Night of the Yeti

Edit: If I misquote you, I don’t fucking care. That was disgusting.

Warning: This post is absolutely disgusting. Goddamn you, you fucking sasquatch. I still remember every detail.

Much of the following Tuesday was spent with fat burgers, expensive milkshakes and cigarettes, but most of all recovering from the Top drop over the course of the KinkFest weekend. There wasn’t much going on that particular day so most of my time was spent chatting up the locals online, researching my destinations, and attempting to replace the lost information in my missing agenda.

Eventually I managed to catch ahold of a regular event in PDX, a midnight munch, which took place at a location quite far from where I was situated. You see, geographically speaking, Portland is known also as the City of Bridges, due to the numerous bridges that connected between the East and West areas of the city itself. For the time being I resided in the Northeast section of town, in the area known as Old Town; the munch itself was located towards the Southeast, roughly some dozen blocks or more away, near the airport if memory serves.

I had managed to hail a cab, which cost me a small fortune to get there in the first place, and managed to make it there on time. At the iHop, there I discovered a repeated past time to my diet, that is the fabled cheesecake pancakes (tax-free, no less!), and after a round of introductions there were several interesting observations to be made regarding the scene in PDX.

The first is that most, if not all, of the people gathered at the midnight munch had some form of an interest in the Daddy/little fetish. While the general concept of a Daddy often leads to some form notion of sexual domination, in reality the Littles scene stretched further than that. Most Dominants care for their submissives at a level based entirely on D/s. On the other hand, to be a Little, meant a sense of carefree demeanor and immaturity, a sense of gay abandonment to the strict guidelines of dominance and submission; likewise the role of a Daddy is not entirely based off sexuality, but in many instances stemmed towards an older and more experienced individual, serving as both mentor and protector.

While the relationship of a Daddy Dom may involve acts of BDSM and even sex, there is a deeper connection between both partners, parallel to that of a surrogate parent and child. To an extent, certain activities reflect this such as bedtime reading, cookies in bed, and being tucked in. To an extent there is a connection to this fetish to ageplay, that is a younger partner to an older one. Within the fetish crowd, often times there is a misconception of Daddies and Littles towards adult babies and child fetish, which arguably even in my own eyes is not my cup of tea.

The second observation is that if anything, much like Seattle and Victoria, there is an incredible number of geeks that are present here in Portland. Most of the people involved in the local fetish scene share a mutual fondness for 90’s culture, considering that the demograph of most its inhabitants range anywhere from young adults to older crowds. There is a large following to all things geek related in Portland, gamers and movie buffs, all seemingly drawn to the kink scene.

Lastly the local deviants in Portland are remarkably feisty, capable of throwing retorts without pause, and many identify as brats. The term ‘brat’ refers, within the fetish crowd, to submissives that intentionally defy the whims of their respective Top or Dominant, not for the sake of goading them, but due to a different language of their own. The mentality of a brat comes from being indirect, pushing buttons to explore their limits, enjoying the repercussions that follow. They value someone who is headstrong and capable of putting them in their place. They do not answer to authority but rather contest the ones in charge, drawing interest, yielding to their subject mercy. In summary, brats are terribly fun people to play with, especially when given a cause for savage discipline; beneath the exterior of a brat is a person that seeks to fulfill submissive tendencies, but only to those that exhibit that rather than just anyone.

If there is anything, from the previous encounters I had so far, the kinksters here in Portland compose of a large body of brats, littles, and switches. There is a large number that are active out in Oregon especially with a sizeable number of leather families and such. I theorize that the regulars, consistently present at events, rely on the presence of one another; their closeness and familiarity expands to a smaller but close knit group, highly resembling a family, but terribly incestuous on that regard.

***

Outside I joined a small circle of individuals that had promised me a ride back to my lodgings. This was how I came to meet three fascinating yet dubious characters whom I shall refer to as the Yeti, the Littles, and her Bear Daddy. This was how I came to familiarize myself with their uncontrolled habit of sharing fart jokes, for halfway through our conversation, the Yeti – a sizeable man with the most widespread and bulging eyes – cut the cheese.

“Jesus,” the Bear Daddy commented. “You might want to wipe. That sounded kind of wet.”

What the fuck, I said, can’t you do that somewhere else?

The Yeti shrugged nonchalantly, peeled back his lips into a grin, watching as everyone simultaneously recoiled from the initial contact. Like some type of a villain, he replied: “No.”

But for fuck’s sake, I added, that’s disgusting.

“You know what’s disgusting?” the Yeti’s Little said. “Sometimes he does that in his sleep.”

I cringed slightly at the thought. How do you still manage to sleep with him when he does that?

The Little replied, “Actually back in the day, his other partner and I would intentionally feed him all sorts of foods – onions, cheeses, peppers – knowing that he’s going to spend the night at one of our places.” I covered my mouth as the Yeti started laughing. I was afraid he would fart again. “Its biological warfare…before we moved in together.”

Seriously what the hell is wrong with you people? I exclaimed. “You know, sometimes,” the Yeti chipped in, taking a drag of his cigarette, never once removing that grin from his face. “They have a language of their own. Do you know what a minotaur is?”

Do I want to know? I lit another cigarette. “Think of it as a fart-a-taur. Sometimes I fart so hard it feels like the flap of my boxers is billowing like some kind of a flag.”

I nearly dropped my cigarette. Fuck’s sake, Yeti, I just ate.

“Oh, I know.” He said, moving aside to extinguish his cigarette. “I’m just amused by your reaction.”

AMERICA.

AMERICA.

What the hell do you mean my reaction? What do you want me to do, stand there unfazed, draw in a deep intake of breath?

“Actually your reaction is kind of normal.” The Yeti replied. “Most people just learn to step away.”

How the hell am I supposed to step away? The wind direction is heading towar-
I stepped away from the breeze as the Yeti began to howl with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. “Welcome to Portland.”

Fuck you. Fart somewhere else.

“Don’t tempt him, Yellow.” The Bear Daddy added, “That might provoke him into farting again.”

You guys all live together? I asked, amazed.

“I don’t.” The Bear Daddy replied. “Don’t want to.”

“Well, its time we drove you back.” The Littles said directing us to the parking lot. “Try not to hold your breath.”

I never agreed to any of this, I said, climbing into the backseat. It dawned upon me only moments too late that I was strategically positioned behind the Yeti who took the front wheel.

“You do realize you’re sitting behind him, right?” the Bear Daddy adds, shooting me a glance. From the dim lighting, I spot the makings of a smirk.

Off we sped into the night, cutting past the parking lot and out into the freeway. I tried to distract myself and study the surroundings of the area of Portland. There’s plenty of suburbs, surrounded by forests, spread alongside the freeways; the distance along each of the blocks are lengthier, far greater a walking distance than in Seattle.

“Once,” the Yeti said, breaking my thoughts.

Please stop.

He began to laugh, the shape of his shoulders shaking as he did. “Just once,” He continued.

Yeti, please.

“I farted so hard that I think I tore a hole in my boxers.” The Bear Daddy and the Littles began to hiss with suppressed laughter.

Safeword.

“We aren’t doing a scene,” the Bear Daddy pointed out.

SAFEWORD.

“That’s not going to help you,” the Littles said.

WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

“Oh,” the Yeti replied, “When we offered you a ride, we never specified on what terms.”

How do you put up with this? I asked the Bear Daddy.

He turned his head and replied, stoically, “When you’re in a poly relationship, you suffer sadism by proxy.”

You live with him? I asked the Littles. She nodded.

“Oh, oh!” she said, bouncing in her seat. “I forgot to finish my story. He talks and farts in his sleep.”

Please stop.

“Sometimes he starts kicking as well. It always happens! IT ALWAYS HAPPENS – at least 10 minutes before the alarm kicks in during the morning!” The Littles reached forward and swatted him on the shoulder. “How do you keep doing that?”

“The minotaurs have a mind of their own.” Yeti replied, glancing back with his big bulging eyes. “Sometimes…”

Please. Stop.

“Sometimes,” the Yeti continued. “They whisper in their sleep.”

There was a simultaneous groan throughout the car. The Yeti began to laugh harder. I realized I had began hugging myself, trying to make as small a form as possible.

“How do you like Portland so far?” the Bear Daddy asked politely.

It would be a lot fucking better if you didn’t traumatize me with the details of your fart fetish.

The Yeti continued driving, “Oh! There’s a really good iced coffee place around this area.”

“You’re not drinking coffee.” The Bear Daddy chipped in.

The Littles objected to this, grinning, “He’s going to wind up over at her place tonight, its fine! Its about time she learned what its like when he’s caffeinated.”

You must have a really close relationship to one another don’t you, I commented.

“Do you want some coffee?” The Yeti asked. I declined, though eventually I did sample a bit of it.

Big mistake. I realized the potent effect of Portland’s coffee prolonged me from my sleep. Only then did I notice the glimmer in the Bear Daddy’s eyes. “You’re screwed now aren’t you?” He said. “Now you’re going to go back to your room and stay awake, trying not to think about all the fart stories.”

Why are you doing this? I asked, stepping out of the car.

“We don’t like Canadians.” the Yeti joked. “Actually I figured we’d give you something to remember when you leave Portland. Your reactions amuse me.”

You want me to attribute Portland to fart jokes coming from a fucking sasquatch like you.

He nodded, “What will you say about Portland?”

Yet-PDX-2-AI imagined then, briefly, the proud ascent to the top of the Statue of Liberty. The flag billowing proudly in one hand, staring out towards the west, and quietly whispering the names of everyone in no particular order. The words: Vancouver, Victoria, Seattle, Portland, fucking hell, Portland, fucking Yeti, fucking fuck, sick fuck, Portland, goddamnit, fucking Yeti, fucking hell.

Yet-PDX-2-BFuck you, Yeti, fuck you.

Next Update: The Fortune Telling

Poot.

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2 Responses to Night of the Yeti

  1. Dylan says:

    Sounds to me like Yeti is a hilarious individual. Srsly, this story had me lolin pretty good. Great stuff.

  2. jade says:

    It wouldn’t have been the true Portland experience if Yeti hadn’t been mean to you in some way.

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