DRUM MEDIA

Tops and Cops

PORN REVIEWS BY CHRISTOPHER J. HOGAN mances - such as the one given by the gorgeous Will Clarke - but nothing of much interest to the Drummer audience.

The second scene featuring Doug Jeffries and Steve Pierce is quite unlike the rest of "Private Parts." For reasons having to do with a rather silly and unimportant plot device, Pierce is really horny for killer sex with his partner Jeffries. Jeffries doesn't just fuck Pierce. He fucks him with any number of things - his penis, a very large dildo, and some heavy chains. We all know that Pierce can get down and dirty. If you haven't seen his previous work, you could guess as much just by looking at him. Jeffries' performance, on the other hand, is more of a surprise. Jeffries plays the reluctant boyfriend in the video, and he's not famous for kinky performances. On the contrary, he generally excels in the more "romantic" roles. That's what makes it so satisfying to see him jump right into going the extra mile with Pierce.

The fact that Pierce and Jeffries play a couple who like to play a little rough makes the scene even better. The rule of thumb in porn is that the rougher or more extreme the sex involved, the less relationship the men have with each other. There's absolutely nothing wrong with casual or even anonymous sex. In fact, there's a whole lot right with it. Still, it's nice to see something done differen in a video. The novelty alone makes scene more interesting.

Hot Cops 3: The Final Assault!

Centaur Films. Produced by Jan Geniuk and Jack Hazzard. Directed Chip Daniels. Written by Shane Nels Edited by Chip Daniels. Starring M Bradshaw, Steve O'Donnell, K.C. He Max Grand, Tony Brandon, Sw William, Chad Donovan, Kyle McKe Adam Rom, Eric York, and Chip Dans (in a nonsexual role). To order wr Centaur Films, 11684 Ventura Blu Suite 921, Studio City, CA 91604.

From the title, one would think the "Hot Cops 3: The Final Assault!" was t last video of a trilogy. This doesn't see to be the case. In the end, just as a s scene is beginning, the words "to be co tinued" appear on the screen. Despite t cliffhanger, this video doesn't rea depend on a plot. You can see "Hot Co 3" without having seen the first two, a you won't necessarily want to rush of and get the fourth one after seeing the one. That's not to say that "Hot Cops 3" a bad video. It's just not a great one.

Most of the sex in this video is prestandard and the acting in the nonsexu scenes is beyond wooden. There are few good moments. It may be a cliché use a nightstick as a dildo in a co themed video, but it always work There's simply something indescribab sexy about it. It's so perfect that or wonders if that's what the designer of the nightstick really had in mind. As if th weren't enough, Steve O'Donnell als puts his big, hefty utility flashlight good use. O'Donnell's partner (in the police sense, not in the lover way) Ma Bradshaw also shows he can wield dildo. He's lucky enough to play with the totally yummy Kyle McKena (who

Private Parts

Mustang Studios. Directed by Chi Chi LaRue. Videography by John Rutherford. Edited by Delta Productions. Starring Dillon Colt, Doug Jeffries, Kevin Kramer, Nicolas Moore, Vince Skyler, Peter Dixon, Steve Pierce, Sven, Troy Maxwell, and Will Clarke. To order write Mustang Studios, P.O. Box 420788, San Francisco, CA 94142-0788.

Mustang Studios is known for high-quality porn that pushes the "main-stream " envelope just a bit. They don't do hard-core raunch, but every now and then they do get raunchy. "Private Parts" fits right into that tradition. The first scene is one-on-one vanilla sex. The only thing "wild" about it is that it takes place in a sex club, and even that's commonplace in porn these days. Other than being group scenes, the sex in the last two segments is just as ordinary as in the first. There are some excellent perfor-

iel. name is spelled “McKenna” in other rite videos). McKena is one of the hottest bot-od . toms working in porn, and he can take a good pounding with a sizable dildo. That ha alone is worth seeing. en Wet Fantasies ser Close-Up Productions. Produced by Steve on Johnson. Directed by Steve Walker and th Michael White. Starring Michael White, II Dallas Taylor, David Thompson, Donnie op Russo, Bryan Kidd, and Spike. To order ne write Close-Up Productions, P.O. Box ou 691658, West Hollywood, CA 90069.

If you are a Donnie Russo fan, see "Wet Fantasies." His performance in this video is classic Russo. After a brief set-up tt cene with some great Russo acting, he does what he does best. He wrestles, he dishes out verbal abuse, he talks dirty, t and he fucks. All of this takes place in a n hotel bathroom, and much of it is in the bathtub. His partner in the scene (I think it's Spike - the performers aren't very well Identified in the credits) is almost inconsequential . Russo dominates the action and not just because he's the top. The wene is all about him and his style.

If you are not a Donnie Russo fan, there's not much to recommend about Wet Fantasies." Other than his scene, this video is rather poorly made. The overall technical quality is low. Most of the scenes are awkward and slow. The final scene featuring Bryan Kidd (usually a great performer) alone in a shower appears to have been tacked on at the last minute. It ends very abruptly without Kidd having shot a load. Even if shower fantasies really turn you on, "Wet Fantasies" will probably disappoint.

Sex Hostage

Projex Video (produced in association with Close-Up Productions). Starring Joe Romero, Marc Pierce, Rick Estephan, Patrick Ives, Eric Evans, and David Thompson. To order write Close-Up Productions, P.O. Box 691658, West Hollywood, CA 90069.

"Sex Hostage" is somewhat mistitled. There are actually two sex hostages in the video. Rick Estephan and Patrick Ives kidnap Eric Evans and David Thompson. While waiting for the ransom money, the captors take advantage of their hostages. The action starts out very promising. Evans and Thompson are bound, and Estephan and Ives deliver some whipping and other abuse. At one point, the torture involves more clothes pins than you can count. Just when things are getting really good and nasty, everything changes. Suddenly, "Sex Hostage" becomes a vanilla video featuring standard, main-stream sex. Why didn't the videomakers keep on the raunchy track? It's hard to tell. Projex Video and Close-Up

Productions have done more hard-core stuff, so that's not the issue. Perhaps the performers are a bit too middle-of-the-road to take things farther. In any case, it's a shame. What begins as an excellent B&D video evolves into something much more pedestrian.

On a different note, the best moment in "Sex Hostage" is both nonsexual and unintentionally comic. Ives receives a call on his cell phone from either the police or the people who are going to pay the ransom, and he arranges the drop off. I could be wrong, but I would guess that kidnappers rarely give their phone numbers to the authorities. The plot of a porn movie is, of course, secondary at best, but it shouldn't be so ill-conceived that it's ridiculous. That detracts from the sex.

One Last Note

Have you seen the new Versace ads featuring Dan O'Brien? They have turned the cute, smiling athlete into a smoldering sex god. Who says fags don't have enough power in our society?

Music To Fuck By

MUSIC REVIEWS BY KEVIN JOHN

Tastes in sounds and sex are so intensely personal that combining both on a single release is bound to please no one all of the time. So let me state right off that I make no claims as to the 100% effectiveness of any of the selections below in enhancing your next fuck session. It is merely an attempt to guide you towards new possibilities for your fluid exchange program.

For foreplay, I suggest what most people I know fuck to anyway: smooth make-out music like Roxy Music's torchy travelogue Avalon or the R&B / soul burn of Al Green (check out his 4-disc boxed set Anthology on The Right Stuff), D'Angelo's Brown Sugar, Maxwell's Urban Hang Suite or Love Deluxe by Sade (definitely not as in the Marquis de so I'd leave this in the foreplay realm). All are ambient enough to keep in the background but sexy enough to move the heavy petting closer to some oral action and penetration.

A collection of songs about the act itself that actually works is Rhino's Risque Rhythm - a compilation of "nasty 50's R&B" which delivers a raunch-n-roll specific enough in its horniness to inspire some filthy humping. The sax in Wynonie Harris' "Wasn't That Good" is the sleaziest I've ever heard but his pussy-juice paean, "Keep On Churnin'," might make a nice accompaniment for those who like to make a mess with sweat, jism, piss, shit, dick cheese or whatever else you care to fling around.

The spaces where bully-boys are encouraged to come together aren't very plentiful but on albums like The Misfits' Walk Among Us, classic Oi compilations like Strength Thru Oi! and Oi! - The Album, Rancid's And Out Come The Wolves and practically anything by the Clash, they get to sing together and the way they join voices brings a rise to the johnson every time.

There's an equally powerful homoerotic appeal to rap albums like the Beastie Boys' License To Ill, The Goats' Tricks of the Shade and the Judgement Night soundtrack. My most nagging sex fantasy is merely to have all three Beasties at one dick-sitting. I'd like to start off with a friendly circle suck but I couldn't bear the thought of any one Beastie not being able to get a piece of me simultaneously with the other two. So, instead, my boy Ad-Rock would work his fuck-root harder and harder in and out of my hole to the beat of the "Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves" chant in "Rhymin' and Stealin'" while the others tongue-bathe me each chant gets louder and loud Then perhaps we could schedule aforementioned circle suck w their longtime cohort, Ricky Powe

After three hours of that, the b would fall asleep with their cocks each other's asses while Ad-Re gently wakes me up so he can po tion his ass-ring down over tongue and clench down so h that I can't even pull it out. After hour of this tug-of-war, I slip reawakened stiffness up his sali soaked canal of carnality to more mellowed out grooves Check Your Head.

Whew! There's a wealthy nei borhood near my apartment when seems as if 60% of all the pre boys who graduate high sch become hippies. So once you l them to your place with the b ganja in town and get them sto out of their minds, proceed seduce with the stoner vibe alternarapper Justin Warfield's Field Trip To Planet 9, the Buttl Surfers' Independent Worm Sal and (what the hell - it's still incr bly sexy after all these years) Jimi Hendrix Experience's Are Experienced? If they object, wait they conk out and start suck their Birkenstock stained toes u

they're fucking raisins.

For fisting, the more frightening the atmosphere the better and no music has ever scared the shit out of me like the Virgin Prunes. I first heard of them when I was 13 and eventually came up with the "Pagan Love Song” 12” on Rough Trade. However, at 13, I had never heard of i 12" and played it on 33. Out came werewolf howls, backwards screaming , and growling grunts which sounded appropriate coming from the two zombies (make-up by the Pig Children) on the cover. I wasn't going to Hell for listening to this music; I was already there. Your butt will know no boundaries. For the record, it's not very friendly at 45 a either. Christopher Rage, take note. thucid house milestone "Your Only it rlend" which starts out with a ell blowed-down voice intoning "This is oycocaine speaking" and includes s it ped-up, scary moaning. Don't play octhis 12" at the wrong speed or you'll osilose the effect. Then there's Jandek. multtle is known about him and he ar won't grant interviews. He's released all least one record a year since 1981 mwith the same type of grainy, valossed-off photos on every cover. th Musically, he sounds like Robert Johnson would were he a Pussy inlore fan. The last one I've heard is ghiraven Image (Corwood P.O.B. re 15375 Houston, TX 77220) but ett Modern Dances is a primitive, ama-occurish scrape of an album that's so luroppressive, it'll make you think peromeone is bound and gagged ne gainst their will in the room with thim and the tape recorder.

With SM, where more emphasis is Milaced on performance and role holdaying, music is often relegated to load soundtrack or mood-enhancing ed unction. Instead of bullshit new thige, obvious classical music (or the Yo qually obvious "Master and t 'hervant" by Depeche Mode) or cin nigma (theoretically fascinating int as goofy and mood-ruining as

FOR FOREPLAY, I SUGGEST WHAT MOST PEOPLE I KNOW FUCK TO ANY-WAY : SMOOTH MAKE-OUT SOUNDS LIKE ROXY MUSIC'S TORCHY "AVALON" OR THE R&B SOUL BURN OF AL GREEN.

Meco's disco version of "The Wizard of Oz"), I propose a sonic drapery with more meat on the bones. Tricky's Maxinquaye arrived at a engrossing synthesis of sexy and irritating that no trip-hopper has come close to replicating. His latest, Pre-Millennium Tension, includes "Tricky Kid," a spooky rap which would work great for stripping (flesh or clothes). So would "Cemetery" off of PiL's Metal Box (reissued for nonmillionaires as Second Edition) - three twelve inches in a metal film container. Hearing former Sex Pistol John Lydon's final denial years later, I'm surprised how well it stands up to a good ass thrashing. "Albatross" even comes complete with some insults along the lines of "I've seen you up far too close" and "You are unbearable" to keep that worthless, piece-of-shit slave in place.

If you're not lucky enough to have a dungeon, dub will transform the straightest suburban living room into a cavern for ya. Dub originated in subtracting certain elements out of a reggae mix and adding enormous waves of reverbed echo. A good recent dub is Mad Professor and Le "Scratch" Perry's Dub Take The Voodoo Out Of Reggae (Ras Box 42517, Washington, DC 20015).

The Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs" is one of the few songs about SM that sounds great in the SM background, as is "Walk the Night" by the Skatt Brothers (Casablanca) which was an under- ground disco hit in the late 70's. Instead of those dull chant records for that Inquisition flavor, try Buddhist Liturgy of Tibet (King Japanese import) which starts off with overheard chants and breaks into a godforsaken racket of cymbals and wind instruments that'll catch you unaware every time. "Ocean of Sound" (Virgin import) traces the history of ambient and includes the Velvet Underground along with the Beach Boys, jazz tripper Sun Ra and the pioneer Brian Eno and makes for a gorgeous backdrop to any activity.

If you're sick of NIN's "Closer," spin Front 242's "Headhunter" or Big Black's Songs About Fucking for a clangy, industrial din. And LiLiPUT were the greatest all-female group of all-time. They played a riotous take on post-punk with a Teutonic militarism that makes discipline sound fun. Look for the 1993 LiLiPUT collection (Off Course import).

Into mind games? "Ruin" the mood with Little Peggy March's "I Will Follow Him" on that ode to supplication Stand By Your Man (Nick at Nite / 550) - a collection of songs of devotion and subordination that aren't ominous in the least. Leader of the Church of Satan, Anton LaVey, has said that the true Satanic music is Little Peggy March and songs like "Yes, We Have No Bananas" so you might be arriving at an invocation more evil than you could've imagined by playing Annette Funicello's "Tall Paul" and The Angels' "My Boyfriend's Back."

And to end it all, I must mention X-Ray Spex's "Oh Bondage, Up Yours!" available on Germfree Adolescents (Caroline). Hear how Poly Styrene, the greatest punk screecher of all, personifies the act of submission and laughs right in its face, proving there's no denial so final as to prevent someone from making a great joke out of it from right around the corner.

TOUGH TRICKS

SLEAZY TRICKS

NEED

I SEE HE HAS A SWASTIKA TATOOED ON HIS ARM. “KISS IT” HE WHISPERS QUIETLY IN MY EAR, HIS VOICE NOT MENACING OR PUT ON.

My Justin Chin in the small space of the bookstore booth, we fumble like adolescents doing for third base while our par-ints are due back any moment from hurch choir practice. He clumsily lisses me; I grab his shaved head and press his face into mine, suck-ng on his tongue, all the while we're groping, pawing at each other's crotch and ass. He pulls off ill Jacket and lays it on top of mine which is thrown over the small makeshift stool. While he unbuttons av shirt, I slip my hands under his hirt and play with his nipples. As ach button pops off, I can see the llint of ink on his chest. He pulls off in shirt and, standing there in the moth lit by unblemished porn bun-the faking their pleasure, he wraps arms around me and kisses me main, this time it's hard, slow and eliberate; with his hand he holds he back of my head and guides my

PHOTOGRAPHS BY KINK VIDEO mouth down past his chin, across his neck and to his impressive bicep.

By this time, I see that he has a swastika tattooed on his arm. "Kiss it," he says quietly in my ear, his voice not menacing nor put-on. I place my lips onto the dark lines on his flesh and kiss it. I let my tongue dawdle over it, while he tongues my ear. He is covered with tattoos with no seeming connection: daggers, flames, evil eyeballs, a Gothic creature , stars, planets, a cartoon mouse, a hypodermic needle. Nestled in these sprays of dark and color are two swastikas, one on each bicep, each sinister and gleaming in their bold simplicity. There is a more ornate swastika on his forearm that looks like it was inspired by a 14th century woodcut. For a minute I think that maybe it is one of those Buddhist symbols unfortunate enough to look like a swastika, legs that turn the wrong way. But buried in the map of his flesh is a flesh-colored cross made of two spikes, the negative space colored red, the center containing a diamond with a black squiggle like a single quote

mark inside of it; nearby is a dark elongated N, a sword with a crown piercing through it. I find a German word in gothic script just by his left armpit when I go there to bury my snout in his scent.

We fumble with our trousers, hastily unbuttoning and unzipping, and pushing them down to ankle level. He looks me dead in the eye and says, "Fuck me." He turns around, bends forward and spreads his legs as much as the space will allow. Above his underwear line, above his crack, in a two-inch high open-cut script, he has "White Power" tattooed unflinchingly across the fleshy bit of his lower back, a small patch of hair in the small of his back threatens the sentiment. I spit into my palm and grease up, spit into his ass crack and let the glob of saliva slide into his hole and slip my dick inside of him.

The territory of need brings us to strange places. It's a difficult decision when the chips are down and you're fucking. If push comes to shove and the cards are in motion, would you fuck that neo-conservative Republican or that spongy Baptist minister if you knew they were who they were, instead of a trick in some tricking spot? Scuzzy trolls who would do in a snap, fucks that will get you out of jams and other serious shit? Like the time I was homeless in Honolulu, living in the 7-11 parking lot, and I ended up tricking with the local teamster's boss with the hard shiny distended beer-gut, bad teeth and constant flatulence, all for pizza and a good sofa. Would I do it differently if I knew better? Like the good-looking trick who turns out to be one hell of a colonialist asshole, as if he lived in a Rudyard Kipling novel and I was to be his Mowgli: while lying on the floor rimming my asshole I let go a squishy spray of shit onto his face, made some excuse about lactose intolerance and left while he sputtered to the bathroom.

Like the old troll who lives in the darkest niche of the bathroom in the bar, giving blow to anyone who waves his dick in front of him; I come in and he's waiting for the next dick, and he grins toothlessly, asks if I want a blow job, I tell him I'm just there to piss the overpriced beer out, he snorts, says, "All these colored guys just love to get their dick sucked, but hey remember, no matter what color your dick is, cum is always white."

Then there was the time I fucked a guy who had a distinct fantasy. He wanted to play INS agent on border patrol. He even had the uniform for it. He told me he wanted to catch me crossing the border illegally and then I'd be detained in a holding cell while I'm questioned and taught a lesson about illegally crossing borders . His imagination is excellent and he played the role worthy of an Emmy as I scampered across his bedroom as if his futon were a high-wire doused with searchlights that would separate "us" and "them," him and I, as if his brown carpeting were a dusty road, a river; he pounced on me and asked for identification , for papers and I no speaking 'lish, so he stripped me down to my BVDs, made me crouch doggy-style on the bed with my ass sticking in the air while he stood behind, slowly pulling my briefs down. "Take that you stinking Mexican, take that back to your family," he squealed as he came on my ass, then he pulled the briefs up and snapped the band so that his cum squished inside my underwear. I'm putting on my clothes when he says, "I'm sorry I know you're Chinese but sometimes , I just get too excited."

The porn-boys on the screen, innocuous, shaved and plucked muscle monsters with their vacant stares are going at it beside the poo but no one is paying any attention He straightens up and turns around suddenly. "Do you like to play rough?" he asks. "Come on, punc me, kick me."

"Show me how," I say. He grab my neck with one hand and slam me against the wall, with his othe hand he smacks me firmly acros the head. He leans in and kisses m while grabbing and twisting m balls until my eyes water. He alter nates between gentle strokes an rough scrapes, he chews on my dic like a puppy high on rawhide, unt my hard-on has turned as flaccid a any seasoned tweaker's. He sticks h hand into my mouth, I suck his fin gers and he pushes them deeper until I gag, he takes the spit an mucous-wet fingers and sticks ther into my ass while gnawing at m tits. He turns me around and stick his dick into my ass in one roug movement. There is a short shar shear of pain and I want to pull hi out, I clench my sphincter to cal down, but he's holding me tight, h muscular arm wrapped around n like comfort.

"Just ease into it," he says and

do as he thrusts his dick in and out while still holding me. I lean forward and suck on the small ornate swastika on his forearm that is in front of me, I'm not sure if I need to cover it with my mouth so that I won't see its troubling stare or if I just want to taste it. He's cooing "Yeah, that's good," over and over. I break out of his hold, his dick slips out of my ass and I turn to face him, he leans forward to kiss me and I punch him in the gut and he doubles over, in that position he slouches to his knees, puts his mouth to my dick and sucks away, I let him do that for a bit then I raise my knee and shove him to the ground. He falls back, and sits there while I wick my boot into his crotch, let his balls fall on the tip of my boot and bounce them up and down. While he is watching my boot playing with his dick, I backhand him across his face, he is caught unaware and his head snaps to the side. "Oh fuck," he groans, I pull him up, turn him around, spit into his ass and start fucking him again while I hold onto the chest for support, he spreads his arms overhead and rests them on the wall, bracing himself, and the fleshy map of swastikas and SS symbols, indelible scrawls of our unspoken minds, a past and a present untold, a shaky future, map of everything that falls apart, bounce and quiver and mesmerize with each thrust. I full out of his ass, and cum on his White Power" tattoo. I smear my fum into the tattoo. He turns iround, one hand masturbating. He lines the other to gently push me llown to a squat, he takes that hand and atleks two fingers into my mouth and pries it open, and he lenns forward and cums hard into my open mouth, I stick my tongue but to catch his full load. I stand up, and kiss him and we pass ill cum back and forth between us intil it becomes indistinguishable rom spit and tongues.

MARKS

A BLACK LEATHER FAGGOT STUD. I'D SEEN PICTURES AND HEARD STORIES ABOUT THESE DEVIANT HOMOS. IN THEIR UNIFORMS AND ATTITUDES OF HYPERMASCULINITY, NOT UNLIKE THE CHOLOS AND SAILORS I KNEW AND SLEPT WITH.

By Al Lujan

My sister licked her lips, stuck the needle in her mouth and rolled it around with her tongue. Then she pulled it out and waved over the flame of an orange scented votive candle. She wiped the blackness on it off on her blouse and wrapped the thread around the tip. Tight, white around the point. I sat transfixed and nervous. This was my first time. She held my wrist and reached across me to turn up the tape player, just in case I screamed. The needle was dipped black into the India ink we'd made our mom buy for us. The kind that kids at school don't use anymore. Presenting me with her stuffed Pink Panther she'd won at a carnival on her last run, my sister said "Here, bite his arm, this might hurt a little." I took a deep breath and bit. It tasted like cigarettes and pink, acrylic fur. She tightened her grip on my wrist and put the needle into my shoulder - fast and furious. Tears tried to squeeze their way out and my teeth reached the Pink Panther's wire, femur bone. Despite my sweating and snorting, she wouldn't stop.

The second time someone marked me I had just turned eighteen and was in the Navy. The USS Missouri was docked on pier 23. We were in San Francisco for fleet week from our home port in Long Beach, California. I fled the ship, alone, in full dress blues, which we had to wear on our first day in any port. My backpack contained my civilian clothes that I was ready to change into at the first gas station lavatory.

My eyes were wide and my cap was tilted. My stride was swinging like the legs of my thirteen button navy blues as I left the ship behind me. At the end of the pier, by the street that appeared miles away, I saw a familiar sight. A group of people protesting our presence. Only difference was that this group contained gargantuan, colorful drag queens and a man who caught my eye. He wasn't shouting or shaking his fist. He was just standing there, watching. He was dressed in full leather. Chaps, boots, harness, jacket and cap. Like a big, muscular, black, leather sofa in the sun. He looked out of place yet he looked proud and cocky, leaning tall against the fence that divided us. It was as if he owned the pier.

Like a mooring ship, I headed slowly and earnestly towards him. His cap, like mine, was tilted. I wanted to closely observe that golden hair, refrigerator-white smile, and eyes sequestered behind mirrored shades. A black-leather faggot stud. I'd only seen pictures and heard stories about those deviant homos. In their uniforms and attitudes of hyper-masculinity, admittedly, not unlike the cholos and sailors I'd known and been.

We each had our distinct and familiar characteristics. Allies and enemies who would see us dead for being different. Community, fronting butch, vanity, headbands, armbands, hand signals, salutes, crotch grabbing , fingersnaps, language, haircuts , shaves, piercing, tattoos and scars. He and I weren't so unlike.

So I walked up to him with that headstrong courage that only being a stranger conjures and asked him if he was waiting for a friend or a brother on the ship. My thumping heart drowned out the chants of "Navy go home!"

"Nope," he said without turning toward me. So I split. He followed me. Then I followed him to his Volvo. Beige. I turned back to the ship hoping secretly that I was being watched.

Crossing the city he started talk- ing to no one in particular. Never turned to look at me or ask me anything . He told me about a dream he'd been having. Of giant Indians riding bareback on giant horses. Hundreds. Each with his face painted black. All of them naked. Galloping furiously over Twin Peaks in the mist. Trampling cars and trees. Wailing siren death chants. I'd only just met the man five minutes ago and here he was telling me his nightmares. I didn't know Twin Peaks from dream analysis from SM and B&D, so I stayed quiet and a little uncomfortable through the ride up the winding streets.

"That is Twin Peaks," he told me as he presented me with a panoramic view from his balcony. I nodded and watched him examine the rolling fog that was blanketing the hillside. He asked me to tell him about myself. I gave him my name and my zodiac sign. Being that I was in San Francisco I felt that that was all he needed to know.

"What's your nationality?" he asked. "I'm an American," I told him, not really wanting to get into where I was from or who I was.

"Un-American?" His luminescent, milk-drinking smile was gone.

"No. Yeah. No. Umm. Can we change the subject?"

He held me by the jaw, turned me around to face the view again. He bit my neck, stepped back and tied a bandanna over my eyes. It was all I could do to suppress a toothy grin as he resumed biting me. "New kid in town," I thought. No one knows me or what's about to happen. That's euphoric. He pulled me around and rested my face on his chest. The smell of his body, but especially the smell of the leather, made me high, hard and had me breathing like a drowning man.

I recalled being a toddler playing in my mother's closet. She'd frequently catch me in there with one of her many purses over my head, nearly suffocating. Caressing her pumps. I think both my mother and

I secretly thought that I'd grow up to be a transvestite. Little did either of us know I was getting off on the scent not the accessories.

"Good sailor boy. Sit back," he said. I rushed with pride of being called good sailor, although the boy part kinda bugged me. I wasn' about to nitpick. Anyway, he was about my father's age. I leaned bac against the railing of the balcony reached down between my legs and yanked open my pants, popping the buttons off. I heard them hit the floor or the driveway two storie down. I hoped, for a second, that had a sewing kit back on the ship But I really didn't care 'cause there was in San Francisco, blindfolded on a balcony with my bare as greeting the city in the presence of fierce leather daddy.

"Fuck yeah," I thought. "This fucking hot." Then I heard the rip ping and felt the pulling of a blad through my shirt. No needle an thread was gonna remedy that. Th blood that was pulsing in my groi rushed to my head.

"Pinche pendejo-muthafucket What the fuck?" I snapped. Wit that he yanked my neckerchief an pulled me into a backwards arcl Then he untied it and, using h thumb, stuffed it deep into m throat. He headlocked me and force me down to my knees with his for arm. Put my head through the ba of the railing. Execution styl Pulled at my arms and secured the with the straps that, I think, we around his wrists. I feigned horn and faked a struggle. Mostly I w pissed. The only thing I mild feared was cops busting in the do to rescue this obviously kidnappe sailor crucified on the balcony. The and uncertainty.

In that vulnerable position thought he'd whip, kick, and sodon ize me - or cut my head off. I w resigned to chalk any of this up experience and memory.

He leaned in on me and straddle my back; it ached under his weigl

I felt the cool then hot tip of a pin prick on my shoulder blade. He dragged it down, across and diagonal to form the letter "R." I was sweating and snorting air through my nose. He proceeded. I felt the cool trickles of blood along my ribcage. I jerked from the chills. The letter "A." I began to struggle for real. I thought, "This white man is gonna put his tag on my body. What was it? Did he tell me, even? Raymond? Ralph? Oh I hoped not. Raven? Rat? Raccoon?" My head hurt thinking of what it was that was gonna scar me. Maybe Jenny Holzer's art text. Rape. Rage. Rain. Rapture. Ransom.

The next letter he cut so deep and effortlessly that I couldn't make it out for the burning and blood that fun down the length of my spine. I prayed that he'd stop at my back. Not cut up my face, my hands. Not my cock or my throat.

I thought about the whispering at my funeral.

"He was into some freaky-kinky whit, man. He was just looking for trouble. He was sick, the poor boy," I could hear everyone saying. I almost awallowed the gag. Then the carving stopped. He held me. I felt his face on my back. He smeared the blood across my back with his stubbly then dragged it across the mystery word. I moaned, my head still immed into the bars.

He stood up - and left me there. My shoulders cramped and my back burned. The blood cooled in the wet breeze, I heard him return. He stood over me. He smeared my back with some kind of ointment that scorched my wounds. He pulled the blindfold off and plucked the gag out of my mouth, I bellowed low and deep through my aching jaw. It was nlight. The lights on the hill blurred through my tears. He smeared his hands over my face to silence me. He loosened the restraints around my wrists.

…

I loved and hated my sister for hurting me. For marking me. For doing her duty and protecting me in a neighborhood of boys older than their years. Boys who were already inquiring "Why yo little brotha" always actin' like a bitch?"

My sister brought street knowledge home with her each time after she ran away - and I was grateful for it. She made me use the same needle on her that she'd just used on me to tattoo an outline of a teardrop onto her face, by her right eye. My hands trembled. I was terrified of plucking her eye out. She'd elbow me every time I jabbed her without breaking the skin. She said it symbolized the trials she faced as a teen runaway. I told her I heard that it meant "doing time." She said, "Same thing." Not knowing, at sixteen, there would be far worse, darker teardrops with time.

It was unprecedented that a twelve year old would sport a tattoo with the initials of the neighborhood gang on his arm. Even third and fourth generations of cholo families, the kind of family where Grampa wears zoot suits with threadbare elbows and Pee Wee drives a bomber older than his father. Even they waited till the boys were at least fifteen to get tattooed.

My sister assured me that she was in, and since I was family, that meant I was in. If you grow up within a gang you don't have to be jumped in. That was fine with me, since like my sister, I was already seduced by gang life. By the slicked back hair, the creases from shoulder to toe, the shoes, the way they walked, talked, stood their macho ground and fought for each other. How they taught me to hate cops "just because that's the way it is."

I felt pride matching the graffiti on some garage door to the block letters that appeared blue on my brown skin. The sense of community and belonging that I, as a child born in another country, needed to feel. The sense of anarchy in a world full of rules. I displayed my badge, my pass, my power. With sleeves rolled up, my bare shoulder forged my way through Jr. High without incident. Then I was bussed across town so it didn't mean shit anymore.

To the day she died, I never let my mother see my tattoo. I couldn't do that to her. My sister, though, got a good slap for messing up her face. She never let on that I did it for her. My Ma said that her punishment was to wear that teardrop for the rest of her life. Eventually, my sister would run away again - for the last time.

Even hiş jacket and shades were on. His face was smudged with my blood. I pushed him back, picked up my backpack by the door and ran into the bathroom. I looked over my shoulder to the mirror. My eyes widened and my mouth fell open.

From the balcony I heard him yell at the top of his lungs. "How do you like it? Huh? How do you like it, motherfucker?" I didn't. I was in a frenzy, trying to wash off the black paint from my face with hot water. Wiped my back with his dirty, white towel. I thanked God in wasn't permanent ink. I pulled my shorts and a tee shirt from my backpack. Put them on but left my government issue black shoes and socks on and headed for the door. He tried to block me with his size and crazy, bloody smile. I slugged him with the force of every one of my ancestors. His nose shot blood onto my fist before I could retract it. I picked off the keys on the left side of his belt and bolted through the door.

I drove out over Twin Peaks as he screamed off his balcony something about my "punishment for life." I returned an old Mexican malediction and vow of vengeance. I drove across the city to nowhere in particular since I couldn't get back on my ship without my uniform and with a bloody, white tee shirt that read: RACIST. No, I didn't like it at all.

GYM CK

Photos of Dave Gold's Gym Workout, by Palm Drive Video

beer swilling da

The Art Of YVON GOULET von Goulet's work consis mainly of drawings and prir making on paper. This mediu makes it easier to access the intern tional market because it is cheaper ship the works overseas. He particula ly likes working with computers ar using them to help create his a works.

The artist has lived in Montreal for five years and is currently doing portrai of the "Village." He first takes pho tographs and then scans the image into his Macintosh computer. He the photocopies and prints the images o recycled advertising board made of plastic. With some colors alread printed on the advertising board each print is unique. The prices of h artwork range from $50 to $1000.

Mr. Goulet doesn't believe in homose ual art, per se, but rather tries t express his emotions as a huma being working in his environment. H does not see himself as an activist since he doesn't feel he has answers and instead tries to raise question with his art.

More information regarding his ar work can be obtained by writing to: Yvon Goulet 2170 Rue de Paris Montreal, Quebec Canada H3K 1V1

For a catalog, write to: Leather Plus 1321 Rue Ste-Catherine Est Montreal, Quebec Canada H2L2H4 Phone: 514-521-7587

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HUSTLER BARS: TRICKS OF THE TRADE

By www. Jack Fritscher. com

Gay sex is free. So a hustler bar is a strange place for a gay man, because a hustler bar is not "gay." There are hustlers. There are johns. Neither leads a particularly urban-gay lifestyle. Rough trade tricks are essentially straight. Johns are essentially out of the gay circuit, often young, and not necessarily "rich." Neither cares much for the gay bars of Weho, Castro, or Soho. The johns prefer lower-class "straight" males who don't fuck up sex with sentiment . The hustlers prefer, not necessarily men, but money. Sex is an easy means to cold, hard cash in trade for hot, hard cock.

In a gay bar, the reciprocity is sex for sex. In a hustler bar, it's sex for money. So there I sat, in Los Angeles, in a hustler bar, on a stool near the juke box. I had to remember that the johns, many of whom were more attractive to me than were some of the hustlers, aren't looking for mutual gay sex. They're looking for a "straight" guy who will ball them the way sex used to be before sex was a lifestyle. The mutual satisfaction is a combo of money, power, and sex.

So there, in LA, I stood, leaned, sat, paced, leaned, smiled, watched, cruised with fifty bucks hot in my jeans, begging to pay for it, so I could cross the line and know what the fuck it felt like to buy my way into a specific section of street-smart , low-life, talk-show trash that without cash no gay man has any access to. Rough trade tricks are usually born in trailer parks in the American south, raised in foster homes, tattooed in juvenile facilities, saddled with one or two young sons by 15-year-old bitches, and are educated in prison where the one important lesson they learn is that gay men are an easy mark.

I felt as confident as a kid in a candy store. Actually, a john need never fear rejection, because all he has to do is flash more money at the young and the dangerous. The lower classes are eternally attractive to the middle and upper classes. (Ask Pasolini, the martyred Patron Saint of Rough Trade!) Even heterosexually , every class knows what it's for. No matter what sex trip johns want-SM, rough trade, suck / fuck, water sports, dirty feet, you name it-anything goes in a hustler bar where the level of play is the kind of primal sex once found in rest stops, YMCAs, bus stations, and carnival midways with mechanics, sailors, hitchhikers, and gypsy men with dirty fingernails who'd do anything for a buck.

The natural-born rough-trade hus- tlers, in their wonderful anon danger and wild taste, should it confused with the slick urba hustlers who advertise through "Models Classifieds" in gay p where the "muscle sex" or " nance sex" is highly stylized K ritual. Gay hustlers are high co Rough trade is just plain basic damental what-it-is.

It's Friday evening beco Friday night on a full moon end in LA, and the two can hustlers and johns sport with other like friendly Montague Capulets. If, in America, mone rent you what you want, then : tler bar is almost as close as a can get to sex-with-satisfa practically guaranteed. Hustle fact, invariably "can guarantee man, we'll have a good time."

Twenty-five bucks, average, john a hustler for the first tin frills, just some laid-back trad ting his dick sucked until the cums. A return bout costs Prices vary depending on the ti night, the night of the wee proportion of johns to hustler the specifics of the sex trip th john wants out of the hu Frequently, there's cab fare or of about ten bucks tacked on the "boy" has done his best at ing out a good performance essence of hustling, after all, is biz. And a taxi to a hustler is tus symbol equal to a limo.

A tattooed, well-built, blond teed hustler with a buzz cut ey table and heads to the jukebo plays "I Don't Want to Walk W You." I stand up and move in to him, a quarter in my sv

ind, and scan the selections for a inical reply. My choice: "Hit Me th Your Best Shot." We listen to music, eyeing each other. Who is matador? Who is the bull? He's ore wary that I am.

"You wanna beer," I say. "Yeah," he says, "Bud."

At the bar service station, a john ins over to me. "That one," he ymivs pointing at the blond goatee nothining his butt against the jukebox, n-gill do it for twenty bucks. He's gh funchy. Likes to get blown and papive his ass eaten. He's quiet. dor lieve me, I know. He's a bit player Cabi Il-movies. Action-adventure nce la I've licked all those tattoos on c full arms. I sucked on him for maybe hour and jerked myself off. But, omity god, when sex combines with wedney, I think of the stereotype that apsiling ought to be old and ugly and n er generate. Well, I'm not yet old or es ally. But the degeneracy of paying ey or nex squats awkwardly on my a had this night in this hustler bar. I a nimb to myself that my bourgeois actionscience is much ado about nothers , a Actually, I find I really have an e yourst politically correct "attitude" finit going through with this pay-get play trip even with this guy ne: holy would believe would have le g with a man unless he actually led remember the words my buddy iment Reliable, who lives to love husk , but and to me earlier in the s, annual "Hustlers are actors. You're nat a producer. You got the money. isting also the director. Hustlers are r adminialist artists. They'll do as little wildinance art as they can. Unless tulii direct them. Pose! Flex! Beat e. It meat! Let me suck your ship / dick / ass! Sit on my face! Spit as my face! Shit on my face! The Hee can go up. Don't come off l, grap Offer forty dollars for open-res II you hit it off, if you want ox. In than to suck him off as trade ithalle he kicks back and smokes, if n no want him to rough you up a lit- to pose for some Polaroids, add another fifteen. You want to shoot some video footage, add thirty. You want him to sleep over, add ten. You want him to cuddle, add five, and breakfast. And tip him by giving him some of your clean socks."

Hiring a hustler is like ordering a la carte. You get exactly what you want. (And that makes hustlers basically "safe sex," because you control the fluid exchange.)

"This is Hollywood," Old Reliable said. "It's a circus. But at least it's the Big Top. All the movie stars and TV people hire hustlers. Judy Garland loved rough trade boys. Rock Hudson loved pay-for-play tricks. Stars pay for performances because they themselves are paid for performances. Hollywood is where America brings its dreams. You can hire your fantasy. The world's great performances aren't on screen. Great performances take place in the sack."

I hand Blue-Eyes-with-Buzz-Cut his Budweiser. I want to proposition him. I want to do it. But I can't. He's so shy or sly, he's not helping. Why do I have to pick the quiet type? I came out tonight prepared with cold cash to be nasty, to go slumming, to fucking buy sex! How un-American to suddenly become a reluctant consumer .

I feel the power is in my pocket: the cash. I think: Show him the money!

God! Blue-Eyes-with-Buzz-Cut is hot as a street in Venice Beach! The kind of sweaty macho based on the kind of clean you can maintain when you're living out of a knapsack and brushing your teeth at an IHOP. He's my speed. In a post-Judas minute, I'd take him straight to the bar room toilet, flop him back against a urinal, and, do him - if only coins weren't changing hands.

Then good old lust, like cavalry riding over the ridge in the last reel, develops its own logic. I stare into his incredible eyes. Hustling, I rationalize , is the world's oldest profes- sion. Moral-religious trips can't reject thousands of years of sex-theater history. I laugh at my puritanical head, but take very seriously my hardening dick that has no conscience . He takes a swig of beer and peers at me hard. Inexplicably, I blurt out: "I want to exploit you."

"Cool," he says.

Nervous as a virgin-bidder at a white-slave auction, I say: "Ya wanna mess around for fifty bucks?"

Fifty? Why did I say fifty? My subconscious is worried whether or not he'll like me. I forget rough trade doesn't give a fuck about me.

His blue eyes pierce into my face. "You ain't a cop, are you?"

Flattered - god, I'm such a kveen! I say, "No."

His face lights up. He actually says, "Show me the money." Hustlers are able to work out deals with a john in a heartbeat. "Let's go," he says, and we stroll out together, with the bar full of johns and hustlers watching our cool-as-shit exit.

Before all, for a hustler, <math>\$ = sex</math>. After all, for a john, <math>sex = \$</math>.

That night, Blue-Eyes-with-Buzz-Cut was what he has long been: a terrific piece of ass. That night, I became, at least for once, what I had long had an attitude about: a john. Mmm, I mean, a patron of the arts.

It was more than okay. It was hot! It was a perfect relationship. Pleasurable, Easy cum. Easy go. No hassles. No personal baggage about his old lady pregnant in some Motel 86 on Sunset Boulevard. No listening to some gay guy dysfunctioning about his 12-step program. Hey! That night of my initiation into LA hustler bars proved, I guess, there's no business like show business. Plus if you ain't getting what you want, go rent!

Jack Fritscher is the author of "Some Dance to Remember," a novel about the 1970's circus of rough trade sex in San Francisco.

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BOOK SECTION

N THIS ISSUE ook Reviews a David May p. 49

Pigeon" trium by George Edwards p. 53

Skin" tellon by T. Ellis p. 59

Griffith Park Elegy" lettun by Al Lujan p. 61

OK REVIEWS

David May

Minim Comfort by David Laurents. Published by 1 18 101 Second Avenue, New York, Wirk, 10017, 266 pages, plus notes and the authors, $6.50. amproached this book with trepi-Him , Being the offspring of New Mand Yankees, I inherited my par-disdain for the South, and m never eroticized the South as have. Whatever my preju-however , they were pushed In though occasionally con-ment ) reading this delicious compi-an of erotic short fiction about American South. laurents has compiled in this an collection of 16 short stories million of today's best erotic writ-Divided into several categories Missing Cousins, Southern momfort, Race and Class, and In Food, the stories cover a wide variety of sexual motifs peculiar to the South.

Of most interest to me, however, were the two historical fictions in the section about the Antebellum South.

Martin Palmer's The Tutor is the tale of a Yankee school teacher who develops a friendship with the manservant assigned to him by his employer and makes the mistake of

'learnin' the slave, a serious crime in the years before the Civil War. The story's tragic end is magnified all the more by the narrator's passive acceptance of his lover's fate. Set during the Civil War itself, Sean Martin's The Private War Between Private Johannsen and Private Fontana, is a sexually heated, but ultimately romantic, tale of two privates on opposite sides of the war who must fight, but end up loving, each other.

If a Southern accent gets you hard, this book is for you. If not, there is still much here that will interest, and get off, the average gay pervert.

Leathersex Q&A

Questions About Leathersex and the Leather Lifestyles Answered. By Joseph Bean. Published by Deadalus Publishing, 584 Castro Street, Suite 518, San Francisco CA 94114, 227 pages, $16.95.

When I first came out into leather, I learned the ropes from older, more experienced leathermen. Often the information took the form of folk wisdom , other times hard facts learned at great expense and serious study. Whatever I could learn I made the most of and shared with others because there was so little in print. Joseph Bean has put much of that folk wisdom and fact into a readable , entertaining, and informative book that I wish I had 15 years ago.

Written in a Q&A format, Bean answers many of the questions that he has been asked over the years as a visible and informed leather-man . His answers are concise, never avoiding difficult subjects except to tell us when he can only answer a question as a layman. He covers the usual expected topics surrounding leather culture; such as the differing dynamics of Daddy / boy and Master / slave relationships. safety tips for bondage and flagellation , and how to find a suitable play partner. More than that, he also takes on questions about sex and spirituality, the altered conscious- ness that can occur during SM, as well as religious and political issues.

While referring often to the leather's Old Guard, and clearly nostalgic for it, Bean doesn't try to define today's leather culture by it so much as clarify questions we may have about it, leaving us with a greater appreciation for their legacy. Bean has given us a gift with this book, one we should all appreciate.

Consensual Sadomasochism

How to Talk About It and How to Do It Safely. By William A. Henkin and Sybil Holiday. Published by Deadalus Publishing, 584 Castro Street, #518, San Francisco CA 94114, 227 pages, plus Bibliography and List of Resources, $16.95.

Since my best friend is a therapist , but not a pervert, he occasionally asks me questions about his clients' more extreme forms of sexual behavior, his questions prompted not by judgment by his very real concerns for his clients' physical safety. My answers are usually the same, "As long as they know what they're doing, they should be okay." Since I've only watched some edge play from a distance, however, I'm sometimes unequipped to tell him more than that or even where he can get more information. But, now, like a much needed tonic, Henkin a Holiday, two well respected figur in the Bay Area SM community, ha given us "Consensual Sad masochism" as handy an SM rel ence guide as we are ever to fir It's exactly what the doctor ordered

Written by two experienced : educators, one a therapist and I other a professional dom, this inf mative and entertaining "How To" divided into two main sections. I first explains clearly, and without lot of jargon, what SM is and is n The second section explains how do SM safely, why some practic are only for those with special tra ing, and even why some forms bondage and edge play might be b ter avoided entirely. Well versed SM lore and technique, respectful the Old Guard but not enslaved to Henkin and Holiday have written of of the best SM reference books date, and the one I'll recommend my friend the therapist.

Bound to Be Free

The SM Experience, By Charles Mos Ph.D., MD and JJ Madeson. Published Continuum Books, 370 Lexington Aven New York, NY 10017, 205 pages, $24.9

There was a time when the or printed information about SM a

ather was diagnostic in nature written for psychiatrists. The Information that new adher-Its to SM and leather culture might was only available orally am what we now call the Old Hard, Recently, however there been a plethora of books limit SM, volumes of hands-on Ivide on how to be a successful prvort. In light of SM's emer-from the publishing closet, mind to Be Free was inevitable. Illie hardly groundbreaking in Irms of new information, this link is refreshing insofar as it Inlains SM in non-judgmental Time. The authors make the Hart to explore a wide variety periences from a diverse collec-III of sadomasochists in a read-and enjoyable style. a Co authored by a male psy-matherapist and a practicing male sadomasochist, Bound to I Free seeks to explain SM for non-practitioner in terms of psychodramas and senso-allmulation . Aimed at mental malth professionals and written mally from a heterosexual per-molive , the book still manages to limbs freely from lesbian and gay in sources throughout, not both-mul to make a distinction (possi-w because there isn't much of ma) between the queer and relight SM experience. Still, this may not be of much interest I the average pervert as there much here that most leather ill don't already know, though it with be of interest to the new initi-seeking to understand, and vali-He their sexual longings. and of Darkness ales of Men, Blood and Immortality. Published by Cleis Press, Box 8933, Inshurph PA, 15221. 181 pages. $12.95. Anne Rice made vampire litera-me popular by exploring the erotic mential of the genre while at the www time asking serious questions about morality, mortality and the meaning (if any) of human existence. The element of horror often took a back seat in this new vampire fiction as the existential crises of the vampire was illuminated. That a kind of the vampire's angst was inevitable as more writers sought to cover the same territory.

Sons of Darkness is an anthology of new vampire fiction from a queer male perspective. The stories here are consistently entertaining and worth reading. Two of the most romantic stories here - written by women, Poppy Brite and Pat Califia

are also two of the most disturb- ing as they delve further into the ancient relationship

Taking on queer specific themes in a new context, this anthology, while aimed at vampire and horror fans, should appeal to a wide cross section of queer readers.

On your knees, boy

I said, get down on your knees, bo Good boy. Now, boy, I want you to take a per and fill out this order form for the all-new RoB cata I'm going to give you one minute in which to obey me, boy, and if yo haven't filled out this order form perfectly, then you know what's going to happen Well, for starters I'm going to give your pussy-boy ass a walloping it won't soon forge more importantly, you're never gonna receive the newestand largest RoB catalog eve catalog that's bursting with the best selection of leatherand rubber gear that any true slave get an instant hard-on over. So you see, boy, ifyou don’t fill this out, you’re just never gon to suck on that new gag your Master wasgoing to order to fill that pretty little scum-s mouth of yours. You'll also never get achance to order those new leather chaps that you were g get for your Master, and that means you'll never be able to clean them with your tongue like a goo grovelingslaveboy should. So, boy, why the fuck aren't you writing? I told you to fill this out NOW mean it, you little shit. You've got only 30 more seconds. Do it

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FICTION BY GEORGE EDWARDS

WE GOT INTO THE CAR …

MITCH AND ME, A THREE-YEAR-OLD IRON GRAY CHEVY. INCONSPICUOUS SO IT WOULD BE HARDER TO REMEMBER. WE WORE DARK SUITS TO LOOK LIKE BUSINESSMEN, SALESMEN MAYBE. MITCH IS A COUPLE YEARS OLDER THAN ME, 25 OR SO. HE'S A TALL GUY, WELL SET UP, WITH BROAD SHOULDERS AND A BIG OPEN FACE. WE WERE WORKING FOR DANNY DONOVAN, WHO EVERYONE CALLS "THE DON." TRUTH IS, MITCH IS AN ENFORCER AND I'M LEARNING THE BUSINESS. we're going to find when we get there. But that's all I know. It's not a good idea sometimes to know too much in advance.

We're not saying much, but suddenly, Mitch says,

"Son of a bitch." I say, "Huh?"

"Bo, the cocksucker. Hiding out in the boondocks where nobody knows how to get to."

I shrug and say, "You said he's staying at his sister-in law's. I can get us there. Okay?"

"Yeah, the cocksucker thought he could outsmart the Don. But you know what? His girl friend ratted on him. She figures he's a dead duck anyway and she wants to get in good with the Don so she let the Don tap her phone and sure enough he calls her. Stupid motherfucker."

I say, cautious, trying not to sound curious, "When we find him…"

Mitch smiles, a big open smile and says, "I knew you were going to ask that. You'll see when we get there."

I couldn't help myself. I hunched my shoulders for a second and asked without looking around, "We g…?"

Mitch says, "Forget it, Luis. You'll see when we get there."

We drove for an hour, first on the highway, then on a county road and finally through a small town. On the other side of the town an area of big houses some looking old, some looking like they had just been built surrounded by big lawns and big trees. It's the middle of the morning in far, I haven't done more than billiet protection money. It's Mitch's I but I'm driving. Neither of us ava anything as we head North ward the George Washington Illige. As we cross the bridge, Illeh looks at his map and asks, www.know.where.we're going?"

I say, "Sure enough - Packway. we been there before. There should no problem finding the place." I now where we're going and who

BO TURNS AWAY FROM US. HE PUSHES HIS SHORTS DOWN, STEPS OUT OF THEM AND THEN HIS JOCK STRAP. HE GETS DOWN ON THE FLOOR, ON HIS BELLY AND PUTS HIS HANDS UP IN FRONT OF HIS FACE. HE'S VERY and on this road we haven't passed any other cars.

Finally Mitch, who has been consulting a map and watching the mail boxes, says, "I been watching. It should be the next one, shouldn't it?"

"Yeah that big old house up ahead should be it. What do we do? Leave the car?"

"Park off the road if you can." I parked the car in a small cleared spot next to the road and we got out. Mitch squared his shoulders and patted the holster under his arm. There was a driveway leading uphill from the road, but Mitch gestured to me and we crossed this wide, well kept lawn. I noticed that there was no car parked in front of the house, and none in the two-car garage whose doors were wide open. The house windows were closed, but as we got closer, I co hear the low buzz of an air condi er.

As we approached the hou Mitch said, "Let's go around to back." We walked around the ho to the back door. Mitch climber to the back porch, put a big han the knob and tried it, but it locked. He looked around and s ted a cellar door with four st going down to it. He came b went to this door, and four unlocked. He beckoned with head for me to follow him and through the door.

We were in a big room with v stacked neatly against one ci block wall, two bicycles aga another wall, some lawn chair had a damp cellar smell to it. T was another wall, covered unpainted sheet rock and w door in it. From the other side of door, we heard muffled indefir sounds.

We moved quietly to the doo the way, Mitch reached inside jacket and took a .38 out o shoulder holster. Then he tried door very quietly and gently, threw it open, like cops on or those TV shows.

The room had a couple of tanks, a furnace, a couple of chairs and a set of weights stand. Right now, lying on his on a floor mat, and pushing a v up above his head was the ma had come to find - Bo.

Bo looked up, saw the two and said, "Oh shit! Oh Christ managed to get the weight ba his chest and then onto the v stand. Mitch said, "Hi, Bo."

Bo didn't say anything. Bo v his middle twenties, with dark hair and fair complexion. Bo bare chested so I could see the had a deep chest with thick sla pectoral muscles jutting out fr looking rock solid. He climbe from under the weight he ha put down and stood up. He

e love average height with strong of moular legs and big arms. Right there were beads of sweat on shoulders and on his forehead. hazel eyes were wide - alert and tuhtened.

Mitch said, "We got a message d you from the Don. In two parts." de looked at me. "Go lock both winse doors." so I locked the outside door and telen the door to the room we were al There was a stairway going up to nd must of the house. Mitch glanced I II and asked, "Who's upstairs?" will "No one, they both work."

"do take a look, Luis. Make sure word front door is locked too." ing I went upstairs, cased the joint aid a nobody else was home. rs. Heturned to the basement and let hand know that the house was Winney, Bo made a run for the door. ithin n punched him on the shoulder, of troing him back down onto the national bench. Bo looked at me for a mond and said, "Hey, please guys. or. I a mistake. I can explain it all e li ine Don. I didn't know what they I up to." d I i didn't know what he was talking Maybe Mitch didn't either. He ne iiii, "Shut your fuckin' hole, soft and punched him again. wal at this point Bo looks like he's of the cry. Mitch says to him, "Take office the trunks and lie down on the billing on your belly." vell un mays, "For Christ sake, fellas, an 🚛 👊 a mistake." I guess he figures with is gonna shoot him in the off and, I can smell sweat but there's tl" I mothing else too - the smell of well Mitch says, "On the floor, puke He takes off his jacket and was was it over the rack of barbells. ble loosens his tie. w to turns away from us and push-hat his shorts down and steps out of abs and then his jock strap. He rom down on the floor, on his belly ed and puts his hands up in front of his nd June. He's very stiff, almost rigid e wom on the floor. He has a good back, nice strong lats, lots of definition . Not too tan. A white cannonball butt. Mitch looks at him and then reaches and takes off his belt. He stands over Bo and looks down at him. He brings his arm up with the belt, swings the belt behind his head and then brings it down, hard, across Bo's ass. Bo yelps. The belt leaves a red mark on the white ass mounds and Mitch raises it and brings it down again.

Bo is saying, "Please, please. Oh Christ! Oh please." But the belt keeps hitting his ass which is getting more marked up.

Mitch looks at me and grins and says, "You want to get in on the action?"

I grin without saying anything. I put the piece back in its holster and take off my jacket and my belt. Mitch says, "Work on his back, so we don't get in each other's way." So I stand over Bo on the other side from Mitch and I slam my belt down across that wide muscular back. Wow! It's the first time I'd done anything like that and it gives me a hard-on right away. I slam that belt hard, again and again, and with each blow my cock is pushing against my pants. Man! It's a nice feeling. Bo is squirming and jumping and yelping with the blows. Not saying anything that I can understand, just howling each time he's hit which is pretty often because neither Mitch nor I waste our time and Mitch is really creaming the guy's ass.

After a while my arm feels tired and I wonder if I should switch the belt to the other arm. But then Mitch stops swinging his belt, so I stop swinging mine. He looks at me and says, "You got a hard-on?"

I feel embarrassed but I say, "Yeah, what about it?"

Mitch nudges Bo who is lying on the floor breathing hard with his back and ass all red and marked up with welts from the two belts. Mitch says, "Bo here is gonna give us some head, ain't you, Bo?"

Bo doesn't look around. He says,

"I ain't no cocksucker."

Mitch nudges him again, curls his lip and says, "You learned to suck cock in reform school."

Bo turns, pushes himself up with one arm and says, "Hey! Shit no, man! I was a hawk in reform school. The pigeons sucked my cock."

"You're a pigeon, Bo. You just don't remember too good. But I know you were in Riveredge for two years and you sucked cock. You want to give me an argument or you going to blow us?" Mitch hefted his gun.

"Jesus Christ. You guys don't have any heart."

"No heart, Bo, but I got a hard-on ." Mitch laughed at his joke and so did I.

Bo said, "Can I stand up?"

"Yeah, stand up."

Bo stood up. His chest and belly were pink and dirty from pressing against the concrete floor. Mitch said, "You do what I tell you and maybe I can give you a break."

Bo's eyes widened and he said, "Okay, okay. What do you want me to do?"

"First thing, you suck Luis's cock. But ask for it. Get down on your knees and say, 'Please, Mr. Martinez, can I suck your big cock?"'

Bo looked at me and then at Mitch. He looked like he was gonna cry. He said, "You'll give me a break?"

"Yeah, I'll give you a break, I promise. Mitch looked at me and said, "Take out your cock Luis. Let's see if Bo here remembers everything he learned back in the Riveredge Cottage School?"

I took out my cock. It was hard and stiff and what the hell, it's a big cock and I like to show it off. Knowing that I'm gonna get it sucked has me almost bursting. Like my cock is saying, "Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

Mitch said, "Okay, piss bucket, ask to suck that fat cock."

Bo bent his head and said in a

low voice, "Can I suck your cock?"

I was real eager at this point, so I said, "Yeah, sure. Go ahead, suck it. Suck it!"

He looked up at me like he was going to burst out crying. But then he took my cock in his mouth. He pressed his lips around the head and went back and forth over it. He knew how to do it. He got my cock halfway down his throat. He used his tongue on the under side of it. He put pressure on it and deep-throated it without gagging. I looked down at his big shoulders and his blond hair and his thick arms. One of his hands came up and he put it under my balls and the other hand went around and held my ass. He really knew how to do it. I was gasping for breath and then I was shooting a big wad down his throat.

He kept my cock in his mouth for a couple of seconds, licking the come off it and out of it and then he pulled his head back and my cock slipped out.

Mitch all the time is watching this with his arms folded, with this little smile on his face. I backed away from Bo and put my cock back in my pants. Bo sank back on his ankles.

He looked at Mitch and Mitch said, "Suppose you lie down on the mat there, so I can fuck your ass?"

Bo looked at him for a couple of seconds. Then he looked real scared and he yelled, "I ain't never been fucked, I ain't never been fucked."

"Bullshit! You mean you ain't never been fucked except for money. Well, this time, asshole, you're gonna get fucked for love." Mitch unzips and pulls out this long white cock with a sort of pointed head and waves it at him.

Bo sort of wailed, "Please, no!" but Mitch hefted his piece again and Bo lay down on the mat.

Mitch said, "You know how to do it, cunt face. Stick your ass up."

Bo obediently stuck his ass up. He made quite a sight with his muscular back, all sweaty and streaked with belt marks and his ass all red and bruised in a couple of places. Mitch spit down on his cock, rubbed the spit around and then got down over Bo. He fingered Bo's asshole to find where to put it and then suddenly he gave a shove. Bo went, "Ahhh!" and then gave this long wail as that hard stick skewered him,

I LIKE SUCKING COCK.

AND HE HAS A BEAUTIFUL ON

HE'D GET ME IN THE SHOWE

AND I'D HAVE TO GO DOWN O

HIM LIKE IT OR NOT. THERE

NOTHING LIKE HAVING A BI

BEAUTIFUL COCK SWABBIN

YOUR THROAT.

Mitch pumped slowly and regula ly. I had just shot my wad, but in couple of minutes my cock starte to get hard again. Bo's face was a screwed up in pain and he wa gasping and letting out little sobs. wasn't music to my ears, but it sur was music to my cock because it go harder with every yelp. The tuck did n't last long. Mitch finally stopped pumping. His hips heaved a couple of times and he lay still on top of the weight lifter. Then he got up. He pulled up his briefs and his trousers He picked his belt up off the floor and put it back in its loops.

Mitch looked at me and grinned He said, "Hey, Luis, you look like you're drooling. I guess it's you turn." So I opened my pants again, got out old John Henry and got down over Bo. His back was all sweaty, so I tried to keep my body away from his so I wouldn't get my shirt dirty. had no trouble finding his asshole Wide open from Mitch's fuck. Christ What a feeling. His asshole was sort of tight, but it was like it was suck ing me in and I started pumping automatically. Nice long slow strokes and each of them gets a lit tle sob from Bo.

While I'm pumping, Mitch gets own in front of Bo, and spreads his igs out. His pants are still of / the / second [×15+] III his limp cock and says, "Clean it ff Ho, buddy!"

Ho is sobbing and shakes his maid no. So Mitch grabs him by that land hair and pulls his head all the way back and says, "Swab it, you mak sucking faggot, or I'll break mur mother fucking neck."

Needless to say, this is doing Inings to my cock along with the will asshole and I'm way up there. I will to make it last, but my load other ideas and in a couple of beconds I'm erupting like a volcano I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I on top of the guy. What the IIIII does it matter if I get my shirt Then after a while, I pull out and stand up.

When I caught my breath I pulled in my pants and I looked at Mitch. I want to ask the question, but I manted to know what we would do mul. I guess Mitch saw the question m my face. "Now," he said, "Bo here stand up. Stand up, scum bag." no stood up. He looked more mared now than before. Mitch said III IIII, "Okay, Luis, you hold him. met behind him."

I got behind Bo and grabbed his He didn't resist. I guess there wasn't much fight left in him. Mitch warma over to him and slapped his It lerked to one side and Mitch alapped him again so it jerked the way. Then Mitch punched him In the chest, bare knuckled, with hand and then the other. He minched the weight lifter's arms and Imily. He didn't punch his face, but alapped it some more. It went on for mille a while. It got me horny again I held him and could feel his body flinch with each blow. Finally Mitch alopped and nodded to me to let him go.

Ho stood there panting. He looked bedraggled, stained with awant and dirt from the floor and the

Mitch got his jacket, put it on and said, "Hey, Bo, I wouldn't finish my workout if I were you. I'd take a shower. You look a mess. Then I'd hitch hike down to the bus station and be out of town."

Bo had his head hanging down. He looked up at Mitch without raising his head and said, "I got no money to get out of town."

Mitch reached in his pocket, took out his wallet and handed Bo several bills. He said, "I'll blow you for the ride. I'll blow you!" and he laughed at his joke. I laughed too.

Bo took the money, didn't know where to put it since he was naked still and finally put it down on top of his jock strap on the floor.

Mitch said, "Come on, Luis, let's blow this joint." He laughed again and said, "Blow the joint. Get it?"

We left and got back in the car and headed for New York. I drove again. After we got on the parkway, I said, without taking my eye off the road, "Hey, Mitch. What if the Don finds out you let Bo go? I mean, Bo might tell someone."

Mitch laughed, "Shit man! I got two orders from the Don. First was to beat the bastard up, which, as you could see, I enjoyed doing. The other order was to tell him to get out of town and to stay out of town. I was told to give him some money if he needed any. I delivered both my messages.

I said, still watching the road, "Nothing more?"

Mitch laughed and said, "You think I got a couple sacks of concrete in the trunk of the car? He doesn't know anything and he's harmless. Besides, he's related to the Don in some way; cousin or nephew or the son of an old girl-friend . You hear different stories."

We drove in silence for a few minutes and Mitch said, "I'm still horny from giving that rat his licks. There's a factory up ahead. Drive into its parking lot and I'll give you a blow job."

I thought about that for a second and my cock started to get hard. I said, "I didn't know you sucked cocks."

"Why not? I was in that reform school the same time Bo was. I've changed a lot. He don't remember me."

"Does that mean you were a pigeon too?"

"Back in those days I was a skinny little kid. The muscles came a lot later. So I was a pigeon like it or not. Bo wasn't lying. He had muscles even then. One of the guards had a thing for him.

So Bo was putting out for this mother fucker of a pig which made Bo a hawk and I had to suck his cock, like it or not." He laughed. "I didn't resent it.

I like sucking cock and he has a beautiful one. He'd get me in the shower and I'd have to go down on him like it or not. There's nothing like having a big beautiful cock swabbing your throat while that nice warm water is washing your back.

While I was punching him out back there I kept thinking that I'd like to give him another blow job just for old time's sake. His cock was limp so I would have been able to suck it until it got real hard. You know we slept in dormitories, and after lights out, he'd come over to my bed and fuck my ass. I was his pigeon so the other guys couldn't touch me. Not that I would have minded.

The only thing I did resent was that he could and did beat the shit out of me a couple of times and I couldn't do anything about it."

By this time I had parked the car. Mitch said, "Hey, I tell you what. Get in the back seat and get out that big dago cock. I'll sit on your lap and you can fuck me up the ass. That is, if you got another load."

I grinned and said, "I sure have. But look, I'm not a dago."

"What are you then?"

"Hispanic-American."

Mitch shrugged and I got in the back seat.

FICTION BY T. ELLIS

MICHAEL WAS A SKIN. A TALL, LONG-BONED, MUSCULAR, BRACES-AND-BOOT-WEARING, HONEST TO GOD, HARD-LOOKING, SWEET BOY. BUT STILL A SKIN. NOBODY SHOULD HAVE BEEN HASSLING HIM.

Hey faggot!" The voice came louder and he turned on the corner where he leaned, looking mean and horny.

The denim tweaked into the crack III his ass, which was peach firm. The stretch of his cotton shirt played wer his pectorals which were buffed and tight, his nipples pressed the fallillo. His crotch pushed out in the Henlim casing, hiked up by the cut of IIIII Levi's and somehow tweaked by the shiny, patent leather black of the I Doc Martens threateningly mounting up his shins, less than a man's chest away from where their for would be when they dropped, In they regularly did, to their knees and took him in the face.

"Hey, you deaf, ya pansy?"

He turned finally, and looked. A www of brothers in a beat up Ford were on the corner behind him, looking trashed. He sneered and looked away. This wasn't their turf. This was skin country. They should be happy to be alive.

"Hoy bwa, cain't you see we talkin' to ya?" the voice came again. He looked. It was the guy in front, at the wheel. He had dreadlocks, a wide as all creation. Gold somewhere to the side too, Michael was sure of it. "You too much of a pussy to talk to three minal brothers, man? You too much of a cock-suck? Huh, fairy?"

Michael braced himself. These would need a little manners Mack. A little education. Even on his mwn, on this turf it was a matter of honor. He ambled to the car. Unight, he was six feet tall, and his muscles made his walk, even in a whombling roll, menacing. He leaned unto the car, dropping his hands wross the roof, noisily.

"Anything I can do for you boys?" hiii hald, drawling. He'd never set mot South of the Mason-Dixie line, had he figured these colored brothren would most easily be irked lly a Johnny Reb.

"Yeah, skinhead man," the gold-an tooth in the front seat said, "you man suck on this for me, sonny."

"YOU LIKE THE HAND, WHITE-BOY? YOU LIKE THE BLACK MAN'S HAND 44.36 INSIDE YOUR ASS? WHY DON'T YOU GET SMART 6 / 2 AND TAKE THE BLACK COCK? YOU KNOW THAT'S WHAT YOU REALLY WANT."

Michael looked down into the sawed off twin bores of a twelve-gauge shotgun, peeking just below the wound down glass lip of the window. "Get into the back seat skinhead man," gold tooth said, "we got plans for you."

He was naked, he was wet, there was blood in the bottom of his mouth, and his ass was hurting. Michael crouched in the steel tub where he was tied, still in his boots. The water was up to his calves now, as he crouched in the old tin bath. The gold tooth brother was approaching again with the sponge and leather. Another brother with a bar of soap was lathering his hands, Stokeley, he thought he'd heard the gold tooth call him. The third was taking instant pictures. Every couple of minutes another flash would go and the automatic mouth of the camera would whir and spit another print of Michael being whipped. "Smile skinhead," the camera dude would say, "Don't you like showing the inferior black man how clean living you are?"

"You ready yet, skin-man?" the gold tooth said.

"No," Michael gritted through his teeth.

"I guess you ain't clean enough yet. Stokeley, lather him up."

"Don't," Michael said, gritting again.

"You hush," gold tooth said, "or you know what'll come, and sooner."

Straining against the cuffs that bound him down into the handles of the steel tub, Michael tried in vain to move his ass so it would not be in the hand of the approaching Stokeley, a bar of soap in one hand, a rubber glove full of lather in the other and a dirty grin over his face. "You like the hand, white-boy? You like the black man's hand inside your ass? Why don't you get smart and take the black cock? You know that's what you really want."

"Fuck you, you racist fuck."

"Fuck me, oh no, little skinhead, I think we gonna be fuckin' you, ain't that right Gold?"

"Get the soap in him Stoke, and quit jabberin'."

Stokeley took a handful of soap and stuck his hand deep into Michael's crack. Michael hissed an intake of breath. The hand was pressing into him. It soaped, soaped and soaped around his ass, then pierced his hole. Deep into the ridges it went and two fingers played around and round the sphincter of his ass. Despite himself, he contracted around them.

"Hey little skinhead, there you go. You want my dick there now?"

"Go fuck yourself," Michael gritted .

"Okay," gold tooth said, "get out the way. You ready faggot?"

Stokeley got out of the way.

"Fuck you," Michael said.

"Oh you will," Gold the dread-locked smiler said and he laid the leather crop into Michael's ass.

"Au," Michael howled. Some soap fell away from his crack as he jigged in pain.

"Just like come dripping out your asshole," Gold's teeth smiled, "You ready for another?"

"No," Michael groaned despite himself.

"Tell you what," Gold said, "You wanna suck my dick?"

"No," Michael said, he didn't do rough tricks, he gave them. People PAID to kneel down for him.

"All right," Gold said. The riding

crop whipped.

"Aaow!" Another line joined the range of six or seven streaks of red across Michael's virgin (for whipping that is) butt. The fine fuzz of fur that covered his cheeks was no protection from the leather's angry kiss. He buckled as his knees, unused to squatting like this, cramped and locked under him.

"Let me up," he said.

"You ready to suck me?" Gold said.

"No," Michael said.

"Tell you what," Gold smiled. He walked over to the front of the tub. "You don't have to do nothing. I'll take all the heat."

In front of Michael, Gold's red denim crotch seemed enormous, just above his head. The black man pulled his zipper down and let out a huge cock, free of underwear. It was engorged. "You ready for me big man?" Gold asked.

Michael wondered. It was a lovely cock, the color of deeply varnished stripped pine with a fat vein along its side. Looked tasty, and if it weren't for the humiliation, the company, in an alley, maybe, just maybe, he'd be getting hot. Could he do it?

"Never mind faggot," Gold's voice came hard and hot. "You take a minute thinking. Maybe you ain't clean enough yet." And with that the black cock head draped just above his mouth unleashed a stream of piss so thick and powerful it ricocheted drops off of his cheeks. The stream, hot and salty where it got into Michael's mouth despite his sputtering, washed over his hair and bare chest, down his crotch. Despite himself he felt it warming. After one hour of cold sponging and whipping in the nude he was shivering.

"All right, you want the crop again, or you want my cum?" Gold stood over him shaking last drops of piss out of his massive, still half erect truncheon.

"You fuck," Michael said, "I don't do showers."

"You do what I tell you to do, white boy," Gold said and as Michael was still opening his mouth to say "Fuck" the black man's cock started to conjugate exactly that verb on him between his lips. It was "I fuck, I have fucked, I will fuck, I am fucking" all into Michael's throat.

Unable to breathe, Michael found no other option but to relax and let the cock slide in, deep in the warmth of his mouth and to breathe through his nose. He knew if he made the slightest move with his teeth that blades would cut his balls off before Gold groaned.

"Good, little boy, now suck it, suck that black man's love tool good, you hear, skinhead boy?"

Michael sucked. Through clos eyes, he heard the camera whirring another photograph and the brig flash told him that this time his fa was in the picture. His face, with black cock driving in and out I mouth.

He grunted as he felt a ha again at his ass. This time it w pulling his ass up, and not with soap glove. This time the hand w parting his cheeks for another son thing, something hard and pressi to force against his ring. Go pushed his cock deep in his thro and he grunted, and a second la the cock at his ass shoved and w in too, past his ring and deep insi him. He was being fucked. The ca era whir went off again and he ke his eyes shut. If he kept his ey shut perhaps this could just be dream. A dream where he woke his bed, still a skinhead who w tough, still untouchable, still son body who waited to be serviced a for payment.

The black cock in his asshed shoved deep in and a voice, may Gold's, maybe Stokeley's, may the camera-man's said, softly in ear, "Hey faggot boy - these pictul we got here, they go directly to yo skin crew, right tonight. You thi they gonna like you taking bla meat? You think they gonna resp you for your new, feminine side? don't want that, then maybe we a new late night compadre for o team. You want that? You want to our new mascot? You our n pussy, faggot, welcome to your n life."

Michael swallowed. Gold's co was going off inside his throat a jetting what seemed like gallons milky cream. In his ass another co was jerking and pushing deep deeper till any minute now anot whole lot of white was going to wa him and keep him clean. Mich. relaxed and settled into the acti-This new way of life wasn't going be so bad after all.

GRIFFITH PARK ELEGY

THAT MAN WAS TROUBLE AND HE WAS

UMINAVELING MY UPHOLSTERY. HE WAS

THE NUMBER THIRTEEN, BLACK CATS,

BUINNING CROSSES, BAD LUCK PER-

MUNIFIED. HE HAD THE QUIET DISPOSI-

THON OF A SEDUCTIVE CULT LEADER.

MACK, BUT I COULDN'T. I WANTED HIM.

If this story were a pile of bones, I would fracture them, pulverize them and scatter them across beautiful landscapes like the ashes of so many beautiful lovers. So intense en and horrific was that afternoon that e all I could really do is romanticize it, when all I should really do is let it go and not repeat what took place. Or and what I believe took place. It disorients me.

I was in Griffith Park, in the heart of the City of Angels. Hanging out in he a motion referred to as the "meat where men young and old, and mill and poor, gay and not gay, follow on their instincts and their hard dicks dillin divining rods. Through a series III dirt paths that wind, in and out, through the heavy brush. Most paths twist back into each other or branch out into small clearings where men pose, pout and hold up the trees 'til coaxed into the moaning bushes. They circle through the maze in search of the minotaur, sometimes finding him in the rustling plants. Other times what they find instead is an undercover cop busting them for obviousness.

That afternoon I marched to the topmost clearing with intent. Without distraction. It's the second highest lookout in the park. It faces west across a field of dense, brown haze that blankets the basin, except for the shaggy heads of the sixty foot palm trees that poke through here and there. That area ain't too popular with the guys, although the bushes to the left and the bushes to the right are particularly squirrelly. Wide open areas make these guys uncomfortable . Some would probably go into an agoraphobic coma were they caught without a bush to scurry about in.

The vista is accessible by a dirt road that connects from the east side. Park police off- road vehicles frequently tour the area, shooting pebbles into the foliage with those knobby tires they use to hug the hill- sides. Scares the hell out of those bush queens with sex offender his-tories . But not enough for them to actually leave. The vista is visible from the observatory on an adjacent peak. If you put a quarter into the binoculars and aim in the right direction …welcome to Los Angeles.

Me? Well I'm an exhibitionist. I love the great wide, white sky, the fires of dusk and the risk of getting caught as much as I love my fond memory of blood, mean teachers and the fistfights I've won.

I planted myself on one of the C- curved benches put here some forty or fifty years ago when this area was some hetero lovers' lane or tourist lookout before the observatory was built. Benches of wood and concrete , unpainted since the 70's, carved with symbols and initials. (T.D.+S.G. '63, EL HUERO CON LA PEE WEE CON SAFOS Y QUE, and I SUCK DICK 4pm to 6pm M thru F).

I sat at the foremost bench facing out. A bench where winos died drunk and lovers fell together entangled in arms, scarves and hair. A bench with a personality like mine.

Quiet. Private. With a secret history in this part of town. There I sat with my legs spread and a look that said; "I've got less important things to do, only the serious need apply."

My olive and black Pendleton was folded across the knee of my pants, pressed with origami-tight creases. Just like my tee shirt. Just like my boxers. I resisted dressing this way growing up in East L.A. Dressing like my brother Flako and his pachuco homeboys on our block. They hung out in our garage since I can remember . Pants slung low, lowrider posters, "Calle Diesiocho" on the wall along with every members' pla-cas on the walls. A weight bench, beer cans and KRLA on a radio connected to a car battery. The smell of weed, sweat and anarchy in the barrio.

Now, my cholo-without-a-gang-look worked me an angle on that hill. Unapproachable, rough trade, mean-dicked , risky challenge. The bold

motherfuckers who cruised me knew they'd either be getting to blow a sadistic, gang bangin', drive-by, Richard Ramirez maniaco or just getting punked. Only the biggest freaks would conjure the nerve. The kind I could do anything to and who'd do anything I said. Like a "Dockers" wearin' CPA type who gave my shoes a real spit shine. A nervous, fey princess with fluffy hair whose hairbrush I broke smacking it across his bare butt. Or a tweak freak who tells me that I don't need to use a rubber with him. Yeah right.

Every once and a while I hook up with a man who turns the tables. But that Sunday afternoon was particularly quiet. I could hear birds and winged bugs nearby. The sounds of slurping and grunting, down the hill, were more than audible, they seemed amplified and exaggerated, like porno. I felt horny and impatient. I'd been up there for over two hours and no one made it up. Not even an obscured "PSSST" beckoned me for a blow job in the bushes.

The sun was sinking into the grimy distance and I felt February on my face and hands. The salmon colored streetlights that pacify the barrios and the ghettos were coming on in sheets across the horizon. I hit my flask to pacify the chills that were making my body jerk. I reconciled a fruitless afternoon of meditation . I stood and put my Pendleton on. Only buttoned the top button like a true vato loco. I turned to the path behind me to head for home. Home to call fuck buddies who would come to me, although that was not exactly what I was in the mood for when I planned that afternoon.

I looked back once more. Goose bumps covered my arms. The blood in my body felt cold and thin. A man was seated at the opposite end of the bench I'd just left. My heart was racing, for a couple of reasons. I thought about my options and said, "What the fuck?" I sat back down. The warmth that my body had left on the bench had dissipated. It was cold on the backs of my legs. In fact, the temperature had fallen considerably in the last couple of minutes.

We sat under the elongated shadow of an olive tree some twenty-five feet away. The fronds of the palm trees, just ahead, swayed and rustled in gusts of wind that I could not feel. The winds picked up clouds of dust from the paths leading down, obscuring them.

The impending dusk gave the stranger a dark, menacing feel. He sat quiet , staring ahead at the swirling, cherry vanilla clouds that were changing shapes as fast as they were changing color. His profi was still and sharp like stone car ing. His dark hair was pulled bad into a tight braid down his back. H wore charcoal colored "Dickies" wit knife-like creases and a white te shirt that was luminescent agains his brown, Aztec skin. A stray chol on the hill. My lucky day.

I blinked, prolonged, to thin undistracted, then he was upon me Next to me staring ahead. I rode him like a dare with my eyes. He had tat toos on his forearms, hands and neck. Blue-black letters and sym bols. A portrait of some ruca and a spider web on his left elbow that, in prison, signifies that he killed a man while doing time. At the edge of his eye, a black indelible teardrop. That man was trouble and he was unray eling my upholstery. He was the number thirteen, black cats, burning crosses, bad luck personified. He had the quiet disposition of a seductive cult leader. He oozed; run and don't look back. But I couldn't. wanted him.

My mother would sometimes tell me; "Mijo, el diablo is exactly who you want him to be. If you recognize him you must be in trouble with Diosito." Then and there I finally understood what she was talking about. That evil ain't just some white dude with a goatee and a tail. One could see that and run. Evil is in every nationality, in every religion, and every sexuality.

It was too late, this seduced, fair catholic wanted to capture that tat tooed, dirt under the nails, hard drinking, boyfriend smacking, welfare check stealing, lying, cheating demonio. I pressed my thigh against his. He didn't move his away. Well, that's all the encouragement I need ed. His smell drove my hand. I reached over to feel his thigh. Without turning, he intercepted my hand and held it in his fist. I tried to pull back but he held tight. For the first time he turned to look at me and that's when I freaked out. His eyes were black and shiny. I don't

men that he had dark eyes, I mean they were solid black and sold. His face showed no emotion. His was silent. My heart was absent III IIIy chest. He pulled at my hand will in his grip. I resisted and then yielded. He leaned into me, I imag-med , to tell me never to go where I'm not invited. He led my hand to his face and released it onto his amouth cheek. He pressed his hand unto mine and guided it across his hald lips. Now, I've made some nucked up choices in my life. Gone muninat my better judgment plenty of times. But the fact that I resisted withdrawing my hand, scared the field out of me. He led my trembling fined to the back of his neck. With his free hand he did the same to me and pulled me into him as if to kiss ma. That surprised me because imison trade never, never kisses on the mouth.

I tried to look away from those Many eyes, at the darkening sky, but till strength had us face to face. He field my head and put his mouth on mine, His, our mouths suddenly warmed to fire-like temperatures. I was drunk with lust and horror. Funhoria tinged with a residue of imensiness. The kind of uneasiness that makes most men impotent.

My ears were suddenly filled with fligh volume moaning, sighing and dulps for air. The sounds our bodies make when excesses of pleasure and pain push language past mere words, Terrible, beautiful, animalistic music.

That's what my ears heard. Within his violent kisses I heard his wolce. Smooth and deep like silk loxers that give me erections as I walk. And that's exactly what his folde was doing to me. He wasn't legessarily saying anything to me. I an't recall specific words, But wents in my life were being narrated y our twisting tongues. He knew hings about me. Things I've never ald anyone.

He knew that I sat at my fathers' edalde for three days as he rotted

MY EARS WERE SUDDENLY FILLED WITH HIGH VOLUME MOANING, SIGH-ING AND GULPS FOR AIR. THE SOUNDS OUR BODIES MAKE WHEN EXCESSES OF PLEASURE AND PAIN PUSH LAN- GUAGE PAST MERE WORDS. with cancer, and that just before he stafted to gasp for air, that signaled the end that my fathers' last words to me were "You disappointed me."

The stranger knew that it was me that burned a swastika on the side of an old dead tree by my house with a butane torch I stole from school when I was ten. (I wasn't being anti-Semtic, I didn't understand what it meant. I had a crush on the only white guy at my school, and he had it on his pee chee folder. I wanted him to notice me). He knew the terror I felt later that night as the sky exploded in amber as the tree that smoldered quietly all day ignited .

He knew the shame I felt as a child when we would have to sleep on the floor during certain holidays so we wouldn't be struck by random bullets coming from intoxicated, hot guns and how I prayed for God to make me an angel before dawn so that I could fly myself out of that barrio for good. He knew that I reached around and felt my sharp shoulder blades protruding and that that's all that they were. That I was simply a child testing the existence of God.

He knew that my lover, reeling with AIDS dementia, forgot that he was gay, that I was his lover, or even who I was, which allowed his family, with their high priced lawyers, to lock me out of our home. And that after a while that I just couldn't fight them anymore. He died without me.

He knew these things about me. These profane ordeals in my life. And I still wanted him.

My shrit was drenched with sweat that turned icy in that night that turned black while my eyes were closed. I pulled away unable to catch my breath. I tried to stand, to flee. I felt lightheaded. The blood that supplies my brain with oxygen was pulsing in my lips and groin. He steadied me and pulled me back onto his lap. Before I could scream, I heard the ripping of the seam of my pants. He impaled me onto what felt like a knife. Cold and hard like his lips started out but soon after seared me inside. He sat there, motionless, with me on top kicking and flailing. No thrusting, no sounds, no more words.

With his mouth he punctured and gnawed on the back of my neck. I felt my spinal cord being sucked out of my neck and out of my ass. I prayed that the wetness that soaked my pants was my piss and not my blood mixed with his cum. He squeezed my torso to the point where things went black. Then a bright electrical jolt shot through me with such force that my fingernails and nose shot blood into the dirt. "GODDAMN… that felt good." Did I say that or did he?

I awoke sitting erect on that bench, my head thrown skyward. The sounds of sirens all around me. Intense hot breath enveloped my aching body. The violent suns that illuminated the black fog in reality were a series of palm trees engulfed in balls of flames. They surrounded me on all sides. Black ash snowed upon me and all I could do is sit there and cry.

All that I have left are burn scars, bad dreams and three cranberry colored , crescent shaped hickies on the back of my neck that won't go away no matter how hard I scrub. If you'd like for me to show them to you, put on your hiking boots, bring your faith, and meet me at the park some sacred Sunday afternoon.

"Griffith Park Elegy" originally appeared in "Best Gay Erotica," 1997. Edited by Richard Labonte, Cleis Press.

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