Anyone that truly knows me, knows I don’t like half measures. Call it what you want to call it: a size fetish, a fantasy, a gift; it doesn’t matter. It courses through me the same way my blood does. Every day I feel it in the way I see things, and perceive people. It permeates my real life, and my real life permeates what I imagine that relationship with my tiny man is.
What does that mean? That little man in my fantasies. I own him. He is mine. He belongs to me. That normal-sized man in real life. I own him. He is mine. He belongs to me. Since, for the most part, I’ve kept this part of me a secret, I’ve yet to purchase a tag such as the one pictured above. I almost did, once. I put it in my shopping cart, but never completed the purchase. In the future, that man that belongs to me wears a tag that declares him to be mine. He doesn’t have to, to be mine; but eventually he is gifted one, and he always wears it. This is an arbitrary rule. I simply want him to. If he refuses to do so, or can’t, for any reason, then he doesn’t belong to me.
I adore the idea of those words clinging to his neck, a label that places our names in one space. His name doesn’t have to be the name on his birth certificate. It can be the name I’ve given him (well, his most special name, because I call him various ones depending on what’s happening at the time), and the one I use most frequently. I also want him to feel it hanging from him, I want him to look at it from time to time, and catch a glimpse of himself in the metal reflection. He’ll feel owned then. He’ll feel me in everything he does that I command him to do that day. He’ll sense my gaze on him where he goes, like warm rays of sunshine on him. And when he comes back home and tells me he did as he was ordered to do, he will be rewarded with a jingle of that chain and tag hanging from his neck, and with everything that happens next.
What about when someone, a friend or a member of his family, spots that chain? What if they catch a glimpse of the tag, and want to look at it more closely? The idea of his having to think quickly about what to do, or how to explain, makes my jaw hurt with the smile it produces. My chest is pounding at the thought too. It doesn’t matter what he says, or that he even explains anything. The fact that I put him in that position means a lot to me. It signals a connection in space and time stronger than any ID chip (though that’s an idea), or GPS locator. And I love feeling connected to my little man.
In the meantime, in my fantasies I imagine a tiny man that wears his tag proudly wherever he goes. I’ve no idea where I found one that small, and engraved, no less! But he wears it, and sometimes it’s the only thing he wears. Every once in a while it gets lost on me, but that’s perfectly alright. He can spend all day looking for it; I’m not going anywhere until he finds and places it around his delicate little neck again. It’s the same way when that man is normal sized, and I’m the giantess. All I have to do then is visit a gift or jewelry shop, and lift that roof. When the shop owner is done wetting his pants, he’ll ask me what I need, and I’ll inform him that I require him to produce a tag for my beloved, who will then wear it from that moment on.
I hereby declare that the above is true. Or will be, one day. But even if never, it’s still true.