Repost from the ol’ blog.
* * *
I can’t tell you how often I’ve read about the appeal of the power of a woman as tall as a building. She has grown, or was born large enough to pulverize streets as she walks on them; she makes the air vibrate with the sound of her voice when she speaks; she overwhelms the people that witness her existence with her mere presence, whether she ignites lust in them, or not. She causes all these feelings as a giantess, or a woman of normal size that keeps a tiny man in her home.
But how does she come to relate to him in the way that I prefer? How do I see myself coming closer to what interests me more in my thoughts and fantasies? Through my hands, of course. There are other paths I can follow, other parts of my body that communicate different things, but my hands tell a story that’s often the beginning of many others, as they are the tool that builds a bridge between the man of my fantasies, and everything I love to imagine I share with him.
How do I establish trust?
With my hands.
How do I show him my gentleness?
With my hands.
How to I invite him to join me, to be close to me, to take the elevator tour of my body from the ground as I lift him to my face?
With my hands.
Another one of my favorite collage artists is Theth. He creates fabulous images, a great number of them part of my stash, as they represent very well those instants in the existence of the giantess I am in my mind. One of those collages is this one.
I look at my own hand and close my eyes, and see with my mind’s eye what it would be like to hold such a small man in its vast space. He would have enough space in my palm to sit or lie back in the comfortable bowl of it. His own hands would explore my palm prints, learning the map of them as time goes by, and slowly adjusting to the twitches and changes and tilts of it as the tendons and bones that give it shape move.
These involuntary motions I can’t control… no woman could hold her hand perfectly still for any duration of time. What seems steady to me is rising and dipping for him like the wave of an ocean, one he rides as it lightly tosses him to and fro… and if he trusts me (if he doesn’t too, for it would be foolish to do anything different), he steadies himself by holding onto my finger, or pinching my flesh with his own bitty, grain-sized fingers.
I love that.
The above is another image… I don’t know who created it. If you are aware of the identity of the author, let me know so I may credit him, and give you a link to the original (I can’t find it in the GDC library when searching “handheld”), which is much larger and clearer than what I’m showing here. It conveys the same feeling of soft exchange between a man so tiny, and a woman so tall, her hand the platform that removes him from his world down below, and takes him to be examined close to her face, so she can admire every detail of his fragile shape, study him, and direct him to what will happen next, which depends entirely on her mood, her mercy, her spirit. And power? The power is his too, because he chooses to climb her extended hand, he chooses to remain in it when he could demand to be put down, he melts into it, into her, and becomes one with her for as long as they both shall live.
That’s what I like to imagine.
The Cure – Friday I’m In Love