I’ve covered my origin story before, how I knew I was Tiny: watching Attack of the 50′ Woman (1958) and Village of the Giants (1965) as a young child, those dreams about my gigantic babysitter searching for me and then climbing that gigantic pop star. Those stories are getting threadbare, and nothing new is learned in their rehashing.

There were other influences, too, like Darby O’Gill and the Little People (1959) and The Gnome-Mobile (1967), the odd cartoon scraping for bizarre plots, the occasional commercial, stuff like that. Influences or encouragements, I don’t know: just images I saw on the TV or movies that captivated me. I wanted to be the little person crawling across the gigantic teenager’s chest. I wanted to step up, in bare feet and ragged trousers, onto the young girl’s broad palm. And I wanted whatever I thought was going to happen next.. what should have happened next, but never did.

(And what the hell was going on with gender roles between 1958 and 1967?)

When I was a little kid, the things that stirred me sexually are relatively mild and I didn’t have words for my experience. I had no idea why the thoughts of my tiny body being plucked from the ground by her huge thumb and forefinger, brought up to dangle before a beautiful woman’s full and red lips kicked up my pulse and made that thing happen between my legs. Even if I didn’t have the vocabulary, I did have the instinct this was something I absolutely  must not share with my parents, and I probably couldn’t ask my friends about it either. Maybe some of that was Catholic guilt and shame, but I also had the impression that no one else could possibly understand. If I was a little dumber, a little more naive, I might have pointed at the screen and yelled at my parents, “There! That! What is that called? Why is that a thing?”, you know, like kids do when they see something new. But the emotions this evoked were so deep, so consuming, it wasn’t just a matter of casual curiosity to learn. This stimulus that took my voice away, froze all my muscles, and made me want to weep with longing… this wasn’t casual. It wasn’t normal, I knew that, and I’d never seen such depth of expression in anyone else so… it must be me. There was something wrong with me, and asking about it would be a confession, an admission of guilt.

But what is this? What is it that does it for me? Where is the chromosome that makes me attracted to amazons, titanesses, giantesses, and goddesses?

I’ve always theorized it’s about being overwhelmed. If a kiss is sweet and exciting, being covered in an enormous  kiss would be ravishing. If a breast is primally attractive and appealing, being buried beneath one or squeezed between two would be mind-blowing. Does the math work like that? Is the erotic experience commensurate with the physical properties? I can’t find out without a large budget for special effects and prop-building.

As for the interaction… my first dream was about a gigantic woman searching for me. I was hiding in a town, in a movie theater, and she crouched down to peer into the windows of all the businesses and houses. I could see her looking for me, hear her calling for me. She was happy and friendly, smiling, calling me sweetly. I don’t know why she wanted me, I didn’t know what she would do with me if she found me, and I didn’t know why I was hiding. I didn’t want to hide: I wanted to run out, shouting her name, waving my arms for her to come pick me up and haul me into destiny.

But I also wanted her to search harder for me, to tear the building open, sweep the theater seats aside with her forearm, splay her fingers and seize me against my will. Well, ostensibly against my will, because I very badly wanted this to happen. I wanted to play at hiding and escaping, while she came inexorably after me and seized me irresistibly, drawing me to her. I don’t know what this means but I interpret it to be a desire to be loved, completely loved to the point of possession, wanting to feel that valuable to someone that they would tear the world apart to collect me and keep me.

Wasn’t I loved enough as a child? Did I suffer poor self-worth? Is that what that means? And if not… what does it mean?

I’m purposely avoiding entertaining a glib Freudian stereotype. That’s the cheap and obvious answer, as far as outsiders are concerned, but when you’re on the inside, you know you’re not attracted to your mother. There are so many discordant notes struck here: yes, sure, it starts to look like you want to be small again, have a nurturing, mothering, domineering figure over you once more… but where it goes after that does not line up at all. Yuck. (Maybe there are some shrink fetishists for whom this is true: there are splinter factions that dwell on incestuous relationships in all directions. Hooray for freedom of expression, but I have no desire to partake.)  Also, the lazy mother-lust theory doesn’t address so many other aspects of size-fetish, nor does it explain women who fantasize about being giantesses. Because if you look at them, their instinct isn’t to start suckling a tiny person: it’s to stomp civilization into a fine powder and crush the planet between thumb and forefinger. Not exactly a Gaia instinct.

The shrink/giantess thing has always been erotic for me. In middle school, I finished a small snack box of raisins from lunch and toyed around with it. You can press the open end to your mouth and blow, and the opposite lid will rattle with a high squeaking noise, and that’s fun for a while. But then I unfolded the box, drew the classic shoe-print icon inside the lid (you know, men’s Oxfords with heels, even though I wore sneakers), folded it back up and started to make up a story of a tiny man who was kidnapped by a teenage girl and stored in this raisin box for safe keeping. All day long, stuck in this cramped space reeking of tannins and sugar, but when we went to her home in the evening… and she took me out of the box… Well, at 12 years old I had an unfettered imagination and inexpressible sexual impulse. My religion forbade me from masturbating so there was no release, no self-containment for these urges, only the time-tested recipe for success known as “repression and denial”.

It wasn’t until college that I started exploring writing about these giantess/shrink impulses in short stories. Strictly for me: I wasn’t aware of any online communities. I got out of the Army in 1991, went straight to community college, and when I left in ’93 they had just gotten three computers capable of accessing the Internet. I’d heard about this, hastily studied how to research a topic, and my first Internet search was for “giantess.” How lucky was I, that there was actually material waiting for me: grainy GIF and BMP files of crude-crude collage work, usually the back of a muscular guy in swim trunks staring up at a smiling woman in a swimsuit or denim cutoffs, smiling down at him from a low-angle camera shot.

Those cheap images, those crappy printouts were worth their mass in gold, to me. I still have them preserved in a three-ring binder full of size-fetish stories I printed out while working late at a temp job, ten years later. My archive of vintage giantess tales. Oh, but I started to write my own around the mid-’90s, my first stories dedicated to the very hot and slightly dumb girlfriend of a local heavy metal musician. It started out as a love fantasy between us, and then I just had the instinct to shrink myself down and have her explore the possibilities this presented (and by this, I mean enact and embody what I wanted her to do). If her skin was pale and flawless, it was smooth and soft at my new size; if her lips were full and red, they were puffy and inviting at my new size, with the flashing glint of perfect incisors just before a rolling, glistening bed of soft, pink tongue behind them… These were all features I was attracted to in women anyway, already, but… now they were  larger, softer, hotter, wetter. They were overwhelming, they could take over my entire body, and they could impress their sexuality upon me “against my will” (of course I wanted it!).

But I repeat myself. And I apologize for the disjointedness of this train of thought. I’ll probably have to revisit this and focus on specific aspects, since trying to cover it all at once is just a wordy mess.

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Image: MrLuigi