100 BFs.

Drip, fire emoji, drip, drip, BANG, and maybe a couple of aubergines? Probably not enough to describe the horn hangover after being inside Brontez Purnell's, 100 Boyfriends. You know that sort of groggy, shameful mess that lingers somewhere in the pit of your bits, but dissipates only to leave you wondering if the sweaty film covering your skin is from you or him. Queer entering and then leaving—loneliness abates so that nothingness relegates every other emotion to the edges. All the while you're left thinking, how many boyfriends is too many boyfriends?! Every hole's a goal and there is nothing but penetration to mention again and again, only that's not what this book is about, really. It's more than one sordid, cum-fest after another, at the core of Purnell's collection of charismatic characters are queer black men trying to escape lofty levels of nihilism. Only he seems to have gone about it in the only way those endowed with a thick prick and a willingness to sub know how; probing, urinating, and erupting all over white supremacy. Body dysphoria drip feeds narratives of never really enough and there is a violence toward the self that confirms everything your mum ever told you about excessive penetration and how it will probably leave you with an emptiness so cavernous all the drugs in the world will not fill it. Coming out, coming up, coming round, Brontez Purnell is coming again and it is ragingly sticky.