North-West California, in the heart of the Six Rivers National Forest, amongst the towering fir trees, stands a lone man. A man dressed in a sleeveless fishnet shirt, cutoff jean shorts, reeking of fish guts.
His name is Jon Lingard, and he’s picking wild gooseberries and placing them into a woven basket hanging from his forearm. But that’s not the only thing he’s looking to pick up. He’s searching for something….

I’m here looking for an old acquaintance of mine. About seven years ago, I was up here hunting wild game. I’d set up camp for the night, looking to get some early rest. As I settled down for bed, I heard the call of nature, so left the camp area to go empty my bowels. I undid my overalls, slowly sliding one band off one shoulder, then the other, and dropped the overalls down to my knees. I unbuttoned the flap at the back of my union suit, exposing my rump, and squatted to create a gap between my cheeks. While squatting and waiting for the waste material to pass between the gap I created in my cheeks, I heard, behind me, a branch break. I froze. Then, out of nowhere, I was forced to the ground. My face mushed into the dirt. An immense force pressed on my back, pinning me. Unable to move, I was helpless. Sheer terror travelled up my spine as all I heard was heavy breathing and loud snorting. My first thought was, “it’s a bull moose!”. My second thought was, “I’m done for!”.

Waiting for death felt like a lifetime. In that waiting, near death hyper-vigilance became calm stillness. Time ceased, and I was aware of everything all at once. My senses all heightened. I noticed the beast’s heavy snorting changed, subtly, to a more aroused panting. A huge hand began to play with my hair. Twirling it around and between its fingers, then tugging gently on it. The hand then slid down my flank, on to my hip, and reached around to my genitals. Twirling it around and between its fingers, then tugging gently on it. I tried to look around while the beast’s enormous hand was on my head and I saw at the periphery of my vision an enormous foot—hairy with unclipped toe nails. Soft kisses and licks peppered the nape of my neck, leaving little wet spots. Simultaneously, I could feel coarse hairs rubbing along my back. My fear morphed into a more instinctual, more primal excitement. Then a pain, so tremendous, happened in and around my anus. It was like an explosion going off in my lower intestines.
The initial painful explosion was followed up by a series of more painful explosions.
But this immense pain, overtime, became immense pleasure.
The feeling teetered deliciously between pleasure and pain. A compound effect where one feeling heightened the other. At some point in the delirium of this cycle, I blacked out.

When I regained consciousness, the sun was up and the beast was gone. I looked down and saw a strawberry sludge caked onto my inner thighs and splattered on the overalls around my ankles. Dazed, I staggered back to camp. My legs numb and beyond my control. “Did I dream last night?” I asked myself—then I tried to sit down. My enlarged rectum was so tender and painful, I blacked out again.

I was in rough shape when I returned home to my family. But I kept what really happened a secret. I couldn’t tell my wife and kids the truth. How would they look at me? I’d been raped! My cover story was a moose had charged me while I was bending over tying my shoelaces and gored my rump. I was rushed to hospital and examined by the doctor. The diagnosis was a fractured tailbone and a severe prolapse of the anus that would require a lengthy recovery.

After a few weeks of sitting on a rubber ring, my thoughts of being the victim of a raping changed. “Was I a victim? Or was I actually blessed?” My opinions of my rapist also softened. Every hour of every day, I thought of him. His strong, merciless strokes kept appearing and reappearing in my dreams. My nostrils wished to bathe again in his pungent perfume. It was all I could think about. He was all I could think about. I yearned to feel him inside me once more. So since then, every year for the last seven years, I’ve been returning to this spot on our anniversary. We’re yet to be reunited.

 

This isn’t an isolated incident. All up and down the west coast, men are cruising the forests, wearing denim cutoffs, sleeveless fishnets and reeking of fish guts, in search of their mystery man. Each story is similar to that of Jon Lingard. All going to the toilet in the night. All succumbing to the creature’s brute force trauma. All returning to the forest for more. It seems akin to a religious experience for most…

Jose, 70, of San Francisco,

This goes beyond the rational mind. I’m drawn to this place. Sometimes, I can smell his musk on the trees. It gives me hope.

Tristan, 54, of San Francisco,

His prowess is unrivaled. I can’t quit him. He knew when to put the hammer down.

Vincent, 53, of San Francisco,

I have a lock of his hair, I keep in my top pocket—close to my heart.

Sylvester, 63, of San Francisco,

I’ve knitted him some big woolly socks to keep those yummy big feet warm.

Chuck, 44, of San Francisco,

I’ve written a poem for him

Yet but a foot, did I see,
Yet but a scent, did I smell,
Yet but a hole, did we share
But yet your soul, I do love

Todd, 59, of San Francisco,

I baked some brownies for him. I hope he likes them.

Sebastian, 47, of San Francisco,

You know what they say about creatures with big feet. They have big juicy cocks.

Word of mouth has been drawing more and more men to the forest each year. All engaging in a variety of courtship displays. Some building decorative nests and mounds.

Some dancing around erotically, removing one piece of clothing at a time. Some flaring their throats and swallowing bananas whole. Some simply bend over at the waist, spread themselves apart, and wait. A minority engages in co-operative displays in which small groups of males work together in a sexual manner to attract the creature and deter other competitive males.

But all isn’t fair in love and war….

Often, when two cruising men come across each other, a fight breaks out. It becomes a territorial battle. Wild hissing and scratching takes place, with flurries of limp-wristed punches being exchanged. Afterwards, bits of chest hair, denim and fishnet are strewn over the forest floor and the winner stakes claim to their territory while the loser moves off to find a different nesting ground.

But who is this mystery being?

This being that drives men to abandon their families, their lives and risk death and disease? Nobody knows. None of the men touched by this being have seen him face to face. They only have vague recollections. Parts of a whole glued together, forming an incomplete collage of the mystery creature’s identity. Science has also been unable to shed light on the issue. A DNA swab analysis of one man’s rectum indicated the semenal matter of an unclassified creature.

The scientific discovery and classification of this mythological creature means little to men like Jon Lingard. To them, this creature represents more…

People might call him Bigfoot, but to me he’s called big daddy. My wife and sons have left me. They don’t understand. How could they? But I can’t live a lie. Each night, I gaze up at the glittery night sky and wonder, “Does he think of me? Does he remember me like I remember him?”

Jon Lingard continues, as he surveys the tree line, his eyes began welling up…

I still hold out hope of one day being cradled in his loving arms and joined at the flesh. At times, it feels like I’m tormenting myself, but there isn’t a single thing I would change about the experience. Well… except for one thing….. that’s why I stay lubed.