I was having a conversation with my good friend Undersquid, exchanging the tidings of the day as a fortunate Tiny will with a giantess (when one hasn’t been stomped within the first few moments). She asked me about my doings, and I inquired after her plans, and somewhere in there the word “despair” came up.
Despair? I wondered. What in the world could a giantess despair over?
Now, diligent readers will recognize that I’ve ingratiated myself with several giantesses, explicitly to crawl into their heads (not literally, usually) and find out how they see the world. I want to learn their joys and woes, see the county from their perspective, listen to their dreams and indulge in their gossip. I’m quite honored to have shared their time and attention, and I feel that I’ve grown (again, not literally) from the experience.
So I have come to understand what troubles some giantesses. Some are irritated by persistent beggars for prurient attention, galled by poor storytellers, or offended by more belligerent, entitled types: many of the same sorrows that plague their normal-sized sisters, to no one’s surprise. Boys will be boys, regardless of altitude.
But despair? That’s a heavy word. That’s much more than “I wish he’d behave” or “that doesn’t seem very fun” or “I’ll never find a pair of boots that fit.” What would cause a giantess to be plagued or burdened by despair?
And so Undersquid and I set up a little game of hypotheses: I would write out a list of ten things I imagine would cause a giantess to feel despair, and she—an actual giantess—would write out her list of prominent despairs. These would be compared, and we would both learn how well (or not) I understand giantesses after all.
Here is my list. A giantess may despair of:
- ever experiencing, to her satiation, what those wonderful little meals truly taste like that the Tinies seem to enjoy without trouble.
- being held by another warm body that won’t crumple and squoosh, but can give as good as it gets.
- the dread that kicking over buildings and swatting planes out of the air may someday become dull and tedious.
- understanding the thrill of something larger coming after her, to the extent that the Tinies seem to enjoy it.
- a peaceful, uninterrupted evening of lounging around, naked to the sky, with no sneak-thieves or beggars or Lotharios trying their luck at her expense.
- a candid, earnest friendship with a tiny man, never knowing whether he only likes her for her size and is biding his time for the opportunity to crawl into one of her many openings or enclosures, with or without her consent or knowledge.
- finding other giants for a momentary sense of parity.
- being perceived truly for who she is, rather than the unique services she can provide (farm labor, construction/demolition, flesh trade, military, &c.).
- companionship, once she ages beyond society’s ungenerous definitions of a woman’s worth.
- finding one little partner to give her everything she needs, or finding a cooperative group, somehow immune to jealousy, to provide the same in aggregate.
And here is what Undersquid listed.
“I don’t mind being alone. I haven’t minded being alone since birth (or since I was moved from a crib to a bed, as far as I can remember). I never, not once, asked my parents if I could sleep with them because of some movie I watched, or book I read, or nightmare I had. I reveled in my aloneness, and never felt lonely as a child. However, as an adult, every once in a while I look down from the clouds, and wonder if there’s anyone out there that is able to look up, and see me and accept me for what I truly am: all the horror, all the grief, all the joy, all the glory. Every once in a while I want to stare into a tiny pair of eyes that looks up and says, “yeah, I saw what you did. It’s OK. I get it. No one liked that building anyway. You were angry. I understand. Can’t be gentle all the time. I kicked my dog once. Just a little. I still feel guilty about it. Hey, we all suck sometimes.” What is that? Is that loneliness? I don’t know. All I know is that sometimes I want to look down and feel a connection from a mirror image down below. I’m not much of a yapper, but every once in a while I want to go on and on about how it feels to see things as I see them, and how much it hurts that my brain is 203’5” feet tall but my body isn’t, and how upsetting it is that so many people understand that size-related frustration, but we can’t hear one another scream about it.”
“Gee, I already told everyone reading this I like tiny men. There are some things I’ve never blogged about that I have discussed privately, and they are not that bad… I mean… yes they are. They are horrible, and if anyone ever found out I like that stuff I would probably faint or hide forever. And then there’s the stuff I’ve never told a single soul. That stuff will forever remain a secret, because A. No one cares; 2. I’m too embarrassed to talk about it… and not even serious levels of alcohol are enough to drag it out of me; C. I’m ashamed. I can’t believe I like that stuff. I can’t tell you! You’d hate me! So here I am, sitting on a boulder, thinking about those things (sometimes, not all the time), and looking down, and wishing I could do that to someone, or with someone… but no. The screams. Too many screams, and then the running, and the ensuing madness. So I blush, and I think about it quietly, and if anyone walks by and says “good morning, giantess! Whatcha thinkin’ about?” I’ll just say, “oh, you know. Nothing. The weather. Time to change it.” Look at the pretty clouds. Don’t look at me and my horrifying thoughts that make the cruelest giantess look like an angel. Sometimes, I said. Generally I’m a fluffy, gentle, loving pile of love.”
“How many times recently have I felt I should give up writing about this stuff? Why do I bother? Why did I come back and start blogging again? I was doing fine, just fine not writing about this. Wasn’t I? No. I was not. I was at about 1%, compared to my current 25-ish%. And I bother because the stories live in my head. They may be trite tripe; nothing new; vapid flights of fancy; nothing remarkable; a gazillion other writers are much better than I am, but they are the stories in my head, and they never ever stop. Not even when I’m asleep, or very busy doing something else. There’s always a thought floating around… but wait! What does that have to do with despairing as a giantess? Well, duh. Stories are what I am. Stories are sometimes the only way I can talk to people. Yes, I can have normal conversations, but I seldom want to. Stories open me up, and when I can’t write or don’t feel inspired to write, I’m that giantess leaning against a building, sighing and moping because there’s a vacuum in my heart, and my brain does not supply the necessary material for my giant blood to circulate. And I’m out of a job, and now I’m going to have to clean buildings for a living, or work in demolition. Which might be kinda fun, actually.”
“Seriously. What do I do during those days I can’t swim in the ocean because sharks will go nuts and nibble at my lady bits? That might be kinda fun, actually. But no, it’s not. I need containment. I need absorption. I need. It’s already bad enough to go out on a date with a (comparably) tiny guy, and sit next to him, and then suffer every dog being walked that evening to sniff at her there, because dogs always know. And then he gives her the look, because he has sisters and he knows, and she knows he’s thinking, hell no, I’m not going there tonight. Poor, deluded idiot.”
Lack of entertainment
“This wavers in and out of fiction and reality. As a real giantess, I find some material out there that suits my taste, but so much of it is just not right. So much of it is just my making do. A few digital artists are masters at what they do, yet I have a hard time relating to their subject matter, because of the artistic choices they make. I hardly ever see myself in the shapes they use, or the perspectives they present. So what do I do? What I’ve always done. What I did when I started collaging, because I needed to make my own porn. So I’m creating my own art. It’s a slow process, because I haven’t really drawn anything in years, so many years, and I’m rusty as hell. As to stories, I fare a lot better, because I have favorite authors that are currently producing. Except that one guy, who’s now going to be too busy studying to write. You know who you are. A pox on you. As a giantess in fiction, I have nothing to read, no music to listen to, no art to observe… except what’s brought to me. The best feelings I’ve derived artistically as a giantess are when tiny works of art are presented to me as offerings. If you create anything, and people write fanfic about your characters, you know that feeling. If you create images and someone feels so inspired they write a story about it, you know that feeling. But as a giantess, I figure my only source of entertainment would be voyeurism. That might be kinda fun, actually.”
“I suffer from them, and I’m sure I’d suffer from them if I suddenly exploded out of my house, my roof destroyed by a super giant and super sexy growth spurt. Sometimes I don’t sleep for days, and a slow burn is ignited in the back of my head. The pain of sleep deprivation is not something I wish on anyone. Well, maybe that one asshole that lives in that house. But no one else. Oh, and that other pig fucker that lives in that country. But no one else. As a giantess, how well do I sleep if I have to think I might wake up to someone trying to crawl inside of me, or someone going at it between my toes? What if it rains? What if I can’t find a cave suitable for my needs? What can I use for a pillow? I need a proper pillow. I spend an obscene amount of money on pillows, because I love a good pillow. A life as a giantess without an excellent pillow…”
“Which brings me to… where do I live? Am I homeless?”
Unwanted sexual advances
Wanted sexual advances − “The reality of it.”
Food/clothing − “Are trees my broccoli? And I LOVE my shoes!”
How do these lists compare?
It looks like, to me, being a giantess is still an analogy for the human condition, or woman’s existence within patriarchal society. My answers center on two premises: what a giant person is capable of, and what I think a woman would think. No matter how many giantesses I’ve interviewed or how much I’ve read or listened to, my understanding is necessarily limited.
Undersquid’s concerns are more practical, like, what she would lose if she grew to enormous size, what factors would complicate her new life. But also there are personal concerns that haunt her already and wouldn’t go away simply because she’s outgrown her previous dimensions.
Yet we both touched on aspects like loneliness, being unable to meaningfully connect with tiny people. Concerns about being violated without consent. Mind-crushing boredom. Food.
And were I able to compel a classroom of tiny men to likewise generate their own little lists of a giantess’s concerns, I wonder what they’d come up with. I wonder how many of them have ever honestly given a thought as to what a giantess wants. Oh, some of them have their own convictions on this matter, but through the tiny lens. Crap like, “A giantess despairs that no tiny man will make sweet love to her clit for hours” or “that no one will worship her stinky feet.” Yeah, no. They don’t understand what giantesses want, and they have a shaky grasp of what despair means to begin with.
Image: “Laura en el pais de los lili-putienses,” by Pablo Cañas.
One thought on “What Troubles Thee, Giantess?”
This was illuminating, guys, thanks. Undersquid’s contribution was a helpful mix of “in-character” and “out-of-character” concerns. Loneliness tops my list of problems for anyone dramatically larger than everyone else, and it’s my biggest stumbling block for writing giant characters.
After listening to multiple female size fantasists, I’d suggest that one of the more exhausting “out-of-character” concerns is having to constantly prove oneself as being genuinely into the fantasy. Too many people have inflexible notions of what size fantasy “should” be and assume that anyone who doesn’t conform to their preferences must not “really” be into it or has some ulterior motive. This fetish is hard enough to own up to without a cloud of bitter gnats buzzing in your face and calling you a “fake” giantess.