Rustler Vol. 2 # 2

7 BITS & BITES
Crazy, Zany & Bizarre
11 RESTRICTED REVIEWS
15 SEXOTICA
17 ADVICE & CONSENT
21 SEX GUIDE
Circumcision by M. Costales
23 THE ROOKIE NOOKIE
Candy's Camera Debut
30 INTERVIEW: DESIREE COSTEAU
Porno's Southern Belle Rings Out by R. Allen Leider
35 FLASHBACK
40 SUZANNE PERRY
Disco Freak-out
44 SEX SECRETS OF A HAREM GIRL
A Life of Hashish and Golden Dildoes
Article by Jane Dolinger
47 DANIELLE
Does It All
54 THE HITCHHIKER
He Got a Long, Hot Ride Fiction by David H. Stahl
57 THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH
A big-top side show
71 THE GIRL IN GOGGLES
78 RUSTLER HUMOR
79 EROTIC ENCOUNTERS
Sex Therapy by Dr. Benson
87 THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF STAR WHORES
92 THE BEST OF FRIENDS
Laura's homesick, Tina has the cure

PUBLISHER'S STATEMENT
Now It Can Be Told
I have uncovered a secret so evil, so horrifying, that many of you will not believe it. But its true. I swear it.'
It began by accident. I was looking for my luggage at Toronto International Airport and, after two hours of frustration and run-around, I wandered into a long, gray corridor, hoping that sheer luck would lead me to my beloved pigskin case. That was when the fat man appeared — huge, bald, middle-aged and grumpy. "Whaddya doon inna Restricted Corridor?" he demanded.
"Ah, baggage," I mumbled. "Wells."
He consulted his clipboard. "Yeah Wells. I been lookin' for ya. Ya holdin' up da whole class. C'mon!"
Class? What class? I followed the fat man into a room filled with about 20 nervous-looking men and women and a great, jumbled pile of luggage. I spotted my pigskin bag, one corner already scraped ragged. Before I could reach it, the fat man bellowed. "Get inna line, Wells, an' stop smilin'. Yer a baggage handler now an' ya got nuthin' to smile about! Remember dat: Nuthin'!"
Baggage handler! I shivered in terror — this was the secret Air Canada Baggage Handling School — where ordinary citizens are turned into the most vicious and depraved workers in the country. If they found out I was not one of them, I knew my life wouldn't be worth a "Fragile" sticker. I had to fake it and wait for the chance to make a break.
The fat man began lecturing us on our shoes — they had to be spikey to climb the mountains of baggage and hard to protect our feet. To illustrate, he hoisted a steamer trunk over his head and slammed it to the floor with a hideous crunch. "See, ya coulda got hurt," he said. "An' here's anudder ting: Wells, tell me what just happened."
"Urn, you dropped it," I said.
"WRONG!" he screamed. "Baggage handlers do not drop things. IT FELL! Repeat after me: It fell."
"IT FELL" we screamed in surly unison.
Class began in earnest. With the others, I clambered heavily over the heap of luggage to wrench a case. from the bottom of the pile. As I climbed, the bags under me crunched, squeaked, tinkled and, once, emitted a piteous feline death rattle. I hauled out my pigskin case, scratching it severely. The fat man seemed pleased with that.
He commanded that I throw it to him and, as I did, he turned his back. The case thudded to the concrete. "Ya seen how I did dat?" Soon we were all heaving cases at each other and not catching them like we'd been doing it for years.
There were more horrors — the "special treatment" afforded to government property and the "extra special treatment" given to fragile works of art. Then the fat man found a student with a cold. He dragged him forward and held up a pink suede overnight bag. "Sneeze on dat," the fat man ordered. The student obliged with a big, wet, green one. "See, dat's snot," said the fat man, "an' it don't come off suede — never! Dat's dere for life."
It was too much for me. I crept furtively toward the door, grabbed what was left of my pigskin case and fled down the long, gray corridor.