Earlier this week I read the story below at an erotic fan fiction competition at Nerdist Theatre. I chose to write about the monster truck "Bigfoot". I thought you might be interested in reading it. The picture above isn't Bigfoot, but it was so weird I had to include it. Enjoy!
UNTITLED BIGFOOT EROTIC FAN FICTION STORY
The
massive silver door of the oversized garage glistened with dew and mystery in
the Hawaiian moonlight. Airbrushed
with alarmingly lifelike accuracy on the side of the garage was an image of the most monstrous truck the
world has seen – with a body painted as blue as the veins of a throbbing
arm-sized lower man thing(I don’t mean leg) and wheels larger than a dong,
anybody who gazed at this illustrated behemoth of power and iron and oil and sweat
and decals could do nothing but harden uncontrollably and for hours. If you
didn’t do this, you obviously aren’t a man.
Inside
the garage lay the truck itself – Bigfoot, the legendary monster truck that
everybody thinks is cool - a
marvel of hugeness that dripped car-semen(AKA oil) all over the shag carpeting
that upholstered the ceilings, walls and floor of the luxurious room it lounged
within. The whirr and a click of a remote control shattered the calm, steely
silence of the probably-not-haunted room and the garage door rose as painfully
as a really bad crap. A figure clad in a black robe stepped into the room,
holding a Venetian mask over its mystery face, accompanied by several similarly
dressed figures. They all had tenting erections that poked through the fabric
of their robe-pants in a comical but arousing way but you could tell they think
it looked good, which it certainly does to me! But it scared Bigfoot, who like
most cars, could think but not talk. Behind the robed figures were more robed
figures, all of whom were relatively well endowed and smelled of clean linen,
no hint of ever having done the move of taking a dump. The room filled with
almost a hundred of them and they all picked Bigfoot up and hoisted him up,
like our guys hoisted the Iwo Jiwa flag. The tall figure who had walked in
first spoke up:
“ Oh sexy vehicle, the brotherhood
of the Car-Grinder has urgent need of you.”
“Noooo” thought Bigfoot, but he
couldn’t say anything so instead he just turned on his car alarm. Speaking of
‘turned on’, Bigfoot couldn’t help but be more than even quite a little bit
turned on by all the attention these dudes were giving him/it. Bigfoot’s coolant was working overtime
but it wasn’t stopping it from getting hot and bothered. His car thermometer
exploded from the firm, knowledgeable touches on his rump area that the people
carrying him from the back were doing.
He was so excited that he shut down entirely.
When Bigfoot ‘came’ to, he was
trussed up like a prize steer at the 1914 Pennsylvania Trussing Competition
& Trade Show. ‘Foot’s.
headlight eyes looked straight ahead and saw a fancy room. The smell of roasted chicken was in the
air and all these dudes were in tuxedoes – still wearing the Venetian masks.
The sound of a bongo drum filled the moist air as each one of the tuxedo-clad
fellas ritualistically dropped trou and their boner smell wafted into Bigfoot’s
exhaust pipe and spoilers, so pungent that the gears almost short circuited
from the erotic musk-reek that brought to mind a combination of mosquito
repellent, chicken broth, a bourgeois lifestyle and the slime from You Can’t Do
That On Television. The first one walked up to Bigfoot and slid his soft
crotch-finger all over Bigfoot’s ridged, circular wheel. A sudden feeling of
being surrounded made Bigfoot realize he was surrounded. All of these guys were
sliding against him, rutting his metal like it was cheap foam and they all had
foam fetishes. By the end of the first wave, Bigfoot looked like it had been
dunked in a vat of pleasure-glop. Which was basically what had happened. Then the lights went out and the tall
figure who had led the abduction walked up to Bigfoot.
“Do I seem familiar, Biggy?”
breathed the cloaked man into Bigfoot’s left side mirror, which was kind of
equivalent to an ear. How strange that this man knew Bigfoot’s secret nickname.
Something must be up! And not just dicks.
The figure started to remove his
mask. Then he said “I bet you’re wondering who I am. Well, I’ll just tell you.
I’m your creator Bob Chandler. The designer and inventor of the Bigfoot monster
truck.” Then he took off the mask, revealing the fact that what he said had
been true and he was who he said he was. Bigfoot’s headlights figuratively
widened in shock and awe.
“Why?” thought Bigfoot. Bob answered
the thought: “Two words: gotta
make that money. These robed men are all former and current presidential
candidates and they pay top dollar to have sex with a monster truck.” One of
the men lowered his mask, briefly revealing the winking face of Ralph Nader. “I can’t wait to test your
emissions.” sultried Nader, in his trademark judgmental monotone. Pushing Ralph
aside, Bob returned Bigfoot’s attention to his talking mouth.
“But I wanted to be the last one you remembered.”
Bob Chandler slid toward Bigfoot
like a horny slug, complete with trail of slime. But just as Bob was about to
enter the truck’s hard exhaust pipe, the deep bellow of a spiritually wounded
prehistoric ape redirected everyone in the room’s attention from car sex. The
front door had been ripped front its hinges– not from the wind, or magnets -
but from the strong arms of the hairy Bigfoot monster, who had come to save his
namesake. First he punched one guy, then another, and finally a third guy. The
rest of the guys ran away. Except for Bob Chandler, whose piss-hose was caught
inside the aroused exhaust pipe. Bigfoot ran up to Bigfoot and starts having
sex with Bob Chandler until Bob spontaneously combusted from the friction and
satisfaction. Revenge is served!
After a moment of repose, Bigfoot
entered the same-name monster truck and drove them both out of the garage, and
straight into the Pacific Ocean.
Neither were seen ever again, but on a quiet Hawaiian night, if you
listen closely enough, you can hear a gross animal bellow and the honk of a
massive carhorn, and know that two kind souls are finally enjoying the peace
they never got to enjoy on Terra Firma. Perhaps it is we who are the real
monster…trucks.
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