Because I’m convinced we’re all very busy writing or plagiarizing or parodying songs about tiny men and giantesses, I decided to create a contest about it. I begin to suspect that only a few of us ever entertain the thought of composing original songs about people of different sizes. An even smaller number does it credibly. I’ve heard a couple of amazing works thus far.
My own songs are childish and mediocre, but you don’t see that stopping me from putting them together! Nope. I’ve also become interested in promoting my Size Tunes 2017 contest with commissioned images, the one above being the first of… I don’t know how many. Let’s see how addicted I become to DeviantArt artists. This one was made for me by TeaQuill, who is currently accepting commissions. I’m very happy with it.
I’m also quite sure we all like to be sung to, simply because I do. The idea of a shrunken man that serenades his giantess has always struck a deep chord with me. It doesn’t matter that he sounds like food cans being crushed, or that what he sings is the ABCs. What matters is that he does it; that he stands there and entertains her, and earns her heart by exposing himself, and giving her an offering that is part of who he is.
Speaking of who we are, this is who I am:
(Just the lyrics. The song file is just too much to share.)
(Hmm. Where’s my Dollhouse song?)
(I’ll post it later. I can’t find the lyrics right now.)
(But enjoy the image, and think of words to sing to your giantess.)
(Or your tiny man, if you have one that inspires you.)
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.
The ad above fell into my hands, and I-hapless victim of false advertising-immediately thought, “Finally! A play about a woman and the man she shrinks and then forces to live in a tiny dollhouse and then she uses him as her plaything every night and every day and every morning and she has her friends Vanya and Masha over and they share him and he cries out in pain and humilliation but he really loves it and they live happily ever after!”
The play is not about that.
And I’m not sorry. I’m sure he deserves it, or he will some day. In the beginning, the same as in Highlander, there could be only one: one man to shrink, to keep, to love, even to marry. That was the spark that gave life to the most amazing fantasies, from their tender beginning in my mind to their explosive end in my body. Even when it was my size that changed and not his as I grew dozens, hundreds, thousands of feet, my attention was always focused on his infinitesimal shape, and the rest of the world was a mere frame, a set of accessories that came and went when he stayed.
But all that changed last year, and the manifestation of that change was almost instantaneous. We were together one night, my little guy and me in bed, when we were joined by a man my size. I would not tell you what happened next, because it was the most humiliating experience in my tiny man’s life, though we normal ones enjoyed it repeatedly… over and over again. And later, when he thought I was asleep, my new boyfriend indulged his newfound curiosity with my little toy man. It was quite a show, despite the tears and little chirps of protest.
Well, there it is. Perhaps it will mutate again; return to what it used to be and stay that way, as it was for nearly the entirety of my life. Sometimes it shifts in that direction, but right now I’m enjoying the freedom of different imaginary partners.
I remember a poll conducted years ago at Giantess.com, about the number of giantesses members fantasized about when writing, role playing, etc. I can’t recall the choices we were given, but a healthy percentage that included me selected “one”. The majority picked whatever exceeded that number, so what I’m sharing with you is hardly earth shattering, even if we don’t ignore that I’m a woman and I’m talking about more than one male partner.
These days there are two or three (this one time there were dozens, but in my defense I had grown intolerably tall and several handfuls of men were required to meet my demands) of them, and boy do we have fun! Don’t let them fool you into believing that what I sometimes force them to do isn’t fun for them, because it is. 🙂 I won’t deny my lone man returns from time to time, his tiny footsteps tentative whispers on the floor as he enters my room and wonders if tonight I will have him —and no one else— or if we will be joined by others. He always hopes I won’t force him to watch while he’s unable to participate, but even that fear doesn’t keep him from making his way back. He can’t help himself.
Neither can I.
I wanted to write something new, as well as create a new collage for this weekend’s ABC’s game entry. I didn’t have the time to do either, so it’ll have to keep. I’m happy with the way I think it will look, but in the meantime I’ll recycle a spectacular dream I had and shared at my old blog a few years ago.
C is for City. I have somehow connected part of my enjoyment of growth with a desire to protect the man for whom I have feelings, and the city in which he lives. That connection manifested itself in a dream I had once. I was shopping in the commercial center of a city, and the streets were packed with people as they entered the shops and skyscrapers that clustered to great heights every way I looked. I was moving along the sidewalk when a large crowd of people turned the corner ahead of me, screaming, running away from something, and heading my direction in a stampeding rush.
This vision was immediately followed by a thunderous blow to the ground, and an arch of rubble and crumbled cement that blasted away from the building that towered to my right as a huge fist hit its corner. As more booming footsteps shook the ground, I turned and ran with the terrified crowd, except I was groaning to myself, realizing I would have to deal with this monster. I didn’t mind the fighting; it was the changing into my superhero costume that I dreaded. See, I carried it in my purse, and I would have to change into it right there, in front of all those people. Funny how I was more affected by modesty than I was about being crushed by an oversized creature’s foot.
I fled for about two seconds before I stopped dead on my tracks; people flew past me without stopping to watch me undress (OK maybe one of them did), and take a slinky, pink satin suit that looked more like something one would swim in, out of my purse. I turned to face the humongous beast, who was a rampaging brunette (colossal humans have made it to every B-movie monster list I have seen) that rose 200′ from the pavement, wearing a pink fuzzy thing a la Edison. She stood and growled on that intersection while stomping madly on people and cars, bending to grab handfuls of victims just to fling them against surrounding buildings.
The dream changed from that sequence of events to my imagining (in the dream) what would happen once I put on my suit. I would grow instantly (the reason why I could not wear it underneath my clothes) to a height that matched this destructive creature’s, and the growth of my suit would “activate” the growth of my teammates, an Asian lady that wore a green suit, and a Caucasian blonde that wore a blue one. I pictured them both rushing to my side, and helping. Sadly, the dream ended with the certainty that the three of us would battle the female “monster” and save the city, but it didn’t move from dream imagination to dream action.
Because of the way it feels to imagine and dream of growing and fighting a scaly, furry, or skin monster, I would do it in an instant. Anything to protect my guy and the city in which he lives.
A is for Amazon, the tallest woman found in reality, one we can see with our eyes, and not only our imagination. Her height gives her power, and she not only accepts it, she embraces and utilizes it fully with every pounding step she takes.
Wherever she goes, she draws eyes, some in shock, fear, or lack of acceptance, but others in admiration of the heels that carry her, the shape she possesses, the intelligent light in her eyes, the smile that dazzles just a bit brighter when she returns your astonished gaze in that amused way that tells you she knows what you are thinking, because she sees everything from up there.
Amazon is also that giantess warrior, the immeasurably tall woman that I see in myself or in my mind when I think about stories of legendary, mythical beings armed with metal and fire, or with the thick tropical trees and well-hidden tribes that have sworn to serve her in peace, but at war she rises in courage and height to protect those she loves, those living creatures under her wide-spanning care.