Sometimes I wonder why. It doesn’t happen very often, but say, every few months I do ask myself what it is that happened, if anything ever did happen, to make me the way I am now. Why do I fantasize about tiny men a size so impossible, it will never come true?


I wrote the above paragraph six years ago, and left it there, abandoned it the same way I abandoned by blog. Nowadays, I wonder, but less often. Maybe every year I ask myself that question. Is it DNA? Is it something that happened in utero? During my baby times? Was I struck by lightning? I know it couldn’t have been that time I touched my brother and found out he had stuck a fork in the wall socket. Bzzz. No, it could’t have been that electric moment, because by then I was already inclined this way, like a tower of Pisa no amount of therapy can straighten.

Or can it? There’s someone over there, somewhere undefined, that once told me he doesn’t think about this stuff any more. How can that be? He mentioned it to me twice, so I figured I couldn’t bring up this stuff to him anymore. It’s OK. I have you guys and gal for that, but my point is: is he “cured”? How can someone that was so heavily into this, suddenly be out? And not just out of writing, out of collaging, out of forums, but OUT out. As though the giantess that lived in his brain packed her huge bags, gave him a sad look, and left forever, no forwarding address, you little bug.

Sometimes I wonder if that will happen to me. I don’t think it’s possible, but what if? I’m not the same person I was when I started blogging. I have changed tremendously. My outlook in life did a 180, as did my philosophical, religious inclinations. But this? No. This is still in my head. Both my heads. That little bastard is never moving out. He will grow old with me, and when the day comes that his dollhouse crumbles into dust with my last breath, he’ll totter out and leave with me, wherever we go.

I found the image above in a magazine, I forget which one. It belongs here. Who doesn’t want a giantess for the weather? Despite what Samuel Clemens insinuated, the good weather in heaven is created by the gentle breath of kindhearted giantesses. Of course, if you want to go to hell for the company, I’m sure you’ll find the appropriate devouring viragos. Have fun with that.

And to cap it off, I had a strange dream last night. I was looking for survivors on a field of dead soldiers. At my far right, the sound of battling could still be heard. At my feet I saw a dead man with a note pinned to his uniform. I undid the pin, and read the note. He had written something like, “If I’m dead, take my rifle. It’s a Mosin Nagant.” On the other side of the piece of paper it read, “Take my laptop too.”

There was no laptop, but there was a rifle. I pried it from his cold, dead fingers, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction, as I’ve always wanted a Mosin-Nagant. It was’t a sniper rifle, and my mind told me it sure as hell wasn’t a Mosin-Nagant either. It felt more like a much older, long-barreled Marlin. Still, I took it, and went to my quarters, which were magically untouched by war. As I hid- er, put it in my locker, a Toby Jones type appeared in my dream, and I was suddenly thrusted into an inquiry with the purpose of finding out where the god-damned rifle of a soldier was. A soldier who was very much alive.

I sat there, and said nothing. That rifle was beautiful.

11 thoughts on “Why?

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  1. I never really wondered, or questioned for that matter, why is it the case with me. My sexuality/fetish/however one may define it always felt like a sort of an abyss to me, a black void I’m unable to comprehend, nor do I really want to. So I tend not to think ‘why’. Maybe it’s because of how I was raised, maybe it’s cartoons, maybe all and more, I don’t care. I’m happy with having it and it doesn’t affect my every day life. At least not entirely; I feel a much stronger attraction to tall women than compared to other heights, and with my 6 feet if she can match my height I’m impressed – if she can top it, I’m impressed even more. I never told about all this to anyone outside the internet, and I’m not planning to. It’s mine and mine only, I too may grow out of it one day, but for the time being I’m having enough fun to keep it.

    And good choice for the rifle, even if only in a dream. Mosin is a sturdy and reliable piece, even someone who knows next to nothing about guns can tell you that. Shame about the soldier.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I understand. There are some things that are, and I don’t question them. But this kink is not one of them, probably because I spent so much of my life arching my eyebrows at my own thoughts, and physical responses to certain stimuli. When my boyfriend visited me, for example, he would call up to me from the street, to the second floor where I lived, as it was a gated building in a quiet neighborhood. Every time I came out to the balcony to “make sure it was him”, I was hit with the same weird, strange, electric feeling, as I looked down at him, and he appeared to be just a few inches tall. My body was going one way, and my mind was wondering, What The Hell Was That.

      So you like taller women. Interesting. It never made any difference to me, the height of boys or men I liked it. But looking back I can tell you that sometimes they were really, really short. The shorter they were, the less they wanted to do with me. Little assholes. :)


      1. Little AND ungrateful, clearly not a good match. Their loss. :P

        Another lovely scene you’re describing. One reason why I like taller women stems from similar, hm, stimuli? When I look up to one, or more importantly when she looks down on me, it almost seems as if I was shrinking. And, well, I don’t have to describe how good it feels. It’s not that I’ll reject a girl based on her height, but as far as preferences go the taller they are the more attractive they look to me, as simple as that. Let’s call it a bonus, or at least something similar.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. That’s a very cool dream. I love that you retained so much detail from it, and that it pulls so heavily from your own database. I had to look up “Mosin-Nagant” (which, to my eyes, looked like so much dream-speak) and “Toby Jones” (oh, I know him!). What does it mean to you, to be tasked with winnowing the charnel-fields?

    I have also wondered which chromosome it is that governs kink. Does the nascent libido effloresce and lash out, tentacle-like, to adhere to any bystanding stimuli? Is it a psychological impregnation? If a sample of us had to start over on a light-years-distant colony, would we eventually repeat these same perversions and fetishes? (I’m writing a story about that.) Are they embedded and latent within us?

    Why do I get aroused at seeing a gigantic feminine form lope with underwater slowness among the buildings of my city? Why do I long to hide, diminutive, under a woman’s couch and dare myself to play with her toes? From where comes this urge to lie upon a woman’s cheek and whisper with her, stroking her nose, until we fall asleep? This is the great unanswerable, perhaps.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m going to have to ask you to keep this a secret, OK? When I was little… maybe five or six years old, my dad and I went to see this movie, the title was “Francotirador”, which is Spanish for “Sniper”. If you’re wondering (and I KNOW YOU ARE) why my father would take me to see such a movie at that tender age, in South America we didn’t have movie ratings at that time, except for the X-rated theaters, and nobody went there, except people that wanted to sit on sticky seats. And my parents thought I could handle it. They were right.

      Anyway, I’m watching this movie, and I’m thinking, That sniper is awesome. What he does is awesome. He’s clearly the hero. Wait- what? They mentioned sniper school! I want to go to sniper school, and do what he does! Let’s not get into what my dad said when I asked him if I could go to sniper school. The point is, I’ve always known I love guns.

      And there was no point to that point. I just wanted to share that. I’m not sure what it means that I was out there in my dream, collecting the living. I have no skill with dream interpretation. The “feeling” in my dream is that I was performing a task as mundane as vacuuming the living room.

      Yes. YES. What chromosome is it? And do I have similar chromosomes in my cellular innards, say, serial killer chromosomes that didn’t quite awaken because I wasn’t abused enough? And if I did go through enough brainwashing, might this kink die off, like a weed without water?

      I don’t spend a great deal of time wondering about these things, but when I do, it’s kind of fun.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Oh, no, I’m going to run out and tell ALL my friends about this. They’re going to be all “What? THE Undersquid? Surely you don’t claim to be on speaking terms with THE Undersquid.” And before I can substantiate this, they will assault me for this brazen farrago and leave me bleeding in the gutter. Voice of experience.

        I love video games that enable me to try sniping for a while. I love hiding out and drawing a bead on someone from great distances… except when the enemies don’t replenish and I need to actually play the rest of the stupid nonsniping parts of the stupid game.

        Though the M203 rifle-mounted grenade launcher is super fun, and I have practice on one of those IRL. Not as graceful or elegant as a sniper rifle, but super fun.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Asking “why” about a fetish is a bit like asking “why do I like brussel sprouts?” The mechanics are easy to comprehend. At a neurological level experiencing a fantasy causes neurons to fire resulting in good feelings or arousal. For a clinical ‘fetish’ that’s the only way those neurons can fire.

    So then one is left asking how did those neurons get that way, and how long will it last. Well, part of that is simple too. Human social orders are hierarchical, starting with the family and going up to nations. Dominance and submission are factors in daily life, usually in minor ways, until one gets pulled over by a cop for speeding, or one smirks and presses the close door button on an elevator, ignoring the yells of a person sprinting for it.

    Some people tie their D/s experiences to humiliation, or pain, or denial, or helplessness. And then there are those of us who tie it to size differences. That size difference experience doesn’t have to be the result of growing up, it can be experiences with beloved toys, the result of stories or shows (we’re complex critters, we get where we are in a myriad of ways). It’s not even necessarily the only thing that can capture our imagination, it just happens to be the one we noticed and focused on (admittedly, with laser like intensity).

    This is a classic feedback loop. It feels good, so it gets more attention. That feels even better, so there’s more focus on it, until one is howling at the moon and hunting for that next sweet, sweet fix.

    I’ve had some friends who discovered this stuff, embraced it with every fiber of their being, created content for it, and then burned out and moved on. Those friends merrily tucked into the social aspects of sharing common interests. It doesn’t mean that their delight in being tiny or gigantic was any less, it’s just that the motivation for being there was more involved. Specifically the neurons for “having fun with others” got a big say in what was happening.

    The rest of us found the fantasy on our own, and can be endlessly entertained just bobbling it around in the corridors of our mind. But even then it’s not always smooth sailing. There have been long stretches when I have said, “I’m done! Enough!” and then something unexpected and irresistible tugs at my imagination, and I’m making apologies: “I’m sorry, fantasy, I’ll never leave you again.” I suspect that it’s wound into my personality, so that to lose it, I’d have to cease to be me. And while this is certainly possible, it’s not on my radar.

    I was thinking of having the lawyer read one of my stories as part of the last will and testament for my family, because the one thing I will never compromise on is a sense of humor about all this stuff… :p

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Your comment falls under the umbrella of Awesome. Yes, the mechanics of this fetish are pretty straightforward. As you mention, there are other things that might turn up the body volume, and I can see that there can be many different mutations as to what happened to us that made “this” turn that volume up to eleven. That is certainly my case.

      Still, I like wondering if it’s a code in my DNA, the same as in everyone else. I think that especially when my likes match exactly someone else’s likes. I’ve even wondered if it’s remnant memories of past lives, when were truly were differently sized. That sounds like baloney to me now, but again: fun to imagine.

      What’s not exactly fun to imagine… I’m not quite sure how I feel about it, either… is to think that one day I will say to myself, “Wow, tiny men. SO not hot. Boring. Yawn. No more.” And I’ll stay that way. What would happen then? Nothing. Aside from the deletion of this blog, and the destruction of all evidence I was ever this way, nothing. Except maybe I’ll save a story or two so they can be read at your funeral too. I know just the one. :D


  4. Asking “why” about a fetish is a bit like asking “why do I like brussel sprouts?” Wait a minute. Someone already posted that. Scott! He’s so quick! Anyway, that’s a good point Scott made ( and then I). BTW, I do like brussel sprouts and why I do is a common question around the Thanksgiving table.

    There’s no answer to these things. That’s my non point. There’s an old song that goes: “I don’t know why I love you like I do/ I don’t know why I just do.” Substitute “Giantess” for “you” and there your go. Your song’s meter is shot to hell but you get the idea.

    I, too, have wondered what advancing age will do to this fantasy. Does an 89 year old man fantasize about being discovered by a Giantess? And is this Giantess also 89 years old? If she is, can she reach around her walker and pick up the 89 year old tiny man? If she can, will she get back up?

    Does the tiny man also have a walker? Awwww…that’s cute! Is it covered by insurance?

    Is the Giantess in the 89 year old man’s fantasy young and beautiful? If she is will she want to pick up an 89 year old tiny man or will she just go “ewwwwwwww!!!”

    I think in the fantasy the tiny man and the Giantess remain forever young. You know, like Donald Trump’s wives. Who wants to fantasize about a tiny man with a Sciatic nerve condition? That’s my point.

    It’s an interesting topic. I’m confident that as I age the answer will come to me. I won’t want it to but it will. As will the answer to the ultimate question.

    Now look at me. I don’t want to be a pocket sized downer. Enjoy the fantasy while you can!

    I say If you want to be depressed, log on to Facebook.


    Liked by 1 person

    1. OK, pocketized man, please tell me: why do I like brussel sprouts? Is it because they look so much like human heads? Is it because they are soft, crunchy, and pungent, like human heads? I love them too, especially in casserole form. Yum.

      I can tell you, the older I get, the younger my shrunken men get. Not all of them, but quite a few of them. None of them have graying hair, or depend on a cane for balance, that’s for sure.

      Your idea of a miniature walker is adorable! But it brings to mind the terrible idea that in a world of shrunken men, no elderly shrunken men exist, because they become soylent. Now, WHY does the walker pull forth such a macabre idea from my mind? Exactly! I don’t know.

      But there’s a story there, somewhere.


  5. So…this is something I have had an internal conflict regarding for YEARS upon YEARS…is there any closure that I can be able to find in something like this? A fantasy where I, as a somewhat effeminate man, am insanely attracted and head-over-heels for utterly colossal women? My anxiety uses this wonderful thing as ammo in its war against me.


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