So I play social games, so what?

You know he's named it, and talks to it.

It wasn’t a year ago that I started to receive all these invitations from some of my Facebook friends, to join them in playing pretend games I thought were a colossal waste of time.

Apparently I think a large number of things are a waste of time, except my own fruitless endeavors.

I adamantly refused to accept these invitations, until my brother invited me to play Pet Society, a Flash game that allows you to create a virtual pet (not as awesome as my iPet) you can clean, groom, dress, and that lives in a home you can also furnish, in a neighborhood you’ve created by adding Facebook people on your list that have also been tricked into playing the same game.

Then I was somehow bamboozled into adding FarmVille, and a couple of others. Now, in the beginning all these games provoked in me the same feeling: I’d rather stab my ear repeatedly with a Q-tip than play this stupid thing. Later I would advance some levels and inevitably become bored with the game, deleting it.

Well, almost inevitably. I still have Pet Society and FarmVille, but only fritter away at them a few minutes each week, and there’s a third game that has just captured my… um, heart? Imagination? I’m gonna go with excitement, I think. I’m talking about Island Paradise, another farming game that provides you with a little character stranded on an island, where trees and several plots for seeding, plowing and harvesting provide experience points.

The only reason I started playing this game (no one actually sent me a request to add it, I found it on my own) is because the setting is similar to one of my giantess fantasies, a fairly common one I think. Man finds himself pulling a Cast Away on an uninhabited bit of land, lives off whatever he can scavenge from this land, and soon realizes He Is Not Alone. Ground rumbles, giantess appears, and takes wild and passionate possession of man.

So how could I resist when, a few days ago, the game released a Giant Sandal? I mean, look at it! My little pixel guy is such a tiny thing when I place him next to it. I can just close my eyes and imagine a real man, just as comparatively small when he finds that huge flip-flop half buried in the sand. I can picture his shock as he wonders how it got there (“It wasn’t here yesterday!”), and his curiosity as he looks around for signs of life, of the group of people that must have carried the giant “prop” and left it there to bake in the sun. Surely they’ll rescue him and take him back to civilization!

But there’s no one. Only a warm breeze that for some strange reason comes to him from inland; sounds he can’t recognize yet as tree branches breaking in the distance; bizarre formations in the sand where it sinks at intervals; but no people.

So he drags the flip-flop to his encampment, and they become very close. That is until its fantastically tall owner appears, looking for it. I can hardly be blamed for liking this game. Now excuse me, I have to go harvest some fake string beans through the action of many mouse clicks, as I envision all the hot things that are happening to those two.

Two Words

I wrote this for my Two Words thread at GDC almost four years ago, and I’m reposting it as it is, however sorely tempted I am to edit it. The word provider was Mymiridion, who was new to the board back then. Sometimes I still miss that place, and all the little things (and little people) that made it such a cool board.

Odor, Oxygen

It happened every time she came to visit. The sun warmed his house. The wind moved through the branches of the maple tree that grew outside his window. The pendulum of his grandfather clock ticked faithfully. His fingers moved on the keyboard as he wrote.

Then it all stopped. Every time.

The leaves stopped dancing, the clock stopped noticing time, his lungs stopped expanding until his brain cried for oxygen, and he always inhaled sharply when he felt that first tremor of the ground shake his house from foundation to roof.

A pungent odor reached his nostrils, and his eyes shifted long enough to register that the bottle of beer he had been drinking had tipped down the side of his desk, and shattered. He didn’t care. Soon, he would only be smelling her. The light blinked and then went out as she walked past power lines, and a shadow that was more than darkness covered his house.

Men of a Certain Size

I spotted the above image while checking my Facebook wall, next to which there’s space that reads your mind or personal data, and applies it to publish ads it thinks interest you. Right now I’m looking at ads for cheaper car insurance, fashion inspired by horror films, and I can also sell Avon from my home.

Whatever the symbolism is of these three middle-aged men in a glass, I purposefully misunderstand it. I don’t intend to watch the show as I suspect it skips my demographic profile as effectively as a giantess leaping over buildings, but I like the image, as the idea of trapping a man in or under a glass is right up my alley.

“Why is it up your alley?” you ask, crudely feigning ignorance.

Because!

“No, really, why? Tell us in detail and don’t leave anything out.”

Oh, I’m going to leave tons out.

1. A shrunken man is, by nature, prone to misbehave

If I follow the pattern of my fantasies, it’s quite likely I abduct my shrunken man from our local library, where I see him first as he —still normal-sized— innocently peruses books. Maybe he’s going for a walk and happens to enter a lonely park. The end is the same: I stalk him, an when the time is right I spray him with my shrinking formula, he’s reduced to a mere two inches in height, and his life is no longer his. Family? Gone. Job? Forget it. Responsibilities? Only very small ones I assign to him at my whim.

A man in such a situation will want to rebel, just to make himself remember he is still a man, and not a bug-sized sex toy forced to live in a dollhouse, to sleep on a mattress stuffed with strands of female hair, to eat from the tip of a finger that reminds him in size of the tree trunks that stand in his old backyard, to perform at the drop of a skirt.

Believe me, I’ve seen it countless times. Every once in a while he reaches a level of exasperation that compels him to pound his chest with his minuscule fists as he yells, “No! No more!”

He might regress to a more primitive stage (I always tell him it’s on account of his infinitesimal brain) where he protests whatever imagined offense by hiding my jewelry, or scrubbing my toothbrush with his bottom, or even peeing in my shoes; all curious efforts to regain his dignity and stand his ground. What a silly man!

On such occasions it’s best to drive the lesson home as quickly and effectively as possible, and while there are better ways to do it, placing him under a glass (o simply dropping him in it) does wonders to remind him of the reality of his new situation. No words are necessary, as my action tells him loudly that:

• He’s small enough to fit under a glass
• He’s trapped in there, and there’s nothing he can do about it
• He’s been a bad little man, so he’ll stay in there until he remembers his place
• He’ll only be released when it suits my mood

2. A shrunken man is, by nature, a danger to himself

I understand that this is not a pleasant thought, and understandably, the woman that shrinks you is not going to explain any of this before she reduces you in size, but it’s true. Once you are two inches in height, your life becomes a constant effort to stay alive. Ants can kill you. Sunlight can kill you. Birds can kill you. The woman that keeps you captive can kill you. One of her toes can kill you! Heck, that’s probably why she shrank you.

So that little one better be grateful if one night she decides it’s safer if he sleeps under a glass. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’s getting ready to go out without him, and it has no involvement whatsoever with not wanting to hear his squeaks of protest if she brings home a man her size. The thing it has to do with the least is her wanting to make him watch. It’s all about his safety.

But I’m sure the TV show has nothing to do with anything I just mentioned. Just as well. I’d have to buy baskets of lotion if it did.

3. Things are, by nature, hotter through glass

I said I was leaving tons out. If tons was in, it would be here.

The best part of that movie was…

A few days ago I watched Julie & Julia. I’d never watched Julia Child’s cooking show before despite the fact that I enjoy watching people cook; even if I never intend to fix what they are making, what they do is lulling, hypnotizing, and more calming that any overly prescribed pill.

I hadn’t purchased any of her cooking books though I own three shelves of cooking books, two thirds of which I have yet to whip open due to gastronomic fear.

I probably wouldn’t have rented it either, as I prefer guns, explosions, severed heads flying about, and/or zombies when the time comes to watch a DVD, but it was brought to me, so I watched it. There was some cooking, some weeping, quite a bit of talking between characters, but there’s one line that made the movie for me.

Jane Lynch

The line was uttered by Jane Lynch, who played the part of Julia Child’s sister, Dorothy. Now, Julia Child was 6′2″, and I think her sister was taller. Jane Lynch is 6′ tall, so she fit the part formidably. In the movie she arrives alone and unmarried for a nice visit with her sister and brother in law, who plan to throw a party for her, and to introduce to her to a very nice (and even taller) man. At the party Dorothy meets a very short man, and while she fawns over him she ignores the very tall man Julia and her husband wanted to introduce to her.

As Dorothy towers over this bitty man that will later become her husband, she whispers some words to him, barely audible over the main dialogue, but it’s clear to me as she plays with his tie and smiles, that she says, “…little man…” to him. So dirty! Such a naughty lady! Who knows what kind of honeymoon they had, with Little Man inserted who knows where, pulled and dragged heavens know how, and forced to struggle against mountains of flesh to pleasure who knows who.

Just in case you don’t realize this, I’m no longer imagining Mrs. Sister of Julia Child and Tiny Husband, but other people. Anyway, that part of the movie was good porn. The rest was OK but forgettable… except maybe the food. Mmm, cake!

Happy Canada Day!

O Canada!

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!

Two Words

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.”

Hi!

Shh...

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

No rest for the wickedly small.

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).

Ambrosia – Biggest Part Of Me

NSF International “Mini Protectors” ads

Bottled Water

http://www.nsf.org/business/newsroom/ad_gallery.asp

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!

Dietary supplements

Pots and pans

Water filters

Two Words

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.)