Chapter 1
I doubt you’ll believe this story because, in your arrogance, you believe humans have mapped all the land on this earth, and that we’ve hunted or cataloged or caged everything that lives.
But, then again, there must be a reason why you’re reading this story. Maybe, like me, your hope relies on things that remain unseen. DNA, viruses, and mycelium were all once unknown, and so I believe there must still be some phenomena we cannot see or understand. I believe life isn’t worth living if it’s entirely knowable by the human mind.
You might think I’m an unreliable narrator because Bigfoot boned me and I liked it.
You might wonder why you should trust a woman who has licked Bigfoot’s lollipop.
Let me assure you that, as a high school biology teacher, I am well-trained in and support the scientific method 100 percent. I know how to do thorough research. What’s more, while I was shagging Bigfoot, I had ample time to make detailed observations.
I have kept my experiences with my lover secret until now because of the petty blindness of human beings. When people find strange things, they hunt them, kill them, report them, investigate them, test them, torture them, or cage them to save them. They exploit them for money, or sex or fame. Never—no never—do they try to do what I did: fornicate with them. They don’t love the strange things of this world so much it hurts, not like I do.
But time is of the essence now, and humanity needs Bigfoot’s knowledge more than ever. He has always known he would have to share his teachings somehow, some way.
I became Bigfoot’s lover one fine spring afternoon. I left school that day feeling defeated because I couldn’t get my students to understand DNA transcription. I teach in a secluded school tucked back in the Bear Paw Mountains of Montana, so far north there are signs to Canada in the nearest town, called Havre. “Havre has it!” my students always said, although we knew that, in all likelihood, Havre didn’t have it. Whenever I failed at teaching biology, I headed straight for the mountains.
That day I drove all the way down the highway, to a dirt road near Baldy and parked in a washed out campsite. People used to stay back there more often in the olden days, but now it’s usually deserted. It was a warm day in May. I skipped down the road, annoyed at the cow shit that’s everywhere now, watching for the eagles.
But that day I saw no eagles.
Instead, I startled a rattlesnake sunning itself on the road. It happened instantly—I watched the mud-colored snake coil up and lunge in one fluid movement, flinging its long body into the air. I jumped, but still the fangs caught my ankle, slicing through my tattered Danner hiking boots to my skin. Adrenaline propelled me to run several steps away from the snake, until I noticed my foot stinging, then throbbing, then a nearly unbearable scorching pain. I fell to my butt under a stand of quaking Aspens. Just before I passed out, I noticed the way the Aspen catkins waved in the breeze, dappling the sunlight.
When I regained consciousness, I was in a rustic, abandoned log cabin, lying on a bunk. I was naked under the quilt that covered me, which someone or something had tucked under my body. My foot seared with expanding pain, stretching my skin to its limits, and my head throbbed. Everything was fuzzy, as if I looked at the world through a veil.
That’s when I saw him.
The hulking form of a manbeast squatted, nude except for its brown fur, in the corner near a fire it tended.
The beast was turned from me and, in the flickering light from the fire, I saw the wide expanse of the back, the rippling muscles of the powerful shoulders and arms under its coat. Although it squatted, the beast’s head nearly reached the ceiling of the cabin. His overpowering smell surrounded me, reminiscent of rotting berries and quaking aspen. I smelled bathtub wine and tree blossoms. Moss. Bark. Something like human sweat.
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When I realized what it was—that I was looking at something that did not exist—the epiphany knocked the wind out of me. Fear stole my breath.
I began to choke. I was emptied out and heaving. I couldn’t breathe.
Grasping at my throat, I wanted to scream, “Help!” but I’d lost my voice with my breath.
Then, in a movement of tremendous grace, the creature spun to face me and rose. Its face was long, and the eyes were deep set, green, large and round. The furry brow was drawn in concern, or maybe frustration. Or maybe anger.
In those seconds I wondered if it had brought me here to rape me or eat me…or both.
In one step it was at my side, holding its giant apelike hand above my face. The beast didn’t touch me, but he moved his palm down my neck and to my chest, where a warm sensation quieted the contractions in my lungs. I closed my eyes, refusing to believe it was real. He breathed audibly and very slowly, and almost unwillingly my breath began to match his. Our breaths got longer and longer, even pausing for a few seconds at the bottom of the exhale. I began to feel very light, as though my body was levitating—lifting off the wooden bunk to meet the wild man’s palm.
Then I lost consciousness again. I slept. It was fairy tale sleep, deep and long.
The next time I woke, my head felt clearer. The beast wasn’t inside the little cabin. The fire had gone out and it seemed to be morning. The cool spring air nipped my bare skin. I pushed myself up to sitting, and wrapped up in the quilt from the bunk, which smelled strongly of woodsmoke and the creature.
Although still swollen and numb, my ankle no longer throbbed. I wondered if the beast was gone, if I was its prisoner, if I should try to make a break for it to my car, if the rattlesnake poison had somehow caused me to hallucinate. I wasn’t sure any of this was real. I had a vague memory of a fever dream in which the huge form of a man bent over me while I lay on the bunk, his hands tending me gently, a magnificent schlong hanging unobstructed between his hairy thighs.
I shuddered. I wondered if I was dreaming still.
Then the beast pushed open the wooden cabin door with one giant hand. Sunlight illuminated the log room and the dirt floor. He caught my eyes with his, and I found myself staring into the beautiful, sad eyes of something recognizable, something human and alien at the same time. The creature’s gaze was intense, and I felt I could not look away. The eyes asked if it was alright to enter the cabin.
“Come in,” I said, and waved my hand to signal he could.
Maybe it was crazy to have invited him in, but his eyes had softened my fear.
Bigfoot bent down, walked across the threshold and shut the door behind himself. His pungent sweetness filled the cabin and made me slightly dizzy. Involuntarily, I thought of the long strong arms enveloping me, embracing me. I thought of burying my head in the fur and sniffing out the smell, sniffing all down the beast’s body until I found its source.
The beast’s body.
I shivered at the thought.
This was one sick fantasy.
It was just sick.
Sick.
Sick.
It couldn’t be true.
Maybe I’d been drugged and this was hallucination. I clung to the hope that none of it was real because, if it was, how would I ever explain it? Who would ever believe me?
The green eyes sought mine again. The being’s body filled the space in the cabin, and he had to bend down slightly while standing. I could see he wanted to sit on the bunk with me. This time I didn’t speak or make any gestures. I just met his eyes, trying to make mine say yes.
Yes.
Please do.
He sat at the end of the bunk. Then I felt the soft leather of his fingers on the skin of my leg. The fingers deftly, gently removed the herb packing that covered my wound. The skin around the snakebite seemed to awaken, newly exposed to the air. I could see the swelling had gone down a great deal. The skin around the bite still held bruising and the punctures from the snake’s fangs, but it looked as though it was healing.
The knowledge struck me then: This beast, whatever he was, had healed me.
The beast’s fingers continued their gentle tickle around the bite, over my foot, back to my ankle and then they began to walk slowly up my leg. I knew he was feeling for swelling, but I was getting swole in other ways.
I seemed to have lost control of my own skin. Patches of skin the beast missed in his inspection noticed his neglect and they screamed out to the fingers to touch them too. The fingers understood; they doubled-back and made it their mission to leave no skin on my leg untouched. His fingers raised goosebumps in their path and then the skin felt hot, like a localized fever. The touches warmed the skin directly beneath them, and then this heat radiated and flowed into my core.
I began to wonder if the beast was a salty dog in the sack. You can’t help but wonder when someone can turn you on with one touch. I’d tried to look away when he was tending to me, but he didn’t wear a loin cloth and I couldn’t help but notice the ample endowment nature gave him. It was the most awe-inspiring purple crayon I’d ever seen. I wondered what it looked like erect.
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As a science teacher, I’m always up for an experiment. Experimentation is a way of learning, a way to see the world with beginner’s eyes. That’s what I told my students, although I had to admit I hadn’t done much experimenting lately when it came to riding cocks.
I’d spent two years in the Bear Paws mostly alone and I was ravenous, but not just any man would do. He had to be able to chop wood and have most of his teeth. He had to like plants, especially trees and drugs, and have a great fairy tickler. He had to be an artist.
In college, I had enough one-night stands to learn human men have lost their way when it comes to the tantric arts. Human men seem to think it’s about what it looks like instead of how it feels. They seem unaware of how to turn on the tap of a woman’s pleasure. They don’t understand that if they just committed themselves to serving and pleasuring The Womb, they would be forever nourished and handsomely rewarded. Many of them are too dumb and selfish to understand that lady gardens are magic.
Seriously.
Actual fucking magic.
These poor, unfortunate human men don’t know that the mingling of two bodies can create its own force; it can obliterate all the boundaries and barriers in the self, in the other, maybe in the world.
Other-worldly sex.
Many of my straight female friends don’t even believe in it, so horrid are their orgasmless sex lives. They think the type of sex I speak of is for romance novels and bad movies.
I believed spiritual sex was real, though, because I dreamed about it at night. A shadow man came to me in my dreams who didn’t need to speak. He made love to me until I spoke no language except gibberish and I forgot who I was.
Something about the beast tending my leg in the abandoned cabin tugged at my gut and made me think of the shadow man from my dreams. I kept my eyes closed, focused only on the soft pads of his fingers, and the way they touched the leg lightly, like the touch of a feather, feeling for swelling. I was getting hot to trot. I imagined the healing fingers traveling farther north.
Then the fingers responded to my desire. They fell more firmly on my skin, walking deliberately up my leg and then dancing back. I opened my eyes for a peek, and saw Bigfoot concentrating on my face, reading me.
When he saw me look at him, he smiled, showing bright white teeth. I closed my eyes again and moved my leg into his touch, so that my foot hung over his lap. He grunted. Then the fingers resumed their inspection, traveling under the quilt and between my legs.
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