Native State

city at feet

Native state in biochemistry refers to structure in molecules. In metallurgy, it has to go with metals found relatively uncombined. In my brain, it refers to that place where I belong: great heights.

When I was a child, I experimented with heights all the time, much to the terror of my parents. I’ve dangled off the side of buildings, scaled them up and down, gone up to roofs that weren’t meant to be visited, and hovered over the edge of deadly bridges, staring down at clouds hiding the abyss.

Vertigo? What self-respecting giantess suffers from vertigo? Not me. I crave that rush of finding myself seeing everything down there, because in my heart, and in my mind, that’s where everything belongs. Down there. Where you are. Up here there’s nothing but space, neighboring stars and planets, and the rest of the Universe to keep me company.

Earth-from-space shots are my porn. Aerial shots of cities taken from planes are my porn. Every time I see one on the Internet, or while watching a TV show or movie, I get an unmistakeable physical response, impossible to relate to anyone under 18 years of age. Even typing about it makes it happen.

So, how could I stop myself from watching The Walk? I only rented it for the aerial shots. Well, I also rented it because I wanted to see my Family Video guy, but he has stopped wearing plaid, got a haircut, and is grooming a hideous Satan beard, so he’s fallen out of favor. I still think he’s cute, but the chemistry died. Anyway, back to The Walk.

As you know, it’s the story of Philippe Petit’s World Trade Center walk. A nice movie, often moving. But I only watched it for the… yes, you guessed it. The porn. And it was fantastic. I sat there, imagining myself around 2,000’ in height, looking down at a city of infinitesimally small citizens, watching their little vehicles move so very slowly around my feet, feeling clouds graze my skin, hearing the wind deliver secret messages to my ears, and closing my eyes as I stood there, in my native state.

But I’ve been taller. As a child, I once got out of the car even though my dad told us to stay inside. We had to go across a short bridge, but it had no safety rails, no crash barriers, nothing to keep a car from careening off to the side. It had no sides. Only air, and clouds below. How could I not get out? I got out, and walked over to the edge, while part of my brain overheard my dad ask the bridge guard about the distance to the ground. When I heard the distance, I leaned over, holding onto nothing, and into nothingness. I looked down at those clouds swirling by, dozens of feet below. My dad saw me, and rushed to my side, screaming. It was worth it. Maybe stupid, but I was a child, and immortal. And in my native state.

I’ve also had some fun imagining my little guy as a wire walker, practicing the art just to entertain me, especially on days like today, when I’m suffering from painful menstrual cramps, and would like nothing more than the warm body of the man I adore to rest here, on my abdomen, as he massages it tenderly. On cold days like today, I would love it if he really existed, and I could cradle him very closely, instead of trying to put the pain out of my mind by writing about him.

Come, little man. Come to my native state, and be with me. I need you, and I want you.

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6 thoughts on “Native State

  1. Love the new post – especially the part about the abdomen. I often think of such things. I will write more later, but, to me, the tiny man fetish is about the relationship between her and him. For many guys, it’s about feet or vore or crush or hands or anal insertion or butt – there’s a whole spectrum – but, for me, while I like some of those things, it’s all about the mental interplay and relationship between him and her (or any of her friends that she lets know about her “ownership” of him). To me, as a tiny man, women are like these goddesses who I would not wish to earn their wrath. They – and especially my owner – are the center of my world and the only thing that I need to worry about in life is being there for her – pleasing her, being a confidant, a tiny portable lover, a pet, and entertainer, a tiny host, entertainer, worshipper, or objet d’art for my owner and her female friends if she shares my existence with them.

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    • Yes, the relationship. I have giant thoughts often enough, but when it comes down to my little guy, it’s as you have described perfectly. I like a few of “those” things as well, from my own perspective, but I always go back to that relationship between a woman, and her tiny possession. Her friends don’t really come into play… or they seldom do. In stories, they do; but not in my head, when she’s alone with him.

      Every one of those things you mentioned, he is: a confidant, a lover, a pet, an entertainer, even a worshipper from time to time, a little centerpiece, a beautiful work of art she can hold in the palm of her hand, display proudly, and unabashedly claim as her own. You have put it beautifully.

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  2. I like to think of such things but from a shrunken perspective, and incorporate them in a story. Stimuli such as touch, warmth, cold, sound and all the others in a way a shrinkee would react to them. How would a floor feel against his tiny, bare feet, and subsequently, when a woman finds him and grabs him from the floor, how would her skin feel – warm, soft, pleasant? Could he feel the blood rushing beneath? If she put her foot near him, would the impact make him fall, would her voice and sounds she makes appear too loud to him, making her resort to whisper to talk to him? And the smaller he is the drastic it gets, if it’s bad enough when he barely reaches her ankle, how bad will it get when he has to tiptoe to reach her toenail? And so forth. Adds to the difference in size between the two, for me it’s the details like these that make it genuine. And fun.

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    • Once, a long time ago, I read a wonderful description of a little man running from one side of a room, to the other. The feeling of that wooden floor was detailed to perfection. The grain, temperature, combination of rough and polish, the space between one floorboard and the next, the leaps and bounds it took for those tiny naked feet to make it from point A to point B, and most importantly, what was in his head while all that running was talking place. The earger, lustful, and heart driven desire to see the woman that waited for him.

      So I get it from my own perspective, but to read it, and see it from his, can be incredibly hot, and an extraordinary charge for my brain. Thank you for this great comment!

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  3. Beautiful story. I like hearing about a giantess-in-training from the earliest years, that fascinates me. I had dreams of climbing pop stars; I used to make a story around a pair of shoe-prints I drew in the bottom of a box of raisins. There was nothing exceptional about staring up at buildings and being impressed with my smallness, because everyone had that and it was inescapable. It was the default setting.

    It’s interesting to me to hear about a young person who can’t stop stomping cars, or whose heart skips a beat at the first viewing of The Borrowers, or… this. Balconies, bridges, aerial views. It’s fascinating to me.

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    • Thank you! It is quite interesting for me as well. If there was ever a written compilation of such experiences, I would read that book from beginning to end.

      The only tattoo I’d ever consider getting, is that one of a pair of very tiny, very male footprints on my skin.

      I didn’t have that “staring up at buildings and being impressed” with smallness, as I saw buildings as… partners in size. That, and I saw them being born, having being surrounded by architects as I was. I was about a year old when I first wore an architect’s helmet. I can still feel that weight on my head.

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