When’s the last time you went for a walk? I don’t meet many people that are fond of a good walk. It seems to me that we often concentrate on leaving the house by the fastest possible method in order to arrive somewhere fun, and the way there is never the purpose of an outing. However, a walk is its own reward.
Because my fantasies are often centered around aspects of my real life, I’ve imagined going for walks with my little guy from the very moment he entered my thoughts. Hardly an earth-shattering notion, some might say. I couldn’t disagree more. There is so much to see, to imagine when I’m a giantess and the earth does shatter when my colossal feet set upon it…
I once wrote a short story, one of my first ones, titled “Blind Date”, about a man and a woman that met for the first time at a little cafe after chatting online for some time. She had sent him her picture and the sort of personal information we share when we really like someone we’ve never set eyes on, a complete stranger, but she had neglected to inform him that her height surpassed his by nearly two hundred feet. He noticed how tall she was when she arrived for their dinner date, though.
I remember the fun I had writing about her arrival. Throughout her life, she had grown (hah!) self-conscious about her tremendous height as it constantly got in the way of her romantic interests. She had fabricated a nearly pathological denial of it, so she behaved as though she was normal sized.
She made her way to him spanning entire blocks with a few steps, sending shock waves like endless rings expanding from her pummeling feet, treading through suddenly panicked traffic as carefully as she could, yet helplessly hitting buses with her toes, pulling street lights like weeds off the cement ground with her passing shins, trying to calm her pounding heart because as some women just before a first date, she was nervous to the point of clumsiness.
She walked on and entered his sphere before he saw her. When he realized she was the cause of every roaring sound, of the tide that pushed the nightly crowd off in one direction at a full run, he was speechless, but never thought to make up an excuse and leave. At this point in the story, I didn’t write “because he had always had a secret thing for giantesses” because I have some development-related self-respect. :P
He was terribly shocked after dinner when the bill arrived. She had ordered everything on the menu, and more than once. She blushed explaining she had skipped lunch (I always skip lunch when I go out at night—something about the excitement kills my appetite, especially when it’s a night at the opera), and then they left, walking the same way people falling in love stride off, hand in hand, glancing at each other while they talk, feeling the moon and trees more beautiful than usual, even when they are their grimy old selves.
Well, not exactly the same way. The difference was mountainous for them. Every step of hers equaled many of his, and he was forced to run to try to catch up to her, tripping on pavement cracks and jumping in the air when her soles would come down, all the while keeping a casual conversation going. You try it some time. And let me watch when you do. I’ll bring the popcorn and the laughter.
I love to imagine long walks as a giantess. Gentle walks with feet like feathers on the ground, feminine rounded toes that never dent metal or flesh when I tiptoe through crowded areas, saying hello to the little citizens below, who respond in kind or gesture angrily that I’m disturbing their routine and vehicular flow. Can’t make everyone happy all the time, I say. During these walks, my beloved man is with me, either riding like a king in my pocket or following me in his own little car, which I sometimes ride (on the roof) if I’m feeling small. A small giantess measures about twenty feet in height or so.
Other times I’m chasing him, who has left for work without my permission. I jump over highways, leap over buildings, this time my footprints leaving pool-sized holes on the ground, shapes haloed by cracks like drunken sun rays, my high-arched bounds peeling roofs here, store signs there, until I catch up with him, and capture his car in my hand. “Where do you think you are going, Little Pet?”
And less likely are those occasions that call for an angry rampage or a well-humored trampling. Then, walking takes on a different pattern and becomes a weapon of revenge, or a source of… gee, I don’t know what to call it. A way to find reasons to giggle out of the clownish, maladroit destruction I cause.
It sounds crazy, but it isn’t. There’s comedy in horror, just as the source of humor is not happiness, but sorrow. I think of all the Harold Lloyd caricaturesque films I used to watch when I was a kid, terrifying when pictured as real events, but funny in a similar way squished bodies, crumbled cities, people running around screaming, are funny to me every once in a while.
And if now it looks like I’m rambling, it’s because I have no idea how to explain why it’s funny. So, forget it and let’s get back to the pet thing.