Oh, shut up. You know you love that show too. When it first came on, it used to annoy me, but not everyone at my house hated it, so I began to overhear longer bits of it, and to love the double entendre, and the size bits. I love size bits, no matter where they come from. No, that’s not true; there are size bits out there I find repugnant. But every time I see something growy or shrinky on Adventure Time, I smile like this…
…and never fail to look around, if I’m with family or friends, because you never know when someone will look at you, jump up from their seat and cry out, “A-ha! J’acusse!” as they point at you and reveal to all present that you have a filthy size fetish. So I make sure no one sees me blush and no one hears my heart pounding and no one watches me try to control my frantic heartbeat, and no one is taking pictures of my cheeks as they turn a violent red.
I not only do that when I watch Adventure Time. It happens any time I see a commercial or show depicting size stuff. It’s also happened that I’m not alone, and someone will say, “Look at that [whatever] with that tiny guy! Did you see it? Did you look? Look at it, look at how funny it is!?!??!”
Those are the times my poker face must be at its best, because inside my head I’m screaming, “YES, I SAW IT. IT WAS HOT. I DREAM OF OWNING SUCH A SEX TOY. YES, LITTLE MEN ARE SEX TOYS DIDN’T YOU KNOW?!?!?!” But outwardly I’m…
And… “No, I missed it. I was thinking of politics or tax reform or health care.” And they always believe me. Would my life be better if I told all around me that I have these thoughts and feelings? Nah. It would make no difference. It would probably mean members of my family find my blog, and start asking questions. Especially my mom. She’d be all… I’m not even going to tell what she’d be like. But it would not be good. The questions would never end.
I buy every Adventure Time season as soon as it comes out. Every season is extremely rewatchable. I love the songs. I know the songs. Don’t make me start singing now, because I will. But I love the size stuff the most, no matter how inconsequential, how unrelatable, how vague it is. I’ll take it because I’ll take my size stuff any way I can get it. So, from minute 3:20 on, I looked like this:
And I did the same with my lips every time Finn was handheld. Do you have any idea how much I love handheld? No, you don’t. I love it. A lot. So much. If I had a tiny man in real life, he’d be so handheld, so much. So often. So tightly. So hard. So closely. Any image of a tiny human (or robot—let’s be honest) male held in the hand of a larger female anything… is going to cause the same effect on me.
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 found this gif while looking for stuff on Tumblr, but as you know, large gifs no longer move when you click on them. The uploader did not bother to name the source for it, and my looking has not yielded any results. Does anyone know where I might find the working original?
This is why you name the source of the material you share. So that I don’t run around looking for the gif and the artist that owns it, like a giant chicken with her head cut off.
Update: Many thanks to my friend Aborigen, who found the original image here.
“You made me small, but you can’t make me love you.”
“This is not turning out the way I thought it would.”
“What ever does?”
“My cakes. My bread. My tomatoes. My drinking.”
“You are small potatoes.”
“I’m small, but I’m not a potato.”
“You are a couch potato.”
“I’m a panty potato. The only times I ever spend on a couch is when you are on a couch, wearing me inside your panties.”
“Why won’t you love me?”
“Neediness is a turn-off.”
“I don’t need you. I just want you.”
“Then what do you care how I feel?”
“I don’t know. This is a new feeling. I’ve never cared about the faces you made, or the grimaces, or the screams. Now I find myself wondering what you’re thinking about, who you want to fuck, where you want to be.”
“What can I do better?”
“Nothing. My heart was already taken when you did this to me. I think of my wife every morning when I wake up, and when I go to sleep, and every moment in between, when you are using me.”
“She’s forgotten you.”
“Yes, she’s moved on. She has a new boyfriend now, and she’s stopped looking for you. Your daughter doesn’t even remember you.”
“This is why I don’t love you, and never will. You are cruel beyond measure. You stole my life from me. You made me into nothing but a sex toy. I had everything, and now I have nothing.”
“I had nothing, and now I have everything.”
“Is your life so centered around sex that this ‘everything’ has to be a tiny man you use to fulfill your sexual needs?”
“Yes. I go mad when I don’t use you. I’m distracted. I can’t work. I can’t function. You are my air, and I feel you in my heart.”
“That’s pathetic. You should be able to function without me.”
“I should, but I don’t. I’d fall apart.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t think so. I think you should try to be without me for a time, and see how you do.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Suit yourself. But I think it’s sad that you can’t live your life unless I’m around.”
“I can. I simply don’t want to.”
“There’s nothing simple about this.”
‘It is very simple. I want you. I always want you. I want you with me all the time. And there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing. Everything has gone wrong for you because of me. You have lost everything and everyone, but for the first time in my life, I can breathe, and my heart doesn’t hurt. When I look at you I feel… full. Complete.”
“I find you boring. I miss my wife and the way she moves around the kitchen when she cooks for me. I miss the way her voice lifts when she wants to go see a movie. I miss the way she walks past me and leaves a trail of her scent for me to follow. I miss the way she bossed me around about things I found absolutely annoying. I miss mowing my lawn. I miss everything about my life, and if you brought me back, I’d never think of you, except in my nightmares.”
“Fuck. That hurts.”
“Good. It’s true. All of it.”
“I don’t care. You fill my heart. You fill me with joy,”
“One day I’ll hate you.”
“Maybe, but until then, kiss me, little toy.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Fine. I’ll just make you kiss me.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“It is. You are mine. You will always be mine, no matter how you feel, or for whom you cum, or what’s left of your soul wants. You don’t know it, but every molecule of yours is mine, beyond love, beyond thoughts, beyond feelings. Love your wife. Think about your wife. I don’t care. Your body belongs to me, and when you open your eyes and mind, you are mine too. Every two inches of you. Kiss me.”
“No? But you are. Look at you, kissing me now. Look at your lips, puckering up over mine, touching and feeling and swelling.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I don’t! Stop!”
“Kiss me again. And again, and again. Never stop.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me. You love this. You love being tiny. You love being a sex toy. You love being two inches tall.”
“I don’t love you. I will never love you!”
“Kiss me. I feel enough for the both of us.”
“I hate you, you fucking psycho.”
“I love you. You are mine, forever. Kiss me. Bend your body into my mouth. Sink your face into my lips, and press your hands on the pink wall of me.”
“I’m broken. Nothing I do has heart.”
“My heart is big enough for the both of us. My love gives you purpose. Hate me if you must. Be bored. Love your wife. Wish for her with all your might. You’ll never see her again. You’ll see me every day, feel me every morning, and make me feel everything I want to feel every time I want.”
“If you loved me, you’d take me back.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’d want me to be happy.”
“Wrong, little one. I give your life more purpose than anything you’d find out there. Because of you I can breathe, eat, think, feel, live. You are everything. Out there you’d be an echelon in the tiny lives of little people that have moved on without you. Here with me you are an universe.”
“Fuck you. You are insane.”
“I’m as sane as you are. I only take what’s mine, and you are mine. It doesn’t matter how you feel or what you say. Kiss me again.”
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
E is for Eye – ‘ī n [ME, fr. OE ēage; akin to OHG ouga eye, L oculus, Gk ōps, eye, face, Skt akṣi eye] (bef. 12c) 1. a: an organ of sight; esp: a nearly spherical hollow organ that is lined with a sensitive retina, is lodged in a bony orbit in the skull, is the vertebrate organ of sight, and is normally paired.
I love word derivations. When I was a child and read the dictionary because it was fun, etymologies were always the best part. This blog entry was first created eight years ago, right about the time I stopped playing this word game. My muse started packing his things, and all I ever typed here was the above paragraph, and this thought, “It is that giant shape that peers into your window….”
I then added this post to my drafts and left it there to rot. Last night I was inspired soon after I began looking for the components for the accompanying collage, and while going to the store I thought of the words that belong here. All day yesterday people tried to talk to me, and they had to get my attention several times because I was lost in my world. I was lost in this.
* * *
Look at me.
What is your name?
Wrong. Your name is Toy.
Where is your home?
Wrong. I am your home.
Who is your family?
Wrong. I am your owner.
Look at me.
Who did this to you?
That’s right. I did this to you.
Open your eyes.
Tell me what you see.
Come here, come closer.
I gave you an order.
Very well, you leave me no choice.
Stop screaming, I won’t hurt you.
I’m only closing my fingers around you, and doing your work for you.
Now look. Look. Open your eyes. Dry them.
Now touch me with both hands.
Yes, there. Reach over my thumb and touch me.
How does it feel?
Yes. What else? Press harder.
Close your eyes and see with your body.
Thunder? No, that’s not thunder.
That’s my heartbeat. That’s my blood.
Rushing there for you.
Put your hands back where I told you.
Follow my orders.
Now feel the heat.
The air down there is thicker. Wetter.
Do not move your hands away.
Or I will keep them there for you.
Tell me your name.
Tell me your name.
Open your eyes.
You are learning.
Look up. Look at my face.
I don’t care if it hurts your neck.
Tell me my name.
Show me your home.
Look down again.
Look with your eyes, and with your hands.
That’s your home.
I’m your home.
Push hard. Harder.
Do you hear that?
That’s all for you.
It’s coming for you.
I’m going to put you down now.
Don’t run. Don’t cry.
The small man sat in a kneaded eraser the shape of a bean chair, and watched his owner draw. The faint smell of turpentine lingered in the air, carrying on its back the scent of paper, pencils, and the rest of her art supplies that crowded surrounding shelves, and a large percentage of the table on which his little makeshift chair had been placed. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift to the sound of her pencil scratching the vast whiteness of her favorite sketch paper.
“Open your eyes, my love.”
“Are you drawing my face now?”
“No, but I want you to keep looking at me.”
He said nothing and did as he was told. She was in a very good mood today, and he didn’t want to spoil it. Not until he absolutely had to. And he had to. Forty-five minutes later, her rough draft was completed, and she smiled, looking at her handiwork. She lifted it off the table easel and showed it to him. There, all over the paper, was his body, drawn nude, because he was always nude. She had captured him as perfectly as she did when she sprayed him with a shrinking formula, and lifted his wriggling, terrified body off the floor. He drove the flashing memory to the back of his mind and drew his lips into a smile. It almost felt sincere.
It was time to try again. He cleared his throat.
“I was wondering… my giantess, may I ask you a question?”
She had started smiling back at him, but at his words, her lips pursed together, and a slightly exasperated gust of warm air left them and blew back his hair. She put the sketching pad down and gave him a slight nod. She knew what he was going to ask.
“Would you please tell me how you shrank me?”
Now it was her turn to close her eyes. She shook her head slightly, and opened her eyes again, focusing them on him. Eyes as large as moons, and I’m in them, my reflection trapped in two places at the same time, he thought, his heart skipping with fear. He swallowed hard and prayed she would not answer him as she did most of the time, by grabbing him and dropping him down her panties, never pulling him out until his work was done. But this time, she surprised him.
“Very well, though the truth will disappoint you, as I don’t quite have a grasp on what exactly happened.”
He found that hard to believe. No one goes around spraying people with a liquid that transforms them into a 2-inch tall vestige of themselves and doesn’t know exactly what they are doing, but he said nothing and listened on.
“As I might have mentioned before, I’ve always dreamt of someone like you. Someone so tiny, he could fit in the palm of my hand, or in my mouth, or anywhere else.” She smiled at him when she said those last three words, and he forced himself again to return that smile. She thought she was complimenting him. All those months he had exhausted himself screaming at her, begging her to change him back into a 6′ tall man, demanding to be returned to his wife or parents, until he realized it was never going to happen. All she ever did in response was muffle his screams with various parts of her body.
“One day, I decided to do something about it. It wasn’t a rational decision because there is nothing to be done about wanting to shrink a man. Don’t look at me like that. I know you sit there, shrunken, and the evidence of the very opposite of my words… but… the truth is, I have no idea how I did it. I don’t understand how it happened. All I ever did was mix up various ingredients, and go around spraying men’s faces.”
He knew she hated it when he interrupted her, but she said nothing as she stared at him, so he ventured a question.
“Men‘s faces? So you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve sprayed their faces, and I got yelled at, or pushed away, or slapped and punched by their wives or girlfriends. One time I was arrested and released after it was found that the spraying agent was innocuous. I made up some excuse about a social experiment, and I guess they don’t have time for my brand of insanity.”
“Insanity? That’s the first time- I mean, is that how you see this?”
“No, my little man. What I did was not insane. What I did was the most perfect thing that’s ever been done. How I did it was insane.”
“But- how? I don’t understand. You must have access to secret chemicals! Surely you work at some lab somewhere.”
“You know where I work.”
“Just because you take me there doesn’t mean I can hear anything. Every sound is dampened by walls of flesh too thick to-” He cut himself short when he saw that her facial expression had changed at the meaning of his words. She looked at him hungrily. Again. What else was new? Yet, instead of pinching his body to transport it to her walls of flesh, she sighed and spoke.
“Interesting. So you still don’t know what I do for a living.”
“I don’t work in a secret government lab; I’m not a mad scientist developing secret compounds that will change the world. I grabbed a glass from my kitchen cabinet, and I squatted on it until the first drop of blood fell out of me that month and I cried a single tear in it and I added a single drop of sweat from my workout and a drop of wine and a drop of beer and a drop of spit and a fart from my ass and all this during a full moon and while I was naked and I know it sounds so absolutely ridiculous and impossible but that is exactly what happened!”
She stopped talking and caught her breath. Her chest was heaving, and from her cheeks, two red blooms grew deeper in color. She watched him watch her, and his expression changed from impassive to impatient.
“That can’t be true. That’s impossible. Sweat and beer and blood? That combination doesn’t work to shrink anything! If that were the case, then every homeless person in the world would be tiny!”
“Don’t be silly. There was more to it than sweat and beer.”
He began to rock in place, back and forth. He tried to keep it together, but it was impossible. He felt his mind would break soon.
“What happened to the other men you’ve shrunk? How did you grow them back? Why hasn’t anyone noticed your doing this?”
“Hey, calm down. Do you think if this had worked before, you’d be here? It had never worked before! All I ever got was trouble for my efforts, until one day it worked. That’s all I can tell you. No… wait… there is something else.”
“How I felt when I saw you. I’d always been nervous before, with all those guys… but when I saw you, I felt this tremendous pull, and this calm. This absolute stillness of my mind, and my heart. And I walked up to you, and I sprayed you, and it worked. It worked.”
“Please grow me back.”
“You can’t do this to me! I have a life!”
“I hate you! You are a monster!”
“I’ll kill myself. I swear I will. Grow me back, or take me to my wife!”
“No. And that’s enough talking, my precious little man.”
“No, god, please! I’m sorry! No, no, nooo!”
“Yes,” she said, and she picked him up, and placed him deep within her, and she listened to his continuous screams with her skin, and she felt him with the beat of her heart, and she grabbed a pencil that was as deep a red as love, and she struck and caressed paper with it, to the rhythm of his struggles.
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…
Because I’m convinced we’re all very busy writing or plagiarizing or parodying songs about tiny men and giantesses, I decided to create a contest about it. I begin to suspect that only a few of us ever entertain the thought of composing original songs about people of different sizes. An even smaller number does it credibly. I’ve heard a couple of amazing works thus far.
My own songs are childish and mediocre, but you don’t see that stopping me from putting them together! Nope. I’ve also become interested in promoting my Size Tunes 2017 contest with commissioned images, the one above being the first of… I don’t know how many. Let’s see how addicted I become to DeviantArt artists. This one was made for me by TeaQuill, who is currently accepting commissions. I’m very happy with it.
I’m also quite sure we all like to be sung to, simply because I do. The idea of a shrunken man that serenades his giantess has always struck a deep chord with me. It doesn’t matter that he sounds like food cans being crushed, or that what he sings is the ABCs. What matters is that he does it; that he stands there and entertains her, and earns her heart by exposing himself, and giving her an offering that is part of who he is.
Speaking of who we are, this is who I am:
(Just the lyrics. The song file is just too much to share.)
(Hmm. Where’s my Dollhouse song?)
(I’ll post it later. I can’t find the lyrics right now.)
(But enjoy the image, and think of words to sing to your giantess.)
(Or your tiny man, if you have one that inspires you.)
It all started with a tweet, like so many things I write. Giantess Tina said something to me, then I said something back to her, and I thought I should use my Pixton account to make something of it. There’s no mist or sea foam in the Pixton edit menu, so I had to pull those out of my Internet magic hat. I’m sure that’s a fascinating detail. So… what’s the story here?
It’s very simple, really: Mistpouffers are always sounds giantesses make. In this case, it’s Tina who’s found a boat and its tiny (to us) navigator, and while he’s busy realizing those booming sounds he often heard coming from somewhere in the blue were made by a giantess living her life, she’s busy delighting in having found a precious… meal? Plaything? Companion? Friend? Lover? Who knows… in any case, he always transcends from human being to something else, something new.
When it’s me, the result is always life continued, only slightly modified by my giant whims. Why should I break such a wonderful toy? I’d never think of it. It’s my tendency to want him to live a long life. Once I pick a toy, it’s extremely unlikely I’d want to give it up. Therefore, his health is very important to me. Things like the state of his spine, and lungs, and legs. His puny brain, though materially useless, is also a fair diversion.
So, pay attention. When you go to the beach this summer, you’ll hear them in the night. When you go out at night to walk the dog, and listen to the waves crashing, don’t be distracted by the foam and the crabs dancing in the moonlight. You might miss that giant silhouette breaking the horizon line. If you don’t stop and look for the source of those booming sounds, you won’t see that feminine mountain range swimming your way, and extending one hand to pick your body from the shore.
Anyone else would say, “You’ll never be seen again,” but the truth is, you’ll finally be seen.