I’m getting ready to start one of my many writing projects, but before I do I wanted to mention this to you….
Most of you own at least one pillow. Pillows are great. I don’t have a pillow fetish, but I’m always on the search for the next great pillow. If I suddenly experienced a great growth spurt, I’d probably attempt to procure a comfortable pillow before I try to find articles of clothing. Believe me, I’m not going to be one of those silly giantesses that use a stupid boulder on which to rest her head.
Likewise, I think of the comfort a shrunken man might require while in my possession. It doesn’t even matter that I might never acquire shrinking powers; I still would like to prepare everything for his arrival. For a long time, I put aside my dream of owning a dollhouse and threw away all the furnishings I had bought for it. I feel that dream slowly returning to me. I begin to see possibilities, and I’ll document them here, on my blog, as they progress. In the meantime, a shrunken man is always going to need a pillow.
But what do you do when you want to feel tiny, and your body refuses to acquiesce? Stupid body. But you are not. You get your size fix however you can engineer it, and unusual pillows are one way you can do that. How about this kind?
I know you are not a baby, but if I felt tiny and wanted gentle hands holding me as I sleep, I’d make myself a pair of giant fabric hands I can stuff with soft material, and strategically place sand weights in them so that some pressure is exerted on my body. Never mind how that would be helpful for those of us with sensory differences; I can imagine that crawling into bed and positioning enormous hands on your body would put you in a certain frame of mind. But what if you don’t want to be held? What if you’d like to be et?
Then step right up and onto a couple of fried eggs for a hungry giantess’s breakfast. The white rug and accompanying yolk cushions are so cute, I’d consider them for my living room, even though I don’t like rugs that can stain easily. I have cats, and I’m a clumsy giantess, especially when I’m drunk.
I have no idea how I’d explain such a decor choice to friends and family who would helpfully inform me my house looks like breakfast. I’d act surprised, and say, “Oh, really? Well, I had not noticed!” Then I’d kick my Size books under the rug and hope they don’t notice my shrunken-man pillows. What shrunken-man pillows, you ask?
I like the idea of constructing man-shaped pillows, the same way this woman did. Mine would not be lifesize, of course; mine would be small. I think they would then have to be called “dolls”, but see if I care. If I could have a two-inch long pillow shaped like a little guy, I’d be tickled. Of course, it wouldn’t be very comfortable… but at least if I roll over it, I wouldn’t kill it with my giant form.
Alright. I have some writing to do. Have a nice day, and don’t forget to wash your pillows on a schedule, and dry them well, and protect them with a hypoallergenic cover.
So bad it makes me cry. Wet bus stop; no one’s waiting. My car is cold and dry.
Alright, my car is not warm, and it was washed tonight, and it’s probably dry, so that’s the only thing that’s true about that sentence. That and the frustration. Because it is frustrating to have these fantasies, and know they will never come true. I know it’s hard. What makes it easy to suffer that frustration? For some of you, there’s alcohol. Some of you are lucky enough to bring it to life with your significant others. Others of you don’t care that none of it is real, and never will be, because there’s enough porn out there to keep you satisfied. The rest of you? The rest of us.
The rest of me sometimes wishes I could stop thinking about this stuff. Only sometimes. Maybe twice? No, it’s been more than twice… but the rest of the time I love my mind, and I’m glad I’m this way. Sure, my brain comes with a price, and I pay it every day. Every day I think how wonderful it would be to have the power to shrink, whenever I want. Can you understand the ramifications? I would never have to do yard work again. Weeds? Shrunken to a microscopic level. Unruly tree sprouts I neglect for a whole season and have a chance to grow a bit? Shrunken to a minuscule degree. The same goes for chores. Mold on bread? Boom, shrink ray. Well, now that just sounds lazy.
I would not make my shrinking abilities a crutch I’d use to face difficulties (as in, shrink them so I don’t have to face them); but you have to admit it would save me a lot of time and anguish. Someone talks while I’m at the theater trying to watch a movie? Shrunk for two hours. Someone tailgates me when we’re in a school zone and the speed limit is one yard per lifetime? Shrunk while driving, fucker. Someone drives and texts? Shrunk for a fucking year, asshole. Go endanger no one’s life, while you’re at it.
And of course, I’d shrink that one person I want to keep forever as my tiny man. As to the title of this entry, it stems from the truth of the matter. I’ll never be able to do it. I know, I know. Some of you have dealt with that truth with a fair amount of equanimity. You have your life, your work, your hobbies, someone that loves you and puts up with your shit, your children, your pets, etc. So you read what I type and you say, “C’mon, Undersquid, stop whining about the same thing all the time. You’ll never shrink anyone, you’ll never own anyone.”
I know. But I WANT TO. Frustrating. I get up every day just like you, and I live my life, just like you. I do what needs to be done. I take care of what needs to be taken care of. I pay my bills, I hug my son, I call my mother. But at the end of the daily line I want that tiny man I can grab and bring close to my face as I tell him, “You are the best part of my day. You are the oil in my engine. You are what gets me up in the morning, and brings me to bed every night. You, my sex toy. This is why I shrank you, and this is why you belong to me.”
Frustrating that I can’t do that. If I could, I would, and one of you billions of men in the world would find himself in my fist one day. One of you. I keep saying his opinion wouldn’t matter when the time comes to be shrunken… but it kinda does. Who wants to get up in the morning to have sex, and have this to look forward to?
Not me. Not really. After all the screaming is done, I want a tiny man that doesn’t collapse at the prospect of being what I make of him. I want clay that keeps its shape. I want I want I want. I’m not stupid. I know I’ll never have what I want. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing, I’ll keep having friends, I’ll keep loving my son, I’ll keep getting up in the morning, I’ll keep trying to be a better person, I’ll get my citizenship so I can vote next time and make little difference just like most of us, I’ll get groceries and try to be a good example for my son. I’ll forgive and forget, I’ll love and I’ll hate, I’ll cry and laugh. I’ll live.
It’s past midnight, and I should be asleep; but there’s no way I can close my eyes and have nothing happen, so I’m sitting here having a lunch of ale, ice cream, and aspirin; rewatching a certain episode of a certain TV series about people that no longer have a pulse; forcing myself to write. I really need to start taking better care of myself.
But not tonight. Tonight I’ll forgive myself the terrible meal, forgive myself not going to sleep, forgive my brain on fire, and pretend I had a serving of vegetables by eating two olives. Oh, damn. This ale is incredibly bad. So bad. It smells good, but it tastes like dirty shoes.
The photo you see above is of leggings I bought a couple of weeks ago. I like to wear things—cheap or otherwise—that represent who I am without saying a word about who I am, and my galaxies leggings do that for me. When I feel bad, or downtrodden, or I’ve had a bad day, I break out my giant shoes or my giantess clothes or jewelry, and I might not feel better, but it puts my mind on the right road.
I love my leggings. When I look at them, when I touch them, when I wear them, I think of how tall I am, that I drape myself in constellations… that my little gigantic black dress is made of dark matter… that (somewhere interesting) in the deep space that my leggings encompass, Earth spins, and on it I can see everything and everyone. That I keep it safe or crumble it in my fist like a clump of clay, depending on how delighted or annoyed I become with its occupants.
To some of my readers, such a size is unmanageably large. An ultra giantess can’t possibly interact with a planet so small, and conversing with a single earthling is impossible. Not so. I am Me. I can do that, and much more. I can touch it, hold it, caress it, place it anywhere on me, and flirt with the only one person on it that matters. So what if he appears microscopic when compared to me? That means nothing when my focus is centered like a blinding spotlight on him. Nothing is hidden, nothing is out of reach. My Underverse is perfect.
I’m sneezing until I taste blood. I’m unable to sleep though I have not slept in over twenty-four hours. I have stories dancing in my head, some better than others. I have a semi abandoned blog I’m trying to feed by mentally crying out “clear”, and zapping it with a super late lunch of churros (I bought two but can only eat one; I hope it goes straight to my ass), a cherry-limeade Sparkling Ice, and –ironically– something else that I hope will help me sleep.
I’m also watching a favorite zombie DVD, which I love to collect and go to sleep to (any Alien movies and any zombie movies are my going-to-sleep white noise. I’m currently rooting for the living, and at the same time thinking someone should write a zombie love story. A Size Zombie love story. 5,000 words. It’s been done before, and it’s probably been written by someone in the community before, but not that I know of. I might even commission someone to create a Size Zombie image for me. But who’ll be the zombie? The giantess, or the tiny man? Hmm.
I’m also thinking about those two size moments I spotted in a couple of DVDs my son and I watched recently. Part of his instruction since birth has been to learn all I teach him about X-Men, Spider-man, and Batman, among other, less important characters. So we watch all the Marvel and DC comics movies we find… and when I saw those moments, I was transported to my world.
(Oh, don’t waste your ammo! I hate it when they panic and shoot and keep shooting and run out of rounds.)
(Yes, I’m talking about zombie stuff.)
(Zombie ambush! Awesome! But. Seriously? She just dropped her gun.)
Where was I? My world.
In Teen Titans: The Judas Contract, Nightwing gets with Starfire, who is taller than he is. During the entire movie, I kept thinking of all the times during my childhood I had crushes on shorter boys who never liked me back. Ever. I was always “too tall” (and when they said that a marvelous thrill ran up and down my back, and I was never self-conscious about it). My first boyfriend was about my height, and he always complained when I wore high heels. In fact, with one exception, nearly all boys and men I girlfriended said the same thing when I wore high heels, except for my second boyfriend, who was into feet and bums. He never complained about my awesome alpha personality either. My point is, when I was a child I was overly enthusiastic about tiny boys, particularly when I got to stand over them during practice; so I was thrown back into those memories when I watched this movie.
In Justice League Dark, Deadman is given his power by a gigantic god, Rama Kushna. That scene only lasted a couple of seconds, but it was such a turn on. I can see myself as a goddess who is inclined to give different powers to random little men after they die, bringing them back in an elegant, redeeming way that does not render them stinking and unattractive, their more important parts (legs) slowly decaying to the work of maggots and carrion vermin. Once the spirit of a man leaves its body, I’d observe it, study it, and if deemed worthy, I’d call it to me and assign it a gift, and a mission. If you die today, don’t be surprised if you find yourself in my presence…
Oh yeah, another zombie ambush. Watching….)
(This woman can’t fight for shit.)
(Oh, good. She lived.)
…anyway, in my presence, and find yourself gifted with an unexpected power that allows you to serve my will. Don’t worry, it won’t be too hard on you. My will is not that perplexing or complicated. I want to shrink the world, and from among everyone, I will pick the one “lucky” man who is destined to be mine for all eternity. Then with my army of gifted undead, I will eliminate tailgating, platypi, fake marshmallows, reality tv, certain presidents, racism, illiteracy, vegan cheese, famine, and war. In that order.
And also, because. Epigraphs.
I don’t need you, I don’t need you Besides I barely ever see you anymore And when I do it feels like you’re only halfway there
Don’t do this, I don’t do this to you Don’t expect me to enjoy it ‘Cause I really don’t have the courage not to turn the volume up inside my ears
Now, you read “today”, and you think I wrote this entry on August 13th, but I didn’t. I wrote it over a month from now, which is the real today, and not the “today” I claim? Is that clear? Oh, it doesn’t matter. What is of great importance is that I’ve been blogging for nine years, minus those four years I didn’t blog. What’s of vital note is that I love to write, even when I’m in the midst of great despair, or massive anger, or mind-obliterating drunkenness. I’ve been writing stories since childhood, and I’ll continue to write size stories for as long as they live in my head, and in my heart.
Some fun-filled blog facts:
According to FlagCounter, my blog is nearing a half a million page views. I know other blogs have more impressive numbers in viewer and readership, but I’m writing about shrunken men. I never came into this with the intention of bursting through any glass ceilings. More like… plaster and cement ones. I’m both glad and bewildered anyone out there reads my thoughts and then comes back for more. There are [all the] spaces in my head where I still feel weird, and different.
My older blog had stomped its way into the Internet, and it got a steady stream of accidental visitors as well as regular ones. When I deleted it, I lost all that traffic, including the headcount from SiteMeter, which stopped working. All I can say is that after existing for seven months, my current blog has reached close to 18,000 pageviews.
I don’t know who my Anniversary visitor was when I hit the nine-year mark, but… I’ll just tell you who’s visiting my blog right now, and reveal what smutty bit they’re looking at. Oh, they didn’t stay. Hi, North Dakota! Whatcha looking at? I see you’ve visited my blog over a thousand times. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.
The most popular image at this point is the one below. I’m surprised a web app-produced comic outnumbers my most popular collage, but why should I be? Most of us go to the movies, and I know most of us have movie-theater related fantasies. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you do. No. Stop lying. You do. Yes, you do.
The search engine term that sends me the most visitors is still “undersquid”, and various permutations of the word. There are other search terms I absolutely love, but I think the most disturbing one is…
What do you do when you’re having a bad day? What do I do? Sometimes I drink if I can, and lately even when I shouldn’t. I’ve decided to stop that, so wish me luck. Just don’t be so optimistic about it. There is one thing that annoys me to no end when I’m feeling down, and that’s unbridled optimism. You know what I mean. Someone sees you’re feeling a bit out of sorts, and they start telling you about all the wonderful things in your life, and how you are so lucky, and don’t you feel your luck, and life is wonderful, and you suck for being sad about what couldn’t possibly amount to anything, when compared to what they‘ve been through.
Please be optimistic at me. See what happens.
Anyway, I’m having a bad day, so instead of drinking or doing things I can’t do, I’ll do what I can, which is… to try and write about something. In this case, that something is dreams and stuff. About a week ago I had a dream that can only be described as… you know when you go to DA to look for fun mouth-play images, and you stumble upon something… not… right. Something that looks like…
…and I understand people are into body inflation, but every time it stumbles into my path, I want to punch a wall. Anyway, in my dream, someone, a friend or a family member, I really can’t remember, all I remember is that it was a woman… she was asking everyone around her to help her, because she knew that at a certain point in the night, a witch was going to show up at her house, and kill her. So I said, sure. Defend the helpless. How I roll. So I was standing in her living room late at night, and at the stroke of midnight a form began to appear near a wall. Dark wisps of smoke whirled together and formed a human shape that looked like the evil witch in “Snow White”, except this witch was “real” and not a cartoon.
She cackled and her nose began to grow longer, Pinocchio style, as it reached for me. Supposedly, as soon as the tip of her nose reached me, I’d drop dead. Is that what happened? Nope. As soon as her nose tip was within my grasp, I opened up my mouth, and began to eat her. Nose first. Of course when she realized what was happening, she began to scream. She screamed until I swallowed her face, and head, and neck, and… well, you get it. I ate the entire witch, and then looked at my stomach. It looked full, but not inflation full.
I don’t really remember the other dream, except to say there was a glass container of shrinking formula in it, but it looked like yellow, lumpy vomit. And Arnold Schwarzenegger was driving me and a few other people (and the container) somewhere, down a dark road, in the middle of a moonlit night. It was creepy, but I was OK, because I can eat witches.
Well, that’s it. I really want a drink right now, but it’s fucking Monday night, asshole. So I’m going to go take a walk and see if I can get into a fight with anyone. But I can’t do that either, because I’m a mom, and I can’t be in jail. I’ll go see if I can watch a movie where enough people explode, or become zombies, or both. Wish me luck.
Just don’t be… enthusiastic about it. Do this when you wish me well:
I was on Twitter, whining to Aborigen about not having any inspiration to write, when he said, “You want me to give you an idea? I can give you an idea and demand 1,500 by the end of the day, if that would help?” And I said “Alright, I’m game. I’ll write, even if it’s garbage.”
And so a story was born. I want to thank my dear friend Aborigen for nudging me powerfully in this direction, and I want to thank my dear toy Hopier, for being sick with a bad cold at the same time I am, and providing a great deal of inspiration for this short story.
+ + +
“My throat started hurting the moment I had that Twix bar.”
The little man didn’t bother to look up at his owner from his resting position. His eyes barely flickered in acknowledgement. All he muttered was an impolite, “Your voice sounds horrible.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Toy. I’m as sick as you are.”
“I know. I know. But I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Should she start up again? Should she remind him she had only slept two and a half hours? Why bother, she thought. When he gets this way he only listens to what he wants to listen. Ironic that it feels this way right now, when I’ve often thought he’s the only one that can truly hear me. She would have continued along this line of thinking, and it could have turned sourer or sweeter, but she never found out because from the hearth of her breasts came his voice again.
“I’ve had enough soup.”
She turned her head slowly in both directions as her answer, and dipping her fingertip into the still steaming surface of a fragrant bowl of chicken soup cooling on an adjacent end table, she pulled it out and gave it a slight shake until from it clung a single drop of thick broth.
“I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough soup.”
“Owner, do you want me to get diarrhea again? I don’t want any more food!” His voice had turned whiny, and she tried to sigh, but her own sinuses were beginning to clog up again. She needed another dose of medicine. Or she needed to use her little man. That always seemed to clear her head in every way possible; but one look at his crumpled, pathetic little shape filled her with pangs of guilt. To grab his body and place it anywhere on her would be… wonderful. But there was soup on her digit. She brought it to his little mouth, and held it an inch away from his face. He moved it from side to side, imitating her earlier negative emphatically.
“Open your mouth.”
“Open. Your. Mouth. Now.”
“I don’t want to hear it. The doctor ordered five drops of soup for your meals, and you have only swallowed four. Open your mouth or I will make you open it.”
He looked up at her with enough resentment to shock her. What a little shit he can be sometimes, the thought sparked in her mind, and she doused it with regret. But I love him, don’t I. I love him so much. In his usual style, he picked up on her thoughts, and seemed to be taken aback by his temporary, if silent belligerence. To her, it was enough of an apology, especially when followed by his stretching his neck and reaching up with his parted lips, like a baby bird. She barely touched them with the warm drop of soup, which immediately flooded his mouth. He grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Did that hurt to swallow, poor toy?”
“Well, it’s over now. Go to sleep. I’ll eat now.”
“Can’t you put me in the dollhouse?”
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you comfortable in the cradle of my breasts?”
He was thoughtful enough to appear to deliberate before he whimpered quietly, and added, “Owner, your body is very comfortable, but your heartbeat is very loud, and your lungs keep making this annoying raspy noise. I want it to be quiet. And the lamp light is bothering my eyes. How can I sleep while you eat? You make very loud slurping sounds, and I hate that.”
So much for consideration, she thought. She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself, and ended up sending herself into a coughing fit. She had the presence of mind to press her cupped palm between her breasts to catch his little body before her own sent him tumbling down her chest, and possibly her recliner, and on to the floor many dozens of his feet below. At least her seat had been adjusted back, and the incline of her chest had kept him in place.
When she lifted her hand away from her breast, she looked at him, sure he’d tear into her, and go on about her lack of consideration about his infinitesimal size, and so on. Much to her distress, his eyes were closed, and there seemed to be no life in him.
“Toy! Toy, answer me! Are you OK?!”
To her relief he opened his eyes and shook his head a fraction of an inch. She had been about to tell him he’d stay on her for as long as she needed the comfort of his presence, but this was too much. If he wanted to sleep away from her, then he would get his wish. She lowered her fingers on him again, this time with great tenderness, and flicked the recliner’s handle to the up position. Slowly, she got up and waited for her dizzy spell to pass before she walked to her bedroom, and stood over his tiny home within her home.
“My little darling, it’s time for bed.”
She ignored his mumbling “It’s about time,” and bent over to lift the dollhouse roof on its hinge. As she leaned over the small home, she separated her hand from her body, and released him from her chest into it with an imperceptible drop, which he nonetheless protested with an “ouch” that was far too dramatic. She brought her palm down into his bedroom, and parked it over his lovingly handmade bed.
“Roll over, Toy.”
His whiny voice had been turned to eleven when he emitted a high, yet soft cry, “But I want you to tuck me in…”
“Alright,” she said, feeling lightheaded and weak. Pushing the roof over to lean on her bedroom wall, she used her now free hand to pull his coverlet: a five-inch square of fabric that had been cut off a well-worn pair of her panties. She then tilted her palm and watched his body gently roll off it and into his bed. She watched him curl into a fetal position, dragging his tiny pillow under his even smaller head. Once he stopped moving, she draped his body with the blanket, and smiled.
Dropping carefully to her knees, she placed her head sideways on the top edge of his bedroom wall, returned her hand to his body, and began to caress it very softly with the slightest touch of her fingertips. Her heart filled with gratitude that his body didn’t feel like the tiniest furnace anymore. The custom made thermometer she had ordered after she shrank him worked perfectly, and the last time she had taken his temperature by placing it between his tiny butt cheeks, it had given a much lower reading.
Catching a sigh in her chest lest she start coughing again, she convoluted her breathing by deciding to sing him a lullaby. Her voice did not sound its usual sweet when she let it out.
“You are my toy
When you break and feel no joy
I will take care of you
You’re in my heart
We will never be apart
I am in charge of you
“Owner, stop! I’m trying to sleep!”
His voice, though small, startled her musical reverie so suddenly, she jerked her body next to the dollhouse, and bumped it.
“Stop shaking my house too! I’m so sick! Why are you so mean to me right now!?”
She felt despair enter her heart. All she wanted was to show him she cared.
“Toy, I love you, and I wanted to sing you a soothing song-“
“Owner, you sound like Foghorn Leghorn is gargling acid. Just let me sleep!”
“Alright, I’ll leave you alone,” she said, not being able to help herself from heaping a dollop of anger into her words. She brought the roof down, and not as gently as she could have, and straightened herself off the floor. A dizzy spell overcame her again, and she aimed her body away from the home that contained her favorite possession. Her anger dissolved, she turned and faced her bedroom. It was a disaster.
Walking slowly, she started picking up her strewn dirty clothes, though not many of them.
I’m glad I don’t have to pick up after you, she thought. No damp towels, no streaky underwear, no stinky socks, she added, throwing a couple of pairs of panties in the laundry basket. No sticky keyboard, no wiped browser history, no secret password on your phone… She began to smile. She eyed the small vial that contained his medicine, liquid she fed him every twelve hours from a needle dropper in near invisible measures, and she felt her head swim again. In tending to her tiny man’s needs, she had forgotten to take her own medicine. She finished piling laundry in the basket, and left it to be done later. It was time to rest. She went to the bathroom and pushed a time-released pill from its foil packet. After she swallowed it with a couple of swigs from a bottle of her favorite sparkling water, she decided to go to bed as well.
But not before she tended to some of her own needs.
In bed, she picked up her phone, and flipped through her collection of homemade videos. There was a fifteen-minute long one that would suit her just fine. Soon, the slight whimpers and manly screams that could be overheard from the speaker began to deliver their own medicine.
I don’t know how it is for you, but in my case, I have my fantasies, and I have my real life. When I’m out in the world, there are things and people that tickle my giant spot, so my fantasies and real life are forever laced together like a successful Ripley clone. My alien queen always roars in the background. The following are a few wall-crumbling sounds of my soul.
In the South America of the 50s and 60s, interior walls were often painted a frightening Cambridge blue that chased me into a dream a couple of weeks ago. I was arranging my dinner plate and cutlery next to other settings at a very large rectangular table, long enough for about fifty people judging by the number of plates and glasses and napkins, when I looked around and wondered where the rest of the party goers were. I was alone in the blue-walled room when I caught the sound of wild cheering coming from outside. I rushed out the front door, and down the few front steps to the cobblestone street that shouted “South America!” as loudly as the colonial-style, three-story building from which I had just emerged. The street was not designed for vehicular transit, but human. It was night, but it wasn’t dark, and it felt like 9 o’clock, because that’s the time I remember people would leave their homes after dinner, and fill coffee houses and pubs to hang out for a while, or promenade along a palisade that always smells of salt and rotting fish. But those are memories, and not my dream.
In my dream I looked across the narrow street, and realized that the sounds of conversation and cheering were coming from the roof of the house on the opposite side of the street. When I looked up I saw a group of party guests cheering and holding sparklers. They all looked in one direction beyond the house I had just exited. I knew I could not look over it, so I decided to grow. And grow I did. I lifted off the ground and expanded in heigh very quickly, and soon was able to see over houses and roofs. In the distance sat a huge stadium filled with the unmistakable sound of thousands of people cheering at the same time, punctuated by louder screams when something interesting happened on the green. I was about fifty feet tall now, and listening to all those little people was the best part of the dream. I only stood there, but just standing there when being that tall and feeling… something for that crowd of tiny people I could have reached within seconds was… nice.
The tiny guy
He wasn’t really tiny, but he surely acted tiny in my head. The taco place wasn’t crowded as I sat there, watching people, when I saw them arrive. A young couple stood waiting in line to place their orders, and as they waited, I watched. I immediately noticed the way he looked at her. His eyes had nothing but pure love in them. I don’t see that often, so I might have stared. When she talked, when she stood there quietly, when she did nothing at all, he watched her as though she was oxygen, the sun, and life, all combined. He watched for the entire time as they waited, and I realized the way she saw him did not contain the same fervor. The way she looked at him was exactly the same way we look at a possession we enjoy. It’s a look I reserve for a loaf of freshly baked bread, or a pair of shoes I adore, or a book I enjoy. It’s a true feeling, but I can do without those things.
As they moved to the front of the line, he advanced tethered to her by an invisible thread, and once there, she proceeded to place their order without consulting him, or giving him a single look. I think that got to me the most, because… what possessor of a tiny guy would do any differently? Would you, as the shrinker, look into your pocket and ask that little guy what he wants for dinner? You know he’s not going to make wise choices, so you do it for him. If he happens to ask for something sensible, you choose to listen or ignore; but you know what’s best. As the shrunken person, you have a voice, of course. A voice that remains unheard if you ask her to get you a thimblefull of tequila when you know very well that you’ve had your alcohol allotment for the week. Foolish tiny.
And then I noticed the way he looked at everyone else around him. It was either contempt, or boredom. That’s when I smiled to myself and started to imagine what their intimate moments are like. How she shrinks him when they’re at home, alone. How he follows her everywhere, always looking at her (or her feet, because looking up all day long gives him such a crick in the neck) with that same expression of love; how he silently submits to her every important decision; how he glues himself to her when she finally lifts him off the floor, and places him on whatever part of her is a favorite that moment. So, nothing to see there, except for what my brain interprets as a Size moment.
The niece and the daughter
These last two involve minors, so I thought about not including them… but I’m not going to be overly descriptive or inappropriate. All that needs to be said is that I was at the store getting groceries, and a storm of a girl (the niece, from what I overheard) walks by pushing a buggy and issuing orders to both children and grownups with her. I instantly thought, giantess in the making. I know her being a bossy child doesn’t instantly mean she’ll grow up to think about being hundreds of feet tall. It only means I like to imagine she will, because of the utter authority in her voice.
She was instructing everyone what to gather for purchase, and how to pick the proper items, what to look for, and in the meantime, she also managed to tell the adults exactly where to stand. She wasn’t barking words, but the conviction that she would be obeyed was as palpable as the cereal her little siblings were commanded to fetch. I was impressed, and secretly wished I’d run a Hogwarts type of giantess school. I would have sent her an owl right away. Or a teleporting mouse. Whatever familiar I decide to use in that universe.
I saw the daughter from a distance last night as I got out of my car at a grocery store’s parking lot. This particular place is a two-story building, and the store is on the second floor. She climbed the stairs to get to it, and when she got to the upper landing she looked down and exclaimed to her little sister and father, “I wish I was this tall!” She said it about three times, all the while fearlessly looking down at thirty or so feet of distance to the ground. I wanted to hug her and welcome her into the giantess world. She looked to be about eight years old, but I don’t care. She’s getting a teleporting mouse tonight, and if her parents don’t matriculate her immediately in giantess school…
Well, this is a shocker, and frankly, it annoys me. I visited my FlagCounter page to check out which places I’m missing from the map, and as you can see, there are many that have yet to produce blog visitors. I’m tempted to visit some of these countries only to log on from an Internet cafe, and visit my blog. That will not be an option in some of these places, but I have a hard time believing there are no giantess or shrunken-man fans in Sierra Leone. And I know the Pope has to be curious. ¿No es verdad, sumo pontífice? ¿Acaso no es cierto que a usted le apetecen las imágenes de mujeres gigantes? Y estoy más que segura que algunos de sus cardenales sueñan con hombrecitos pequeños. No me queda la menor duda.
DPKR is not a mystery, of course. I can only imagine what life might have been for me, had I been born there. I’d be limited to my thoughts, which, given my nature, might have been impossible to squelch with venomous ideology. Just look at what I had to hear everyday when growing up, and I still emerged from that quagmire of confounding religiosity and misogyny, more or less intact. More less than more, if I’m to be completely honest. I still have to battle flashbacks, and the constant hailstorm of familial opinions.
But The Gambia, or Timor-Leste, which sound more like places in Middle-earth than names of countries? I don’t believe for a second there aren’t any of my people there. So, since I’m very busy right not (not blogging, of course – that’s a complete waste of time), I’m going to have to ask you to drop everything you are doing, go visit one or more of these countries, and pop by my blog from there, so I can add one or more of these flags to my counter. There’s a good reader.