In My Heart

Dont strain your neck looking up little one.
Don’t strain your neck looking up, little one.

Something I collaged for Valentine’s Day of the year 2007. I have a hard time believing it’s been nearly two years. In some ways it seems less, and in other it feels as though much more time has passed between then and now.

I wanted to create something that would show my perspective when looking down at anything—or anyone—feminine hands can corral. It feels great to make that same heart shape with my hands and get the full measure of the size of a small man trapped framed by their enclosure.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

Trapped, framed, hidden, it’s all the same to me when it comes down to my hands, and his body. I was only now dealing with a spam comment on my deviantART gallery, and it’s the first time I’ve blocked someone there, but when I hid its comment, I got this notice I’d never seen before:


Do you want to know what my brain did? It went up in flames, is what it did. “Hidden by Owner” only made me thing of the status of a tiny man, a man I shrank, who then becomes my toy. I don’t ask him if he would like to become my toy, or run a survey to determine if being a toy fills his needs. I extend my hand towards his body, calculating the exact distance it takes for my digits to breach the distance between us, and once I find my fingertips have moved beyond his shape, I begin to close them around it.

It doesn’t matter if he’s standing there, looking at me and pleading for a different fate; or if he’s running in the opposite direction and pleading for a different fate. Once my fingers have closed around him, he’ll begin to understand how everything has changed. His response to that change is irrelevant. He might continue to struggle in my hold, because his brain orders him to do so… or he might relent for a time, going limp and adapting. If he adapts, he shows he possesses an interesting brain. He demonstrates an ability to think logically, and to avoid wasting energy as he conceives his next move.

Whatever his response, he knows he belongs to me now. Hidden by Owner.

Then I bring him to my lips, lengths and widths of flesh that push and pull at him, invisible tides that tie him down to my breathing, and drag him away from the anchor of my digits, only to return them at my next exhale. Does he imagine I’ll swallow him then? Is that the reason he imagines I shrank him? He’s not entirely wrong, but that’s not the kind of devouring I have in mind. I reveal my thoughts, my needs to him in whispers, the kind that shake his brain in his skull, and rattle his soul inside his body. There’s no way I mean that. Not that!

But I always mean every word I say… at least when I say it. Once again, he’s hidden by Owner.

There will be a time after that, after I’ve given him all my love, and shown him what he means to me, and promised I’ll keep him forever. A moment I realize I was able to penetrate his heart, rather than his mind. Then again it might happen that as tall as I am, I fail to do so. Then I have no choice but to un-hide him, to release him from my hold, and to let him go. I know I promised I’d keep him for all time, but he should have told me I had to reach him first. There are depths no one can reach, no matter their godly power.

I can’t keep what I don’t own, hidden from Owner.

4 thoughts on “In My Heart

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  1. That’s a lovely picture. As always, I appreciate the details you attend to. Above this, I’m thinking of the conflicting messaging such a gesture sends… three messages.

    The woman is shaping a heart with her hands. This is funny because the heart is upside down in her gesture, from his view, but the cartoon heart itself (according to one legend) is upside down: this icon of affection represents the female vulva, wings slightly spread, and was turned around in a low-effort attempt to disguise it. So Victorian women were basically sending cartoons of their pussies to men they liked, as politely as possible. And now here’s this little guy, peering up into a similar opening.

    And it’s a gesture of friendliness and affection to this little man, as well. She’s doing something cute to show him. Like you said, she’s enveloping him in the shape of her heart.

    But from his perspective… He probably sees you smiling upon him. He sees the shape your thumbs and index fingers form, and it takes him a moment to decipher it. But he’s also staring at your long and shapely fingers, the insides of your palms, huge twin thumbnails pointing directly at his collarbones. For that matter, he probably smells the warm oil on your skin, even feels the heat of your blood through your flesh. All of this is hovering just above him like a trap about to snap or a weight about to descend. Even though he knows your affection is holding back the disaster, there are still a lot of thoughts he’s compelled to work through.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Sheesh, Tinder has nothing on those Victorian ladies. They had their own sex app. I never thought of it that way. Now that you mention it, I understand it, but can’t align it with this collage. Probably because in my fantasies, if I want to show my little guy something, I show him it, and not something like it. He’s already under enough stress. Can’t have him spin about, wondering if I’m trying to send him a dirty message. When I send him a dirty message, he’ll already be the answer to it.

      Possession. That’s what it means to me. Even now, I make that shape with my hands, and picture a tiny man in that flesh shelter, and a feeling of proprietorship comes over me. A wanting to close that hold, to finish wrapping him in my hands, to let him know he isn’t going anywhere. But as you say, affection is the fuel behind the emotion, and he knows that.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. And he could resign himself, let those hands close in over his minnow-like body. Resignation, or a deep-tissue craving for this moment and the one right after.

        Or he could fight, either giving into basal panic… or stifling his grin, knowing he can’t get away, but there’s something in him that likes to be claimed despite himself, and knowing you like a little mischief, a squirrelly little dust-up.

        He’s got options!

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I like option #3, when he tries to use his brain, and argue himself out of his predicament.

    “Yes, dear. I know you want to spend some time with me now, but I have to go out with my friends. Yes, dear, my little friends. No, they don’t love me like you do. If they tried, you’d probably squash them. No, dear, I did not take a shower today. Because I didn’t feel like it. I don’t care if I stink. I’m a man. Men are stinky. I’m leaving now. What? No, I’m not staying with you, making sweet love. I’m putting my little foot down! I have cooties! Please, no! Not that soap! It smells like an old la- I said, ‘it smells like a gold… baby‘! Nono! Woman, you’re messing up my clothes! I just reattached those buttons! Aaaargh!”

    Stuff like that.


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