This is an entry from my old blog, so I’m actually able to write this in January of this year and set it up so it will be published in July. Years ago as I poked around the Internet looking for collage material, I found a website that belonged to a professional photographer. I can’t recall if s/he was Canadian, or was celebrating Canada, or had taken photos of a Canadian model, but what’s certain is that when I saved three images from that website, an idea was born.
I wanted to create an animated file to tell a story that celebrated Canada Day, and only (yeah, “only”) five months later I spotted the background during a collage background search; then I was ready to begin work.
It was grueling, as it involved dozens of layers in which the woman’s eyes moved from side to side, following the path of the little guy. I desperately tried to figure out a convincing way to create sand prints of his little feet, but in the end I had to give up on that, as my Photoshop skills were limited. I did learn some things from attempting to do that.
The shadows were maddening, but I finished the collage series before July 1rst, and created the animation to celebrate Canadian buddies in the giantess community: talented, creative people without whom we would not have some amazing collages to look at, or some of the best giantess and shrunken-men stories to read. They are simply great people that made my giantess board participation fun, back when I was having it, eh? Cheers!
Well, you’d think that copying and pasting a few paragraphs would make posting these every Wednesday a bit easier. As it turns out, there’s an insane level of busy that doesn’t permit such simple blogging maneuvers. These two words were provided as part of the game by a giantess community member by the name of IncredibleShrinkinI. Wherever he is, I send him a warm hello, and my thanks!
* * *
Backseat, Piano
The polishing cloth scratched the palm of his hand as he worked, its interwoven threads thick as ropes to him. He stopped long enough to switch hands. His discomfort took a backseat to her needs; she had always made that very clear. He looked up and over his work to watch her apply the finishing touches to her hair and makeup. She was ready.
“Is it done?” she asked without looking at him.
“Nearly.”
“Nearly what?”
“Nearly… mistress.”
“That’s a good little man,” she said, getting up and walking towards him. He braced himself for what followed, yet still felt his every bone rattle when she set her elbows on her dresser to give his efforts a closer look. The shock of her descent plucked a steel tooth inside the music box mechanism, as large as a piano key to him. The vibrating note tickled his ears, and he shook his head.
“It looks great! Thank you, little one,” she said, her breath a wind that played with his hair. He stood up and away from her reaching fingers and she picked up the ring he had been cleaning. His heart felt heavier now that she was leaving.
“Will you be out very late?” he asked, hating the needy tone in his voice. She was walking away, leaving him on top of the dresser when she turned her head and answered.
“I don’t know, little one. It’s a blind date, after all. Don’t wait up for me.”
How’s it going? Are you having a nice weekend? Good, that’s wonderful.
I wanted to bring something up.
When I became an adult I made the decision to never kiss and tell. Even before I was very unlikely to give details about my love life. It doesn’t matter who wants to know: my mom, my best cousin, a good friend, etc. I don’t tell.
Because every once in a while I prefer to treat others as I would like to be treated myself, if a person chooses to discuss their love life with me, I will treat that information with the utmost discretion, no matter what the means used to communicate it were used.
That means that my friends’ love / like / lust life is safe with me, that my family’s details about their relationships are safe with me, and even blog comments left here that contain details about roleplaying and some activities connected with giantess fantasies are safe with me.
A person that leaves such a comment might not care who knows what they do online, or in the bedroom, or at that public restroom, but if anything that relates to that makes its way to my blog, I will read it, smile at his good fortune, and delete the juicy parts.
I care about your privacy that much, whether you want me to or not.
D is for Dollhouse, the little place I build and furnish in the land of my imagination, and have begun to do so in real life as well.
A tiny home for a tiny man, it’s a place with miniature rooms, fixtures, bed, dressers, books, pots and pans; everything with a design faithful to the purpose of their comparably giant counterparts, but small enough so he can use them without my help.
This small house looks like a young girl’s toy, but it’s wired to provide him with a minuscule amount of electricity, and it’s connected to a water source as well, because a man needs to be able to shower and flush the toilet, no matter how reduced in size he’s become.
The doors and windows of this home are large enough to allow my hand entry when the time comes, and it always does, especially after kneeling on the floor to peek in, to spy on his little activities, especially those that relate to his need for water.
It’s also a home small enough that I can move from room to room, that I can lift with my hands and take with me wherever I go. If I never build one of my own in reality, if I never buy another miniature for it for the rest of my days, I’ll still have the one in my imagination to give to the little man that lives there.
* * *
P.S. I used to think the image above was a collage, but the little guy in the shower looks too much like a shrunken G.I. Joe, so I don’t know. Whether it’s something produced by one of us, or a publicity shot, I still like it!
Edit: Well, I found what seems to be the original image, so I’m inclined to think it’s (at least) partially a doll, given there’s a visible neck joint. It makes me wonder how effective it would be to use both doll body sections and images of real men to form a composite element for collages. Again, that’s something I’ll find out after I win the lottery, end world hunger and all wars, and enforce peace on Earth (or else).
I found these yesterday, and what woman wouldn’t love the idea of little ones in public service, protecting those things she needs throughout her daily life? This is a neat set of ads that also answers that age-old question: What careers would extremely small shrunken men be able to choose to earn a paycheck? Now we know.
If I had my own ad agency, this is the sort of ad I would be constantly compelled to churn out, and I would get paid the big bucks to do it. Now that would be a terrific, effortless way to earn a living!
It’s a game. I used to play it at my old blog in the way of entries, and at my favorite board as a thread. Possibly at other, conventional boards too, but if asked which ones I will deny it emphatically.
It’s certainly not a new idea, but back then I had not seen it done at giantess boards, and it (they, because it happened more than once) got a lot of participation that showed an intense level of creativity on the members’ part, and well-known authors in the community made it amazing to read.
I thought I’d publish one game entry here every Wednesday, until I run out. The first post described the rules, which were fairly straightforward (no collages will be included, just for variety… unless I happen to have something fitting at hand):
Describe a short scene using the two words (verbs, nouns, whatever) the previous member has provided for you.
You must use the two words that you are given in the previous post. A coherent manner is appreciated , and even better if silly and funny.
Make your scene as short as you wish, but it has to be about the reason we all are members of this board. I’d say the shorter it is, the cleverer it needs to be.
Don’t make it too long. I’d say no more than 200 words, but I ain’t gonna fuss at you if it goes over that a bit.
Leave two words (no more, no less) for the next member to use. Don’t make them too easy. Example: I give myself the words sock, and antenna.
Sock, Antenna
On Christmas morning he woke up excited to see what she had gotten for him this year. He jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, turning around the hallway corner that led him to his living room. He could not help but smile and shake his head when he saw that she had filled a red sock of hers with his gifts, instead of using the stocking that hung empty from his chimney.
He moved along the side of the sock toward its opening, and jumped in alarm when a whirring noise came out of it, the stretchy fabric rippling as something moved underneath for a moment, and then stopped. Curious to discover his first present and the source of the noise, he leaned closer, and shrieked as a huge insect came to life and walked out of the sock toward him, emitting terrifying sounds.
Staggering backwards, he shouted, “Turn it off! NOW!” and from outside his home he heard the thundering ripple of her amused giggles as the remote-control bug’s glowing eyes went dark, and each antenna and leg stopped moving.
* * *
Hmm… maybe when I run out of entries I’ll threaten ask my gentle readers if they would like to provide me with two words for each weekly entry. Nothing like a challenge to give me an excuse to write, although no word ever proved difficult for me to use in a vignette, given the extraordinary size of my brain.
(Which should make it easy for me to stop using the word “thundering” in nearly everything I write, goodness gracious.)
I wanted to write something new, as well as create a new collage for this weekend’s ABC’s game entry. I didn’t have the time to do either, so it’ll have to keep. I’m happy with the way I think it will look, but in the meantime I’ll recycle a spectacular dream I had and shared at my old blog a few years ago.
C is for City. I have somehow connected part of my enjoyment of growth with a desire to protect the man for whom I have feelings, and the city in which he lives. That connection manifested itself in a dream I had once. I was shopping in the commercial center of a city, and the streets were packed with people as they entered the shops and skyscrapers that clustered to great heights every way I looked. I was moving along the sidewalk when a large crowd of people turned the corner ahead of me, screaming, running away from something, and heading my direction in a stampeding rush.
This vision was immediately followed by a thunderous blow to the ground, and an arch of rubble and crumbled cement that blasted away from the building that towered to my right as a huge fist hit its corner. As more booming footsteps shook the ground, I turned and ran with the terrified crowd, except I was groaning to myself, realizing I would have to deal with this monster. I didn’t mind the fighting; it was the changing into my superhero costume that I dreaded. See, I carried it in my purse, and I would have to change into it right there, in front of all those people. Funny how I was more affected by modesty than I was about being crushed by an oversized creature’s foot.
I fled for about two seconds before I stopped dead on my tracks; people flew past me without stopping to watch me undress (OK maybe one of them did), and take a slinky, pink satin suit that looked more like something one would swim in, out of my purse. I turned to face the humongous beast, who was a rampaging brunette (colossal humans have made it to every B-movie monster list I have seen) that rose 200′ from the pavement, wearing a pink fuzzy thing a la Edison. She stood and growled on that intersection while stomping madly on people and cars, bending to grab handfuls of victims just to fling them against surrounding buildings.
The dream changed from that sequence of events to my imagining (in the dream) what would happen once I put on my suit. I would grow instantly (the reason why I could not wear it underneath my clothes) to a height that matched this destructive creature’s, and the growth of my suit would “activate” the growth of my teammates, an Asian lady that wore a green suit, and a Caucasian blonde that wore a blue one. I pictured them both rushing to my side, and helping. Sadly, the dream ended with the certainty that the three of us would battle the female “monster” and save the city, but it didn’t move from dream imagination to dream action.
Because of the way it feels to imagine and dream of growing and fighting a scaly, furry, or skin monster, I would do it in an instant. Anything to protect my guy and the city in which he lives.
Last night, instead of going to sleep, I went to my blog’s admin area and inspected the terms visitors used to find my blog. Doing that causes me to do my own searches every once in a while, just to see what comes up under the blanket of certain terms. Last night I thought to use the keywords “mujer gigante”, and a link to this commercial was probably the third result.
I think it’s great, and not because it includes a giantess. Well, not only because it does. Here are the other reasons:
1. The size of the giantess is one I thought of for myself many times.
2. There are no other women in this commercial. Not that there’s anything wrong with other women… but seeing one tall woman in a city that seems to be populated only by comparatively little men does wonders to create a relationship between the commercial and what I often imagine.
3. I like it when she whirls in place and her hair creates wind. Again, that moment patterns itself after effects I’ve often pictured I create.
4. I like every second of the giantess’ interaction with the “main” little man. I absolutely love his reactions to what she does. His initial shock, his smile, and the rest of it.
5. He’s wearing sandals that allow a quick glimpse of his toes. I’m the only woman in the universe that cares about that, I know.
6. Her delightful expression of mischief when she takes part of his home for her own use. That look she gives him, that tells him, “Aww, little one; that’s right, I’m taking this, and there isn’t anything you can do to stop me.”
B is for Brownies. I published this recipe at my old blog about eighteen months ago. I only have a few old ABC’s entries left to publish, and playing the game—even if only with myself—means I will be following the order of the letters of the alphabet from this point on, when I create new entries for this series.
I’d been planning to create a collage to accompany my brownie recipe for quite some time, but only after I found a suitable shrunken-man source image was I able to figure out the sort of photos I wanted to take of my brownies; so the image you see above is of my window, of a curtain I sewed years ago, and of brownies I baked. I think this is the first collage I’ve published that include raw images I created, instead of stealing downloading them from the Internet.
Underbrownies
7 T. butter
1 c. sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
2 eggs
1/2 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
1/3 c. cocoa
1/2 t. aluminum-free baking powder
1/4 t. sea salt
1/2 c. chopped, toasted walnuts
1. Heat oven to 350° degrees. If you have a toaster oven then you don’t have to heat up the entire kitchen to make these.
2. Grease and flour a small pan of any shape.
3. In food processor, combine butter and sugar until well mixed.
4. Add vanilla and mix until incorporated.
5. Add eggs and mix until well blended-
-Or add it all at the same time, for all I care. The result is the same when I blend it all lovingly and in order, than when I dump it all in the processor (I do recommend mixing the butter and sugar first), nuts last, and pour into pan.
6. Bake for about fifteen minutes. Don’t overbake, or you’ll end up making chocolate rock.
7. Cool, cut in sixteen pieces, and eat one with your sweetie before you kiss him/her. Brownie breath is a guaranteed shrinking potion. It only works on men, of course.
If I receive one single philistine comment about how baking is women’s work, I’ll crush ya like a twig and snap ya like a bug.
* * *
As I chose the elements for the collage above, a scene played in my head. Some will understand when I tell you that events between a shrunken man and a woman don’t always have to include sexual activities. Daily routine can become their prelude, and activities such as visiting, making friends, listening to music, cleaning the house, etc., can lay the foundation for an emotional state ripe with the right kind of tension.
In this case, the emotion I use to color interaction is a deep sense of trust combined with size-related frustration. A man that shrinks to a mere few inches in height will remember a time his wife might have baked him brownies, and he would have polished the entire plate as he watched TV, later burning those calories in the yard, or in the bedroom.
He will recall there was a time he could have closed his hand around his wife’s delicate wrist when the doorbell rang announcing relatively unwanted visitors, and he could have pulled her into his arms as he whispered, “Let’s pretend we are not home, and maybe they’ll go away….”
There is a weight pressing on him that has nothing to do with his wife’s finger or toe; a heavy feeling of helplessness as he watches his life shrink and be absorbed by his mate’s actions. The only thing that rescues him from despair is the absolute trust he feels in his beloved. It carries him as safely as her hand during moments when it seems even the air he breathes is something she allows him to have, and can take away if she so desired it; those times when his responses to disappointment regress to a child-like state; those instances when events slip away as he’s shown a shrunken man may control only that ever-changing sphere the woman that loves him declares his province; those times such as these….
“They are mine,” he said, his hips pressing possessively against the brownie closest to his hips, the one sandwiched in the middle of the stack. That tiny thrust was almost imperceptible given his size, and he seemed too angry to have meant it to be seductive, but his naked body was glued to those baked goods as though they were some sort of salvation; and that moist, warm brownie molded like clay to the shape of his body sent her thoughts adrift to other times he had moved similarly against her body.
“Honey, I can bake you more brownies after they leave, ” she said placatingly. She could see wet chocolate stains beginning to spread onto his torso and his delicious thighs, and forced herself to look away from his midriff, up to his chocolate-colored eyes. He looked good enough to eat, and he would probably taste delicious at the moment, but that sort of fun would have to wait until they were alone in the house again.
She looked over her shoulder at the bedroom door, and listened to her friends chatting in the living room. Again his voice, as diminished in volume as it now was, seemed to somehow get louder. She faced him again as he stood next to the brownies on the plate.
“I don’t want different brownies later; I want these, and I want them now!” his words ended with the whine of a child threatened by willpower much greater than his own. “You baked them for me. I’ve been waiting for you to bake me these brownies for weeks! You are going to have to give them something else to eat.” He stretched his arm along the edge of the top brownie, and his little fingers clasped it greedily. They hadn’t been out of the oven very long, but he didn’t seem to mind their warmth.
“Unfortunately I can’t help the whole house smelling like them, darling. If I had known they were coming I would have baked a double batch. Sweetie, be reasonable! You are too small to eat them all anyway! One of these little squares would last you a month- alright, a week, the way you eat sometimes.” She threw him a playful smile, but he didn’t return it.
“They should have called you first, before butting in and interrupting our weekend!”
Beginning to feel a touch of annoyance, she sighed, and watched his hair be blown back by gust of wind she had created. “Sweetie, this is the South. People don’t do that. They expect to be able to drop by casually and be served iced tea and comfort food in an impeccable home. They expect impromptu politeness, and hospitality at the drop of a hat.”
“But you are Hispanic. They can’t expect you to behave that way.” He realized immediately he had put his little foot in his mouth when her lips tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was little more than a squeak.
“Tell them they can’t have-”
“What do you mean ‘they can’t expect me to behave that way’? And do you see me doing that? Do you really think I’m going to go back out there and tell them ‘Sorry ladies, my tiny shrunken husband is a greedy, selfish baby, and he refuses to yield even a single brownie square. We’ll have to scavenge the fridge for any leftover Chinese food that hasn’t turned, and whatever cheese we can slice away from mold we can put on Ritz crackers.”
His gaze, no longer blazing with anger, dropped for a moment.
“Well, er… um-” He shook his head softly, sinking his chin into the brownie corner the heat of his body had rounded out. His fingers dug into the still warm mass of chocolate like fish hooks, as though he could still prevent her from taking the plate away from him.
“I’m offering my friends these brownies, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. They will stay in my house for as long as they wish, and they they will eat anything they want from my fridge. And after they leave I’ll come back here and we’ll have a long conversation about your manners, and your small place in the grand scheme of my things.”
She reached for the plate, and he barely had time to jump off it and onto the bedside table where the stack- his stack of brownies had been cooling off. His pressed lips turned into a pout as he watched her walk away with them in hand.
Only now did he begin to realize there might not be any sort of sweetness headed his way this Saturday night if he didn’t work his way to her good graces. He looked down at his body. Almost the entire front of it was painted brown with melted brownie marks. He thought they could be useful.
Careful not to accidentally wipe clean any of it, he sat on the lamp base. In the distance, in the living room that felt as though it was a town away, he could hear laughter and womanly conversation, interrupted by moans of culinary appreciation as his wife’s friends devoured his brownies.
Alone, he waited.
* * *
And here’s the example file, the way I initially composed the image. There isn’t that much difference between the former and the latter.
1. The female presence is sorely lacking. What’s the meaning of that, Samsung people? Don’t you know I now begin to feel the want for an MP3 player, and because you didn’t have the foresight to include a womanly ear in which to place your little guys, I will dream of spending my money on a different brand? Agonize over that.
2. The uninteresting match between listener and music. Only a well-dressed guy listens to opera; the man with the inverted cap and bling must certainly be listening to rap, and the cliché sideburns belong to the Elvis fan. Boring, and absurd. Again, Samsung, weep as I plan to spend vast amounts of money on another player.
3. The little performers are slightly amorphous, with large heads that reach within the realm of caricature. Don’t you Samsung fellas realize that a well-proportioned little man would have done wonders to facilitate my fetishist thoughts desire to try your product?
Still, these ads are appointing in that they do show little guys thrusting their tiny heads into much larger orifices. Behold the great stretching of my imagination as I unfold it like a carpet upon the wasteland of their advertising failure.
* * *
Advertising Agency: Cheil Worldwide, Seoul, Korea
Creative Director: Joungrack Lee
Art Director: Jaewon Choi
Photographer: Junghoe Kim
Published: February 2008
