Almost everyone who grew up before the internet can remember when and where they came across their first issue of Drummer magazine, as there was little else like it. For me it was at age 19 in my sophomore year of college, in a dusty newsstand and cigar store in the near-deserted “old downtown” of San Jose, next to the university campus. It was its second or third issue.
There was also a repertory “art house” cinema next to the campus, where I spent too many evenings watching all types of movies and films. A year earlier I went to see The Boys In The Band, and –– still learning about what being homosexual might be like –– it scared the shit out of me. Like the gays in that movie, I worried that being gay meant being self-hating, bitter, in denial, alcoholic, wearing scarves and cashmere sweaters, liking Judy Garland and opera, and exchanging caustic insults and retorts at gatherings with your friends. It kept me in the closet for another year, fearful of my burgeoning sexual identity.
Cut to finding that issue at the newsstand, flipping through it, knowing I had to have it, then, pulse pounding, putting it between some other “regular” magazines and nervously taking it to the register, then racing back to the dorm to devour it in a bathroom stall. I hid it from my dorm roommate, but excitedly brought it out whenever he left to spend the night with his girlfriend. I must have reread the issue many times over, using up several boxes of kleenex in the process.
I haunted the newsstand every week for months, hoping for a new issue, then soon I bought a subscription, even though money was very tight as a starving student. Fortunately I had a P.O. box because of checks and the oft-changing residences of college life. I can still remember my favorite stories from those early issues: a serial called “Five in the Trainer’s Room” which I would later come to learn and appreciate was pure S/m: no kissing or sex, no romance, no aftercare –– just five athletic jocks that would take turns daring each other in various creative ways to take –– and give –– as much pain as possible. Hardcore from the very beginning –– although there were other stories, photo essays, and articles more about gay sex, bondage, fetishes, and, as Drummer’s subtitle stated, being part of the “leather fraternity.”
HERE. Here it was. Other gay people who identified and got off on the same things I did. I had been masturbating in my bedroom since junior high school to TV shows like The Wild, Wild West, biker movies, and violent sports like boxing, hockey, and football. I wasn’t the only one. I wasn’t a freak. And I could better accept my sexual identity, although I was still hungry to learn more about it –– and experience it! But I wouldn’t have made much progress if not for Drummer and almost a year later, Larry Townsend’s The Leatherman’s Handbook.
I dropped out of college after two years and moved to San Francisco. Like so many gay men of my generation, I wanted to be around more men like myself and the sexual opportunities that would present. I still needed to lose my virginity to better understand and accept my sexual identity.
Intimidated by and fearful of gay bars, I did stuff like go to the weekly gay nights in the basement of a Unitarian church, which would have social activities like discussion groups and game tables, and joined a gay political group in the fight for gay rights, helping defeat the Briggs Initiative and elect Harvey Milk, the city’s first gay supervisor.
I kept up with my love for Drummer magazine to beat off to but also to learn more about leather and S/m, now supplemented by used porn and “Mister Marcus,” a columnist for the Bay Area Reporter (B.A.R.) who covered the South of Market / Leather Bar beat. Through both Drummer and B.A.R., I learned of an event called the CMC Carnival, a fun annual fundraiser by California Motor Club, the largest of the city’s many gay motorcycle clubs. I knew I had to experience it for myself, it sounded fun and a lot less intimidating than a leather bar. It would be years before I could afford leather clothes, so I donned my best “butch clone” wear of that period –– a flannel plaid shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of used army boots.
I lost my virginity at a leather orgy. The club rented out a public venue on a Saturday, and there were “carnival”-like booths with games like throwing hoops around dildoes but also information tables for early gay health initiatives (tests for STDS), political groups, and some of the first gay cultural groups at that time like the Gay Chorus that started that year. At one of the booths they were advertising “Alice B. Toklas brownies” for $5 (a lot for a brownie back then), and I bought one. It was crowded with a lot of leathermen. Both inside and in the outdoor back area, a lot of beer was being sold and consumed. There was a huge windowless and darkly-lit hall, ropes and sheets divided some of it into a dance area.
Being early, the remaining hall was cool, dark, and relatively quiet and empty, so I decided to take a break, standing against a wall. Other men slowly started drifting in. I didn’t know shit about cruising (or being cruised), a shadowy figure approached and reached out caressing my pecs, then unbuttoning the top of my flannel shirt, and twisting my nips. Another arm reached over and stuck a bottle of poppers under my nose –– which I also learned about through Drummer and then buying my own from porn stores. One of the hands unzipped my fly and pulled out my already hard cock. One of the men surrounding me dropped to his knees, took my cock in his mouth, and gave me my very first blowjob. Of course I shot a huge load down his throat.
The dark hall continued to fill up through the afternoon. Hundreds and hundreds of men until you could barely move without getting poked by rock-hard cocks. The air steamy from all the body heat and breath, heady with all the testosterone and smell of sweat and poppers, and the floor sticky with cum. I stayed there for a total of five hours, shooting five times, a record I’ve tied only once. I did so much I had dreamed about since high school –– my cock and balls being sucked, sucking others’, worshipping pecs, nips, and pits, passionate, deep kissing, my own chin rubbed raw from beard stubble, having my boots worshipped, and reciprocating.
After the fair was over, I felt like a more genuine gay, not suffering from what is now called imposter syndrome. I also knew I wanted –– needed! –– more. What had I been so afraid of? I planned to march right down the next weekend to San Francisco’s “heaviest” leather bar (then The Arena), known for men who were into S/m, not just leather –– again, because of what I learned through issues of Drummer and Mister Marcus’ column.
Except I didn’t own any leather beyond a basketweave police belt and my trusty army boots, and the heavier the leather bar, the stricter the dress code. But I knew (again, thanks to Drummer) that a military uniform would also get me in. There was a big army-navy surplus store on Market Street, and with the Vietnam war ending just five years previously, there was a ton of actual used uniforms, dirt cheap. I headed down and bought a full army grunt uniform, khaki pants and shirt, belt, cap, even the white T-shirt to peek out at the neck, and dog tags.
That very Saturday I had no trouble gaining admittance. I walked to the bar and ordered a beer, and then settled against one of those islands that you could sit on or lean against. And then something happened that has never happened again since: I got picked up within two minutes, and in a way befitting the porn stories in Drummer. A hot leatherman strode up to me, grabbed me by my collar and pulled me up close until his face was next to my ear, and then growled deeply, “Are you willing to obey me tonight?” More than a little scared –– I had to think about it –– but also knowing this is what I wanted to experience, why I was here. I gulped and said “Yes, Sir.” I set my beer on the table and with his hand firmly on the back of my neck, was pushed out of the bar.
We arrived at his apartment with little small talk. I stripped as ordered and knelt on a blanket on the floor next to coils of rope, which he proceeded to tightly hogtie me with. He warned me that he likedhis bondage rigorous and severe, and to expect some numbness as circulation is reduced – although as the scene went on I realized he was also checking my hands and joints for color and temperature.
Later I’m released, tied standing and spread-eagled to a rope web secured against a wall; gagged, then given a severe belting and flogging, enough to raise welts (I could tell when he ran his hands across my back and ass). He then proceeded to brutally fuck me with just a little spit – it was my first time. He was bigger than average – I already knew from the cocks I handled at the CHC Carnival.
Again I’m released and collapse, exhausted, dripping with sweat onto the floor. He speaks, daring me for the second time that evening. “Are you willing to do whatever I order you to do?” My head is swimming with the possibilities, given all he’d done to me already. I’m in the “Training Room” stories! How much pain can I take?! This was my opportunity to commit or pack it up and go home. I would realize years later when I better understood the dynamics, he was asking for my consent –– just in the form of a dare. It takes me longer to decide this time, but he waits patiently, until finally I reply “Yes Sir.” He comes in close and pulls my head in even closer, then whispers, “I now want you to do to me everything I did to you.” !!! (for lack of better words) –– my thoughts swim again. And I proceed to do just that, except for silently cursing myself that I didn’t have better rope and knot skills from my brief stay in the Boy Scouts.
We fall into bed at dawn, a good seven hours from when we started the night before. We finally have a chance for a little “pillow talk” –– I guess his form of checking in and aftercare. We exchange names (his was Jason) and talk a bit about our backgrounds, although I was ashamed about having been a virgin until this past week and didn’t mention that. But I share with him that I still have periods of guilt and shame about my interests in S/m, having several times “purged” my small collection of Drummers, porn, gear (tit clamps, cock and ball toys), and poppers –– thrown it all out only to be back in porn shops within a month, buying it all back.
[Jason] then asked me two questions I didn’t have the wisdom to ask myself: “Do I enjoy it?” The answer would, obviously, be Yes. “Does it hurt anybody else?” And that answer (other than any joke about S/m) would have to be No. Immediately I felt the last of any conflict over my sexual identity evaporate, like a great weight had finally been lifted off my shoulders.
I never looked back after embracing this integral part of myself, and never threw out another issue –– Drummer was tied into my sexual identity and so much of the sexual gratification and pleasure it’s since provided me in my life. Looking back on the magazine today, I’m flabbergasted at the many now-famous authors, photographers, and artists who appeared in its pages –– Phil Andros, Lars Eighner, Etienne, Jack Fritscher, John Preston, Rex, Tom of Finland, Larry Townsend, Bill Ward –– even Anne Rice and Robert Mapplethorpe! (Coincidentally, the Jason mentioned above went on to have several stories published in Drummer, some of their “heavier” and more transgressive fiction.)
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As an elder, people have asked me what Drummer magazine’s “golden age” was. Honestly, thanks to the new publisher Jack MacCullum’s standards, editor and higher production values, I’d say the new issues since 2019 are better than ever (buy yourself a subscription if you can, ’cause newsstands no longer exist). Vintage issues still hold a place in many men’s hearts, often found cheap at gay thrift shops, used porn stores, and bar/leather club flea market events. Copies on eBay have sold for as little as $8 in the past few months (but also as much as $65!). Or ask any leather elders you know if you can borrow their copies –– thanks to the porn writer Victor Terry gifting me his complete run, including Issue 1, I once again own the early issues I threw out, or that fell apart from use.
I still buy and read Drummer. It remains primarily a magazine of erotic fiction, photography, and art – but there’s still a lot anyone can learn from its contents––provided that you understand what fantasies have to remain fantasies as far as safety and consent are concerned.
But the best issue of Drummer is the one you’re currently reading.
Author: Thor Stockman