Where I live everyone is quiet as a mouse come the stroke of midnight. People go to sleep early, and there are no parties breaking the still of night. I grew up accustomed to staying up well after the new year had begun, watching the male grownups in my family get drunk, and the female ones had a drink or two, but never got much raucous. There was laughter, music, and the sort of tropical dancing I never learned because I was too busy listening to American and British music, peppered every once in a while with excellent South American emergences of rock and punk.
The characters in my collages can party, and that’s what the couple above is doing. I originally put the image together for a Fourth of July entry at my old blog, but I’m not going to wait until July to repost it when I have a perfect excuse to recycle it tonight. The background story for it was a poem I never wrote. Maybe this new year I’ll get around to doing that. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my own vision of a very tall woman—let’s call her Undersquid—as she scales a building as easily as she would climb a tree, the tiny man she loves in her possession as she finally sits atop a building now fashioned as a stool.
Her hand is wrapped around him as she brings him higher, closer to her face. She wanted to give him the best seat for watching fireworks that night, but in my mind they never pay attention to the show once it starts, because what happens between the two is much more interesting than explosive patterns in the sky.
There are a few movies I could watch over and over again, and never get tired of them. The Secret Garden is one of them, and it always makes me cry. I can’t help it, and there’s nothing I can do about it. When the end comes, my cheeks are always wet with tears.
When it comes to the interaction between a woman and a shrunken man, there are thoughts I can’t help but have, as they come to me as naturally as those emotional tears when I watch that movie. Those thoughts don’t relate to direct intimacy between a little man and a much larger woman, but they surround it.
One of them began years ago and it has to do with theft… cookie theft, to be specific. I imagined the life of a shrunken man. What does he do every day? How does he keep his mind alert, and his body in shape? In what way does he exert his self-determinism now that he’s the size of a small toy?
Well, there are many ways, but stealing cookies from the woman he loves is one of them. She bakes them and then doesn’t let him have but a few crumbs, the way we women like to do when we go in the kitchen and prepare delicious foods that then we try to keep away from the men we love.
That’s not all she does to keep him healthy: She gives him a dollhouse where he can almost feel normal from time to time; she sews little clothes for him so he can almost feel he’s wearing normal clothes; she plans activities for him that resemble what he used to do when he was bigger, and almost make him feel the way he used to.
But then she maps his days and nights in a manner that constantly drives home how small he truly is, in the way she speaks to him, the place he occupies in the palm of her hand when she feeds him, and the diet he’s now forced to follow, for example.
Everyone likes a bit of junk food every now and then, and… well, to have to ask permission for a damn cookie, and then get a few crumbs because “he’s getting a little fat”? And the way she giggles when she emphasizes the word “little”, poking his belly with the giant tip of her fingernail, pushing him back a step, punctuating that power she has over every bit of food he receives.
What choice does a manly man have but to arm himself with an assault rifle, a grappling hook, and a healthy appetite as he plans to enter one of her realms, that environment where building-sized appliances hum and buzz, framed by counters that loom like mountains, atop which she keeps those snacks she makes?
I want a cookie, and I’m gonna take a cookie, and there’s nothing you can do about it, woman! he thinks as he inserts a 30-round magazine into his tiny AK47. You know, in case there are any bugs. A hunting rifle would be more efficient for a kill, but spray fire from a high-capacity weapon is what he requires to scatter roaches or ants.
Not that it would work, but it’s the idea of carrying a weapon “just in case” into an environment that hardly ever presents a target that he likes, and it’s the exaggeration of drama that falls into the ridiculous that I find appealing about arming a shrunken man with firepower just so he can break into his own cookie jar.
Or what used to be his cookie jar.
Now everything is hers, including his little body, but every once in a while it’s lovely to defy her and do as he pleases, and it doesn’t hurt that when he is discovered, the punishment makes it worth all the trouble he went through just to pretend for a moment that he has a single say over anything at all.
“No u cant teik me, ai haz mor street smartz dan u!”
“Meow!”
“U don haz de gutz!”
“Meoowww.”
“We not openin de dor for dogees an das final! Dey lookz oafuly suspeeshus 2 me.
* * *
P.S. The above captions and dialogue are not an attempt at spelling a German accent as it’s being assumed in some quarters. It’s Lolspeak, for crying out loud.
Giantess.com closed its doors over a year ago, and every once in a while I still catch myself thinking about the place. It happens a bit more often now that I’m reposting entries and old collages, and not so much with new material. Life always goes on, but I still think it was the coolest giantess board I ever belonged to.
A couple of Christmases ago there was a collage contest there, and these two first images were entries. I think trinket999 won that contest with his insanely realistic images including one that showed a shrunken man with a red bow tied around his manhood. That one made me giggle.
Feliz Natal! (Merry Christmas in Portuguese.)
I didn’t expect my images to win, as a flashing Santa Claus is too facetious to convey the true spirit of Christmas, even though it’s all about sharing and giving and relatively colossal taking.
I had fun with the second image too, as it involved a tiny football (you know, the real one) team holding presents. The color scheme was interesting to me too, and it was good shadow practice. Only now I can see the mistakes and fruitless efforts, the things I would do differently now.
Naughty or nice? He wonders which one is better.
This last image I intended to upload for what I erroneously predicted would be a 2007 Christmas image contest. I wasn’t very excited about it, and it’s one of those “I have these materials so I might as well use them” collages, but I do love the idea of a tiny man wearing a small Santa hat, and nothing else. That would be a precious thing to find under my tree upon waking up on Christmas morning.
I think I wrote something about that many years ago.
This was my seventeenth collage, but only the second that offered me the chance to work on changing the focus of its elements’ gaze. In other words, I wanted the mega angels to look at planet Earth, and not at the stupid camera.
This was also an image I created for an Earth-from-space theme of the month at GDC, and it’s one of those few collages I’ve created that not only don’t include a shrunken male counterpart, but involves more than one giantess.
That means I didn’t have a certain kind of fun creating it, but it was good practice to see what worked when moving irises. It’s not enough just to slide them up or down, left or right, but the eyelids, the white surrounding them must be shifted as well, or I get “crazy” eyes, the sort that looks wild or surprised, destroying whatever expression I want to preserve or enhance for romantic collage purposes.
But what sort of romance can exist between a mega / ultra giantess and a planet, you ask? Some think none, but the idea of being thousands of miles tall works for me when the mood is right. That way Earth becomes My Planet, the “terrarium” that keeps my little speck of a man, where he gets to work or play, live and breathe, live in good health while I watch from above.
It’s a little bit of a goddess-mortal relationship, and it works very well for the Christmas season from the perspective of this collage. Peace on Earth is guaranteed when two supernatural beings watch over every corner of it, making sure no one starts a war just to gain control of oil resources, for example.
It tickled me to place a little North Pole spot of bright activity, and have that be what the angels are looking at. During Christmas time there is no more important place for women on Earth, because that’s where all the iPets are made, you see.
Saturday afternoon I was poking around at Flickr, looking for backgrounds as I do from time to time, acting as though I don’t have hundreds of unfinished collages to work on before I continue accumulating material, when I found this adorable image.
So tiny!
PetitPlat is the miniature work of Stéphanie Kilgast, tiny foodstuffs, dollhouse accoutrements, jewelry, all representing things in a very small scale, and perfectly adorable. Upon seeing the image I instantly thought of this collage by Gcode, one of the best shrunken-man images in the history of EVER.
"11-Aren't You Lucky" by Gcode
If you look at Ms. Kilgast’s gallery you will find photos of little dolls arranged together with the play food in a little kitchen or a tiny table, but I prefer to imagine a shrunken man that sleeps in the nude and wakes up to a delicious morning meal served in a bitty tray and brought to his doll-sized bed by the woman that owns him, keeps him and feeds him.
I’m republishing this entry from my old blog. Back then it was titled “Maximum Big Hundredth Collage Celebration Time!” in the fashion of those wacky Japanese show names, because the above collage was my hundredth one… unless I count my first signature, technically a collage although not a fancy one with people in it, unless I count the little, infinitesimal man that was pushing the V closer to the S.
I reedited the collage to fix his arm and give him a lollipop. Little guys need to exercise their tongues if they know what’s good for them.
* * *
I received my latest Archaeology magazine issue a couple of days ago, and in it there’s this interesting snippet about a fifteen-foot-high statue of Hadrian (a Roman emperor for something like 21 years, and guess what his connection is with the Wall) being unearthed, albeit in pieces. The head, a section of his leg, and a foot have been found, and what amazes me is the beautifully carved work on them.
The foot measures over 30 inches in length, and when I read about it my mind took off on a sideline of its own, as it often does, and showed me a statue of myself, gigantic, my feet carved from polished stone to measure much more than a mere thirty inches, and found thousands of years from now, along with manuscripts (CD ROMS, hard drives, etc.) that would detail my wonderful work in improving the world, or a couple of countries, or at the very least, my family.
I don’t really think I’ll get my statue, and that’s fine, because I don’t truly want it as much as I want to actually leave something meaningful behind, the sort of better that is intangible to the rest of the world (although it is said that we are all connected, and I believe that), and invisible to all but a few precious to me.
How does collaging giant women and tiny men enter into that picture? Well, in no way. I understand there’s a part of human nature that wants to work and produce valuable things, and I also know there’s the part that wants to play and be idle and watch Project Runway, the two tend to conflict every once in a while, and right now I feel a bit of a tug from each side as I stare at my hundredth collage, the one I’ve posted above.
The images I create might not last a thousand years, or even a hundred. I’ll be dead in a few decades (no less than six, I hope), and by then the Internet focus on giantesses (and shrunken men, dammit!) will be unimaginably different, so I’ll just quietly enjoy this moment connected to a number that many other collagers have long since surpassed, and drink a cup of coffee to my mouse-clicking health.
More later on what the collage actually means to me. Gotta run now.
[Later...]
My neighbor got married recently. I was very surprised, because I was sure he was gay. Marriage isn’t an assurance of sexuality, but after all this time of seeing relatively attractive men leave his home at the wee hours of the afternoon, I though wedding bells were not in the repertoire for him. But then he up and shows up with an imported wife that doesn’t seem to speak English, one that some mean, heartless people (not me, never me) might say is too young, too pretty for him.
And one that was in the company of a shirtless young man in her house, a man that isn’t my neighbor, who wasn’t at home at that moment. It’s entirely possible that nothing is happening. That man could be her brother, or a priest whose robes are e-stinkee[/Nacho Libre] and in the wash, or her daughter’s boyfriend who just happened to sleep over, or a eunuch guard. In any case, whatever is going on over there is none of my business.
And it certainly has nothing to do with this blog entry, but I do wonder if they are sleeping well at night, if this none of my business thing is really going on. A guilty conscious makes for restless nights (or it should), and how can he slumber peacefully if he’s sniffing out someone else’s pheromones on her skin? I’ve read a few times that when cheating, women are better liars. I don’t know if that’s true, but I bet a person knows, somewhere deep inside, when there are shenanigans taking place.
And that still has nothing to do with this collage, except for the sleep thing. I love images of giantesses and their tiny men that relate to sleeping, resting, napping, and particularly of watching him sleep. I have a whole folder of material I want to collage someday that relates to the theme, and this is just one of those images.
It’s enchanting to imagine a man and his much taller companion, together in that state of trust and openness that is to close their eyes and let the mind drift, a state that is multiplied many times when the man is tiny to her, and the very breath he takes depends on his colossal keeper, his safety, his heart is entrusted to her, and to her reluctance to spend any time with other, shirtless men.
His bed is her hand, or whatever she gives him. It could be her own bed, a toy in a dollhouse, a shoe box (or even better, a shoe), a pile of undies, anything. No matter his size, she still envelops his space with arms and legs, with the wall of her body, with the breeze of her rhythmic breath, and the way she guards his sleep.
I know how wonderful it it to be with someone in real life that cares about one’s rest, that watches over your health, mental and physical, and I know how it feels to protect those in another human being, so I can’t help but allow some of those feelings and circumstances to leak into my fantasies.
In them, my Little Guy sleeps like an angel in the place I provide for him, and after the nights I let him sleep, he wakes up to the prodding of my fingertip on the side of his body, or to my lips as they cover the entirety of his body, or to my singing (which sounds something like a musical storm to his infinitesimal ears), or other alarm clocks I devise only for him.
None of the images I post in my blog follow a pattern, but it’s still nice to call these Saturday ones “random”.
I’ll say something about it in a while, if I have time after fixing lunch. After this collage I only have about nine in my stash I haven’t posted or scheduled for posting. When that’s done I’ll be plum out of my own collages for a while, and my blogging will seriously slow down.
The texture of nylons and silk stockings, etc., has always felt nice to me, which is probably why I like the article and all its contrivances. From the very first time I discovered them in my mother’s closet and tried them on I thought they were interesting.
It naturally follows that the little man that lives in my imagination is also fond of them. In our world we take that enjoyment to a whole different level.
In other news I would like to report that yesterday here at my blog, referrals or web addresses that have a link to my blog and included the word “small man” outnumbered those for “giantess” by seven clicks. Not much to speak of, but that hardly ever happens! Giantess referrals and searches and websites and all that always outnumber shrunken man ones to an exorbitant degree. But not yesterday. Hurray!
Earlier this afternoon I was in the kitchen, standing over the stove as I prepared my excellent turkey cheeseburgers, and as I shaped patties and placed them in the hot pan, I started thinking about this stuff.
I was thinking, What if there was this woman, and there was this man she really liked, and one day she decided to make him [censored], really really [censored], and then she’d take him home, where she would proceed to [censored] him [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored], where he would [censored] and [censored] [censored] [censored] furiously as he [censored], with her [censored] placed [censored] [censored] [censored] his [censored], which would mean he’s only about [censored] or [censored] [censored] in height, and then she’d [censored] him even more, and [censored] him [censored] [censored] [censored], and he’d [censored] in [censored] like a little [censored], his [censored] [censored] it’s so damn [censored]. And then he’d [censored] a [censored] little [censored] [censored], and [censored] would be [censored] [censored], all ready to be [censored], and then he starts [censored] [censored] the [censored] until his [censored] makes it [censored], and it starts [censored] immediately after he [censored] it, and lo and behold, [censored] [censored] later they have a [censored], [censored] [censored] [censored], but before she [censored] [censored], the woman constantly asks the little man to [censored] [censored] [censored] to make sure the [censored] is [censored] well.
And then I thought, And then it turns out the [censored] [censored] is [censored] [censored].
And then I thought, I’m insane.
Ever have times like that? Days you catch yourself thinking you are a little wacky because you found yourself in the closet of your mind, reading these really naughty, illegal metaphorical magazines that go beyond the limits of what’s already an unusual fantasy, and holding a bottle of lotion and [censored] til the [censored] falls off your [censored].
Anyway, yeah, so that’s what this collage is all about.
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