K is for Kisses, the giant ones that cover his body all at once as he feels them not only on his face, but also through the squeezing of my fingers as they close around him just a little bit tighter. I know that if I don’t hold on to him just that much more, the mist of my breath might dampen him, and he might slip from my hold, and I can’t have that.
Kisses that are wall-sized to him, that make him invariably remember how it felt when he was taller than me, before I shrank him, when even then my lips were fuller than his, and made him feel surrounded. Now he really is, and when he kisses back, his lips only cover a minuscule section of plush, velvety skin … so I tell him to continue until he’s done with every inch, every foot, every yard, and on those days I’m feeling extra tall, every mile of my lips.
Neat set of ads that demonstrate the relationship between a migraine headache and its solution, illustrated by clichés.
The one that interests me for blogging purposes is the third one, the one with tiny men wielding sledgehammers and going at it on that poor woman’s head.
The song that came to mind to go along these images was Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer, but I couldn’t find it. Shocking.
This is a cute little thing. I saw it and I couldn’t help thinking of a shrunken man running out of excuses on why he can’t possibly do chores around the house. The tiny appliance is several inches in height, so a small man would have to be the size of a tallish doll to get anything done with it.
But under my scrutiny, it wouldn’t matter what size he is: flea or cricket-sized, there’s work to be done. And onto a serious matter, what’s wrong with you people? Why aren’t there more collages of tiny men cleaning giant things, polishing shoes, scrubbing jewelry, that sort of thing?
Years after dying in a freak auto-erotic asphyxiation accident, a shrunken Mulder miraculously reappears as Scully watches in scientific disbelief. Or maybe she had a bite too many off one of those innocuous looking mushrooms. Well, I can hardly blame her. Amanita muscaria is hardly peyote. Can’t expect many pretty colors from that one, except a vivid green.
As if I know.
Today is St. Patrick’s Day. Since I have exactly zero drops of Irish blood currently running through my veins (planning to fix that this Halloween), I took the time to learn what this day means exactly once, and I’ve already forgotten what I read those many years ago. I’m not going to go and use Google now, because then I will destroy the delicate bloom of my ignorance and run the risk of sounding as though I know what I’m talking about. I’ll just share what today means to me through the eyes of a foreigner.
1. I believe the first Irish person I met was my second boyfriend. Unfortunately (not really) he was only half Irish, his other half Italian. His family was interesting to watch. His father an Irish giant that loved music, laughter, and being tall, his mother a pleasant, enormously round woman that made beautiful babies. Luciano Pavarotti was often the soundtrack to our phone conversations, so St. Patrick’s Day reminds me of Italian people that sing like angels.
2. This is not an existing celebration in South America, so when I moved to the States and started going to school, I made friends with a girl that took to constantly pinching me one day. I couldn’t understand a single word she said (except for Sandinista, the only word in Spanish she knew and repeated daily, in the hope I would understand it meant whatever context she wanted to give it, and all it ever did was make me think I had befriended a budding mercenary) to explain this horrible treatment.
It didn’t help that she laughed maniacally when she tried, and only when another girl, a Cuban one that could speak a respectable broken Spanish, explained to me that I wasn’t wearing green, and that meant my skin would be folded in various painful ways by hungry fingers until the day was over.
Luckily I only had to suffer lunch and gym with the virago. So St. Patrick’s Day also makes me think of bruised-purple arms. Mine.
3. Leprechauns. Now, if you know me at all, you are aware that I cannot possibly imagine them to be grumpy, wrinkled old men knowledgeable in the location of various pots of precious metals. Oh, no no, the leprechauns in my mind are as removed from that definition as the giantess in your mind is from looking like this.
When I think of these little men, I imagine the story of a shrunken little fellow cursed to live for all eternity as the protector of an enormous treasure, until he’s caught in the fishnet trap of an attractive and astute woman that only wants the gold until she gets a good look at him. Then she asks him where he got those cute green clothes as she removes his hat, and his little coat, and-
I have no idea why, but suddenly there’s this saxophone-laden soundtrack going off in my head.
4. But I’m dispelling it with some Altan. St. Patrick’s Day means listening to Gaelic music and lyrics that don’t seem to contain any vowels, even though they do. Fricatives and nasals… mmm. Now I’m off to bake something lovely and green, like cookies or biscuits!
Have a fun day, and don’t forget to paint your lovely lady’s toenails a rich green, and then stencil little shamrocks with gold (or a deeper green) nail polish. Finish the effect with a delicate and shiny toe ring. And you get a pedicure too. Some of us women like to look at men’s lovely feet too, ya know?
And now the fireworks go off. Have a Happy New Year!
And here’s the gif file I created from yesterday’s collage. The red, white, and blue are there because of the original intent of the image as it belonged in a 4th-0f-July blog entry. I think it’s the only collage I’ll leave with my old SV signature, as editing it would require time I don’t have at present.
May this coming year find you safe, in good health, and in a better financial situation than in the last one. I’m off to think about some resolutions to which I can actually adhere, such as writing more, and spending more time with my cats (I’m not actually online right now, as I created this post weeks ago, and have scheduled it to be published now).
(Besides, what sort of freak would I be, to be online right now, at the very beginning of the year?)
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.
I collaged this for a Valentine’s Day image contest at Giantess.com, along with a couple other images. I’d edit and change a lot of things about it now, but who has the time for that.
This was my first half-sized-man collage, the kind I wasn’t a big fan back then (February 2007), but because of their poses and angles which I had no idea how to change back then, I had to size the shrunken man as he is.
That, and I only had so much torso to work with. Making him smaller would have meant losing the square-ness of the image. Now I think half-sized men are just as perfect as men of any other tiny size.
Music? I don’t know what. Let’s see… how about an odd choice.
Click on small image to see small pixel-free image.
I like the pantyhose universe, and all it has to offer. I understand some people think the opposite, but we are going to do our best to avoid mentioning those people. We’ll just look at them funny at parties, talk behind their backs, and put hot sauce in their punch as we discuss the wonders of silk, nylon, stockings, fishnets, clear or beige, Cuban-heel or back-seamed, and all those details involved in wrapping a woman’s legs in something that’s been designed to almost seem as though it’s not there, or to blatantly display its skin-tight qualities.
As to fishnet stockings, they’ve always seemed to be the best way a little man can climb the legs of his lady love without having to importune her and ask for a hand up. Not that it would bother me to give him a lift, but why miss out on a great opportunity to watch his vertical climb?
For this collage the shrunken man is a tad too large to insert his fingers through the netting’s weave and make his way up the curves of that huge leg, but he’s lifting his body on the balls of his feet, and he only reaches her knee. Calf hugs. They are great. It’s lovely to imagine a little man so floor bound he can’t even climb the height of chairs for people my size without serious help; so little a speck of a man that when he wants to be close the nearest part of me is the lower section of my leg.
Heaven.
The vignette style is not so heavenly, but I have to try everything in my Photoshop Elements at least once.
And I don’t think you have to ask who’s Flash and who’s Moon. This is their story, also kind of a song.
Once there was this woman who
grew very tall one day and couldn’t fit inside her home any more
And when she finally came to terms with her new size
she left her town to see the world
* * *
Once there was this man who
got into an accident and started to shrink small
And when he finally saw he wouldn’t get any tinier
he left his home to see the world
* * *
And both woman and man were glad
’cause no one had it better than they had
* * *
‘Cause then there was this woman who
met this little man who understood the way she felt
And when she fell in tall love
he fell in love with her too
They couldn’t quite explain it
it was as though they’ve always felt that way
There really wasn’t a “scene” that went with this collage when I created it. I saved this Sandra Bullock image three years ago when I was looking for good ones of her to modify to suit my gigantic thoughts. This one wasn’t the best, or the clearest, but at that time it made me smile to imagine myself in her place, irreverent and mischievous as I flash an entire city (I think I envisioned some nice undies for myself, though), in response to their passing legislation against the usual state of undress in giantesses.
Your Tiny People rules don’t apply to us, you see. Our nude is belong to us.
Anyway, I forgot all about it until 2007, when while sifting through my collages-for-my-blog material, I spotted it again. I still had no little story to go with it, but some things I had read online on a board… some giantess board, its name I can’t possibly remember… about some members protesting collages because male “junk” was visible.
There’s a part of me that understands, but there’s another part of me that thinks, “I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed a female member protest the countless collages that involve female private parts, yet we do see some men protesting the visible male ones. What’s that about?” In the end, there are always going to be some people protesting something. Too much nudity, too little, not enough giantess action, too much intelligent dialogue, not beautiful enough, not girl-next-door enough, not enough points, too many threads, not enough- Ah, you get the point.
I’m more the type that keeps her trap shut and clicks on what she wants, or better yet, makes the sort of stuff she wants to click on while complaining about stuff on her blog.
Which brings me to this here collage. There’s that woman, you know her as the actress that she is, but for my collage she becomes an extension of me. She’s spirited, loving, possessive, thoughtful, often irreverent and definitely naughty. She prefers to expose her dirty thoughts to this one little guy that warms her heart, though. Not the whole town, or the world. Just that one Little Man that gets to look up and see all that she has to offer, the one that inspires her to grab that skirt hem and smile as she shows him the rest of his life.
Or the afternoon, at least. Little guys get tired so quickly. tsk tsk
One night a few years ago I went down the front steps of my house, a trash bag in hand, my purpose to deposit it in the large bin where it’s collected every Wednesday morning. I was wearing sandals and walking along the sidewalk, only a few feet away from the bin.
I placed the trash bag in, and replaced the lid. Taking the short trek home, I noticed the beautiful full moon, and the lovely trees in full summer greenery; then, on the sidewalk on which I walked, I spotted something leap toward me.
My right foot, which only a moment before had lifted from the ground as I took a next step, came down on the dangling heel section of my sandal, and this little creature had timed it just right to end up between my heel and my sandal’s cushy material. It was too late for me to stop my foot from coming down and crushing the little bug to death, and that is what I did.
Crickets are sticky. Having a basement as I do, I have accidentally crushed a few, and I always have to rinse the stain of buggy guts with soap and water for a few long seconds before it washes clean. This last time I was not thinking of those past crickets, or those sticky messes.
I was thinking, What if that had been a small man? What if I lived in a world where shrunken men were driven mad by the vision of passing sandaled feet, and developed super jumping powers (or a rudimentary catapult, I don’t care) in order to reach their desired pedal destination?
"Push Harder" by Atticus
Or maybe it wouldn’t be some amok passion that happens at the sight of feet, but a coming-of-age trial, a test of manhood, or something as simple as a mode of transportation… the same way sand worms were used in Dune to hitch a ride from place to place. But if a shrunken man were to ever catch my toe with one of ‘em hooks, trouble would be afoot. Really.
As I returned home, limping so as to avoid resting my sticky heel on my sandal, I thought of what it would be like to carefully pull off my sandal, to lift it to my eyes just to see not a bug, but a tiny smear that used to be perfectly masculine, little arms and legs, a bloody stain that used to be a thinking head… and I felt that silly sadness that permeates a child’s heart when she imagines a loved one’s funeral. Fleeting, surreal, but still there, if only for a moment. Something powerful, this imagination.
In my bathroom, as I rinsed away the cricket’s remains, I thought of all the bugs I had killed with my feet before, and imagined how the very thought is one that gives pleasure to some people in this community. I don’t share this enjoyment, but from my perspective I see how it works. There’s a transformation that takes place with the extraordinary growth, “real” or relative, of a woman, that makes her into a force of nature.
There’s something about the destruction of small things, something that must be imprinted since the very first time the creature that would become homo sapiens crushed living things on the ground callousing her feet that translates into irrelevance. Sure, from the “insignificant” perspective of a 5-6′ tall human, a colossal, 8-mile-tall woman that roams the earth with naught a care for what she kills is an insane murderer that should be stopped, terminated… but to her, things are not the same. She isn’t mad or destructive in the same manner that you aren’t mad or destructive when you walk on an ant hill as you take your dog for a walk.
If that ant hill protested in a way that I could understand, things would be different, but when I imagine myself miles and miles tall, I don’t hear these cries of horror. I only envision that he can see me coming, and take delight in thinking of all that he feels, the way he melts when he witnesses the force of my nature flatten everything but him.
"YUK!! Otro Bicho" by El Grillo 31
It’s not always comfortable to realize I’m explaining impossibilities to myself as realities, but whatever discomfort doesn’t take away from the mental deliciousness. I don’t enjoy destruction, unless I’m in the mood for it.
Most of the time as a giantess I’m happy to live and let the little ones live. I can’t count the times my mind’s eye has looked down the streets of a crowded city, watched those tiny shapes squirm on sidewalks, carefully deposited one giant foot after the other on pavement and not flesh, winced at the feel of fragile metal crunch to the swing of a swerving toe, automobile drivers honking and shaking their infinitesimal fists in my direction as I apologize and exchange insurance information, my rates growing almost as quickly as I do.
I recognize that feeling. I felt a very similar way once when as a child, I lived in a city that was invaded by crickets one year. No, I don’t mean there were dozens of crickets in the basement. No, there were not hundreds of them. There were hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions.
They covered the streets and sidewalks and walls, they piled up so high after they hatched. My father took my siblings and I out for a car ride, the windows closed all the way up, and they still got in through the vents. It was exciting to have such tiny visitors in the car, but I felt sorry for their fate as the tires of my dad’s car made a nice paste of their bodies. The cricket invasion never took place again, but I always hoped and waited for it anyway.
Dear Santa, I would like to find some time to blog under my tree this Christmas. Awesome dreams, cool ads, nice thoughts, all awaiting. 20 hours ago
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I just bought my first mp3 online! Wow! I've finally joined the 90s. (And it's a Rap song, by the way. ) 2 weeks ago
Oh, and I had this great dream about a shrunken man. I'll try to type it up later, tonight maybe... unless I don't have any time. 1 month ago
