I was looking at the draft for this entry, and I decided against it. At first I was going to post what I originally wrote for it, which now the editor in me calls cheesy.
A few days ago I discarded the above, and wrote a strange rant for this entry about those people that don’t like feet content in their giantess collages. There was talk about religion, and now I look at it and wonder what sort of stupid drugs I was on when I wrote it. And I don’t even do drugs.
It was a bit of venting, but a year too late since I no longer go to boards and see button-pushing online behavior. Besides, ranting about rants is still the sort of waste of time I consider the latter to be.
It was satisfactory, but unpublishable. What I really want to mention now is gigantic toes next to little bitty infinitesimal toes. That’s what’s in my head right now, when I look at my collage.
Unfortunately the male element of the image didn’t have legs from the knees down, so I had to find the use for it that you see… but I can still imagine a shrunken man’s toes as they flex almost imperceptibly into the soft skin between the feminine toes that surround him, thick and wide in circumference as sturdy trees.
He stands there, between the largest and middle toes, both much longer than he’s tall, and he’s in the perfect place where the owner of those huge toes can see him hug one of them, try to bring his twig-like arms around it, and man oh man, I can imagine what that looks like, what it feels like.
What he does after that is even better, but not as good as what she does to him after he thinks he’s through. That’s something about shrunken men, a sort of universal truth about them: they never know when the show ends. I know the tiny man in my imagination never ever knows what’s coming to him.
It’s fortunate that whatever takes place without his previous knowledge or consent happens to be quite wonderful, even in his insignificant opinion.
But back to toes. It’s not easy to collage male toes when they are small to the point of near invisibility when compared to female toes nearby. And what does a collager have to do to get an extreme closeup of male toes and still have a collage of a shrunken man as a result?
I’m not sure what the answer to that is, but when I find out, I should plaster the giantess boards with male feet collages, and sit back with a bag of pop corn for the shriek / rant show.
Which would probably never take place. Despite the things I say every once in a while, the giantess community has always seemed very open, friendly, and easy to please.
And the above can be summed up in four words:
P.S. Oh, what the hell, here’s part of what I wrote last year, and I’m even leaving in place the Star Trek reference. Those that can’t spot it will be stripped of their Dork bronze medal.
From a man’s perspective, whether he’s normal sized or shrunken, he can create a link to the moods of his giantess through her toes. If she’s tense, they tap the floor as they twitch like buffaloes on caffeine. If she’s happy, they wriggle and bounce like happy ponies- OK, enough with the bovines and equines to illustrate emotion. My point is, he reads her toes, and he either approaches or runs for cover to the doll house, until he hears a different, calmer rhythm on the floor, from her.
I also love to imagine what her perspective is on his little toes, you see. Now, I couldn’t include male toes in the image above because the source material didn’t include his legs below the knees, but I can still think of how a woman feels when she’s lying in bed, on her back, after a long day away from her tiny little love. He, in bed with her, climbs her foot as though it’s a sport, a demonstration of manhood, and arrives at the top and positions himself between the big toe and the one next to it, and the mere idea that he’s small enough to do that….
That powerful section in my mind where I’ve hung my giantess hat tells me that his little body isn’t two inches in height, that some of the smallest parts of me are the size of amazonian women to him, yet he confidently surrounds himself with them, like the only man in a party of ten women, and makes sure I’m looking before he does anything else. My eyes aren’t on anything else, and my mind feels very much like Nomad right before it explodes (but without the confusion and imperfection computations).