 44114 3658LF

EROTIC ASIAN MAN

I am hot, healthy, handsome, musc. & tan & early 40's. I want to meet men who can enjoy domination and raunchy sex with an Asian man. If you are hung & in good shape, send photo and letter to PO Box 37901, Honolulu, HI 96837 LF

EUNUCH

Me: Castrated, hairless, athletic body. You: Castrated or genital modification / amputation Photo gets mine. 3529LF ( 🖾

FART-FACE SOUTHERN BOY

Handsome, masculine, boyish, BLND / BL, 34, 5-7, 140#, needs masculine, athletic, muscular , creative Daddy, 25-55, for long, verbal, toilet raunch scenes, stinking feet, farts, cigarettes, snot, spit, tit-play. Boy needs to smell Daddy's long, slow dump. No FEMS, W / S. Phone # preferred 9085 LF

FF AND WS TOP WANTED

GWM, 30, 6'2", 210#, w / t 7" wants yourdick, 8+ and your arm, big and hairy to fill my body's needs. You: 30-50, hairy, stache a must, beard a plus, tattoos a big +. I am F / A / P, G / P, FF, WS, man, tattooed. Contact Wolf, 112 Woodward #3, Ypsilanti, MI 48197. No bullshittersi 9191LF

FF AND WS TOP WANTED

GWM, 30,6'2", 210#, w / 7", wants yourdick, 8+ and your arm, big and hairy, to fill my body's needs. You: 30-50, hairy, stash a must - beard a + - Tattoos a big +I I am F / A / p, G / p, FF, WS, tattooed. Contact Wolf, 112 Woodward #3, Ypsilanti, MI 48197. No Bullshittersl 9191Lf

FIGHT YOUR DAD

Good looking Dad, 51, 6'1", 240#, enjoys rough play with tough son any size. Wrestle, fight, TT, foot play, domination, humiliation. Am a natural Top but also turns on to son who can handle me. Healthy, safe. Letter and photo to: ED 3667LF

FIRM HAND NEEDED by "Y es-Sir" boy , 35yo, 6', 160#, Nordic looks, uncut, right attitude and much to offer to masculine , dark, Dominant Dad. Into BD, SM, toys, shaving, spanking, smoke, hot talk. Need to give pleasure, expand experience. Healthy HIV+, live in D.C. but can travel. Box 3650LF

GERMAN MASTER VISITS USA

Top bear, 47yo, 6'5", 218#, beard, non-smoker, demanding, looking for mashocists / slaves over 35, 'stache / beard, for TT, C&BT, dildoes, bondage , All nationallites. Will visit Tampa, Atlanta, D.C., Baltimore, NY, Boston, SF, LA, Arizona. Offer to 3648

GOLDEN SHOWER BOY WANTED

You be cut, WM, 19-32. With full bladders, let's get so fuckin' perverted. I'm dirty Dad. Be my perverted son. Anything goes as long as it gives us pleasure. Shy? OK, I'll teach. I'm WM, 38, 5'10", 176#, Vernon, 919 Race St., W Dells, WI 53965. Beg for it!! 9247LF

GOOD COCKSUCKER wants firm Top to make my hungry holes his. Hot bottom is 5'8", 155#, HIV-, goodlooking late 40's, in-shape, and wants dick up tight butt and down deep throat. I like rough fucks but also TLC. Groups OK. Your rules, Sirl I live in Oklahoma but fly USA on job. 3711LF

GUT PUNCHING IN NYC

GWM, 29. 6", 200#, BB, handsome, seeks other hot, muscular men into gut punch / kicks, stomach scissors & other ab feats of strength. Boxers, wrestlers, Karate buffs, esp. welcome. I'm tough enuf, are U? Photo / phone to TOM,

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