The giant singer and the tiny singer

marilyn-manson-stiltsA long time ago, in a giant city far, far away from most of us, because apparently there are only three gentle-giantess fans in my entire state! What the hell! Why?! Oh, I’m so ALONE! No, I’m not. I’m never alone when I’m with all of you. But back to my blog entry. I love going to concerts, especially by myself. I’m a loner. It’s how I’ve always rolled, and how I’ll always be. That creates some upset around me, as I’m constantly asked what I’m thinking, and asked to say “something”. I’m not a monkey for anyone’s amusement!! Dammit! OK, OK, OK. Calming down. These have been both stressful and calm days. I’m trying to focus on the latter, and succeeding when I sit down to write.

As I was saying before I fake-freaked out, I love going to concerts. I arrive in one piece, and usually leave without my voice, but always happy for days. Music is one of my drugs, together with books. I don’t smoke, or do drugs, and I stopped drinking nearly a year ago, so I do all my snorting and injecting through my ear canals. One of the more memorable highs was Marilyn Manson’s. I was a fan for a long time (still am), and happily plopped the money for that ticket months in advance. The day of the concert I couldn’t eat or speak, dressed myself in black, and made myself up as gothy as I could. It wasn’t much, but sufficient to earn me an are-you-suicidal pamphlet from the christians milling around the entrance.

Seriously, zealots: I’m the mom of a son I adore. A life-loving woman that spends a great deal of time running a porn tape in the back of her mind, where she’s having sexy fun with a shrunken man. Just because I rock out to MM doesn’t mean I’m about to slash my wrists. What I did instead was sing at the top of my lungs, as I knew all the lyrics by heart. I didn’t sing them. I screamed them. A different kind of fun took place when Brian Warner disappeared behind the stage as it was brought to semi-darkness. Seconds later, a bright light was shone from behind the tall screen, and his silhouette appeared in between, and it was gigantic. He was walking on stilts, and wearing the accompanying signature skirt. Naturally, I thought of myself as a giantess on stage, singing my heart out for adoring fans. I never know what’s going to set me off, but it’s usually everything.

Years passed, and inevitably, shit hit my fan. It was bad. I didn’t want to get up in the morning anymore. I didn’t write. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to do anything. I was fading, and quickly. The turning point was made of many, and one of them was my decision to start going to concerts again. It was Black Friday last year, and I got an email from Ticketmaster, and it read that I could get a ticket for this particular group for only $20.00. I said to myself, what the hell, I’ll probably be dead by then anyway. So I bought it for $20.00, and it was the best worst money I’ve ever spent. Best, because that morning I changed my mind and decided to skip the concert. I ignored myself completely. I got ready five minutes before it was time to leave, and got to the venue with enough energy to walk to my seat. Worst, because my seat was as far away from the stage as one could get. I sat in that last row, and let it all seep into me. I cried as one of the opening acts performed a song that was a favorite of a friend’s; one I lost to suicide. I laughed because I remembered a promise I had made to myself many years ago: that of seeing them live at least once.

As I sat there screaming and shouting and laughing a little, and enjoying my perspective of the group’s newfound micro size, and singing lyrics I also knew the way I know my own face, I decided maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe I could stick it out a little bit longer. Things are much better now. Much, much better. I’m grateful for that. Now, any idjit can tell who these guys are; but whoever guesses it first gets to be instantly shrunk and live out the rest of his days with the giantess of his choice. That’s the truth. I’m not lying when I tell you that’s what’s going to happen to one lucky winner. Have at it!

Death and water and spies and secret bloggers

I feel ill at ease. I can still smell the salty water on my skin, which I know is only a trick of my brain, a leftover crumb that spilled into this world from the sieve of my mind… but I don’t like it. I sit here typing, and my heart beats hard in my chest. The first dream was a bad dream.

I was walking barefoot on a dock, wooden planks cold already, though there was still sunlight in the sky. It disturbs me I can remember every detail of that sky. I could paint it if I wanted to. The planks looked weathered and cracked, and the fabric of my white dress whipped in the wind. It was a suicide dress, and I was going to throw myself into the water. Shit. I wish I could shake off that remnant of despair inside of me. It’s fake despair, dream despair. But I still hate it.

I dropped quietly into the blue, and time passed. I don’t know how long, but I was deep in it, letting go, still not at peace, when I felt skin brush against mine. There. And again. It forced me to open my eyes. This skin was soft, vulnerable, and as I realized it didn’t belong to someone trying to save me, I knew that someone was in deep danger. I opened my eyes, and saw there was a baby in the water. There was light everywhere, and it was no longer a night ocean. It was a morning ocean, and a baby was drowning with me. It took me a few seconds to find it again, and when I did, I grabbed it, and held its head above water. Her head. It was a baby girl.

I made my way back to shore, and I didn’t feel cold. I felt a sense of regret that I didn’t do what I had wanted to do, and then I realized nothing looked familiar. It was a different place, and different people began to surround us. I sat on planks again, but these were new planks, buttery soft in the sun. I held that baby up, and tried to hand her over to whoever would grab her. She was not my baby, but no one took her. They said things I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know the language, but I knew they were saying something meaningful and reverent. I sat the baby on my lap, and she began to feel heavier. I looked down at her, and she grew.

All I could think of at that moment, staring at that beautiful baby girl was, “why can’t I be you?” Then I realized she was me. At some point, in the water, I had split into two, and the giantess in me had been born into reality. I love that, but my heart still pounds painfully. Ah, make it stop.

Then, the next dream last night: I send two men over to another man’s apartment, as I wanted them to collect some evidence that this man was fit to be shrunk. This dream felt creepy. I feel creepy and dirty, remembering my thoughts while I waited for them to call me from the broken-into apartment, to tell me what they found. They did call me, and told me they couldn’t find anything. I insisted they rummage around a little longer, when the man in question returned, and found them there.

Instead of making a ruckus, or calling the police, he asked them what they were doing there (I could “observe” this from some omniscient “above”), and they told him I wanted to know if he was a proper candidate for shrinking. He told them to tell me he was’t interested, that he had found someone new that he loved (?), and to please leave.

Finally, the third dream, and this one is frustrating because I want to remember the words, and I can’t. I was sitting here, blogging, when a link opened up in the admin section of my blog, and I saw there’s a secondary blog hidden within my blog. A tiny blog, and on it, someone had written me a poem. I remember reading the poem, and loving every word. Now all I see with my mind’s eye is blurry words, in blue font, tiny sized. That was the best dream, and thankfully, the last one. I’m… kinda glad I don’t remember the poem. It might have been truly terrible. But I don’t think it was.

Unfair, episode Squid

oh-myIn the first of my ever popular series of articles about a woman’s options when wanting to engage in phone sex, I talked to you about the sad situation in which my friend found herself, wanting very much to pay someone to tell her he was tiny, and finding no options.

As her saga continues, I thought I should offer her some advice. I think she sorely needs it. Having had phone sex before, I figured I was the perfect authority figure from whom wise wisdom should slowly drip. I also think there are other women out there that may be overthinking this as much as she is, and my experience might be food for thought.

Friend, don’t worry too much. Put yourself out there. You love men. Most men are wonderful. Some would be delighted to speak with you on the phone, even if it goes nowhere. This is a lonely fetish. Most of us don’t mind that loneliness, or aloneness, most of the time. I certainly don’t. But when we do, isn’t it a wonder that we can find each other online? In blogs, via Twitter, at Deviant, through Skype, at forums? I think it is.

I understand: sometimes you want more. You want that sexy voice on the phone telling you what you want to hear. You want to tell that voice what it wants to hear back. I’m sorry to tell you this, but not everyone wants to have phone sex with you. You’re going to get shot down every now and then. Probably often. Now, you can cry for weeks the way you did that first time it happened, you can rant and rave and call yourself a “stupid, idiot, entitled fuck” for two hours the way you did the second time it happened. You can have all manner of theatrical responses. Or you could act like a grownup, and realize that for each man that might consider giving you a ring, there are billions that want nothing to do with you. Billions. Think about it, and have some perspective.

It doesn’t mean they aren’t nice, perfectly wonderful men. It means they are married, and love their spouse. It means they might already have a situation they are happy with, and they don’t want to displace it. It means they might not want to confuse things with you, but are happy to remain friends. It means a million things. Learn from that, stop calling yourself stupid, and move on. Life is short, and the planet is about to explode. Don’t waste time wishing you were having phone sex with someone who doesn’t want you. Realize that for each billion men that want nothing to do with you, there is one that wants to have phone sex with you. Passionately. Think about it, and have some perspective.

My blog entry put you out there, to some degree. I didn’t do it intentionally, and I know the response shocked and gratified you. But it also made you feel reticent and skittish. People put themselves out there for you right back, in a mannerly, generous way. They could have been shy… we can be a shy bunch, ruminating by ourselves, often content to grab that bottle of lotion, click on a nice video (or in my case, images or gifs or male audio), and let it rip. Phone sex involves a real person, someone with whom you don’t know if there’s enough common ground, even in as specialized an environment as a size-change fetish. Don’t be afraid of making a mistake, or realizing it isn’t a good fit. It happens. If there’s no chemistry, it’s better to know. If it happens, and for however long, milk it! Milk that tiny guy before the planet explodes.

I know you are very reserved by nature, and initially quite shy. But I also know that once you let yourself go, you can make grown men cry. I’ve seen it. I remember it. Just keep that in mind, and remember these are men, fabulous men that want to tell you exactly what you want to hear. Or pretty damn close. You are dying to shrink them, and make them your toys. OK, OK, I know. Just one of them. So, do it! Stop being so afraid. If they don’t like what you say, if they change their mind, if you disappoint them, it’s fine. Grow, and move on. For every man you disappoint, there’s… hmm. I’m sorry, I don’t have any numbers for you on that. You’ll just have to find that out on your own.

But let’s say you do encounter a jerk. It can happen. They are out there, waiting to snare a willing woman, and record her most intimate thoughts, just to post them online somewhere to share with thousands of other people, effectively rendering her a joke. It’s a possibility, but I don’t think it’s as likely as you imagine. If it happens, so what? Who cares? You’re not running for office (and believe me, some day, sexual misconduct won’t affect women so disproportionately -in fact, someday it’ll count in our favor- ), and as long as you adhere to some privacy guidelines, your identity might remain hidden. If it doesn’t, remember the planet is about to explode. Don’t live in fear.

This is very important: don’t call your ex. No, none of that “but the phone sex was fantastic!” bullshit. Remember why it ended. Think about it, and hold that thought very firmly in your mind. Don’t be lazy, and contact a man that has most definitely moved on. It’s over. Don’t email him, don’t try to remember his phone number, don’t leave him cryptic messages on social media. You haven’t? Good. But I know you are thinking about it. Let him go, the way he let you go. Let him go the way you let him go in the first place. You only want to talk to him because it feels easy, and comfortable. Whatever else was wrong, the phone sex was never wrong. Fuck that noise. Keep a firm head on your shoulders, and look to the future.

Consider staying entirely away from married men, maybe before you ever begin to sniff even the slightest whiff of complication. That’s something else you don’t need. Some men can really keep their dominions compartmentalized, and have a relatively healthy married life with someone that doesn’t know or doesn’t get what it takes for them to have a mind-blowing orgasm. Cool. If you can offer the same boundaries to them, jump right in. Otherwise, run. Run the other way. If you feel you have the ability to discard that connection in a relatively easy manner, then go for it. If that’s not the case, I really don’t want to have to spend any time watching you cry for weeks. It sickens me.

That’s all I have to say for now. And remember, you are in control. You can decide to have as much phone sex as you want, or you can decide to be happy with your male audio files. Or, you can start your own PSO business, and hire only men. Whatever you do, don’t sit there, wishing stuff would just magically happen to you.



She stood alone in the kitchen of her small apartment, feeling the cold seeping up and into her feet from the tile floors, through the gel floor pad. Its give did nothing to comfort her, because the ache didn’t come from her feet; it was in her heart. She thought of his words the previous night, his tears, and how he had yelled at her until he’d had no voice left. He blamed her, and with good reason. She had been the one that shrank him.  She took another deep breath, and it came in raggedly. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to stand there, and not look at him. When she finally admitted she was too selfish to return him to his original size, she broke down and started sobbing.

How can I give you up now? I can’t. You are mine. You are part of me now. Please deal with it, and soon. I can’t stand to see you like this.

She opened her eyes, and looked through the blur of her tears. Enough! It’s time to move. Time for action. She looked down at the counter. Dinner ingredients: half a pound of steak, one red bell pepper, one carrot, one small white onion, one garlic clove, salt, pepper, and a bottle of teriyaki sauce. All she needed now was a little man. Her little man. She turned her head to call him, but her lips froze in mid-action. She saw him standing on the floor, by the bedroom doorframe across the hall from the kitchen. He looked so small! How long had he been watching her?


“Hi,” she saw his lips move, and imagined she heard him.

“Did you sleep well?”

A tiny shrug.

“Come closer. I have something for you.”

He started walking, not exactly at a snail’s pace, but it seemed so slow, when measured against her desire to touch him, to have him by her side. She thought to walk over and retrieve him, but instantly decided against it. Better let him get used to these new distances. He has to get used to how long it takes to get to places. He has to have it all mapped out in his mind. The sooner, the better. She stared at him, wishing her eyes were tractor beams. As small as he was, she could see the beauty of his body, the manly way he took each stride, tiny feet gaining distance slowly, but surely. She imagined those little feet on her skin, again. Her cheeks turned to fire, and her breathing caught on the hook of her thoughts. She tried dismissing them. There was more important business at hand. He finally reached her, and she lowered her body from the waist up, sending her hand down as an ambassador for the rest of her. She opened her palm to him welcomingly, and invited him in.

“Come on up, my darling. I have to show you something.”

He lifted one little foot up and off the floor, and set it on her ring finger’s pad. When he dropped down on one knee and let his arms stretch forward to fall into a crawling position, she felt her body tremble, and had to use all her willpower to stop herself from closing that hand, and bringing it into herself. Instead, she let him find the center of her palm.

“Your hand is cold.”

“I’m sorry, tiny one. My blood is elsewhere.”

She smiled when he gave her a quick look as she lifted him slowly. He no longer shifted from side to side, looking everywhere in a panic, thinking she might drop him clumsily. Progress! It didn’t matter that he didn’t smile back. At least he wasn’t yelling at her anymore. She reached her upright position once again, and brought her hand to the countertop. “Here we are. You can get off, now.” She rolled her eyes inwardly. Everything she said to him had a double meaning. All she wanted to do was talk dirty to him. Focus!

“Tonight, I’m going to teach you how to cook, my way.”


“What? What is it? Don’t you want to learn something new?”

“Would it matter if I didn’t?”

She didn’t answer, but he had a point. Or she did. He shook his head, as though dismissing her thoughts.

“All I want is for you to measure me again.”

“Oh. Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Alright, sure. Just let me get my ruler.”

She had been measuring him every day after she shrank and kidnapped him. Every day he had been smaller, until the shrinking stopped. Every day he had panicked more and more, until he seemed to lose his mind. She still forced him to get up, to eat, to accept her cleaning him, holding him, tasting him, loving him. He had been limp, he had fought her, he had cried silently, and noisily. She was very interested to see how he would react now. She stood the wooden ruler on the counter next to him, and set down the paper where she had been writing down his height, every time. He walked over to the ruler, and stood facing away from it, his lovely back gently pressing against it. Her throat closed again.

“Ah, two inches. Still two inches. It’s been two inches for four weeks now.” She didn’t say “I told you so.”

“OK. I guess that’s it then. I’ll be a two-inch-short little bug for the rest of my life.” He looked up at her then, but the fire, the anger, wasn’t the same. She withstood his gaze with equanimity. It burned through her, but the only response she gave him with her eyes was the only response she had: you are mine. She watched him sigh, but his shoulders didn’t slump this time. Progress!

“So… what am I learning today?” She could have kissed him. He didn’t call her monster, or bitch, or monster bitch, or grow me back, you monster bitch. She smiled and said, “I’m going to teach you how to deal with food, this size.” And she made an exaggerated flourish with her hand, to show him the parade of ingredients on the counter.

“I don’t know- what can I do? How can I cook any of this stuff? I’m too small.”

“Well, let me get the pan preheated, and I’ll show you.” She leaned over to turn on the burner, on which a non-stick sauté pan sat. She added no oil to it. It could splash onto him, and burn him to disfigurement. Then, she gingerly picked up something from the counter. Something she had kept hidden from him until now. She thought she could trust him with it now. She set it in front of him with a tiny clink.

“It’s a… a sword? You’re giving me a sword.”

“A katana, specifically. I had it made just for you.”

“And what am I to do with it, specifically?”

“I want you to chop this garlic clove,” she pointed at the curved shape, white, covered in a thin, tissue-like membrane. “Have at it.”

He bent to grab the katana by the hilt. He lifted it slowly, and stood there for a moment, wielding it. He cut a languid slice of air with it, and she could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth lift a little, for an instant. All she wanted at that moment was to kiss him. Focus!

“While you do that, I’ll chop everything else.” She watched him attack that garlic bulb with unequaled fury. Soon he was coughing, his eyes tearing up as the bulb attacked back with its oils, but he didn’t stop. He brought his katana down on it, into it, over and over again until it was a pulpy mass. She broke into infinite smiles as she watched him, and almost lost twenty fingers, he so was distracting her own work.

“Very well! I think we’re all done with that. Now, I want you to stand right here, and toss what I hand you into this pan.”

“What!? Into that giant pan? What if I can’t do it?”

“You can do anything I put my mind to, sweet, tiny man. You’ll see. Now, stand here, and get ready.”

He obeyed, rolled his shoulders, his neck, and cracked his knuckles. “I’m ready.”

She started handing him bits of food. Very small to her, but enormous to him. He stood his ground at the edge of that counter, next to the stove, and he tossed each bit in a long arch, into the awaiting pan. Each time his grunts were louder, and his skin glossier. She didn’t stop handing him food until every bit but the garlic was gone. She let it all sizzle without looking at it. All she wanted to do was feel him, so she did. She brought one single fingertip to his forehead as he stood there, panting, and she swept a lick of sweaty hair off his forehead. His head was forced backward, but he did’t slap her away this time. Progress!

She smiled, “thank you, my tiny darling,” and moved her finger away, to give the food a quick stir, and add the garlic, pepper, salt, and sauce. It smelled wonderful. “Now, we eat!”

She put a portion of food on one plate, and offered him her palm again. He climbed it almost expertly now, and she moved them to the kitchen table, where a candle burned on a tablecloth where she had already set a napkin and flatware. She sat, and set the plate in front of her very carefully. She then brought him to the edge of the plate, where he finally accepted a seat. She started pulling a piece of beef apart, and offered him a shred. He ate it. She then mashed a piece of pepper between her fingers, and brought the resulting paste to his side. He scooped it up with his tiny fingers, and brought it to his mouth. She couldn’t eat, she was so happy to see him take nourishment on his own, for the first time.

“Good, eh?”

“Yes,” he said, between bites. “Aren’t you- gonna- eat?”

“I am. I will. When you’re finished.”

He shrugged delightfully, and had his fill. He licked his fingers and lips, and looked up at her. “I’m done.”

“No, my love. You’re not done. You’ve only just begun.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m hungry, so hungry. But for you.”

He only looked at her in horror. He made to move off the plate, but knew there was nowhere to go. She reached for him, and in an instant he was in her grip, between thumb and index finger, riding, flying from table to her lips. Her face grew closer, and larger, until he saw nothing else. The kitchen was gone, the ceiling had disappeared. All there was, all he could see, was the curve of her half-opened mouth, the rounded tip of her nose, and her eyes, black as night, beginning to cross as she looked down at him. Then she closed them, and lifted her upper lip.

“No!” he screamed, but she stopped herself, and his body, right there. She began to kiss him, the entire length of him, slowly. He felt his body dip into those bed-sized lips, and be lifted again by her fingers, as she wet him completely with deep, hot kisses.

“Oh, my little guy… you taste wonderful.”

“I thought- I thought you were gonna eat me…”

She let a single gust of laughter out from her nostrils, and bathed him in her warm breath.

“Eat you? I could never eat you. Don’t you know how I feel about you? You are everything to me, my tiny man. Everything.”

And she kissed him again, endlessly.

Native State

city at feet

Native state in biochemistry refers to structure in molecules. In metallurgy, it has to go with metals found relatively uncombined. In my brain, it refers to that place where I belong: great heights.

When I was a child, I experimented with heights all the time, much to the terror of my parents. I’ve dangled off the side of buildings, scaled them up and down, gone up to roofs that weren’t meant to be visited, and hovered over the edge of deadly bridges, staring down at clouds hiding the abyss.

Vertigo? What self-respecting giantess suffers from vertigo? Not me. I crave that rush of finding myself seeing everything down there, because in my heart, and in my mind, that’s where everything belongs. Down there. Where you are. Up here there’s nothing but space, neighboring stars and planets, and the rest of the Universe to keep me company.

Earth-from-space shots are my porn. Aerial shots of cities taken from planes are my porn. Every time I see one on the Internet, or while watching a TV show or movie, I get an unmistakeable physical response, impossible to relate to anyone under 18 years of age. Even typing about it makes it happen.

So, how could I stop myself from watching The Walk? I only rented it for the aerial shots. Well, I also rented it because I wanted to see my Family Video guy, but he has stopped wearing plaid, got a haircut, and is grooming a hideous Satan beard, so he’s fallen out of favor. I still think he’s cute, but the chemistry died. Anyway, back to The Walk.

As you know, it’s the story of Philippe Petit’s World Trade Center walk. A nice movie, often moving. But I only watched it for the… yes, you guessed it. The porn. And it was fantastic. I sat there, imagining myself around 2,000’ in height, looking down at a city of infinitesimally small citizens, watching their little vehicles move so very slowly around my feet, feeling clouds graze my skin, hearing the wind deliver secret messages to my ears, and closing my eyes as I stood there, in my native state.

But I’ve been taller. As a child, I once got out of the car even though my dad told us to stay inside. We had to go across a short bridge, but it had no safety rails, no crash barriers, nothing to keep a car from careening off to the side. It had no sides. Only air, and clouds below. How could I not get out? I got out, and walked over to the edge, while part of my brain overheard my dad ask the bridge guard about the distance to the ground. When I heard the distance, I leaned over, holding onto nothing, and into nothingness. I looked down at those clouds swirling by, dozens of feet below. My dad saw me, and rushed to my side, screaming. It was worth it. Maybe stupid, but I was a child, and immortal. And in my native state.

I’ve also had some fun imagining my little guy as a wire walker, practicing the art just to entertain me, especially on days like today, when I’m suffering from painful menstrual cramps, and would like nothing more than the warm body of the man I adore to rest here, on my abdomen, as he massages it tenderly. On cold days like today, I would love it if he really existed, and I could cradle him very closely, instead of trying to put the pain out of my mind by writing about him.

Come, little man. Come to my native state, and be with me. I need you, and I want you.