The 2008 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica describes Bigfoot, via eyewitness accounts, as a, “large, hairy, muscular, bipedal ape-like creature; roughly 6–9 feet (1.8–2.7 m) and covered in hair described as black, dark brown, or dark reddish.” Some sources describe it as having a distinct odor of dead skunk, or musty roadkill—maybe sometime dirty diapers. One person has even described the mythical beast smelling like “a Super Bowl locker room.”
The Merriam-Webster website defines Smegma as the secretion of a sebaceous gland; specifically: the cheesy sebaceous matter that collects between the glans penis and the foreskin or around the clitoris and labia minora.
John Hollywood of paredlife.com defines a Bear as a “large, hairy man, often with a belly—such as John Travolta.” Yeah… okay, John Hollywood. *wink wink* I’ll follow you here.
So, what do these three vastly different topics have to do with each other? Well, first, let’s take a look into the history of the “wild men.”
This is directly from Wikipedia:
Wild men stories are found among the Pacific Northwest coastal Indian tribes. Anthropologist and cryptozoologist Grover Krantz has written that stories of the Indians which can be confidently related to the Sasquatch correspond to the areas where white Americans have reported similar sightings. According to David Daegling, the legends existed before there was a single name for the creature. They differed in their details both regionally and between families in the same community. Similar accounts and legends of wild men are found on every continent except Antarctica.
In 1953, Marlon Brando could be found as The Wild One in theatres across every continent, except Antarctica. This portrayal of a tilted-cap wearing, leather bound badass who needed nothing other than the open road, appealed to the men living in a world where gay men were (and still are) stereotyped as effeminate; men who were reaching for a more masculine subculture, away from the musical-theatre/campy subcultures that were more common place.
Thanks to the records that have survived from ancient Greece, we know that dudes be fuckin’. Dudes have been fuckin’ since the sixth century, and that’s just when we figured how to chisel it down to brag about it later. The Romans, same thing. Those first few Olympics must have been just stunning. I wonder if there was a medal for the best pork flap of the weekend—we may never know.
Is it possible that in the face of a myth, there’s a surreal truth? Is it possible the lumberjacks and burly camping-types of the Pacific North-West have began convening in the deep woods for romance? A practice that could have grown out of necessity, and in a more widely-accepting world, continues to thrive due to the sheer rush of it all?
In the late ninetieth and century and early twentieth, cruising became a popular way for men to meet other men for sex. Whether they identified as a gay man or not, there was a body language to the people in these bathhouses; these gyms, spas, movie theatres and other such places, a subtle language used to rendezvous on the DL. This is where the idea of the Dick Dock became a reality.
The Dick Dock is in Provincetown, and first came to my attention while watching Balls Deep on VICE. The topic was Bears, and the host was getting “balls deep” into Bear Culture, centering on Provincetown, Massachusetts and the gathering of the Bears at Bear Week. Big Dipper, a Bear-Rapper from Chicago, takes the host down to the Dick Dock: a literal dock that men meet beneath and engage in wild acts of promiscuous, sometimes-unprotected and most-definitely almost always random sex. Upon their first arrival, they saw shades of what was to come later that evening: condoms scattered into the sand like an orgy-bomb went off and discarded lube tubes as far as the eye could see. The episode ends with video of the dock from afar, and audio from mics hidden within that sacred space. That’s when I began to imagine the smell.
The smell of men, huddled together, grinding and sweating, pounding and gripping. I visualized it, and realized that if people have seen, heard and smelled things in the deep woods—could it have, instead of the mythical animal they’re expecting to see, been a Bear? Winnie the Pooh he ain’t, but hairy and loud is he—maybe, just maybe, there’s a fantastic spot out there: The Dick Dock of the Pacific North-West.
Something tells me it might have less of a clever name—deep woods type men are simple. It’s probably just called The Fuck Spot. It has always, and will always be The Fuck Spot. If such a spot exists, is it possible that the sounds people have heard, the smells that they’ve reported—is it possible that Gaykind’s best kept secret has been because of a mythical mountain ape? Is a centuries-old folktale responsible for keeping this spot from blowing up? As with the pork-flap medals at the Roman Olympics, this too, we may never know.
They say the reason most car accidents happen on the same block that at least one of the parties lives on is because your mind paints pictures for you. If you've seen something a million times, and you're on repetition one million and one, your brain may decide it's going to slack off, and give you the image of what you've seen so many times before. That's when you back into that van. That's when you roll over your kid's bike. That's why, while "career Bigfoot Hunters" spend copious amounts of time looking—they never truly see. They don't see past the fur, the muscle, the stature into the man beneath, no, they just see a beast.
Well, at least, I think. This is all just one man’s hopeful theory, do with it what you will.