She arrived to camp on Monday afternoon with my two closest friends on the playa, a mischievous polyamorous couple from Tucson. It was Coconut’s first burn and within the hour she had joined us on an LSD-fueled bike ride through the still-emerging city of dust and dreams. And then suddenly she vanished. We searched between the giant crows and atop the robot’s head, but she was gone.

I felt bad for losing her; Black Rock can be intimidating for anyone, let alone a hard-tripping burgin on her first afternoon. Before long, though, she materialized back at camp and we sat together in folding chairs, her big, beautiful eyes wide from the spindly tendrils of acid still pulsing through her system as she told me about losing her mind after she lost us. Believing she was dying. Ending up naked, lying in the middle of the Esplanade where she was aided by a kind Indian man, whom she had assumed to be a shaman before realizing that thought was racist.

Rock and roll. She was shaken, for sure, and a little tired of the tarps morphing around behind my head, but she’d be fine.

My drug schedule had me rolling that night and before long I was dodging fluffy projectiles at a raucous pillow fight suspended twenty feet in the air. But then I lost my stash and the M started tiring me out as only insufficient amounts of Ecstasy can do to you, so we swung back to camp where, lo and behold, a sultry cuddle puddle was simmering. Clothes were melting off and among the bodies, I found Coconut earning her name by doling out generous amounts of the versatile white oil. So, after a little dab into my other stash, I joined her in the cauldron, and in the glow of the warm August night she climbed on top of me.

Rock and roll. As the eyes of other Slutt Putters lapped up our primality, all I could think was –

Keep it up, Caesar.


I don’t recommend camping at Slutt Putt if you’re a prude. We did, however, have campers more interested in building giant dragon pyramid temples and fixing the 9th hole’s fragile volcano than manifesting writhing Grecian orgies. Likewise, my libidinous pursuits are always paired with a compulsive drive to find one of those “life partners” whose shitty jokes I see you laughing at in your Facebook photos. But at Burning Man, those desires can co-exist… right?

Maybe, but after Coconut and I escaped back to my yurt, our trip to bangtown started including stops at feelingsville and get-to-know-ya-land. I learned she was an astrological priestess who worked at a weed dispensary, so I mentioned the dank bud I grow at my home in LA. She recounted a dream she had where the goddess told her that people who lean their heads to the side when they talk are afraid to die, so I straightened my head up. She asked if I was thrown off by her unshaven armpits, so I told her I thought it was sexy in a “let’s escape to a forest and live off berries” kind of way. In a “fuck the patriarchy, fuck feminine beauty standards” kind of way. In a “whoa, gross, look at all that arm pit hair you have” kind of way, oh wait, I didn’t say that.

As the sun began to rise, I took Coconut from behind, perhaps a tad aggressively, and I felt her dry up. “Should I grab some lube?” I asked, grabbing some lube.

“I don’t believe in lube. If I’m enjoying it, you’ll know,” she replied. I chuckled at her candor, her gentle but firm admonishment, then laid peacefully with her until she slipped out of my yurt’s flimsy silver door and into Tuesday.


Catch the rest of this Burning recollection in the upcoming issue of Sheriff Nottingham, hitting bookshelves on November 12th.