Tall men and large-busted women have something in common. They attract sex-crazed men like navels attract lint.
When a straight man meets someone Pamela Andersonesque, he goes totally nuts. He gawks, he gapes, his eyes shoot out of his head like a cartoon wolf. He spouts some ridiculous line like “If I told you I liked your rack, would you hold it against me?” Pamela can’t scurry away fast enough.
The smarter straight guys know what the problem is. Nobody likes being treated like a piece of meat, even if their personality comes in second to a T-bone steak. Pretend to ignore those bodacious boobs, they realize, and you’ve got a good chance of getting in. Act like the woman has other sterling attributes and clothes will eventually be shed. “Hooray!” you shriek, wedging your head between the mammoth mammaries that were your one true goal. “That’s what it’s all about!”
Tall men attract suitors interested in all different kinds of sex. Out of every ten guys I sleep with, two will be what you call “versatile.” Two will bend over my kitchen counter and refuse to move until sunup. Two will concern themselves singlemindedly with my genital region, and two will confine their attentions to my ankles and below. The last two will cower in a corner of the bedroom while squealing, “I’ll bet you could squash me like a worm!”
The technical term for this latter fetish is macrophilia, which means the love of giant things. The macrophiliac likes to pretend he’s really small, and he’s turned on imagining that he’s the helpless victim of something big. I’m typecast in that latter part, obviously, since I bump my head on hot air balloons. I’m hardly a rampaging giant, though, being a naturally happy person. I don’t think a photo of me exists that doesn’t also include a costumed cartoon character, a field of flowers, or a kitchen decorated in a goose motif.
Doug was a fiftyish movie producer with a quick wit, a gregarious manner, and a garage full of vintage automobiles, making him prime husband material. Unfortunately, when one got intimate with him, he liked to pretend he was a dung beetle. I discovered this on our fourth date, after he’d wined and dined me at the finest restaurants in Manhattan. I’d gotten away with a quick kiss on the previous evenings, but now it was time to put up or shut up.
He ushered me into his split-level apartment, with glass-wall views of Park Avenue. We sat on the brown leather sofa and kissed for a while, then he stood and grabbed my hand. “Why don’t we go somewhere more comfortable?” he asked with twinkling eyes. I reluctantly agreed, trying to bolster myself for the upcoming appearance of pasty flesh, and while I assumed I’d be led to some tasteful, restful bed chamber, we went to a den that looked like the Land Designers Forgot. It was empty except for a mishmash of miniature buildings scattered randomly around the floor, ranging from cheap plastic Barbie crap to Thomas Kinkade style, with lots of twisty steps, climbing vines, and tiny illuminated streetlights outside. All they had in common was that they belonged in homes with either small children or tasteless grandmas, and they were all very,
very small.
Before I could get a word out, Doug yanked my shirt off, and when I was entirely naked he dropped to the ground and writhed. All the blood drained from my head and burbled around my feet as I expected him to declare he’d fallen and he couldn’t get up. Instead he said, “I’ll bet you could stomp me like a grape!”
That’s when it hit me. These weren’t Christmas decorations. This wasn’t a model railroad. It was his sex room, his dungeon. A stage set for a giant’s rampage.
My first reaction was irritation. Sure, I was a foot taller than Doug, but he had me beat on weight. If he got a little momentum going, he could easily flatten me. My second was anger. He knew he couldn’t mention his little predilection right off the bat or I’d have run away screaming. Instead he waited until I had my clothes off, when hopefully I’d be too horny to put up a fight.
I glanced around the room, weighing the options. Twentieth-floor view. Plasma TV. Fireplace. What is sex but compromise? I thought as I planted my fists on my hips like the Jolly Green Giant. You’ve got something I like, I’ve got something you like. Who says it has to be confined to just vaginas and dicks? Why can’t it be intimidating personas, or wallets that are eight inches thick?
The grape line wasn’t the best he could have used, since ideally bedroom dialog doesn’t make one think of Lucy Ricardo. But who was I to argue? “Yeah,” I bellowed, “I bet I could.”
“I’m helpless! I’m at your mercy! You’re so big and frightening and I’m totally helpless. You could trample me beneath your heel like an ant.”
Now, this was pushing it. Frightening? Hell, I thank the folks at Barnes & Noble when they refuse to let me return stuff. And I’m totally nonviolent. I don’t trample anything, especially when it has a nicer apartment than I do. Still, I wasn’t going to be the Claire Danes in this drama. I lumbered toward him with arms out, stomping every step, when I felt something crunch beneath my foot.
I looked down and saw my foot planted in the middle of a tiny manger. “I accidentally smashed the baby Jesus,” I exclaimed.
“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, suffused with irritation. “You’re unstoppable! You’re on a rampage! Don’t apologize!”
I resumed the angry glare while pounding my chest. “Grrr!” I growled, grinding a bare foot into his face. “Grr!” I was trying to come up with additional dialog when it became obvious I’d done more than enough. A minute later the butler was tucking me into a very large bed.
I consoled myself by sleeping like a baby between the thousand-dollar sheets and having the maid bring me a full-fat cappuccino the next morning. And when I got home and the messenger dropped off the Rolex Presidential, I decided love could be in bloom.
We were a couple for almost six months, to the point of meeting each other’s families. We settled into a routine that suited both of us. We’d dine at some fashionable restaurant, then the check would come and it’d be showtime. “Pay it,” I’d growl, “or I’ll flatten you like a pancake!” We’d race home and adjourn to the den for stomping. “No!” he’d scream. “I’ll be wedged like cheese between your toes!”
It was a fetish one could almost admire, with its unapologetic reliance on simile. In fact, I nearly started to enjoy it. I made that Pavlovian connection in my mind: yell at somebody, and get something cool. I yelled my way into an Armani suit, an iPhone, a trip to Paris. I yelled at Doug everywhere. Even ordinary domestic scenes were touched by his fetish. At the supermarket I’d stand by the cart and bark, “Get cauliflower, you slimy little toad!” “Honey Bunches of Oats, you filthy cockroach!” “
Frosted Pop Tarts, you smelly little fart!”
When he left me for a taller, angrier guy, though, I discovered I couldn’t lose my new attitude as easily. Where people used to greet me with a cheery “Hello!,” now they were handing over their wallets just to save me the effort of having to ask. I invited a new man over for dinner, and he dawdled over the jambalaya. I shot him an angry glare. “I’m not a big fan of shrimp,” he said sheepishly, pushing the food around with his fork.
I set both fists on the table. “You’ll eat it and you’ll
like it!” I barked.
He should have
said he was allergic, I thought, as the ambulance drove him away. In bed alone that night, I realized I’d been crazy to think all that perversion wouldn’t eventually pervert me. It always does. All those kinky things you do in the bedroom eventually show up in the rest of the house.
I holed up in my apartment, horrified at what I’d become. I cancelled all my appointments, had food delivered, and just sat there in the dark. In the wee hours of the morning, when the bars were closed and the streets were deserted, I’d take Snowflake for his long-awaited walk. And eventually I realized I’d forgotten. I’d built myself back up from the bottom, resumed my ordinary, non-intimidating self, and was safe to face daylight again.
I grabbed Snowflake’s leash and opened for the door. Seeing daylight for the first time in months, he shot through the crack. Horns honked and he was gone.
“GODDAMMIT!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. “YOU GET BACK HERE! YOU GET BACK HERE AND GET ON THIS LEASH!”
The mailman, the UPS guy, and a passing cab driver had a race to get to my feet. “Yes, sir!” one of them whimpered. “But first, could you tell us about your shoes?”
