Someone showed me a picture of “bigfoot” or “sasquatch” and I said, oh hey, I know him that’s Jerry. And they said what are you talking about, and I said that’s Jerry we had sex in those woods. That’s just Jerry, just like how I remember him, loved in brief constant motion.
And they’ll say how could that be, why would a beast like this be in the woods like that, they do not live there, they do not belong! And cryptozoologists will ponder on beings out of place and show me image after image of our silhouettes in the only places where gay sex was possible, our heads above placid lakes, rooftops covering industrial graveyards, corners darkened just for us.
I don’t know if Jerry is still alive but from time to time I still see footprints that don’t belong to predator or prey, but instead to two bodies held so that tight four feet became one. Flattened mud rememberances where our sides met the earth become terrors in folklore, of something they were already afraid of.