I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that question, what’s behind the giantess/shrink fetish.
It’s very easy for people to cock off with a simple answer: some mental dysfunction linked to lusting after a physically, psychologically dominant mother-figure. Obvious, right? Or maybe it’s the programming we received from mind-controlling porn. You see an image of something, and inexorably you’re compelled to emulate it throughout your life, which is why we, as adults, typically eat our own vomit or lick our own assholes, depending on whether we grew up with dogs or cats.
No. Don’t be fucking naive and disingenuously prudish. We’re all sophisticated adults, or should be.
For my part, I have a few good guesses, but both of these rely on one uncontrollable factor: that I’d be attracted to this stimulus. I could just as easily have been confused or repulsed by the image of a gigantic woman or tiny people scurrying away from a normal-sized woman.
Yet there was something in me that became interested and engaged with the concept: very early on, I remember a dream in which I’m hiding in a downtown area at night. I’m running from building to building, hiding from something, and only once I break into movie theater, closed for the night, do I realize what I’m “fleeing”: the older sister of my friend across the street. She’s wearing regular clothes for a teen in the ’70s—sports shirt, faded jeans, sneakers—but she’s nearly a hundred feet tall. She squats down to peek through all the windows of all the buildings, cheerily beckoning me by name, painstakingly creeping down the street to look for me. I hid behind the front row of seats in the theater, and I saw her peek inside… and maybe she even saw me, but only grinned and went away, figuring if I was hiding from her so desperately, she shouldn’t bother me.
Except, even as I hid, my heart was breaking. I wanted her to find me and claim me. I wanted her to reach into the theater with one long, slender arm, wrap her soft fingers around my tiny body, and extract me against my will. I wanted that very badly, paradoxically. I think this says less about an Oedipal complex and more about simply needing to feel loved, if I had to guess.
Whenever I talk about origins for this fetish, I always bring up one formative event in my childhood: staying home sick from school around 2nd Grade and watching the Creature Double-Feature on a local UHF channel. The back-to-back movies featured were, predictably, Attack of the 50′ Woman and Village of the Giants, with a young Beau Bridges and a very young Ron Howard. I say “predictably” because that’s what all giantess fans of a certain generation cite.
But more than this: my parents used to dump me and my brother off with our grandparents out west. Sometimes we’d be given a plastic model to assemble, or they’d pick up a bag of cowboy-and-Indian toys that I’d play with experimentally, hoping that—when placed in a certain combination—they could spontaneously generate fun. Other times we were made to run around in the backyard and climb trees or run around in circles, whatever kids were expected to do.
When left to my own devices, however, I pored through their books. They had fascinating books, cultural documents from the ’50s and ’60s, pictures of young people wearing stiff and formal outfits and looking like they were having fun. Strange children’s books about magical kids and life-changing summers. And there was always one book I looked for every time: More Drawings by Heinrich Kley (1962). I assume this was my father’s, as he was an artist and loved many things to do with Germany, aside from the obvious.
In this book were many intriguing images I’d never seen before, casual but orderly scribbles that spelled out hairy demons, dancing elephants, drunken bishops, and gigantic women or tiny little people.
Every time we visited, I sought out this book, forgetting about it as soon as we went home and remembering to hunt it down when we returned. Eventually, when I was a teenager, I simply took the book home with me, betting no one would miss it, and even if they did it would only be an unsolved mystery.
Did these sources force me to like something I wouldn’t have ordinarily? (I strongly doubt that.) Or is there a chromosome within us that governs—or leaves a placeholder for—what we’re going to be sexually triggered by? What do giantesses mean to me? What extra-human question do they answer, deep within the core of my being?