Men
9 Jake 17 Ty Russell 33 Randy & Alex 43 Todd 57 David Burrill 65 Business Lunch 81 Joshua Scott Fiction 24 Deep in the Heart of Tex 52 HUmma-porn-star">Uman Pyramid 72 Jungle Fever Features 5 Editor's Note 6 Mandata 16 Man Mail 78 Book Nook 88 Man Video 93 John Preston
Editorial Note CUL DE SAC I've been thinking how great you guys are about sharing your dirtiest thoughts with me through your letters, and how much I enjoy reading them, so I decided that this month I would do the same for you. The experience I had two weeks ago was so much like one of the stories in Mandate that I can't keep quiet about it. If you've never actually attended a circle-jerk, I'd like to take the opportunity right now to suggest that you try it. And on the off chance that you've yet to participate in a CANADIAN circle-jerk, I'm here to tell you that you don't know what you're missing. Having just returned from a model-search (I swear, that's really how it started out) in Montreal, I am still sore (but flying) from the hours I spent getting spent with my naked brothers to the north. So, what's different about it, you ask? It started innocently enough: I was sitting in a strip club one evening last week, taking notes and minding my own business, and a twenty-year-old French-speaking Quebecois stud in green surfer's jams comes up to me and asks in sexy, broken English if I'd like a "private dance." Never one to snub the local customs, I agree. Within minutes, I'm escorted to a table-for-one in the back and my new friend squats on the tabletop in front of me like an all-you-can-eat buffet, beckoning me to come closer. The green shorts, by the way, are nowhere to be found. Anyway, three minutes and six (Canadian) dollars later, he's asking me if I'd like him to fart in my face. (For two dollars additional.) I politely decline and he seems to lose interest, absent-mindedly rolling his beautiful, hairy nuts back and forth with the fingers of his left hand like he's about to shoot dice. In an attempt to regain his attention, I tell him that's it's my last night in town, and inquire about any parties in the area that evening. My dancer smiles. I suddenly feel lucky. He tells me his name is Marcel and to meet him outside in fifteen minutes. After the briefest, but most enjoyable, taxi ride of my life, we arrived at a respectable-looking home (but what do I know about
respectable) and we climb the long outside staircase, so common in Montreal, to enter on the second floor. Inside, there were fifteen beautiful men sitting in chairs (some clothed, some naked) waving their uncut dicks at each other. And I gotta tell you guys, I thought I had smelled ball-musk before, but these Canadians were really marking their territory that night. Marcel announced to everyone that I was a visiting American pornographer—at least that's how he translated the introduction. Since I already had a hard-on, more preliminaries weren't necessary. My cock was quickly and efficiently extracted from my pants by a clean-cut six-footer with fresh cum-stains on his shirt and twelve-year-old Scotch on his breath. I'm almost embarrassed to say that what popped into my head as the other other guys started getting up from their chairs was, "We're going to jerk-off on the carpet?" Anyway, I ended up getting a lesson in a game called "Cul de Sac." Being the last one to arrive, and since it was my first Canadian circle-jerk, I was "invited" to feel the dicks of every guy in the room—while wearing a jockstrap blindfold! It's not the usual way to find models for the magazine, but I was willing to give it a try. (To be honest, my blindfold kept sliding off during the group-grope which ensued, but wearing a dirty jockstrap on my face was fun while it lasted.) Even though the lights were on, there was still the thrill of anonymity as every deep voice in the room was muttering in a language I didn't understand. To make a long story short, after a couple of hours of being dry-humped and fingered by the roomful of Canadian meat (during which I gave out a fistful of business cards), I suddenly realized I'd missed my plane, and had to catch a train home—but it was worth it! Now, I don't know if they play Cul de Sac every Thursday in Montreal, but if I ever find out they do, I'm moving up there. P.S. That about sums up my Canadian Circle-Jerk. At one point, after my return to New York, I wondered if I had hallucinated the entire incident, but I've since received two letters from guys who were there who would like to take me up on my offer of posing for the magazines. When they appear, I'll be sure to point them out to you. And if you guys have any circle-jerk stories from around the globe, write them down. You know I'd love to read them.
