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Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                363
             A NOTE TO PUSSYCATS

             But don’t worry if you’re down there on your first visit. You’re safe. Heh.
             Heh. The action is totally consenting. S and M at the Leatherneck means,
             above all, Sensuality and Mutuality. [This is the first time my keyword
             definition, which I first printed on one of my party invitations in 1974,
             is published in a commercial magazine.] The only thing that happens is
             what you want to happen.

             MAN TO MAN

             Shoulder to shoulder, dudes get bolder, hanging around the smoky back
             bars, shooting pinballs where guys with pinned balls score high. The
             front bar at the Leatherneck is long. The layout is laid-back into a maze
             of rooms with something for everyone. By midnight’s wee bitching hour,
             pool balls are hitting hard in the side pockets. Guys in leather harnesses
             are eyeballing husky uniformed types whose handcuffs are gonna click-
             rasp down cold around the wrists of some very willing cowboy.
                Drop your beer change on the floor and you go down to your knees
             to pick it up like a drowning man for the third time. A lifetime flashes by
             of piss-ripped denim, jockstraps, Crisco-ed leather, oiled chests rippling
             under pec-tailored vests, sweaty abdominals exposed through torn-off
             Leatherneck T-shirts, biceps banded with studs, cod-pieced “chaps” in
             chaps, thick belts, and boots of 1001 knights waiting for tongue-shine,
             and headed for the long porcelain trough in the back room.
                When/if you come up for air/amyl, you know this ain’t Alice’s Res-
             taurant. It’s Allan Lowery’s Basic Training Room. The Leatherneck has
             hot murals by A. Jay. It has oiled pecs and a yard of cock shared by four
             of the hottest barmen on the Coast. The Leatherneck ain’t exactly fantasy.
             The Leatherneck trip is real.
                Bar none, the Leatherneck is San Francisco’s ultimate bar of the 70s.
                The other night, at the christening of A. Jay’s second of four murals,
             one of those green-fatigue type DI’s was running a small conversation
             back in a dark corner on two muscled dudes of lesser leather rank.
                “Choke ’im, fucker,” the DI said to his recruit who was a bit too
             “gentle” with the man whose chest he was mauling on command. He
             rubbed the USMC tattoo on his forearm. (USMC tattoos get you dis-
             counts at the bar.) Like the Leatherneck itself, this leatherneck DI was
             the real thing. About thirty. Himself recent Marine meat. He still liked
             drilling. Especially after sundown. “Back at my playroom, I’ll show you
             two what you do after you pin your man down.”

           ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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