I’m no longer going to explain the history behind my friend Aborigen‘s contest because it’s rather easy to learn if you poke around long enough. All tiny people need to know is that the contest series exists, and this is its second year running. Last year I entered the #CruelJan17 contest and had a very difficult time wrapping my head around writing a Cruel story. I was pushing my boundaries as a storyteller, and it transformed me. That came as no surprise, since forcing the brain to do something new generates change (I wish that change involved a literal height increase, but you and I know this Universe is appallingly malevolent when it comes to making my Size wishes come true).
I didn’t experience the same thing this year. I had many ideas for my stories and was only able to work on a few, but it happened effortlessly, and I actually enjoyed the process. That change pleases me, as it’s exactly what I wanted to accomplish last year. I did have a great deal of difficulty with one story I didn’t complete. I’ll explain why when I post it here in a few days. It will be password protected as some of my entries are now, so if you like to read it, contact me and I’ll make sure you get the password. If you want to steer clear of my naughtier content, your wisdom is to be commended and your logic is impeccable. Though I will make note of your location for future destruction, as it appears to be a hotbed of subversion and entropy, a wretched hive of scum and villainy, etc.
Something else I did was offer readers the chance to win some “prizes”. It’s mostly just for fun, and I have yet to get around to delivering rewards to people that guessed correctly the #ButtyJuly17 stories that were mine. I haven’t even posted those! I’m running behind. As always, whoever guesses which story (or stories) is mine wins a drawing of their choice, to be delivered sometime in 2020.
Friday mornings were the worst. There should have been some forethought to easing into the weekend for government employees that had difficult jobs, but it didn’t seem anyone had cared when legislation passed, and the Rehabilitation and Inclusion Policy was implemented. RIP, or Rest In Pieces as the opposition gleefully called it, was executed by various institutions and clinics around the country. In cases of emergency, even schools were called in to help out. What the public didn’t know—and she was determined to keep it that way for as long as she could—was that RIP included termination procedure for those tiny people that were found injured beyond repair, or too antisocial to join polite society. And all terminations were scheduled to occur on Fridays.
Maura sat in her car and drank her coffee. It was a very cold morning and she had been up early, peeling a layer of ice from her windshield. Doing that had felt like heaven compared to what her job was on Fridays. Every previous workday she took tally of new arrivals, newfound and captured tiny men and women that were brought in by volunteers, or had been abandoned by previous owners. Plenty of these tiny creatures (she didn’t dare call them people openly) could speak and understand language. Many could perform small tasks after some training. Quite a few found their way into new homes where they were cared for and maybe even loved. It was the rest of them that had really begun to bother them. The Friday lot.
The terminations, she thought. What a joke. Why don’t we call it what it is? Murder. Assassinations. Mass killing. Her stomach turned and she looked at the entrance of the clinic where she worked. Four of five days she sat with tinies in her workroom and evaluated them for possible mental or developmental disorders. She reached for them to see if they shied away from her touch or welcomed it easily. She spoke to them in English and ascertained how many of them spoke that gibberish they seemed to have invented for themselves a couple of centuries ago. If they talked, they could learn to speak properly. She trained, hugged, fed, taught, cleaned them. She loved those days of evaluations and care, but on Fridays she was obliged to terminate the ones that were deemed, by law, to be permanently unfit for placement.
She looked at the time, finished her coffee, and prepared herself for the stabbing of cold weather. She enjoyed the Winter months, but this temperature only woke her up even more, and she wished she could show up drunk for work. At least today. Today she knew two of the tiny men she had examined for days would have that nauseating diagnosis added to their files. She made the trek from her car to her office and sat down to look at her schedule. Yes, there they were. Two terminations today. Fantastic. She thought of buying a bottle of tequila during lunch.
One was an old man that could no longer walk. He had been found on a roadside by a volunteer, and all week he had cried out the same words, over and over again. She wrote them down, knowing what they meant: “hi-dey-tee-gee”. Hide the children. She read them again and thought of every hour she had spent with the fragile critter, trying to calm him down, watching him soil himself again and again, washing him as he struggled and spat at her, and getting nowhere fast. She knew it would be very difficult to numb him. She sighed, positively yearning for tequila, and looked at the other file. Yes, here, this was the reason she’d been unable to sleep.
She looked closely at his file on her tablet and stared at the beautiful face. He had taken her breath away when she found him in the cardboard box brought in by church workers. It had contained tiny clothes, sewn to impossible perfection by hands that only cared that the tiny people were not nude, as nudity was a sin. She didn’t mind because she loved to wash those little bodies and have them choose new clothes for themselves. In most cases, little people only wore rags and bits of plastic they fashioned into basic covering they never seemed to want to clean. To watch them wear garments made to fit them perfectly filled her heart with something close to joy.
The box had contained a stowaway she had only seen when she dumped its contents on the washroom table to clean and disinfect them, and saw the tiny body descend with a soft thud on the pile that soon continued to cover him. She stopped with a gasp and started peeling tiny pants and shirts and dresses from the pile until she found him. He screamed and charged her, and she was too amazed to stop him before he fell into her lap and started pounding and kicking at her thighs. After she placed him in a cage all by himself and made some phone calls, she found out that none of the people from the church knew anything about him. She then admitted him and started treating him. Nothing had worked, and after enough days her supervisor had determined he was mad beyond recovery. She was to kill him in a few hours.
She’d done it before. The clinic lacked enough funding for a Crusher, a newly developed, fully automated machine that took a tiny person from a living state into a deeply drunken or drugged stupor, and finally crushed them into a paste that was them marked “medical waste” and incinerated. Here, she had to do it all herself. Initially, there had been enough funds for drugs that stopped their tiny hearts, but after a few years all they could give her was tequila. She had to force the tiny drops into tiny mouths until they passed out, and then she had to place them on a medical mat, and wear a special bootie to cover her shoe as she crushed their unconscious bodies with it.
In the beginning, it had been easy. She was following the law and she knew when someone was no longer mentally competent. She had a degree that showed the world she could make that determination, but after years of seeing and hearing them, of touching them and talking to them, of teaching them words and seeing their faces light up when she treated them with civility, it wasn’t easy anymore. And she was afraid this little guy was going to be impossible to terminate. She didn’t care that he seemed rabid. There was something hiding in the gleam of his eyes that seemed more than she could understand. Something she wished she could reach. She didn’t care if it got her a Letter of Reprimand in her file; she was going to dip into that government tequila if she was to do her job today.
She left her office and went to the barracks, a euphemism for the room where the little people were kept in cages. She walked over to his cage and saw that he was still sleeping. The clothes she had put on him were torn to shreds, as had been every set of clothes she ever forced him to wear. She sighed and stared at his perfect little legs. His ass was the most adorable shape she’d ever seen, and she thought of how much fun it had been to clean it constantly as he made every effort to defecate in her presence and fling feces at her from his cupped hand every chance he got. She looked at the webbing between her thumb and finger and saw the tiny welts he had left there every time he bit her. It had required every ounce of patience she possessed not to shout at him or squeeze him hard. She thought only love would bring him around, but she had gotten nowhere, and she was out of time. He was out of time. Her eyes filled with tears, and she wept silently.
She wipes her cheeks dry after a few minutes, not knowing he was awake, his eyes blinking with hatred he could hardly contain as he stared at the wires of his cage. He heard her walk to a different cage, and remove the old man from it, the one that couldn’t walk. The Chief, as he called himself, of the Boyardee clan. A grandiose name that only meant his people were landfill folk. He listened to his feeble cries, and knew the man’s mind was no longer there. He kept crying out to people that weren’t there. Whatever reason there was to bring him out of his cage, it couldn’t possibly be a good one. He shut his eyes and ears to the plaintive sounds and waited for the woman to leave the room so he could keep on trying to figure out how to escape.
Maura pulled the paralyzed elderly man out of his cage, and placed him in her soft palm. She was supposed to wear gloves, but never did on Fridays. If there was any comfort to be drawn from the warmth of her touch, she wanted this old man to feel it. She left the barracks and took him to the Room With No Name, called that way and many other ways across the country, she was sure, because it wasn’t an official room. It didn’t exist. But it did.
She held the tiny man in her palm as she fetched the dropper, the bottle of tequila, a medical mat and a bootie for her shoe. As gently as she could, she sat at the wheeled steel table that had a drain and an attached water hose just like autopsy tables. After years of practice she could, using only her free hand, remove the cap from the bottle of tequila, pour a few drops in a shot glass, fill a dropper and leave it resting on the side of the shot glass while she removed the medical mat and bootie from their sterile covers, and placed them each on the floor and on her right shoe, respectively.
She then forcefully fed a couple of tequila drops to the old man, though after the second drop he demanded a third and a fourth one. She kept pressing the tip of her dropper into his mouth until every bit was gone, as was he. She didn’t wait to see if he’d recover and wake up to his surroundings before she placed his unconscious body on the math, and applied her protected shoe on his tiny shape. Adding pressure as quickly as she could, Maura felt his body give way and spread under her sole. Quick and painless. She placed it all, mat and bootie, now stained in deep red, in a hazardous-waste bag, and tossed it into the incinerator chute.
Damn it all, she thought, and downed three shots of tequila, fast and into a stomach that had only contained coffee up to this point. It hit her very quickly, so she braved her way to the second scheduled termination, and once again stood outside his cage. It seemed to waver in space as the barracks walls spun all around her.
”Hello, you cutie,” she said, and giggled when she caught a glimpse of his behind again. “Boy, you’re beautiful. Lemme look at ya,” she added, puzzled because he wasn’t moving. “Turn ‘round I said.” Slowly, his head rotated until he peered up at her over his shoulder. He leapt to his knees, and much to her shock, grabbed a hold of his little member. At first she thought he was going to masturbate his contempt at her, but the translucent stream rushing from his penis told a different story.
”You sure know how ta influence others an’ make friends, don’t ya? Well, I really wish it’d been diff’rent for us. For you I mean. You’re so gorgeous I just wanna… mmm!” She brought her lips together and made a smacking sound that could have only been translated as the lascivious regret of a delicious missed meal. She saw he was done peeing, and he saw he was done peeing. They both looked at his drained bits simultaneously, and he decided that the next offense should be a lewd demonstration. His hand flew to the tip of it, and back to its base. Once, and again, and once more, hard, like an insult.
She smiled and considered watching the show, earning a look of surprise from him she was too drunk to catch, and a reconsideration of his methods. He stopped what he was doing and flipped his body onto his fours, pointing his ass at her and pushing with all his might.
“Oh, no, little one. No more shit from you. You can shit when you’re dead. Now we drin’ to your health. C’mere!” She opened his cage, and reached for him, clasping his prone body tightly. She felt his struggles and she was sure he was screaming, but there was nothing he could do from the tight hold of her fist, and she returned to the Room With No Name with him.
Everything she did before, she repeated.She opened her firm grip on his body enough to release his upper body from her hold and turn him around so she could push drops of tequila down his throat. As soon as he had some freedom he went nuts, screaming wordlessly and scratching at her with fingernails too infinitesimal to inflict any damage. She ignored the nature of his anger and wondered how all that movement would feel between her legs. She considered terminating him that way for a moment, but shook her head at such a notion.
When she began to force the first drop of tequila into him, she had to pin him by the throat with her thumb, her palm cradling his thrashing body as she held the plastic tube tip against his tiny mouth, and squeezed tequila into it. For every drop he took, she swallowed a shot. After the third drop he started yelling at her in perfect English.
”You fucking bitch! I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you!” She thought it was the tequila in her making her hear things, but it was the tequila in him making him say things. He went on for a while, saying terrible things, calling her horrible names, but all she could do was smile until she couldn’t help herself anymore, and started kissing him.
”My precious lidl one, you get to live! I don have to kill you now! I can juss keep you forever. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours!” She kept placing her lips on his angry face and fists until he stopped moving, lost to exhaustion. She smiled and looked at the door. She’d lock it, and have a little fun with his wonderful shape before taking him home for the rest of his life.
Remember this thing? It’s time to woman up again, whether or not I want to or feel ready. I don’t want to and I don’t feel ready, but I’m going to participate anyway. I don’t read Cruel stories and I don’t like to write them, but ideas are in my head, so I’ll enter them… if I complete them. I failed to do so during Unaware October, and I’m not being too hard on myself about it, but I’ve reached a point as a writer where I have an obscene amount of incomplete stories, and notes on stories about which I’ve done nothing. If I insist upon calling myself a writer, I reckon I better write.
If anything can put me in a Cruel mood, it’s probably being welcomed back into the contest while being addressed as a “fun-sized snack”. Feeling I’m the tallest woman in the universes and reading that I’m nothing but a between-meal nibble conjures up the very essence of cognitive dissonance. I’m sure I’ll channel that into the whirling vortex of emotions now coursing through my heart, so as to produce something truly despicable.
Anyone that wants to compete still has the whole last third of December to do so, and will be in very good company: https://sites.google.com/view/crueljan18. If you’re a writer of Cruel stories, you’ll be in your element and challenged to present it viably in two thousand words. If you write Gentle stories, you can try something new, and see if you can redefine the genre and yourself. If you’ve never written anything before, you can start with a story for this contest.
As for me, I’m going to do what I always do; I’m going to type up the stories already in my head even if they defy conventional size cruelty, or even if they align perfectly with what’s out there. It will be difficult, bitter, heart-wrenching, and exhausting. But hey, that’s a Wednesday in Size world… what else is new.
I don’t usually reuse collages for different posts, but I don’t see the blog police anywhere around here. This came to me while I was thinking of something completely different, and is soon to become a major motion story. As in, my fingers will be moving in a major way. During NaNoWriMo.
* * *
The man stood his ground, despite the fear tattooing his heart. His target stood dozens of feet above him, and there was no way he could reach it as she demanded. He wanted to be angry, to tell her exactly what he thought of her, but to do so would only seal his fate, not that it didn’t look sealed already. His fate was tightly packed, vacuum-wrapped in her whims, stamped and delivered into the future, but anger would probably make it worse.
“What are you waiting for? Touch it, or I’ll eat you.”
“Why do you do this?”
“Because it’s time, and I’m hungry.”
“So you are going to eat me anyway. Why do you ask me to do something impossible? You know there’s no way I’ll touch you there. I’m a gentleman.”
He couldn’t see her face from his disadvantage point, but she had cracked a smile.
“So it has nothing to do with your height?”
“Certainly not! I could have climbed your legs in an instant. I’m an amazing climber. I won climbing medals when I was big, before you did this to me.”
“So show me. You don’t have to touch it. Just show me how you can go up my leg, which from here looks like a tree trunk when compared to you.”
“I’d love to show you.”
“But I’m afraid I can’t.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, you shrank me as I was delivering your pizza, and then proceeded to fatten me up for a period of… I’m not sure how many weeks-”
“You see this belly here? This was not here before. This blubber makes it impossible for me to climb as I did before. I was a bundle of manly muscles before. Now look at this cellulite.”
“I don’t see any-”
“Is that why you gave me all that delicious food? To ready me for some sort of banquet?”
“Yes. Obviously. Well, since you can’t do what I’m asking you to do, I’m going to slash your throat now, and make sausage with your blood.”
“Ah, blood sausage. The breakfast of champions. That’s great, but I never said I can’t climb your leg. I only said I can’t climb it in an instant, the way I might have before you turned me into a butterball.”
“Then climb it already!” She had forgotten that brief smile and had replaced it with impatience. She was hungry, and it would take some time to hang his carcass properly so as to bleed it in a bucket and not spill a single drop. To waste one molecule of his delicious body would be a sin.
“Very well. It’s a shame about the spiders, really.”
“The spid- what? Did you see a spider? Wait, you said ‘spiders’. Where? Oh, you know I hate those things!”
“Yes, I saw a bunch of spiders, you know, the really venomous ones that can kill you with one bite, the widow ones.”
Her expression changed immediately to one of suspicion.
“Oh, did you. A bunch. A bunch of black widow spiders?”
He thought faster than he’d ever thought in his life.
“Oh. Black? You say they are black? No. I didn’t see a bunch of black ones.”
“Of course you didn’t. They are solitary.”
“Yeah, I just saw one in your bedroom, and the other one was way back, behind the washer in the laundry room.”
“Yeah, so just two. I’d get them for you, but I’ll be busy roasting in the oven.”
“Oh, you are lying. You’re only trying to extend your little life. It will do you no good. I’m going to kill you, and cook you up, and eat you!”
“Yes, I know. Good luck with the spiders. I hope you’re not allergic to the antivenom. Goodnight.”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
“I’ll shut up now.”
“Look, uh… ok. Show me the webs.”
“Gladly! Do you have a sledgehammer? Go get it.”
“What? Why do I need a sledgehammer?”
“Because the black widow spider’s web is inside the wall, silly. They don’t build them out in the open. You know that crack on the wall under your bed? That’s where it lives. I can fit my head through there… if you squeeze your phone through the crack, then maybe you can take a picture. But then you’ll have to get out from under your bed very quickly because you know how aggressive they can be, and when your phone’s flash enrages it, it will come after you, and what if you’re stuck under there-”
“Shut up! Shut up, I get it. Fine. Show me the other web. The one in the laundry room. And you better not come up with a clever little story for that one, because if you do I’ll gut you right here, and make kidney with your pies.”
“Shut up and show me.”
“Yes, of course.”
And tiny as he was, he led the way past the kitchen to the laundry room, where he hoped there was a spider web somewhere.
“Do you know why I brought you to the beach in the middle of October?”
“Because I’d like to drown you.”
“But I’m not going to. Instead of picking up your little body and holding it underwater until it stops moving, I’m sitting here, erasing all thought from my mind, and trying to remember everything I like about you.”
“What did I do?!”
“Why are you so mad at me then? Talking about drowning me. That’s not nice.”
“Do you want to know what’s not nice? I could tell you everything you do that’s not nice. Instead, I’m going to sit here and think good thoughts. It’s either that or packing up your few belongings and kicking you to the curb.”
“I don’t even know what I did wrong!”
“I remember when I met you. I’d seen small men before. Even dated a few. Almost married one. When I saw you I forgot every other man I’d ever met, big or small.”
“You wanted me.”
“I did. More than anyone else on Earth. That’s why I took you the way I did. I knew you were in need, the way you were working that corner, eyeing every woman that drove by, ducking out of sight when you saw the drivers were men.”
“Then I saw you.”
“I stopped the car long enough to open the door and grab you. I didn’t even ask you how much for the night.”
“And I didn’t say.”
“And I never paid.”
“And I never left.”
“You never left.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“You can be so sweet at times. So tender. That’s when I delight in every word that comes out of your mouth. When I come home and you run to my side, stretching your little arms to be picked up when you can’t even reach my knee.”
“I like to see you when you come home. I like the way you pick me up and hold me close, and kiss my whole face at once.”
“I like that too. I like it when you ask me how my day was, and you get mad at the people that made me angry. I really like when you lift your hands to my lips and massage away their tightness, your tiny fingers smoothing over every pucker and wrinkle.”
“You don’t have any wrinkles.”
“Lines. I mean lines. And wrinkles? I’m starting to… just look at this eleven shape between my eyebrows.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t scowl at me so much.”
“Maybe you should stop making me.”
“Shh. I like your voice. I like the way it makes my heart beat faster even though I haven’t been running. I like the horrible sounds you make when you sing-”
“Hey! You said you like my voice!”
“I do. I love your voice, but you can’t sing for shit.”
“I’ll have you know I used to sing lead vocals in a very popular group back in the day.”
“You have an appalling singing voice, but I’d take your singing any day, over any other singing.”
“Even Luciano Pavarotti’s?”
“I like that you’ve stuck around this long. I like to wake up and see your little body next to mine, my panties your blanket tangled around your legs. I like to bring my face to your body and breathe in your scent… which is usually my scent, left to marinate overnight.”
“I’d really like a bath every night.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“I had to try. So, if you like me so much, what’s wrong?”
“I like the way you walk. Your little legs barely covering any ground at all, but your stride is so confident, you look like you’re stepping over mountains. You are a giant in the body of a toy-sized man.”
“That sounds weird… I don’t feel giant.”
”I like the way you make me forget my worries when we’re together.”
“I sound great! I don’t know what the problem is, then.”
“The problem is, this is not real.”
“What’s not real? What do you mean?”
“You. Me. None of this is real.”
“Stop. This is real.”
“It’s not. You’re not here. I’m not here. This is not a real place.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Every day is the same: I wake up first, and wake you up. We have breakfast. I go to work. Next thing you know, I’m back. Then we have a nice, relaxed evening, or we go out. We go on trips together. Our holidays are wonderful. But nothing is real.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
“Why is it that you never talk about yourself?”
“I don’t- I don’t like to talk about my personal details.”
“Really? Personal details? In this world, you belong to me, but you can’t tell me your phone number?”
“That’s priv- I mean… we have the same phone number. Oh, god. What’s happening?”
“Every night is the same: the sun sets, and I tell you the truth. You and I met online at a VR station. We were roleplaying this whole size world when you had a stroke, and collapsed on the floor. I wasn’t there to witness the event. To me, it only seemed as though you dropped the connection, and decided to ghost me. I didn’t hear about you again until your girlfriend contacted me-”
“Your girlfriend. The woman you love. The one holding your real hand right now, waiting for you to wake up from a deep coma. She’s been waiting for a year.”
“Please, stop. Shut up. No more.”
“Every night I tell you she found me. As it turned out, every time they tried to unhook you from our VR world, you died. I don’t know how she figured it out. Something about the VR unit being stuck to your port all the way to the hospital or something like that. The point is, she contacted the VR company, and got them to release my name. Got lawyers involved and everything. One day I’m bringing the laundry in from the line, and there’s a knock on the door. After she explained everything, she begged me to help. She had tried hooking up to your environment from her own account to no avail. It was only when I entered it using mine as I used to do that I saw you there. Waiting. Working that corner and looking in every direction like you were lost.”
“No. No no no no.”
“Yes. That’s why you fight my getting close to you. That’s why you don’t love me, and never will. You need to wake up and get back to reality. She needs you. She’s waiting for you.”
“Stop. Stop fucking with me. You’re lying. I can’t believe you can be this cruel.”
“I’m only here to help. At the expense of my own life, and my own heart. Wake up soon, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“I want to go home.”
“I know. And you will.”
“No! I want to go to our home. Our house. Where we live.”
“We don’t have a house. We don’t have anything. But shh. That’s enough for today. Come to me, sweetie. I’ll take you back inside that fake beach house, and hold you and love you one more night, and when you wake up you’ll remember everything about today, except this conversation. You’ll be happy. I might be a little happy too. Sometimes I am. Then, when the sun sets, I’ll try again.”
She drove quietly for a while. She wasn’t a big talker unless they were in the bedroom. There she could talk forever, and he loved it. He was grateful for every dirty word that came out of her mouth, for every time she tied him down and sat on his face, and what she screamed at him while she made it seem the bed would come crashing down, and with it, the world.
“When I was little, my mom didn’t want me to like certain music groups, so every time they came on the radio, she’d turn the station.”
“Did it work?”
“No. Sometimes she couldn’t get to it in time because she was making meatballs or cleaning the toilet or whatever, and I’d be exposed to shit, as she called it.”
“Who was ‘shit’?”
“Foo Fighters, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots-”
“I know. So I grew up listening to Duran Duran, U2, Hall & Oates, all those guys, and learning all the lyrics to their songs.”
“I’m not sure I want to meet your mom. She sounds mean.”
She gave him a quick glance, and in the gleam of her eyes that should have only reflected the diminishing light of day, he caught something alien. His teasing smile faltered, and he swallowed hard. His heart started pounding inexplicably, as though he’d been running.
“You’ll be fine. You’re with me. As long as you’re with me, you’ll be safe.”
He laughed at that, but nervously. His own laughter grated in his ears, and he grew annoyed with himself. He thought he’d be calm about meeting her parents, but perhaps he wasn’t. She seldom talked about them, and it wasn’t because of her taciturn nature. After dating a few months and now living together, he knew her well enough to love her, but to bring up her parents always seemed to make her withdraw to a nearly unresponsive state. He decided to risk a couple of questions, now that she was driving and couldn’t hide inside herself. He inhaled deeply, slowly, and let out the first question.
“Could you tell me something about your dad now? I mean, I’m about to meet him, and I know next to nothing about him.”
Another quick glance from eyes as dark as unexplored ocean depths, a glance that felt as heavy on him as their organ-crushing pounds per inch. He swallowed hard as she brought her gaze back to the road, and sighed.
“My dad. Well, you’re about to meet him, so you might as well know. My dad is… small.”
“Small? Like, short? So what? There’s no shame in being short.”
“No, I don’t mean ‘short’ in stature. I mean small. As in, only inches in height.”
He laughed again, this time naturally. He didn’t know why because what she’d said wasn’t funny at all. If it was a joke, it wasn’t a good one.
“I’m serious. Ah, never mind. You’re only going to believe me when you see him. In every other way he’s a normal father. He was always there for me when I got home from school, and he’d help me with my homework, and always took my side when I got in trouble with mamá.”
“That’s sweet. So you’re daddy’s little girl.”
“I’m his big girl, and I’ve never in my life called him ‘daddy’. It was always papi, and now papá.”
“But your mom never speaks Spanish.”
“Not to you, because you’ve only talked to her on the phone. In person, she’s all arroz-con-frejoles this, and en-mi-país that, and ese maldito hijo de puta con su cuenta de Twitter, que no tiene huevos para-”
“Whoa, hold on, I have no idea what you’re saying!”
“I’m telling you, that’s what it’ll probably be like tonight, and she won’t care that you don’t understand. In her mind, you already speak Spanish by osmosis. I told you, you’re gonna have to learn to speak it with some fluency.”
“Shit. Can’t I just pretend I understand her?”
“No. But don’t worry. You’ll learn.”
“I don’t know when I’ll have time to learn, with a full-time job, and you.”
To that, she said nothing and continued driving in silence until they arrived at their destination, just in time for dinner. The front door opened, and down the front steps came a middle-aged woman, clearly Hispanic, with the longest brown hair he had ever seen, only beginning to gray. He realized now why his girlfriend had such a curvaceous ass. She had clearly inherited it. Both women greeted each other with strong hugs and loving kisses. Then she turned her attention to him. He was startled by the darkness in her eyes, which he had seen in his girlfriend not long ago. Her bright smile distracted him.
“So, there you are, corazón. Come, give me a hug.”
Once inside, the couple sat down at the table, and her mother filled their plates with food but served nothing for herself or her husband, who was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t tuck in as his girlfriend did, surprised that she was not waiting for the man of the house. His girlfriend was munching heartily when her mother turned her smiling face his way and realized he was not eating.
“What’s the matter with your man, mijita? Doesn’t he like our food?”
“No, mamá. It’s not that. I’ve taught him to cook like us, and I fix it myself often. I think he’s waiting for papá.”
Her mother laughed.
“Don’t wait. My hombrecito is shy, and he won’t be joining us until later. He’s otherwise occupied.”
She groaned softly at her mother’s words and sliced off a large bite of the most fragrant meat he had ever smelled. He still didn’t imitate her, waiting for her mom to sit and join them.
“No, mijito. You go on and eat. I’m not hungry right now. I’ll have something later.” When she said those last words she smiled and winked at him so lasciviously, he felt his cheeks turn red, and he looked down at his meal. He tore into it without delay. He wasn’t a big eater, but his plate was clean before long. All throughout dinner the mother stared at him, and the daughter moved her calm gaze back and forth between her two companions.
The moment his place was empty, the mother stood up, pushing back the back of her chair with her large, round ass cheeks. She then turned to her native language.
“Vamos, mijita. Ayúdame con los trastes.”
“Mamá, in English, please,” she said, uselessly.
“Mueve el culo, que tenemos que hablar.”
Once in the kitchen, her mother peered out at him and saw him stand up and walk around, looking at pictures on the wall, and moving closer to one of them, tilting his head forward, as though he was having a hard time making out what he was seeing.
“No es ningún bruto. Ya encontró la foto de tu papi en el bolsillo de mi blusa.”
“Maybe, but he won’t be able to discern it’s a real man in that picture.”
“Estás segura? Tiene las piernas tan flacuchentas. Y la nariz tan grandota. Y los ojos tan endemoniadamente azules.”
“Mamá! You do realize you just described papi. His legs are also scrawny, his nose is huge, even on such a tiny face, and he is, as you’ve so often described, a blue-eyed devil.”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything. He’s the one. I knew he’s the one the moment I laid eyes on him. I want him. I want him so much.”
“Está bien. Lo preparamos, o le damos la sorpresa?”
“Just do it. There is no preparing him for this. There is no explanation that’ll make sense.”
“Yes. But I’ll follow you and watch from the doorway. I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Ay, mijita, no te preocupes. No va a pasar nada. Todo va a estar bien.”
“Yes, I know. I’m not worried. Go ahead, mamá.”
Her mother smiled and gathered the fabric of her skirts with both hands, and pulled it up to her waist. She then gently dug something out of her panties and handed it to her daughter, who grimaced with some disgust.
“Guárdalo bien. Y necesita un baño.”
Her daughter said nothing as she held her damp father in the palm of her hand, and watched her mother transform. She had witnessed the change a couple of times before, but it was always a tremendous shock. Still, she stared at her mother’s body which was now a mass of swirling tentacles, and walked out of the kitchen holding her head high, even as she watched him turn to them and scream at what he saw.
“Don’t worry, my darling. It won’t last forever,” she said to her shrieking boyfriend as his face disappeared inside her mother’s gaping, expanding maw, and his body was immobilized by tentacles that had been arms and legs and hair only a few minutes earlier.
“Don’t try to fight. It only hurts for a bit, my love. And when you emerge, you’ll look just like papá,” and she held her tiny father so as to show him, even though her boyfriend’s head and shoulders were now inside her mother, and he could no longer hear her. The little man stretched and yawned, blinking as though he had been asleep.
“Hi, honey. What did I miss?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing that concerns you now, but I’ll need your help when he emerges.”
“Why? Is he stupid? Is he weak of spirit? No one helped me when your mami did this to me, and here I am!”
“I know, papá… but I’m not sure he’s like you. I just need you, OK? I don’t want him to be alone in this.”
“Of course, baby girl. I’d do anything for you. Your mami is going to sleep for three days as she changes him. That’s three days I get to sleep, and eat what I want, and watch what I want on TV.”
She brought her father up to her lips, and kissed his pungent forehead, or tried to. Her lips encompassed over half his height, and only pushed him back into the scoop of her palm. He giggled and looked down at himself, blushing furiously.
“Get me some clothes, will ya?”
A few feet away, her mother finished swallowing her boyfriend’s body. All tentacles seemed to fall dormant, and the skin that held them together bulged here and there, its insides slowing down their struggles until they came to a stop.
Three days, she thought as she lowered her tiny father into a sinkful of warm, soapy water. Three days until I own you completely, my beautiful sex toy. Three days.
This is the final image of this series. It’s only a slight change in perspective from the earlier couple of images in the set. I’m having a hard time deciding whether it’s my favorite of the three. Whichever one I’m looking at the moment is my preferred one. I’ve had a couple of ideas for what I want to do with it, for stories, and even a song. In the end, I saw the story below. The series was something I commissioned from Flagg3D, to represent both my little man Hopier, and me. This story is inspired by the way I see him.
* * *
We’d stayed up late the night before, even thought it was a “school night”, as he likes to say. But this was “Logan” we were watching, so how could we not? It had been a long day, as we’d spent it fighting. Don’t tell him I said this, but sometimes I get it that he gets tired of being told what to do, all the time. And yesterday he’d had enough.
It wasn’t even that I ordered him to do anything out of the ordinary… just another little chore on his daily schedule; but my voice had been too stern, or maybe he wasn’t moving as quickly as I’d have liked. The reason doesn’t matter, but he exploded, and dropped what he was doing, and started screaming at me… saying terrible things to me about what I’d done to him, and why couldn’t he just “not have a schedule” sometimes, and the worst thing he’s ever said to me: “One of these days I’ll just disappear. Just watch me. I’ll just grab my things and go, and you’ll never see me again.”
Those words chilled my heart, and I stood there, over him, feeling waves of hurt wash over me, over and over again. And then I turned around, and left the room. The rest of the day we didn’t say a word to each other. Not a single word. I know he keeps a secret stash of food and water in the dollhouse, so he didn’t go hungry. And at night, as I sat in the living room and clicked the remote to get “Logan” going, I watched him appear in the comparatively immense door frame. I clicked the pause button, and waited for him to walk the entire span of floorboards and rug until he reached the couch. Then, he gave me that little nod that’s our Rapunzel code for “Owner, owner, let down your hand!” and I bent to lower my palm to floor level.
He climbed it, and I lifted him to my face, and we both said we were sorry, and we said nothing else as I brought him to my chest, where he pivoted as he slipped between my breasts until we both faced the same direction. I clicked play, and when that thing happened to my second favorite mutant, and I started crying, I felt his little body torque back to face me, and as he caressed that rumbling spot where my heart beats, I let one of my fingers run down the length of his tiny body, from the back of his head to the small of his back. The rest of him was boob-hidden. We were going to be fine. Or so I thought.
The next morning I woke up and did the first thing I always do: I looked at the panty mound next to me where he sometimes sleeps, and I smiled. Somewhere in there, his little body dozed. I was tempted to reach for him; it was on the schedule, after all… but I decided to let him rest, and instead planned to make the day extra fun for him, starting with what I’d wear all day. I picked out my tightest pair of jean shorts; the kind I should have thrown out years ago, because they were far too tight to wear out on the street without getting arrested if I happened to bend over. But he loved me in them. He loved to watch me walk around the house in them, sturdy denim fabric that was no match for what nature had given me. Blue fabric that stretched and bent, each thread choking as it stretched over round cheeks too large, too unrestrained to control.
But he loved riding in my back pocket even more, so I’d give him the entire day off, and place him back there, next to me, on me, feeling every trembling shake of that cheek as it battled with its twin one for dominance. That war will never end, and he gets to live through it, I thought as I smiled, and stepped into my shorts, clean after my shower, and sucked in my gut, knowing I’d probably break a nail as I pulled and danced in place, my shorts finally inching into place. I walked over to my full-length mirror, and turned to see myself. I shook my head. I had no idea how I’d pull away enough pocket opening to push his body in place. The thing would probably rip at the corner, it looked so distended. I pushed my finger into that blue, curved depth, and took a sounding of the give of my swell down there. But my finger was infinitely strong when compared to that infinitesimal lump of flesh that was my little man. I shrugged. He liked what he liked.
I finished getting dressed, and walked over to my bed, to fetch his body from my panties. I lifted one fold carefully, and saw nothing. Puzzled, I picked another fabric corner, and found him not. I finally plucked the entire thing from my bed, and gave it a little shake. I sank my body into the side of my mattress, and held my panties up and against the light, thinking maybe he’d gotten stuck in some remaining moisture, but there was nothing. He was not there. I looked around, and thought maybe he had gotten up in the middle of the night, and had gone to the dollhouse to finish sleeping somewhere his earth wouldn’t constantly quake, which is what happens when I turn in my slumber. I lifted that hinged roof and looked down in his bedroom. Nothing. Nobody.
At that point, I usually call him to my side. Sometimes I go on the hunt, searching for him quietly, like a hungry lioness eager to feed. Then it brings me great pleasure to find him, even though I know it’s impossible for me to stalk him: I’m too tall for the task. He’ll always feel my footsteps at a distance; he’ll always hear my breathing the same way a farmer hears the wind and knows a storm is coming. That’s fine with me. The point is to make my way to him, to learn his every hiding place without his having (or even wanting) to tell me, to feel my lips tug upward when I finally see him, and grab his twitching body. So I decided to hunt.
Still barefoot, I dropped on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. I knew that if he was looking at me from afar, he was getting a good show of my backside as part of it stretched past the hem of my shorts. But there was nothing worth seeing under my bed. I crawled to my dresser slowly and deliberately, and I looked under it. Nothing. I felt the first twinge of impatience. I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down. I had a lot to do today, but I had the good fortune to work from home. This was a luxury I would allow him. So I kept looking.
Fifteen minutes later, I still had not found him. That’s when I felt the first lap of fear stroke my chest. That’s when I finally called out to him. First I used his pet name. Then another. Then every choice term of endearment I’d ever invented for him. I did my rounds again as I uttered each word. I retraced my steps when I started using every sexual word I’d ever called him. I bent low and stretched my neck under places I should have vacuumed more often, and I whispered every teasing, demeaning, belittling name I’d ever bestowed upon him. Nothing. I finally sat on the floor, and as I felt cool floorboards lower the temperature of my ass cheeks before that tide turned instantaneously, I burst into tears. He had left me! The little shit had done as he said he would do, and had packed up his flea-sized things, and had abandoned me. Just because I gave his life purpose?
I’d find him. Oh, I would not stop until I scoured the entire neighborhood. I’d get bloodhounds if I had to, to track his unfeeling little shape and bring it to me, but he was coming back. I sat there, thinking about the steps I’d have to take today to get the local K-9 unit involved. I’d definitely have to wear my shorts to the station. I wasn’t going to stop at anything. The waistband of my shorts was beginning to dig into me as I sat there, plotting my little love’s search and discovery, thinking of a fitting punishment that would go on for days, when I felt the slightest of struggles in my jean pocket. Not the one I had tested with my finger. The other one.
I gasped, and foolishly turned in place like a dog chasing its tail. My heart jumping in place like one of those energetic little girls rope skipping until the end of time, I slowed myself down, and calmly turned from the waist up, and looked over my shoulder. There, in my pocket, was a lump; a tiny length of moving flesh that struggled uselessly. I bit my lip hard, because I started crying harder than ever. He had not left me! I quickly dried my tears with one hand, and reached into my pocket very gently, to make space for the little worm. I slipped one finger down his back as I’d done last night, but this time I went deeper, until I hooked my finger pad to his butt, spreading his legs wide. I reeled him in slowly, as his front rubbed that rough jean fabric. I heard him cry out in protest.
I didn’t care. I was beginning to sink into fury when I pinched his newly freed abdomen with my thumb, and brought him faceside. Quickly. Fast. So fast he was turning white when I brought him to a full stop next to my face, and started whisper-screaming at him. I called every mean name I’d ever invented for him, and asked him if he knew what he had done to me. Me! His owner! How I had looked for him, and anguished over him! And that’s when I saw him smile. His mouth stretched so wide it could have spanned the country from coast to coast. I was flabbergasted. I stared at him, my anger lost in confusion. I asked him the reason for his smile. Was it my suffering?
He said it wasn’t. Of course it hadn’t been my suffering! He was smiling because after he hid in my pocket while I took my shower, I looked for him. He was happy because I cared. He was delighted because I’d cried for him, and though he’d not read my mind about the search dogs, he’d felt my intent as I sat there in the quiet, and he’d known again what I’ve always told him; what I’ve been repeating to him every day since the moment I shrank and kidnapped him: I loved him.
And it was true. I did. So I returned his smile, and brought them both together in a kiss that was long enough to moisten his entire length. It was just as well, because then I separated him from my lips, and sent him riding my pinched digits until he reached his destination. There, I fitted half his body down my back pocket, and walked off to start my day. I didn’t have to push him all the way in. Every time my denim-clad cheeks bounced and bounded, he sank.
My cheeks were still on fire when I reached over and grabbed his little body. All I wanted was to comfort him, when his reaction, again, shocked me. He started punching at the webbing between my thumb and index finger, slamming his little fists with as much fury as I’d ever seen in a little creature. They felt like little caresses, and I tried not to smile, because his face was contorted in a mixture of rage and horror. I could see he was trying to form words with his mouth, but failing.
“Hey, easy there. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” He finally found his words.
Then I understood. He thought I’d picked him up to ram him inside my body, or some other distasteful idea. I must have grimaced, because he stopped punching me, or at least he slowed down a bit, and added puzzlement to the list of events happening to his features.
“Well, you are sold as one, so I guess you’re programmed to resist the idea? That’s strange. Who had the notion that women like to be fought off in bed? Or found it attractive to be repulsive? Because, let me tell you, the only disagreeable notion here is the one of putting you between my legs, and start sliding you in and out…” I slowed down my speech as I searched my mind and my body for that old revulsion that had not outlasted the afternoon. In fact, what I found during my search was an agitation of my pulse, and a twitch between said legs. I wonder if he saw it on my face, because he started squirming again. I turned my thoughts to him again.
“Hey, stop! Stop that right now!”
“I’ll stop when you start listening to me!”
I decided to humor him, mostly because I figured I’d look it up later, how to play with these toys. The store attendant told me to ignore everything he said, but I couldn’t manage it, for some reason. “OK, I’m listening. Give me your spiel.”
“Tell me your story.”
“That’s the problem. There’s a lot about it I don’t remember. But I remember I was born in… some place with few people, and I was as large as you are, and there was corn. I remember corn. And cows. And my brother. You left him there, at the store! What if someone buys him-”
“Hold it, slow down… corn? And you were grown in a lab. All of you are. You can’t have memories of cows and being large.”
“I’m telling you. You have to believe me. I’m desperate! Please, my brother has given up. He doesn’t think anyone will listen. I’m making the effort. I’m begging you, please listen. Go back to the store and buy my brother. We’re real people. We were once like you, but someone took us away, and made us like this.”
“I don’t remember that part, but…” And his words faded in the background of his thoughts, because I began to think, to remember everything I had read about the tiny people being grown in labs, the Mad Queen’s grand masterplan to save the planet. Mankind reduced in size meant less impact on resources, a smaller carbon footprint, and all that green talk. I always wondered why all the little critters had been male. Was there something to what this little one was saying? I stared at him as he talked. Oh no, there it was again. That stirring at the center of me. It felt like something was melting. A pounding. Someone was knocking on that door. Someone was ringing that bell.
I wanted to give him my full attention, I really did; but my full attention was on his legs, dangling from my closed hand. Legs that moved and twitched as he spoke, alive with his energy. Legs that would kick and feel amazing if I just slid them in between my wet- No! No! Pay attention. Attention to his tiny hands. How little were they? They were small enough to grapple with something the size of his head, maybe slightly swollen. It would grow bigger if those hands massaged it, and rubbed it, and- No! No! Pay attention. Attention to his itty mouth as it moved. And a flash of that pink tongue. What would that little tongue feel if I forced his head down on my breast and ordered him to- No! No!
I must have grunted or moaned, because when I came to, he was silent, and staring at my face. My cheeks felt like two volcanoes erupting. There was another volcano spewing lava already, but I wasn’t going to make him privy of it. I took a deep breath, and maybe to assuage my guilt and confusion at my new feelings, I said on the hard exhale which slightly blew back his tuft of tight curls, “Let’s go.”
“Let’s go where?”
“Let’s go get your brother.”
He started crying again, this time I imagine with relief, and I was glad of it, because then he’d be distracted from having noticed my gawking at him. Lusting after a tiny man when he’s crying feels like a sin. I walked to my car and realized I had left the house without my purse, without my keys, and holding my toy in my hand. I grimaced and was grateful I always kept an extra key hidden in the garden. When I reentered my home and grabbed my purse and keys, I walked up to my car again, and when I sat in the driver’s seat, I realized (again) I was still holding him. I had to put him down somewhere. I did the first thing I thought. I dropped him between my legs, the only space available, as the shotgun seat was occupied by my purse. Or is that what I told myself? I didn’t dare look at him, so when I let go of his body, I focused on driving.
I’d been on the road for a few minutes when I felt his body shift and reposition down there. His shoulder grazed my inner thigh, and my brain felt like a grenade going off. Shrapnel was piercing my heart, my head, my eyes, my crotch, and I realized I was swerving. “Hold still!” I said, a little too loud. Again, that guilt. It wasn’t his fault I was going insane. Mad. Like the Queen. Maybe her madness was contagious, but I was sure she didn’t lust after tiny men. She just wanted to make things better for everyone, and frankly, driving was easier now that road rage had been cancelled, and tailgating was punishable by death.
He stopped moving, and if it had not been for the slight heat signature that pulsed from his body, right into that empty triangle bordered by my flesh and fabric, I would have forgotten he was there. As it was, it’s a wonder I didn’t kill us both. There was that one time I applied the brakes a little too hard, and his body backed into me fully, and safely bounced off the soft shape of what was trapped in my panties. I, on the other hand, had a head-on collision of the senses. He immediately straightened up and moved away from me, farther out the chasm of my thighs, and I could feel his eyes on me, and even his thoughts… I focused on traffic, and on telling myself it had been accidental. A leg jerk. Nervous legs. Needed to start taking magnesium. Exercise more. Yeah.
When we got to the store’s parking lot, it was still open, but there were only fifteen minutes left on that clock. When I ran to the display, no one had bought his brother. The other little guy was gone, however. The sweet little fellow was shocked to see me again, and even more surprised when I lifted his brother to him, and they spoke manly words I’m not going to repeat here. I grabbed the remaining box as an elderly lady made for it. She said some choice words in my wake, and I was grateful there was a daily flip-the-finger quota enforced by law, because I filled it at that very moment.
The ride home was a little calmer. Once in the car, I ignored my toys’ pleas to be reunited, and left my newer toy in his container. I did, however, have the foresight to stick my first toy in the shopping back with his brother, so I wouldn’t have an excuse to place him between my legs again. That had been a mistake I was not going to repeat. Well, that’s what I thought at the time.
Once we were back at my place, I ripped open the box, and freed that little man. What followed was another shock that day. They both embraced and laughed and talked at the same time. The emotion pouring from their little bodies was such that I felt my own eyes brim with tears. After they’d had their fill of that, they turned to face me and approached me slowly. My first toy cleared his little throat once, then again, and failed to say anything. His brother patted his back, and looked at me with an uncertain smile. He said “thank you” so quietly I almost didn’t hear him, but the shapes his lips made were not to be mistaken. I smiled back and looked at my first toy.
“Are you alright?” I asked him.
“Yes”, he said, and we all stood and sat there for a minute, saying nothing until I spoke again, startling them into reaching for each other.
“Alright! Hey, stop that. Don’t be afraid of me. I’ve done nothing to hurt you, and everything to help you, so stop acting as though I’m the enemy. I was just going to ask you if you were hungry. When’s the last time you had anything to eat? Because… you do eat, don’t you?”
It was amazing how fast they went from fear to indignation.
“Of course we eat!”
“Yeah, we’re real people, lady.”
“None of this ‘lady’ crap. Call me Coraline. That’s my name. Now tell me your names.”
They hesitated and looked at each other.
“We don’t… I don’t remember.”
“I think my name began with an ‘N’. Maybe Nathan.”
“That was my name. As soon as you said ‘Nathan’ I remembered mom’s voice calling us to dinner. ‘Nathan’. ‘Neil’. Those were-”
“Are. Are our names. We’re twins. Non identical.”
I watched and listened to them in disbelief. Could this be true? Was the Queen aware human beings were being taken for these sanctioned experiments? Dragged away from their lives, and reduced in size, and then sold like objects at stores across the country? What was going on? This was a monstrosity. Something had to be done. But what? I didn’t know. All I know is that these little men were under my care, and I had to do what I could to help them. If there was a normal life waiting for them somewhere, it was my duty to help them regain it.
“Alright, Nathan, Neil, it’s time to eat. Do you like beef stroganoff?”
“C’mon. I’ll show you. Let’s ride my hands to the kitchen. I’m going to cook for you.”
It’s time for the next contest, and this time it isn’t about writing a cruel story, or a gentle one. It can be either, or both, or neither, as long as the main character is a being’s behind. And by a “being” I mean a giantess, giant, woman, man, furry (does anyone even use that word anymore?), robot, object of any size and gender, in possession of an ass, and all its peripherals. Now, if you’d like to blame anyone for this quarter’s contest, blame me, because it was my idea. I wanted to make sure it had been my idea, so I had to look back, way back in time, to find the pertinent words. Here’s what I said on Monday, December 26 of 2016, during a Twitter conversation with my friend Aborigen, the mastermind behind all these contests:
“I think we should do a butt month”*
He laughed, and agreed, and then I wondered,
And it was settled. Soon after I started calling it “Butty July”, and the name stuck. It’s the perfect name for a contest that refuses to take itself too seriously. It’s a playful name, because these writing contests exist to be fun, and to unite us as writers. I’ve always claimed that the size community is more than just a masturbation machine. I’ve been wrong before, and many times, but I don’t think I’m wrong about that. Some of us are here to make something else happen. That something else can be many different things, and it can change from day to day, but my own Something Else hardly ever does: I tell stories. It’s one of the ways in which I bring to life who I really am. I’ve already asked Aborigen to add me to the list of writers who will create a bottom-related entry (or two). If you’d like to do the same, contact him:
Not sure where I’m going with this. When I went to Pixton to try to create something to distract myself, I just kept slapping one thing after another, not sure of what I’d come up with. There’s a story there, but I’ll probably get back to it much later. Or never.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Apparently neither. Here it is.
* * *
You remember that part in movies when the main character finally emerges from the ashes of whatever happened to it? That hopeful moment that augurs everything’s going to be just fine? That moment is bullshit. There is no such moment; at least not for me. My life is full of piss-in-my-beer moments. Brimming with gum-in-my-hair moments. I actually emerged from a movie theater once with gum in my hair. Someone had seen fit to gently deposit freshly chewed gum in my beautiful red tresses. But that feeling of societal betrayal was nothing compared to how it feels to break up with someone you love because it turns out he lied about everything. Except that one bit about the sex. The sex was great. The sex was addictive, which is why it took me so long to wake up.
So I wound up in the ashes, covered by them, tasting them, breathing them in until everything felt bitter, and my meals consisted of looking through a pile of trash in the living room to find something to eat, because I knew there were still two slices of pizza leftover from a couple of night before, and I couldn’t be bothered to cook anything fresh for myself. And I found them. And I ate them. And I didn’t care. Sorta the same way I didn’t care there was a wasp in the room while I was watching one of the Cornetto Trilogy movies to try to feel better. Anything with Simon Pegg or Jason Statham tends to lift my spirits. But it wasn’t working. Just looking at Statham kiss Jessica Alba and I wanted my ex’s hands and lips on me again.
Reading the news only made me feel worse about everything. The Queen was at it again, passing more idiotic laws about the toys, and taking more money away from education and defense to pour it into science. She’s always going on about how she’s going to save us all when those crazy experiments yield a final result. And the little mounds of living flesh that are the result of those experiments are no proof she’s in the right. But who’s going to go against a being that measures hundreds of feet in height? That stopped religion in its tracks? That can kill any opposition with her brain? War and famine are over, but there is something stranger in the air; a feeling of enforced change that makes me feel we skipped that part of evolution that teaches us how to be better human beings. But maybe that’s what she embodies. Even now, after everything that’s happened, I’m scared to think ill of her. What if she decides I’m a rebellion that need to be squashed?
Somehow it angers me to imagine she doesn’t see me as a threat. It makes me feel small, and I hate feeling small. She’s not who I want to talk about anyway. What I want to talk about is what happened when my vacation time ended… time I spent at home eating shit and drinking and crying and not sleeping but at least no longer calling him on the phone and ignoring his emails and even that one time he came by at three in the morning because that’s when she goes to work. When I finally showered and shaved my legs and detangled my hair and de-fuzzed my upper lip and went back to work, there was no relief to be found in breathing fresh air, or being busy. Oh, that’s another lie: “Work distracts you”. It doesn’t. Work feels like the times between stabs during a knife fight. I sat there and went through the motions, and then it would come back to me, flood my mind, and pierce my heart. He wasn’t in my life anymore.
I still have to remind myself to breathe, and when I do, my chest still hurts, but at least I have them now. And I’ll keep them, and I’ll help them, no matter what. I don’t care if the Queen shows up and stamps her giant foot on my house, crushing us all. I don’t care if she’s reading my thoughts right now. I have to do something. I have the feeling she won’t stop people like me. The toys exist because she willed them into existence, after all. She’s not keeping them hidden in some lab. They are out there, available now wherever toys are sold. But I could only afford to buy three.
It all started with that email. My “promotions” mail folder had grown, and when I began to mark them for deletion, my eyes stopped on the one from my local toy store. “Big Sale!!!” it advertised. I still don’t know why, but I opened it, and printed out the coupon. After work, I drove to the strip mall where it sat, all bricks and mortar, and uncommonly busy for a Tuesday. But not as uncommon as my thoughts as I considered buying something I didn’t need, and not only that, but contemplated an idea that until then, had felt repugnant. I don’t care that most people think that the miniaturization of something renders it adorable. It doesn’t. Well… it didn’t. They’ve grown on me.
But if I have to be completely honest, what was on my mind that day was probably more repugnant than the idea of them had felt until that moment. They are sold as sex toys, after all. They are sold as objects, and they are not. But that day I thought they were, and I walked into that store I know well, and towards the sports equipment and electronic toy department. I walked over to the Fun 5ex Toy (that is how it’s spelled, and I wonder why… since there are no indecency laws anymore, not since the Queen turned cussing into an official sport) display, and stared at them for a while. There were no visible On buttons, but they all seemed to be expressing some sort of emotion, and they were all in the middle of saying something. That’s when I first had the thought that they all appeared to be set on “distress.” It seemed an odd choice for a toy that’s supposed to be fun, but then I figured that setting would be right for the sadistic realm. The idea gave me chills, and I was in the middle of shuddering when an attendant that probably misinterpreted it asked me if he could be of any help.
“Yes”, I said. “How come all these toys are on at the same time?”
“I think that’s how they’re programmed. When I got the manual on them, I remember reading that because of how they are engineered, their words are random, but come from the same part of that little mass they have for a brain.”
“So there are no electronic parts to them?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe a chip, in case they get lost? But they aren’t that expensive.”
“The hell they aren’t. Three hundred dollars? That’s a lot of money for someone of my meager means!”
“Well, I was just about to put this sign up, if you’ll excuse me…”
And he picked up a sign I had not noticed was on the floor next to him, and placed it in front of the Fun 5ex Toy display case. I blinked in surprise when I saw the price reduction. Before he walked away he added, “Let me know if you have any more questions. I’ll be at the register.”
I nodded, not even looking in his direction, because I was now staring at the little toys. My mind was suddenly invaded by thoughts. I’m ashamed to admit them, but I had been “inactive” for over two weeks, too depressed to put new batteries in my non-flesh toys, and too sad to think between the legs. But when my eyes fixed upon the shape of that one little toy, I became lost inside myself. Kinda where I wanted him to be. A dark-skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, he stared right back at me, and kept screaming for help. I just stared at his legs. I noticed the other two toys that were left seemed to talk to me at the same time. I smiled, even giggled to witness how well they worked. They knew I was there.
“How fun…” I said to no one in particular, and I don’t know what it was about the way I said it that made my little brune beauty’s lips freeze mid-word. The terror I saw in his eyes was now aimed at me, somehow. It made me feel… guilty. I decided to buy him at that moment. Yet, when I started to walk away with him in hand, he appeared to regain his earlier temperament, and started screaming something about “going back for his brother”. Wow, I thought. What a dirty trick. Just to make you buy more than one, I guess. I ignored it, and brought it home, with the store employee’s words still ringing in my ears. Instructions about the “little ones”, as he called them. They made me think of that old movie with the pets you don’t feed after midnight.
“Don’t pay any attention to what they say.”
“Their tiny minds only have access to primitive emotions.”
“None of what they make up is real.”
“They require a firm hand at all times… especially when-”
And that’s when I thanked him very much and left, mostly to rescue him from himself, as he seemed to have fallen into the murky waters of explaining to a woman how to use a sex toy. During the entire ride home, my toy seemed to wail in great distress, and kept mentioning his brother. It was distracting, so I switched on my iHeart, and cranked up something screamed in German. I immediately wondered how well their ears worked, so I turned it down, and on the next red light I looked inside my shopping bag, and saw that he was covering his ears as though he was in pain. I ordered my radio to turn itself off, and was in the middle of whispering what I imagined were calming words to the little thing, when I heard cars beeping at me. The light had turned green. I peeled off and he started to go on again about his sibling, when I yelled at him to shut up, as I was driving. He did.
When we got home, sat on the couch and removed him from his container, and the instructions slipped off the back cover. I held him in my hand as I tried to open up the pamphlet, and gave up, as it was tightly folded. I finally had to set him down on the coffee table to manage unfolding the instructions. I needed to know how to name him, or if he came with a name. I read the instructions, which shockingly enough, were as brief as the register attendant had been, and only pointed me to the Queen’s website, slash Fun 5ex Toys, slash how-to’s. I tossed the instructions aside, and faced him. He flinched. I was surprised at that. These little toys seemed to run high on alarm. I cleared my throat and tried to remember how I used to talk to my cat, Kitty.
“Hey there, little fella. How’s your name? I mean, what-”
“Can we please go back for my brother?”
I sighed. Very tricky. “Look, little toy, that’s just a marketing ploy that’s been driven into your cerebral cortex, or whatever it is you have inside your head.”
“It’s not! He’s my real brother! We can’t leave him behind!”
“Well, I can’t afford another toy. Besides, I only need one.” The look he then gave me before he collapsed and burst into tears made me feel like the biggest pervert on Earth.