The Night Zachary Zane and Brontez Purnell F*cked

Just two slutty authors doing what we do best.

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The Night Brontez Purnell Got D*cked Down by Zachary Zane

By Brontez Purnell

For whatever misguided reason, I feel too often inclined to reiterate to people that I’m not a “sex writer”—that is, I write about relationships first and foremost.  To quote one of my favorite punk songs, “Do you believe in the radical possibilities of pleasure? I do, I do, I do.”

That said, I am often intrigued by sex writing in general. I think it takes a certain kind of optimistic mindset to write about sex, which, honestly, I lack. I usually write about “anti-erotics,” the things about sex that aren’t sexy. I think I gave out too much free pussy in my 20s and 30s and have earned the right to be a grump about it. Still, even though I’m a fat old grumpy gay man, I still hold solidarity with all things godlessly whorish, hence my crush on Zach.

A few years ago, someone sent me this article that was like, “I Got Fist-Fucked in the Bathroom at My Grandma’s Funeral and Feel Zero Guilt About It” (or something to that effect), and was like, “WHO THE FUCK WROTE THIS??” And it was, like, “Zachary Zane Substack.” I was TOO intrigued.

I took one look at him and was like, this is a deeply unhinged WeHo gay who went to a liberal arts college…I'm probably gonna let him break my heart.

I had been on a long losing streak with sex. I had a break up which led to what I called my Demon Whore Period. I spent about a year where my thing became bottoming on cocaine, which, let me say, feels GODLIKE, but every good thing has to come to an end. I was trying to reconnect to sex, where I had to be in my body and not on autopilot, so no more amphetamines.

Basically, I think that doing coke is this weird cheat code for bottoming cause then you don’t have to deal with the physical rigors of the act (again: autopilot). But I wanted my pussy tight and unattainable at first, so that meant showing up sober and giving “grip” again, which I had finally found the inner love to do. Amen! 

One other thing about the whole “How do I fuck Zach Zane?” was just like, “HOW do I fuck Zach Zane?” Not to make it racial or whatever, but it had been a minute since I had gotten some white dick. And not just ANY white dick, like white dick that’s giving UCLA CHEERLEADER body. Y'all, I live in Oakland, and I'm really not used to that shit. 

I had this whole period where I was only fucking DL Black and Mexican trade out of East Oakland and sometimes New York. I’m built like a thicc-ass Nigerian uncle. Subsequently, 99% of the trade that hits me up online is other men of color who are built like high school football players (and they fuck me like a football player, too).

But even then, it’s nice to break a habit. Furthermore, I AM supposedly this genius gay man romance writer. Why was I only having sex with the closeted drug dealers who brought guns to my house during sex? Now, to keep it 100, let me not sound like I'm raging on my POC, gun-toting trade. (Miguel and DeVonte, always remember that Daddy loves you, k?) 

To paint a picture, the last regular white dick I got in Oakland was this lawyer guy who ALSO kept loaded guns by the bed while he was fucking me. (Ew, do I have a type?) I mean, b, I knew I had to cash in other coins. I needed to love ANOTHER kinda bad boy: a bisexual writer…

I usually avoid other artists cause in the past, I would fall in love with another artist boy and be like, “I don’t deserve to feel this good,” and inevitably do something to sabotage it. But this time, I set the goal high and kept my heart open.

I was reading this one Zach Zane article on a trip to New York where the headline was like, “I Pissed in the Mouth of a Guy Wearing a MAGA Hat in a Burger King Bathroom, and He Loved It so Much He Converted to Islam” (or something like that) and then I had my editor call his editor, and we connected.

I was like, “Yo, Zach, like, could you be a pal and dick me down real quick?  I need it BAD!  Also, I had a hard childhood. Your acceptance of me through sex would totally clear up all my ill-formed identity issues, like, totally heal my inner child. Sorry if I’m oversharing.”

And Zach was like, “Don’t trip, girl, I got you. COME GET SOME DICK REAL QUICK!”  

I spent what felt like three years rinsing my ass out and hopped in the cab, ready to get my hungry pussy busted up by this fuckin’ STUD.

Now, I’m always careful in New York cause the sex culture there can be so all over the place. I remember one time fucking this 18-year Puerto Rican dude on Ave C and having to hide in his closet for 45 mins when his grandma woke up (OOF). Then, another time in South Brooklyn, this one guy locked the door from the inside of the room and hid the key, so I was trapped. I tossed my pussy like my life depended on it (cause maybe it did). 

But also (and this is an even scarier prospect), what if I totally fall in love or something?

I made it to Zach’s apartment, butterflies spinning a million miles an hour in my stomach. He answered the door, and the first thing I saw in the hallway were these silver sparkle platform boots. I was like, “Oh shit, she a they/them!”

It had been such a long time since I had sex with another “queer” it almost shocked me. I wanted to ask if he had an extra wig, and we just scissor each other, but I figured I should play it cool.

I don’t think I had realized that he was 6’4, and I was like, “Damn, this is about to be RAD,” but of course, something else bubbled up inside of me. This wasn’t just an encounter with random trade, this was a peer. We had things in common we could actually talk about.

I had been a face down, ass up, lights out bottom for so long I almost wanted to cry. I got nervous, like, “This is making me feel like a virgin again,” no matter how woefully inaccurate that assessment is…

But of course, that melted when Zach started talking and was going on about writers, deadlines, the industry, school, life, poetry, everything. We had talked so long, he actually said, “Wait, you’re here to get FUCKED, omg! Sorry! Go to the bedroom!”

I felt this wave of relief wash over me cause I finally understood, “Oh, he’s an awkward sex nerd, JUST LIKE ME!!!! AWWWWWW, BROTHERS FOR LIFE!!!!!”

My go-to is doggystyle, cause no matter how hot a guy is, there’s always that 10 to 30 seconds of getting fucked doggystyle where I like to pretend the guy fucking me is Jeff Goldblum. Since Zach and Jeff Goldblum are roughly the same height, I felt like I better not let that opportunity go to waste.

But he put me on my back, and I was taken back, cause I’m used to being run through doggystyle. (Besides, isn’t eye contact during sex only something you’re supposed to do with your boyfriend?) Either way, I was looking at him being like, “Wait, he ACTUALLY makes it to the gym. This probably means he hasn’t completely given up on society like I have. Damn, this is really making me think,” and then we switched to doggy.

I love when I get fucked, and a guy says, “I’m not gonna last like this.” It’s such an ego shine, y’know? But then, from his vantage point, how could he last? I had been bent over like a fucking whore who wants it right in the pussy. Stuffing all that white dick in my perfect, ample, toasted ebony cheeks. Is this how he fucked all his other whores? Or was I special?

Also, after nutting, he SEAMLESSLY transitioned back to convo. It’s just nice when a dude isn’t like, “Get out bitch” when his cum is leaking out of you.

We spoke about writing, our audience, what for, and to what end. For some reason, I drifted to a world where me and Zach would be married writers, but I was like, “He’d probs be like every other writer I ever dated and low-key steal my ideas,” but I’m sure as long as he made dinner sometimes, I'd have no problem with that happening.

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The Night Zachary Zane D*cked Down Brontez Purnell

By Zachary Zane

I first “met” Brontez online when he came to my defense after I wrote a piece for Sniffies’ blog about why I love fucking DL, married men. The white twinks were enraged on a horse so high their loose assholes were stinking up the clouds. Mind you, these same white twinks find plus-sized men “gross” and think trans people are taking up too much space and resources in the LGBTQ community. These white men would never fuck a black man (or only fuck ones that look like Idris Elba) and have never considered how it may be challenging, or a better word, devastating for a Black man who grew up in a homophobic home to come out. These privileged white gays didn’t understand what these DL men would give up if they were to proudly wave a rainbow flag in cut-off jean shorts.

Brontez absolutely annihilated them, tearing their flesh into bite-sized pieces before chewing them up and using their mangled remains as a pocket bussy.

He said much of the above, what I was thinking, but wasn’t sure was my place to say as a white man. (I also feared perpetuating the trope that all Black men grow up in homophobic households.)

This was in October 2022, and we became Instagram friends after lurking from afar. I lived for his stories and his shamelessness, which even surpasses mine—quite a feat, considering I wrote a book on how to remove sexual shame. I respected how he wore his heart on one sleeve and his messiness on the other. It made him feel real, even if he was being a slight caricature of himself online, something that I (and all content creators) do. 

In December 2023, Brontez sent me a DM out of the blue. (We hadn’t spoken to each other since our initial interaction over a year prior.) 

“Can we have sex one day? Fine if not-but wanted to ask!” he messaged. 

“Oh fuck yes. I know you’d be a good time,” I replied.

We started sending each other nudes, but of course, Brontez, being Brontez, didn’t have regular nudes to share. He shared two short films (each 11 minutes long) in which he narrated his current and ever-evolving relationship with sex and his desire to dabble with abstinence. His voiceover blasted over recorded videos of him getting fucked, shaking his ass, and jerking off in dark rooms.

Boy, did I feel inadequate sending nudes of my semi-hard cock in my unmade bed. (I sent them nonetheless.) We messaged back and forth about what trouble we’d like to get up to. He asked for brother incest role play “with a TINY TINY KISS of race play sprinkled in as needed, por favor?"

I can be into both things, but with the latter, I have boundaries. I love commenting on someone’s “fat Black ass” or “BBC,” but only when they specifically request this of me. I never say it unsolicited. I don’t like saying the N-word or race play that involves me degrading someone Black. No slave play or whipping. I like to worship and exalt Blackness and let them call me a worthless white faggot, or something along those lines.  

I was at ease the moment he stepped into my apartment, our initial hug lasting longer than that of a stranger I met online. 

We smoked a joint together, talking as the weed slowed our minds and heightened our physical senses. Both of us were familiar with each other’s names and works but hadn’t yet done a deep dive.  

Brontez is a storyteller both on and off the page. He’s lived so many lives: a punk rocker, award-winning author, whore. He has a way to beautify the mundane, to tweak a pithy axiom, making it profound. I listened, enraptured by his use of words. 

I am a storyteller only on the page. Off, I’m rambly, quick to lose my train of thought and leave ideas unfinished. Still, I did my best to share my journey to writing and becoming the Boyslut, a story you all have heard repeatedly. He listened the way few genuinely listen. He didn’t just want to know how my dick would feel inside him; he wanted to know who and why I am the way I am.

When I felt the weed had hit and I had said enough, I beckoned him to my room.  

We both stripped, he to his jockstrap, me stark naked. Quickly, he assumed the position, tabletop, on his hands and knees. His ass was glorious, massive, jiggly, everything I love in an ass, but I told him to turn over. 

“I wanna kiss you while I enter you,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m not used to men wanting to fuck me in anything other than doggy.” I knew what he was getting at and didn’t ask him to explain further.

I lathered my cock in lube while Brontez placed a pillow underneath his lower back. I slid in with ease, his hole pulsing once I was fully inside. I leaned over, pressing my hairy body to his belly, and kissed his lips—slow and tender. My movements were slow, and he reciprocated in kind. Or tongues, delicately swirling into each other’s mouths, accentuated by little pecks here and there. I grabbed him by his love handles and started pushing my way deeper inside his hole. 

“You’re such a good older brother,” I whispered in his ear. “You’ve always protected me, and I wanna make you feel good.” 

The ways his eyes lit up, immediately transfixed by the unique connection only siblings can have.

“Yes, brother, give it to me,” he said, his voice even higher and faggier than usual.  

“I love my brother so much,” I said, my thrusts growing more vigorous, his juicy ass making a rewarding “thwack” with each thrust. 

“I love you, too, brother.” 

My hips were now moving with a mind of their own—more aggressive, violent. The brotherly affection had got me going, but I now needed more. 

“Turn around, I need to pound that fat, Black ass,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, sensing the switch in my tone. 

Brontez knew how to fuck. Given his work detailing two-plus decades of being a ho, I expected no less, but many men who talk a big game disappoint. Then again, those alleged power bottoms haven’t won a Lambda Literary award for being a ho. 

His back was arched, and his hole, which felt like it had been doused in olive oil, was soft and slick. His cheeks bounced in unison, clapping against my shaft. I handled each of his cheeks and thrusted harder and harder. He moaned. “Look at this white dick disappear in that Black ass,” I said. “You like that, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he replied, mixing roleplay and metaphors. I turned his head to the side so I could kiss him, my hairy chest pressed up against his sweaty back. I felt like I was about to cum, and while I wanted nothing more than to breed him, my sides were starting to cramp. I pulled out and jerked off next to him while we kissed until, at long last, I came while snarling like a wounded animal. When the last drop shot out on my chest, I grabbed Brontez and pulled him close. My cum acting as glue, holding our bodies together. 

We cuddled for a while, and the conversion turned to burnout at one point. Only 32 years old, and already, I’m tired of writing, which doesn’t bode well for my future. I’m tired of the freelance life, never knowing where my next check is coming from and for how much. Always waiting for some email to land in my inbox—the email that’s going to change my life (e.g., turning my book into a Netflix original series). It is yet to come. I felt selfish venting, as I knew Brontez had been writing far longer and dealt with far worse than I. Still, I spoke, uninhibited by the weed and post-coital bliss. He listened.

“I have to go,” he said. It was getting late. He redressed, but with nowhere to go but to bed, I remained in my birthday suit. I signed a copy of Boyslut for him, and he asked if he could take a photo of me to share. The result:

In a recent text exchange, I shared the topics of my new essay collection— avoidance and intimacy. A master at the former, I struggle with the latter but am doing my best to work through it with my current partner. My next book will detail this journey.

He texted: “I dunno you were a perfect stranger to me but I left yr house feeling like a homie - I think you have an inherent casual camaraderie that is actually related to empathy which IS in fact intimacy.”

I smiled. The man really does have a way with words.