I have finally put the finishing touches on my novel, Westbound 90, and though it took forever, I am extremely pleased with the end result. It's a modern-day Candide, a coming-of-age tragicomedy in which the reader is taken on a great journey, both geographically and emotionally. I am confident it will be widely appreciated, as it addresses themes that speak to the human condition and, coincidentally, has loads of fucking.

In Westbound 90, I touch on two universal themes. One is the battle against the void, a war waged by countless souls. In short, I explore the duality of sentience: to be able to analyze, ponder, use tools, and create creature comforts, yet still be driven mad with the repetitiveness of life. The other theme, of course, is that everyone needs a series of explosive, mind-expanding fucks.

Although I don't believe "The Great American Novel" can be written, Westbound 90 is a close approximation. Its 864 pages examine the broad tapestry of American people, confronting issues of race, culture, and religion. Steve, the protagonist, travels all over America, much like Huckleberry Finn, in search of an unspecified object that will either save his life or make him complete. The object is never named, so each reader may project onto it his or her own personal Holy Grail. I also hope readers will project themselves onto the character of Steve, as he indulges in amazing feats of acrobatic fuckery with women of all backgrounds and body types.

The depth and weight of my novel is likely to put some people off, but I believe there's something in it for everyone. For example, who among us hasn't feared losing his identity to the hive-mind of society? In Chapter 15, Steve feels trapped by his job, smothered by his family, and overwhelmed by the dictates of a consumer culture. He finally snaps and heads to the desert to find an autonomous zone where he can reconnect with his true self. I won't give too much away, but he only begins to experience clarity after he bangs a particularly buxom Navajo chick and realizes that true peace can only be found through fucking.

I believe all readers will see something of themselves in Steve as he rails against the darkness of ignorance, chipping away at his own capacity to reason. Westbound 90 will inspire people to break free of their self-imposed holding patterns, and it will inspire them in other ways with a totally hot scene in a convent where Steve has sex with a gorgeous anarchist posing as a nun.

Is technology dehumanizing us? Are the very items that enable us to function using us as much as we use them? Steve begins to feel that way when he spends a week without a meaningful encounter with another human being. But by chapter's end, Steve—and, by association, humanity—is redeemed by a six-way orgy of sloppy, fluid-soaked, triple-penetrating, bed-frame-splintering überfucking, proving to him once and for all that some human acts can never be replicated by machine.

I would ask you to keep an open mind while reading Westbound 90. Whether or not you agree with my conclusions, you can take something away from the book, and if nothing else, it will make you think. It may raise points you had never considered before. And it will make you see fucking in a whole new light.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I feel inspired to write a new short story about a woman, her dreams, and her cunnilingus.