You guys are cool with some porn, right? Oh yeah…of course you are. This is Coffee and Porn in the Morning. To be honest, I like my porn in the a.m. However, I’m not a coffee fan, so I think if I owned a blog like this, it would be titled, “Bacon, Eggs, and Butt Fucking.”
In the spirit of jumping right into “the good stuff,” I’m delighted to share an excerpt from King John, my latest book. And not just any ol’ excerpt, I’m sharing the sex. Desert sex. Burning Man sex. And this is gonna get weird….
Vin Vanbly and his weekend guest, John, have been cavorting for the past few days. Their last night together—after watching The Man get burned to the ground—John leads Vin far away from the party city and into the desert (hopefully a secluded spot) and seduces him.
He maneuvers on top of me, enjoy a rowdy tongue-sucking, face-fucking slobberfest. We gradually transition to something gentler, gasping for air between delicate kisses. With playful skill, he puts the condom on me, and while praising my cock for its many virtues, reminds me he last got fucked nine months ago. He asks to ride me, so he can control the entry and depth.
“No problem,” I croak, as best I can.
Sand in my mouth and our intense kissing have left me gritty, dirt-covered, and feeling raw, physically and emotionally. I love him. God, I love who he is. I just want to be inside him, however it happens. I hunger for this, for him.
After applying lube, he lowers himself inch by half inch, pausing repeatedly to stare at the sky, or at me, or in one instance, some burners who wander by, giggle, and say, “You fucking fucks,” before jogging away. I wouldn’t be surprised if other burners wandered by. Maybe. The city parties in full force. Every now and then a roar rises, far away.
When he lowers himself to the last inch, he moans, and I can’t help but buck up, to show him there’s more to me. There’s more of me to experience.
His eyes pop open, and he looks into mine. We move together, riding together, measuring our slow responses to each other, knowing when to push, when to sag, when to gasp and let it all out, slowly.
It’s good. It’s really, really good.
His ass grips me sometimes, other times he surrenders, inviting me to have my way, which is what I want. When I am balls deep, I see his satisfied grin. Everyone knows the bottom holds the real power. The top only loans it out. During sex, we toss power back and forth like a beach ball, offering each the right to push away, to push deeper, to welcome my cock or to resist. Each thrust renews the invitation.
I love the resistance, so vital to the core of John.
Just over his left shoulder, the infinite universe hovers in black, watching us fuck. The universe is right there. Watching us fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! F-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f like feathers floating to heaven, the start of the word, such a friendly fervor in f, and then uuuuuuuuu-my god, John feels amazing! Enough to snap off the word with a ck, a cock, a cock you, fuck you, oh feathers to heaven, I love fucking inside him! No wonder the word is so dramatic. It’s feathers and groaning and a hammer slamming down on a plank, cracking it in half, all in one word.
In the middle of our exquisite desert dance, I realize he won’t give up on Michelle. She’s got some rough times ahead, some hard growing up she must do, but he will be there for her, loving her through it. He will be her lawyer, yes, but so much more. This makes me want to fuck him deeper, to indulge the paradox of loving someone and wanting to cause that slight discomfort in them, making myself a literal pain in the ass.
He winces and it melts into a grin, loving this as well.
He says, “Come with me.”
He lowers himself, and the feeling of being pulled in overtakes me. I find my eyes fluttering closed. Oh god. I love this deep plunge—oh god.
I stare up into the universe behind his hazel eyes.
Softer, he says, “Come with me.”
The stars seem brighter than they did a moment ago, no longer soft and jolly balls of light, but a revelation that they are each powerful suns.
He pulls himself up and slides himself further down, and I buck up involuntarily because my cock wants that half inch more. My eyes squeeze shut—everything black—and then I open them to see the stars are falling, like a meteor shower inside him.
“My foot’s getting scraped,” John says.
Sex has its awkward moments. It’s not always comfortable on parched earth, so without pulling out of his ass, we manage to wrap his foot in my T-shirt, giggling, me occasionally thrusting into him, to continue our manly fuck. Now, we can’t stop giggling, laughing at our own “tee-hees” in the desert, the funny ways we laugh.
Distractions like these only highlight our pleasure, the intense, unfunny beauty when our bodies reconnect. The oneness we feel. I’m sweating and I don’t mind one bit. I welcome our heat.
“Come with me,” John says.
He stares into my eyes, his hands cupping my pecs as he rides me.
Nothing matters except me inside him, the connection between us, the black road under our naked feet, the two of us holding hands, walking through meadow after meadow of stars. We stroll together, our bodies mere outlines, the presence of outlines, and I look at my hand—the ghost version of my hand—and it comforts me to know I have found my true form at last. I am a ghost. I am the Human Ghost.
“Whoa,” I say, suddenly very much ass-on-the-ground. “What the hell was that?”
A black road? A meadows of stars?
He leans over to kiss me, squeezing his ass as he bends. While my cock does not actively fuck him, every time he clenches his ass, I squeeze my balls in response and it results in vibrations, a cock massage, a delicious twisting, and I understand something else about John. He knows what he’s doing. Power bottom.
Our lips find each other, gasping for air and stealing each other’s breath, this union on yet another level. Our mouths taste pure desert heat and lingering sweat. We’ve already released all the toxins, sweated them out days ago, so what remains is what’s truly ours. I could get drunk on these kisses.
“What was that?” I say, still gasping. “With the stars?”
He closes his eyes, and juts his chin skyward. “No questions.”
He kisses me again, eyes open, and the stars come out. I thrust into him until we merge into one, a union of soul and body that feels like witchcraft. Why does making love feel so amazing, so connected, so…everything?
He’s waiting for me, reaching out to me, and we resume our ethereal stroll. The landscape is light, a thousand million stars projecting enough light to guide us, illuminating in softer light and then stronger light, the fields around us. The black road with miniscule pebbles composed of stars. Different intensities convey texture. The light creates all.
We f-f-f-f-fuck the feathers to heaven!
And buried in this fuck—this love made physical—the light of a thousand stars, is the shimmering version of him and the sparkling version of me. The light beneath our feet creates the illusion of stone paths with no sharp rocks. We’re walking on light. All around us, stars grow on trees, and I see us traversing a million orchards, the endless black is the tangle of a billion intertwined tree trunks, bearing hundreds of billions of stars, tiny universes next to grown-up stars, stars so ripe they will go supernova and blow love onto growing galaxies—
What the hell?
I pant, gasping, looking around me. We’re still on the playa, right? The dirt rises in small clouds near us, making me cough, the distant cry of fire worshippers—
“Come with me,” he whispers.
Okay. This is weird. I will follow.
The orchard is less overwhelming when I see it in my mind’s eye, and maybe this mirage is fueled by sleep deprivation and adrenaline, fear for how things could have turned out, and love for how they did. Maybe my brain is processing every grain of sand tickling my every exhausted nerve and fiber, convincing me I see intricate trees bearing suns as fruit.
That’s probably it.
Or maybe it’s not an illusion.
Maybe I know exactly what I’m seeing.
These are the ancestral fields I know from The Lost and Founds mythology.
This is it.
The true home.
* * * * *
Determined to find the mysterious garage mechanic named Vin who helps men “remember who they were always meant to be,” Alistair catches his quarry amid the extravagant sculptures, fire worshipers, mutant cars, and lavish costumes. After searching for three years, he’ll finally get to ask the question burning inside him: “Will you king me?”
Wandering together through the desert, Vin Vanbly and Alistair explore Burning Man’s gifting culture and exotic traditions, where they meet the best and worst of their fellow burners. Alistair’s overconfidence in Vin’s manipulative power collides with Vin’s obsessive need to save a sixteen-year-old runaway from a nightmarish fate, and the two men spiral in uncontrollable, explosive directions.
In this fourth adventure of The Lost and Founds, beneath the sweltering summer sun and the six billion midnight stars, one truth emerges, searing itself on their hearts: in the desert, everything burns.