Bigfoot

Oddly enough someone was making conversation at this adult toy review community with I play at (since its connected to this site that actually pays me or at least used to but now the editor seems to have fallen asleep at the wheel or I don’t know what but whatever and also because sex toys are expensive and are you really gonna pay a hundred dollars for that and then find out you hate it?) so this guy is chatting and trying to get people to chat back… in a non-troll way. And wants to know if anyone believes in Bogfoot. Um Bigfoot. But now due to a typo, a whole new species of urban legend is born. Bogfoot. I’ll have to think about that awhile. So here’s what I said to the guy, the guy who said the thing.

I have two Bigfoot stories. When I was 14, my crazy abusive stepfather (may he spin a little faster on a spit in hell every time I think of him) brought home a 23yr old hitchhiker by the name of Reno Gene Kennedy. He was the prettiest man I’d ever seen. Gorgeous. And he could make a noise like a cougar. Heady stuff for a hormone-addled, romance novel junkie teen. He was also insane and not very bright. He insisted he knew Bigfoot personally. Other things he knew: you couldn’t get pregnant unless the man and woman orgasmed simultaneously, being of mixed native descent he was the messiah meant to reunite all the North American Tribes to be one ruled of course by him, etc. Yes, I knew that just contemplating kissing him shaved ten points off my IQ. But I was 14. In yet another one of his bizarre punishments, my stepfather took my family but not me out of state the day before my birthday, leaving me alone with the sexy stranger. I rang in my new year with date rape that I thought was love.

My second Bigfoot story is when I was looking for work shortly after moving to Oregon. I applied for a position as a seasonal caretaker and editorial assistant for a youth hostel in Cave Junction, Oregon. The hostel was a renovated house and xmas tree farm way off the beaten track. It featured Bigfoot tours and had a hiking trail where visitors might catch a glimpse of the shy hirisute legend. The editorial assisting was basically making the memoirs (Bigfoot sightings, garden tips and rants) of the primary caretaker readable. Before my official interview, the caretaker insisted he needed a nap and suggested I take one as well. Although the hostel was empty and filled with beds and sofas, he insisted we should share a single bed. I declined and politely offered to look at his manuscript while he slept. After his nap, which he said was not at all peaceful because of my rudeness, he told me he was saving the job for a woman willing to sleep with him. Not me. He did offer to give me the Bigfoot tour for free. No thanks.

So if I did believe in Bigfoot, I’d have to conclude he was a pervert. And not the good kind.


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