Classic Guys
by SGTS
Log Entry One. -Abstract and Self-Funded Research Proposal-


Background:

In the year 2000 the FDA approved the expanded use of Human Growth Hormone
Treatment for Children who did not suffer from a Growth Hormone deficiency.

Initially, this approval was only extended to those who were two standard
deviations shorter than the mean. But eventually the unauthorized (or "off
label") use of growth hormone treatments became popular for all families who
could afford them.

The original serum, known as GH-2I, gave children an average of two additional
inches in height, upon reaching adulthood. Bioethicist and Scientist debated
the effects, benefits, and consequences of GH-2I in the halls of academia
because of its potential for abuse. Scientists were primarily concerned with
the long-term effects of Growth Hormone on the physiological well-being of its
patients. Bioethicists were concerned of the social consequences. Just two
inches of increased height came with a $200,000 price tag over the life of the
injections. GH-21 was too expensive for most families to afford, and there was
some circumstantial evidence that large drug companies were colluding to
sustain the drug's exorbitant prices.

Meanwhile, studies were published which contended that short people often made
less money over the long term than taller people. These studies (often funded
in part by the same drug companies that produced GH-2I) also said that taller
people were more respected in the workplace and in social relationships. In a
final blow to worried parents who were raising slowly maturing boys; the
studies concluded that short men were much less likely to get married or have
children than tall men. The studies concluded that women feel a need to have a
man whom she feels can offer her protection. One study said that ". . . a
leftover evolutionary trait causes women to substantially prefer tall men over
their shorter brethren to the tune of 14 to 1."

With these studies came an increased demand for GH-2I, much to the chagrin of
many in the academic community.

Intellectuals pointed out that artificially increasing the height of children
who are not hormone deficient will only raise the average height of society.
In other words, the bottom of the growth curve will never be eliminated and so
society should deal with the inequities that result from normal height
variation; as opposed to enhancing peoples' physical stature. These thinkers
also pointed out that the rich were getting taller and taller while the poor
were not. They hypothesized that this would only further stigmatize the
already disfavored condition of relative short stature.

Democrats lobbied for legislation that would have increased taxes to fund
GH-2I for all children.

Republican lobbied for legislation that would lift government restrictions and
"arcane" antitrust laws from large pharmaceutical companies so that the drug
could be produced more cheaply and prices would fall.

No one listened to the intellectual "elitists."

The Republican's won the day.

A "Growing" Problem:

The two largest makers of GH-21, BioCorp and GrowTech, merged in 2007 to form
BioTech. BioTech now controls 80% of the worlds Growth Hormone production,
which allows them to produce the drug quite cheaply. However, the prices have
never dropped.

The drugs got more expensive as the demand increased and so BioTech was able
to produce more powerful variations of the injection. In 2010, a powerful
version of their leading growth hormone hit the market. This drug was known as
GH-9I. With the new drug, children grew an average of nine inches over the
course of the treatment at a cost of $300,000.

New York Times reading, social-climbing moms as well as football watching, red
meat eating NASCAR dads rushed out to buy the drug for their kids. What choice
did they have? All of the other little girls and boys in kindergarten were
growing so fast. No self-respecting parent in the neighborhood wanted their
little Johnny, Suzy, or Jane to be the little shrimp of the class. Even the
fourth grade kids who had received this modern miracle of science were picking
on seventh grade kids, in some schools.

Doctor's were prescribing the drug to children "off-label" at an alarming
rate. The doctors' cited the studies on stature and success, as well as new
studies that linked relative small stature to low self-esteem in children. New
"specialty banks" sprung up for the sole purpose of loaning money to parents
who wanted their kids to succeed in life. Some parents took out second and
third mortgages to afford the drugs. A few parents refused to cave into the
craze, but opportunists even managed to exploit those folks. Insurance
companies started to indemnify children in the form of "bully insurance".
After all, the news would almost daily report stories in which normal sized
kids were accidentally killed by their peers who were nearly twice their size.

The dramatic effects were seen over the course of a decade. It was not
uncommon in large metropolitan and wealthy cities to see young people walking
down the streets who towered over the masses. In Beverly Hills California, the
average height of a 17 year old man and woman was 6'7" and 6'2" respectively.
Meanwhile, a 32 year old man and woman were 5'11" and 5'5" respectively. This
caused problems with trying to control hormonal, rebellious, and already
difficult to discipline teenagers.

The same cycle of events occurred when BioTech brought out their latest
product, in the year 2030. GH-36I was an instant hit, when it was released.
Just like the other versions, the drugs had to be taken as weekly injections
and it didn't work if the patient's growth plates had closed.

GH-36I practically created a new species of human in the families who could
save, borrow, or otherwise afford its $500,000 price tag.

Today, the typical height of an adult under the age of 26, who was raised in a
household who made more than $80,000 a year, is 9'0" for males and 8'6" for
females. These young adults are often colloquially referred to as "Idols" by
those whose parents couldn't afford the growth hormone and the older
generation who missed out. They have the same proportions as classic people
(what use to be called "average height people"), but they are simply much
larger.

My Opinion of the Current Problem and Proposal:

The infrastructure of our society has slowly been changing to accommodate our
new Masters. Of course, I'm being facetious...but it does seem as if Idols are
taking over the world. They've lobbied Congress to force new homes to be built
under new ADA-like standards to accommodate their outsized stature. Plus, they
are quickly becoming the "gold standard" in sports, entertainment, business,
and everything else you can think of. People simply have a tendency to listen
to a man when their eye level is even with his waist, I guess.

Part of the reason why I am embarking on this project is that I am a member of
the older generation who is stuck at a height that was even a bit small in the
2020's. I stand 5'7" in my shoes and now it's a hassle just to adjust to door
knobs that are set at chest level, and water fountains that require a step
latter to use.

My first (rather unpleasant) close encounter with an Idol occurred early last
year. Eight or nine feet tall may look big on paper, but words don't do it
justice. Until you have had the shade of a stooping 8'9" tall giantess fall
over you, while she pokes her thick finger in your chest and sprays threats
onto your forehead through seething whispers as you and her "discuss" her bad
test grade...you don't know intimidation. Needless to say, I changed her grade
to a "B".

Grown men shouldn't have to contend with such indignities.

I have also noticed, over the years, that each entering freshmen class
contained an increasingly greater gap between the statures of its students. A
quick visual sweep across the lecture hall allowed me to know which kids came
from more privilege backgrounds, and which kids had working class families.

I also noticed that shorter students, shorter males especially, were shunned
by the 6'5"+ crowd (GH-9I was relatively cheap) and the Idols alike. They seem
to live fairly miserable lives for people so young. I fear that most of the
classic height guys will be faced with the hurt and humiliation of dying a
virgin. The Idol girls who are their ages are often not attracted to small
guys. And the few who may be attracted to a classic guy (most of whom could
run under her legs without ducking) would be laughed at if she dated such a
squirt of a guy. And the few girls who are small enough for the classic guys
to have a relationship with, simply don't want to. They have other options. It
isn't unusual for a male Idol to be seen walking down the street, carrying his
pint-sized lover on his shoulders. All sizes of women love being completely
dwarfed by their men, and so classic girls go crazy for Idol guys. This leaves
nothing for the classic guys.

This phenomenon concerns me deeply. It's not the child's fault when the
parents cannot afford the growth drugs, and so smaller guys should not be
forced to suffer like they often do.

Therefore, I propose that I interview and document the lives of contemporary
classic men, relative to their other peers. I will post various logs, journal
entries, news clippings or stories from classic male students and the tales
that they tell. I hope to be able to bind these accounts in a publication to
eventually convince a civil or social rights group to look at possible
solutions to these problems.

I suspect that the project will cost between $30K and $150K to complete and
take less than two years.

To Be Continued?.....

O.K., here is the first entry into the project. This is a letter that was sent
to our protagonist that should further expand on a major problem in this
physically inequitable society. Please comment and let me know how you think
its going and if you think it should turn in a different direction.

Thanks...(Warnings apply...adult content here)

Dear Dr. Rosenblatt,

I was made aware of your research project through a website linked to the
University. I am 22 years old and I stand 5'10" tall at 160 pounds. I have a
beautiful daughter named Stephanie, whom I have finally come to love as my
own. She just turned two years old last week, and she's a really bright girl.
She is a classic, like her father and my father before me. I love her at her
classic toddler stature because I'm not one of those parents who worship at
the feet of giants. I just couldn't dream of injecting my baby with that
natural abomination of a drug after what I've been through (even if I could
have afforded it).

I've never done anything like this before, you see. I went back and forth in
my head for weeks as to whether or not I should actually write you.
Unfortunately, mine is a very painful story to tell. I simply wasn't sure if I
could talk about it to others. Frankly, I don't think any of us who were there
on that day, on that street, in that neighborhood, would want to remember it.

But I can't forget.

They say that the best place to start a story is at the beginning, and I'm not
one to mess with tradition.

I've never been the type to go against tradition. I was raised Catholic, and I
strictly followed the teachings of our Holy Father. My parents were first
generation Irish Immigrants who came to this country in the 50's with nothing
but a couple hundred bucks to their name. I was the first born of five
brothers, all of whom were American citizens by birth.

As we got older, we boys tried to do what we were told because it was clear
that our family was an underdog of society. My folks had it bad enough, trying
to make a way while being poor and all, but they also had to do so by working
for people who were twice and sometimes three times their size. They didn't
need us boys causing trouble and adding to their worrying.

Our mother cleaned the kitchens of giants all day long. Some weeks, it seemed
as if she spent more time cleaning up after their children than she saw of us.
She'd come home at around 10 pm every night, completely exhausted. Sometimes,
she would come home with bruises on her arm from where Idol kids had been too
rough with her in their playing.

One night, she came home very, very late; shaking and wet, like she had walked
home in the freezing rain. Normally, someone would give her a ride home
because we lived more than eight miles from the Idol community where she
worked. I was the only one of us still awake, at three O'clock in the morning,
besides my pop when she came through the door that night. I noticed something
wasn't right, immediately.

Her clothing was slightly torn in places and she appeared to have a dead look
in her eyes. She quietly walked around my brothers' sleeping bodies on the
floor and went into the bedroom, where my pops was watching television. She
left a faint trail of blood on the carpet as she walked across the one
two-room interior, from the front door to the bedroom door. She slowly closed
and locked the door behind her, which I remember because they always kept the
door open.

If you were to go back to our old home today and looked carefully, you would
probably still see my mother's dried blood trail on the carpet. My father
demanded that no one clean it up.

Shortly after my mom closed and locked that door, all of us were awaken by
terrible screaming coming from the room.

There was dreadful weeping. This was a hysterical and guttural weeping that
sounded like someone was going to give up the ghost. Then came what sounded
like a breathless scream. Followed by more choked crying.

I was especially disturbed because we grew up and lived in a loving household.
I don't remember ever hearing mother cry. Mother was a stern woman who never
even batted an eye at hardship. That's when it hit me. That's when I really
stopped hearing, and started listening.

Mother wasn't the one who was crying.

Then came the yelling and the profanity, and more crying.

At the time, I didn't understand what was going on, or what would make pop cry
so terribly. I tried to forget about it after that night. Other than the fact
that we had one less chore to do (cleaning the carpets) our family went on
normally the next morning, like nothing even happened the night before.

Pop died in the year 2060.

God Bless his soul.

That man worked his fingers to the bone. Everyday he would bust his ass,
assembling custom made furniture for Idol sized people. He mostly worked on
chairs and tables, but the effort it took to make oversized stools everyday,
seven days a week, became too much for the old man.

The doctor told the family that he died of cardiac arrest.

But at his funeral, I discovered that he really died of a broken heart.

Mother finally revealed the circumstances that led up to pop's rage on that
cold and rainy December night when I was just a boy. She said that it was
around eight O'clock, and the Yarbrough's had promised that my mother could
leave early because she had Christmas shopping to do. The Yarbrough's were a
family of Idols that got their money from an internet business, dealing with
the shipping industry, I think. Anyway, she said that she'd heard that the
family business had fell on hard times. Mr. Yarbrough was going to have to
sell the company that he founded in order to feed his family. But, even at
nine feet tall, he never had the courage to tell his family just how desperate
times had gotten.

That night, Mr. Yarbrough went downstairs to the kitchen from his office to
get another drink. Mother said that she could tell that he'd already drunk
several glasses prior to walking into the kitchen. My mother said that she was
adjusting her scarf, as it was time for her to go and she was getting ready to
leave. Mr. Yarbrough confidently and slowly strode over towards mom as she
reached up to grab her coat off of a door knob that she used as a coat rack.
Next, he knelt down to get a better look at her and asked if she could help
him finish some work that needed to be done upstairs, in his office. When my
mother refused, he supposedly confessed that he was upset about his failing
business. She said, he said that his business was doing poorly and his wife
was out spending money on Christmas gifts that the family probably could no
longer afford.

My mom claimed that she insisted that Mrs. Yarbrough had given her the rest of
the night off a week ago, and all chores were finished, as well as reading the
children their bedtime stories. But Mr. Yarbrough ignored my mother's awkward
attempt at changing the subject, effortlessly lifted her into his arms, and
carried her up the stairs without another word. According to my mother, Mr.
Yarbrough didn't say another word for the rest of the night.

And it turned out that he didn't need my mother's help.

But he did help himself to my mother.

She described to me in uncomfortable clarity how Mr. Yarbrough unbuttoned his
fly, readied himself, and forced my mother to ride him as he sat in his
office's wicker rocking chair. Possibly, a chair that my father painstakingly
assembled with bruised hands, years ago.

She claims that she struggled furiously to get off of him. I believe her. She
claims that she scratched his forearms while he pressed her shoulders down
slowly and firmly as she jostled in his lap with ever steady thrust. I believe
her.

She claimed that she didn't enjoy it.

I suppose that if I'd asked her for greater details, she would have sworn to
our Mother Mary that she despised the feeling she got when his ample member
penetrated and stretched her tiny womb to its boundary. Nor, she would have
said, did she enjoy it when he dug his fingernails deep into her shoulders in
ecstasy while her legs frantically kicked and scrapped the sides of his vast,
kaki-covered thighs. She would have also sworn that she cursed his strength as
he swallowed her to his chest and rocked her sweaty, exhausted, helpless body
into the wee hours of the morning.

I believed her when she first made that particular claim, all those years ago.

I don't believe it anymore. And if I knew then, what I know now...I would have
broken a Commandment and called my own mother a liar to her face.

But that was the past.

The reason that I write you today deals with my life as an adult. My family
was too poor to send me to college so I joined the Navy. After I finished a
four year tour of duty, I met my future wife at one of our ports off the coast
of Spain. Her name was Christina, and she was a stunning classic girl.

Most classic guys seem to have an almost obsessive sexual attraction to Idol
girls because of the wealth, power, and beauty that they represent. Those
women are simply unobtainable for classic men, and so that turns them on. A
classic guy doesn't have a shot of ever even flirting with an Idol girl,
unless he wants to risk his life. Knowing this, I stick to classic girls. They
are attractive, for my taste, and you don't have to worry about them beating
you to a bloody pulp.

Years latter, Christina and I married and moved into a small two-room
townhouse within the City limits. We didn't have a white picket fence yet, or
a yard for that matter, but we did have each other.

At that time in my life, I could have never imagined that the event that so
altered my life would occur just outside the door of our small townhouse.

<Enough for tonight. I'll finish this part of the story tomorrow. I think most
of the astute readers can figure out where this is going to go>

It was a Friday, when I first realized that something was wrong.

I came home from work that night at eight O'clock to country meadow inducing
smells of wildflower and jasmine, like I do pretty much every night. Christina
was already in the bed, so I had to make my own dinner. Normally, she would
have a hot meal ready for me when I walked through the door, but I could
forgive her for the occasional day off. After all, we both worked long hours.
My wife had been trying to run a small florist business from home to
supplement what I earned at work, and the progress was slow and draining.

I was so proud of Christina. She worked so hard, but she never complained. I
thought we were both genuinely happy people. I didn't think either of us could
have ever been more content with the way our lives were turning out.

I finished eating a BLT sandwich and took a seat in my recliner to watch the
Game. Even though the Pistons were already up four games to nothing in the
series against the Beavers, I still watched for the love of the game. Because
our bedroom door was closed, I figured that I didn't have to worry about
waking Christina and so I turned up the volume. I also have to admit that I
may have shouted a couple of times because I tend to get a little wound up
during the games.

I couldn't help it.

My father use to cuss up a storm when he watched basketball back in the "good
old days", and I guess that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Back in
those days, classic men still played in the league. Classic ball players were
even able to compete against the GH-9I players for a time. But once the first
Idol players entered the courts, the party was over. Now, all of the players
are Idols and the court has been tripled in size.

The game just isn't the same.

When all of the classic pros were retired from the game, many of them started
to lose the lifestyle and respect that the game had afforded them for so many
years. This gave blood sucking businessmen the idea to allow the classic NBA
pros to compete against the WNBA Idols, as a publicity stunt to increase
ticket sales. While this trend started with a bang, it soon fizzled out from a
loss of viewer interest.

Most games resulted in the lady's Idol team beating the men's team by triple
digit point spreads. The game becomes difficult enough when you're trying to
throw a slightly heavier-than-normal ball into a twenty foot basket from a
three point line, now inches away from what use to be a half-court position.
But it's impossible to do so with a couple of ten and eleven feet tall women
standing over you.

The games simply didn't look like basketball at all. It looked like a squad of
tall, athletic, championship-worthy lady basketball players versus a group of
nine year old boys, whose only exposure to the game was at the YMCA. Only in
the rarest games did the men manage to score more than ten points and sustain
less than five injuries. As expected, most of the best professional players
got tired of the humiliation that they faced on the court. Within a couple of
years, the whole "mixed-league exhibition game" craze ended.

This particular game ended the same way it does every year during the
Playoffs. The Beavers lost again.

I'm not saying that the Western Division sucks. I'm just saying that when
Davis and Suzukeitzu are the best players on the team, and the Beavers are the
best team in the Western Division; the East is going to take home a bunch of
Championships.

You know what I'm saying, Doc?

But anyway. Back to the reason I'm writing you.

I threw away my napkin and walked towards my bedroom. When I entered the room,
I had to feel my way to the bed because the lights were off and I didn't want
to wake Christina. When I found my side of the bed, I took off my clothes and
slid between the sheets. I must have failed to realize how tired I was that
night, because I went right to sleep.

I remember it vividly, and I won't spare the details because I want you to
understand exactly how I found out. You're a man of science, and so I trust
that you won't be easily offended.

I woke up at about five O'clock that morning. The first signs of dawn were
beginning to appear through the cracks in our bedroom shades as I got up to
take a morning pee. When I came back from the bathroom and took a look at my
sleeping wife, I recognized it.

I was a lucky man.

She was wrapped up in our comforter, but one of her shapely thighs was
exposed. Her skin was as smooth as silk, and her resting face could only be
described as angelic. Soft light glowed around her from the gentle kiss of the
morning sun while she lay on our mattress. Her soft, raven-haired locks curled
aimlessly; framing her face as she slept. The room felt balmy and still,
causing my t-shirt to stick to my frame with sweat and her negligee to do
likewise. She shifted a little in her sleep, which caused the comforter to
ride up her back to expose her legs and rump. Her legs were thick and toned.
Each one appeared swathed with baby oil from her midnight perspiration. Her
firm ass left nothing to the imagination as it refused to be contained by the
delicate blue silk which formed to it.

God, I was horny.

I could feel my crotch waking up as my wife stirred in her slumber, and I had
no time to waste, as work started at six O'clock. I made my way over to our
bed and climbed on top of her, straddling her legs between mine. She smiled
and let out a soft moan through her full, soft lips as she came to
consciousness from the shifting weight of my body. I started by placing soft
kisses on the back of her neck. She reacted by stretching herself taut and
letting out a morning yawn. By this time, I was fully erect and ready to
present myself to my lover and wife. Her buttocks arched towards me as she
sleepily slid her torso and supple breast down our bed spread. I cupped her
ample left breast from around her back with my left hand and I grabbed my
hardened cock with my right.

As we use to say in the Navy, "my target was established and I am preparing to
dock, sir."

I had to go in slowly. Frankly Doc, I'm a lot of man to handle and I loved my
wife too much to ever hurt her.

But, just like that night in December, many years ago...I noticed something
wasn't right, immediately.

It was just too loose.

Much, much, much too loose.

The absence of her tightening walls around my member as my hips pounded into
her lower back was a sensation that shocked me. I continued to mount her
anyway because my desire dragged me past feelings of confusion and hurt as I
continued each thrust. In my cloudy state of lust, I started to make excuses.

I thought that maybe I was not yet fully erect. But one quick look ruled that
possibility out. Then I thought that maybe I was imagining things. I managed
to convince myself that nothing had changed, so that I could stay hard. And
thanks to my ecstasy induced stupor, it was easy for me to suspend disbelief.

"This couldn't be happening to me", I thought at the time.

I was covered in sweat. My mind was racing, and I found it hard to concentrate
on pleasing my wife. In reality, she hadn't made nearly the same amount of
noise that our love-making normally induced. She let out a few soft moans
during the act, but not the normal mix of Spanish and English profanity and
dirty talk that often accompanied our morning routine.

Essentially, this was the worse sex that I'd ever had with my wife.

Have you ever rolled a hotdog down an open hallway before, Doc? Trust me, it's
not much fun. But even so, I was more frustrated than angry.

The outrage didn't set in until I ejaculated.

I just laid there, next to Christina. I was tired but not exhausted. She was
still practically asleep, and I suspect that she was never fully awake for any
part of my time in her.

I had to get to the bottom of this.

So I woke her.

I anxiously informed her of my dreadful suspicions. I asked her where she had
been doing during the time that I was at work. I asked her about her lack of
enthusiasm during sex. I asked her any number of questions that I thought
would lead to the truth.

She denied them all.

She said that we'd both been working hard and that I was imagining things. I
wanted to believe her, but no man could feel what I felt and forget his
suspicions. I wanted to go through another round of questioning, but I had to
go to work.

Work sucked because I was thinking about that morning during the whole shift.

When came back from work, Christina was sitting at the dinner table.

She told me to take a seat. That there was something that she needed to tell
me about.

I couldn't say that I was surprised. But, when you get down to it, no amount
of preparedness can ready a man for the revelation that his wife has been
having an affair. Christina told me that his name was Chris. He was the
manager at a flower shop, on the corner of the street on which we lived. When
I heard the news, my muscles involuntarily clinched. I wanted to march over to
the flower shop right then and there. I wanted to stand on that punk's neck
and pound his face until it looked like discarded ground chuck.

I'd seen that spoiled punk from time to time on my way to the train station.
He'd sometimes be loading boxes of fertilizer into the back of a truck with no
shirt on. Maybe he thought of himself as a tough-guy. Sure, the kid was
clearly pretty buff; but in my mind, a heavy metal bat to the knee or lower
back tended to make tough guys look weaker. And yet, Christina's new boyfriend
couldn't have been a day older than seventeen. I remember that he looked like
he might be Italian. He also looked like he was as dumb as a sack of shit, and
just as ugly. But being eight or nine feet tall apparently made him management
material.

I asked Christina how she could do this to me.

She explained that it wasn't something planned. She'd been seeing Chris on
Fridays, when she would go to pick up her orders for the next week. She said
that Chris was "an amazing guy". She said that he would complement her and
take her for walks in the park and to restaurants while I was out at work. She
also said that she felt safe with Chris, where she didn't feel safe with me.
She said that other guys wouldn't give her hungry looks when she was walking
with Chris, and she liked that. She also said some other things, but it's all
a bit blurry now because my head was spinning at the time.

I wanted to punch her in the face.

Prior that that moment, I had never wanted to do anything that could hurt my
wife. I wanted to protect her mentally and physically. But at that moment, she
could have died in that chair and the world would have been a better place. I
actually don't recall ever wanting to hurt anyone as bad as I wanted to hurt
her then. She apparently noticed the expression on my face, and the tension in
my body because she shrunk backwards a little. I was steaming. I'm ashamed to
say that I would have started to attack her earlier, if she had been having an
affair with a classic guy. But frankly, I was afraid that she would go back
and tell her boyfriend that her husband beat her up.

That's when she finished the news.

"I'm pregnant."

"It's Chris' baby."

"And, I'm keeping it"

I lost it.

I lunged at my wife. Scratch that. This woman couldn't have been my wife. My
wife promised to honor and obey me. She promised to stay with me until death
do we part. This was not my wife. This was not even a woman. In my mind, she
was a monster.

I punched her in her eye and she fell backwards in her chair. I got up from my
seat and picked her back up, so that I could through her back down.

I don't know how many times that I hit her. I just know that it ended with her
squatting, bruised and shaking in one corner of the room and me on the edge of
tears, sitting in the middle of the floor.

I wanted to cry, but I had to be strong. I didn't want to be like my father. I
swore to myself that I wouldn't be like my father.

The best pop could manage to come up with was a bloody stain on the carpet.
But that carpet represented manhood, in the eyes of me and my brothers. Pop
didn't want us boys to forget that women were lustful creatures that couldn't
be trusted. He wanted us to remember that they would betray their own family
for selfish reasons, if they ever got the chance. Or at least, that was the
message that I took from the memories of that carpet on that day.

That bloody stain on my mother's good carpet was the only bit of revenge that
my father could ever get.

Even though my mother tried to be discrete, my father was silently humiliated
every day. He never talked about it, but I heard the neighbors whisper and
titter. Apparently, the neighborhood found it knowingly odd that my mother
would continue to work for the Yarbrough family for many years, even though
she had been "raped". I'm sure my dad knew what was going on. But what was he
going to do? Was he going to go and pick a fight with Mr. Yarbrough? Was he
going to visit his house and stand there man to man, look up to his face from
crouch level, and beg my mother's giant lover to leave her alone? Not likely.
What if Mr. Yarbrough's wife had answered the door? She would have wondered
what business such a little man could have at their house. Then my father
would have had to stutter his way out of a potentially hazardous situation. He
also couldn't have called the police. While there was an increasing number of
Idol police officers on the force in those days, adultery wasn't (and still
isn't) a crime. So instead, pops just went through life, silently taking
medicine that he never asked to take.

After our fight, Christina didn't come back home for a week. When she did come
back home, she brought Chris along with her.

I heard the door bell ring and so I went to answer it. When I looked through
the peep hole, I saw Christina standing on the outside steps, wearing a hat
and a small bruise over her left eye that looked partially healed. I didn't
notice her boyfriend who was propped against the side of our townhouse until I
opened the door.

When I saw him from the corner of my eye, I tried to shut the door back but he
pushed against it. There was no way that I was going to be able to close the
door and so I admitted defeat to avoid the embarrassment of Chris having to
crawl on his hands and knees to come in after me.

I'm not going to go into the details, here.

But this kid effortlessly plucked me up by my shirt collar with one arm and
held me up to his neck level so that my feet involuntarily kicked in the air
around his stomach area from fright. He wasn't at all angry. On the contrary,
he was calm, firm and clear. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was never
to touch Christina again. He also told me that he was going to keep having sex
with my wife, and that she was going to have his child. By this time, I just
wanted to be put down. After every statement he would say "do you understand?"
and I would reply "yes sir". What else could I do? I also think I may have
soiled myself during the course of the conversation.

In a final insult, he explained that I could not leave Christina because the
baby was his gift to her and I would have to help her raise the child. He said
that he would come by and see his kid on special occasions, but he would offer
no money for any of the additional expenses.

I had to take on a second job.

It's not easy for a classic guy to find a good job. I got a lot of rejection
letters and no returned phone calls for the four months before I finally got
my job. A good number of the jobs had height requirements listed in the
classified ads so that classic members of society were unable to apply. From
what I'd heard, most hiring specialist believed that tall and Idol
customers/employees would not respect little people and so there was no point
to hiring us.

Finally, Christina got me a job working at the flower shop where she had met
Chris.

Time past, and eventually Stephanie was born into this world.

I can't say that I was thrilled. My wife quit her flower business so that I
would need to feed her and the new bastard, or else get my ass kicked by
Chris. Actually, I really resented Stephanie, at first.

She was the reason that I had turned into the man that I didn't want to
become. I had become pop. I worked every day from 6:30 to 8:00 at the factory,
and then I worked a night shift at the flower shop. The shop was closed to the
public after 8:00, but internet orders had to be gathered from inventory,
flowers arranged in their proper baskets, and the baskets had to be ready for
shipment in the morning. At least the work was pretty easy, and I didn't have
to deal with Chris on most nights. Chris was a manager during the day shift
because his size was envied by male customers and impressive to female
customers, which caused both to buy more flowers (the males in a competitive
show of wealth, and the females because they were attracted to him). Only on a
few nights did Chris ever have to come to a night shift. And even on those
nights, he left me alone. A few times Christina came over to have sex with him
in the stock room while I gathered all of the orders myself, but he didn't rub
it in my face.

As time went on, I found myself less and less angry at Chris and progressively
angrier at Christina. When I thought about it, I figured that I would have
done the same thing if our shoes were on the other foot.

Would I care about some little pipsqueak if I was an Idol and his wife wanted
to have sex with me? I guessed that it wouldn't be my business if she liked
big guys. That's between her and that little man, right?

Meanwhile, Christina was often smiling when I saw her. She was always well
rested because she had nothing to do all day, and she had the bedroom to
herself. I had to sleep in my recliner every night because I wasn't allowed to
touch my wife and I was afraid that I would roll over, resulting in my arm or
leg brushing against her. Plus, the baby's crib was in the living room, next
to my chair. When the baby cried at night, I had to change her and get her to
stop crying before Christina woke up. If Christina did wake up at night, she
would complain to Chris.

No more basketball games on TV for me.

After a year of this pace, I got up the courage to do something about all of
it. I was going to get back at Christina and regain my manhood at the same
time.

I started to hatch a plot that would eventually spin out of control, changing
my life and the lives of those who witnessed its culmination, forever.

<O.K. folks...that was page two. I've started working on page three of the
letter, and I think that it will be the final page in the letter. Can anyone
figure out what his plot will be?>

I awoke, that morning, to the sound of Stephanie wailing from her baby crib.

My eyes darted widely open from the startling noise, causing my heart and back
to jump forward. This was a daily habit that had become mundane to the point
that I no longer felt drowsy when I woke; even after only three hours of
sleep. Like clockwork, my recliner sat up as my feet touched the ground and my
knees sprung into action. I was required to tend to the princess or face the
possibility that her royal highness would wake from the shrill noise.

I hoisted Stephanie into my arms and held her against my shoulder as I
whispered soothing songs into her ear. She continued to cry in my arms after I
hummed her, several different songs.

I was forced to quickly resign to the fact that drastic times called for
drastic measures. Stephanie clearly wanted to hear her favorite song, and so I
gave in and let her hear it – so that she would shut up. Her favorite song,
back then, was the "Billy & Suzy Song.

I know what you're thinking, and you're right. But, it wasn't my choice of
song. She had apparently heard it on the television during a commercial break,
when I was at work. It was the only song that could guarantee quiet, and so I
had no choice. I'm sure you are familiar with the jingle because you would
have documented it in your research. Being a good Catholic, I think it's
spooky, and even a bit sacrilegious that they used the same melody as "Jesus
loves me" to prey on our fears.

(Melody)

"Billy and Suzy were twins, that's true;

But they lived apart, so that made them blue;

Suzy was smart, so she knew what to do;

She asked her mom to order GH-32

Noooow, Suzy is Really Big;

Noooow, Suzy is Really Big;

Noooow, Suzy is Really Big;

And she can do whatever she wants;

Billy's dad didn't want, that stuff;

He asked to grow, but dad said ‘tough';

Now the kids push and play real rough;

So he tried to work-out to get real buff;

But that's not enough;

No, that's not enough;

That's not enough;

And Billy will forever be small;

Then they grew up, the girls liked the boys;

No more Barbie's, no more toys;

Suzy went with Johnny to the Ball;

But Billy couldn't find a date at all;

‘Cause he was too small

‘Cause he was too small

‘Cause he was too small

He should have gotten a BioTech shot....

(slower) Ohhhh yes, he should have gotten a BioTech shot!"

Those BioTech executives ought to be dragged out into a public square and shot
in the head, if you ask me.

Of course, no one did ask me.

That's probably why BioTech's CEO got that "Presidential Award for Freedom",
or whatever it's called, at the Capital last week. I'm sure you saw that too.
Call me old fashioned, but I don't think that having the tallest median height
of any country in the world, warrants national jubilation. People use to say
that a man's worth is not measured by his height (even if no one really
believed it). But nowadays, people don't even pretend.

Anyway, I managed to coax Stephanie into falling asleep after a short while.

I gently laid her into the crib and tucked blankets around her sleeping body.
When I looked up at the clock in the kitchen, I saw that I would have had only
30 minutes to get to work. Fortunately, I had already laid out my plans for
the day during the previous night, and they didn't involve factory work.

I cleared my throat and started to practice altering my voice, in order to
achieve the maximum "pity effect". Then I picked up the phone and called my
boss. I managed to tell him, between coughs, that I was too sick to come in
that day.

Then, I picked up the only clothing that my wife allowed me to wear: my one
tattered shirt, pair of jeans, and tennis shoes from the corner of the room
and quietly put them on. I also might have fixed a sandwich before I started,
because Christina didn't usually wake up until around eleven O'clock. It was
only 5:40 by that time, and so I figured that I didn't have to rush out of the
door for fear of getting a direct order from "her highness". Just a weak prior
to that day, Christina had threatened to tell Chris that I had hit her if I
didn't repaint the house, clean the gutters, sweep the steps to our door,
clean the bathroom and cook her dinner in 24 hours. I was exhausted when I
finished my task; but I could still walk, my neck wasn't broken, and my head
wasn't covered in bandages.

I opened and closed the front door very quietly and started jogging down our
street. Any of the neighbors who may have seen me, probably thought that I was
going for a morning stroll.

They wouldn't have suspected that I was on a mission.

By the time I made it to the flower shop, it was about six O'clock. I jogged
around the brick building a few times, admiring the façade and wide pane
windows. The shop was filled with plants that provided beauty, fragrance, and
luckily for me; camouflage for the occasional prowling voyeur. As a matter of
fact, Chris was already walking around in the shop, but he couldn't see me –
thanks to the ascending rows of lilac that crowded the South window.

I however, could see him perfectly.

I figured that I needed to stay in my current line of sight, if I was going to
be able to keep my eye on that lanky punk. I looked over my shoulders towards
a gated green space between two small townhouses. There was an old oak tree
growing in the middle of the yard; darkly shaded by both sides of the
buildings. I knew exactly where to go, and so I wasted no time in scurrying
towards the base of the tree and climbing its trunk.

When I managed to straddle one of its sturdy branches, I waited and watched.

Have you ever sat in a tree, Doc?

I discovered that one sees many interesting events when he's perched in a
tree. You remember that line from that old song Country song, "Few people ever
stop their busy lives to sit and watch the world go by"? Well, that day I saw;
boxes lifted, flowers sold, cash registers manned, flowers sprayed, steps
swept, and flowers cut. The swept steps didn't stop several people from
slipping and falling at the entrance of the shop, which I observed on several
occasions. I also saw a classic mother struggling to push an infant, who
looked as big as a warthog, in her large pink stroller. I even watched a young
classic man as he tried to carry a basket of dandelions from the store, while
shielding them so that the tops didn't blow right off.

I didn't even know that flower shops sold dandelions.

Unfortunately, after six hours of watching and waiting, I lost my prowler
persona and started to get board. For a split second during this time, I
started to think that perhaps my whole premise was off. That, perhaps I was
sitting there like an idiot, wasting my perfectly good sick day.

Plus, it was really hot outside, that day. I started to figure that I would do
better in an air-conditioned room.

Of course, looking back, I wish I had climbed down from that tree. My life
would still be hard today, but I would have been able to look at myself in the
mirror, at least.

But before I could make that decision, I saw what I was looking for.

Someone was walking towards the shop to visit Chris. It was his lunch break,
after all.

Though her existence was not known to me then, I would have been surprised if
a girl didn't stroll up to the shop, sooner or latter. A young guy like Chris
isn't going to commit himself to a tiny married girl who wouldn't challenge
him.

This girl could definitely pose a challenge to Chris. She was probably about
nineteen or twenty, and she had a very confident stride. She was wearing tight
blue jeans, a pair of black pumps with low heals, and a cut-off white t-shirt
that may have been half-of-a-size too small. Even though I was sitting at a
distance from her, I could tell that she was quite attractive. She was wearing
a pony tale, like college coeds often do. She also had a trim, curvy figure
and long, slender legs. Her ample chest slightly tugged at the cotton fabric
of her T-shirt as she walked towards the shop. A paper bag was secured in her
right hand, and she had a black purse draped over her left shoulder.

Upon seeing Chris, the smiling young girl walked over to him and delivered a
tight embrace; and then the paper bag.

I rightly assumed that the bag contained Chris' lunch.

I also assumed that this was the woman that Chris called his girlfriend, when
my wife wasn't around.

As the young couple hugged behind the sidewalk glass window of the store, I
noticed that her shirt hauled up slightly as she reached her arms around his
neck; exposing her tight stomach. Chris hugged her in a secure embrace as she
tilted her chin slightly to meet his readied kiss. They kissed deeply for
several seconds. Beyond the layers of flowed rows, she revealed her long,
graceful stalk of a neck and her lean, tight curves through silhouette.
Everything about her was long, strong, and sexy.

She was a statuesque goddess. Only a couple inches shorter than her lofty
boyfriend, her legs seemed to go on for miles. I could also see that her arms
were vaguely flexed as they interlocked around Chris' neck. Her biceps, while
not fitness model muscle, were at least as toned as her butt, her legs, and
her stomach. I'm no slouch, Doc; but I would have felt absolutely ridiculous,
standing next to her.

She clearly worked out and stayed active.

Even at classic size, I figured that this girl could kick Christina's butt.
But at over eight and a half feet tall; Christina was going to be real sorry
that she slept with this massive chick's boyfriend. I started salivating while
I thought about how my wife would look, next to this woman. I estimated that
she would look like a little adopted four-year-old Spanish girl, trying to
struggle against the grip of her angry mommy. I started to wonder if Christina
would try to fight back against the giantess at all.

I was able to snap out of my wonderment, as my mind was obviously getting
ahead of itself.

I still had to follow her away from Chris, confront her with the news that her
boyfriend was cheating on her, and live to see her kick Christina's butt,
without her kicking mine for being the bearer of bad news.

I've never revealed this story to anyone before, Doc. I have plenty of guilt
and regret that I would like to get off of my chest. The neighbors don't
discuss it and I was too scared to go to the police. I know that this letter
has been extremely long, but please indulge me as I continue with my tragic
comedy. The rest of this letter will contain a lot of details about the events
that changed my life and the emotions associated with them.

After thirty minutes, Chris' girlfriend exited the shop and started to walk
down the street towards the train station. I climbed out of the tree and
started to follow her at a distance. I knew that I had less than ten minutes
to make my move because she was bound to step onto an Idol sized train, which
only goes to predominantly Idol sections of town.

Plus, it was very hot that day, and I was starting to sweat.

It would have been stupid for me to confront her in a location that is dense
with other Idols. I reasoned that having her peers watch her having a serious
conversation with a classic man could elicit deep embarrassment. The type of
embarrassment that causes people to act irrationally.

So after about five minutes, I crossed my fingers and started walking at a
faster pace, towards her. She was walking in front of me and I needed to close
our widening gap, so I eventually started to trot after her.

I can't remember a day in which sun felt so scorching.

My nervousness was held in check when I first started running up to her. But
my anxiousness level increased as she seemed to be getting bigger and bigger
with each of my steps. Her round, firm butt was above my eye level when I got
close enough to touch her. I would have had to reach out and above my head
slightly to grab one of her belt loops.

I pulled on her pant leg and tried to yell up to her height, "excuse me,
miss!?"

This gesture was apparently unimpressive because she continued to walk, as if
she had not felt or heard me. So, I shuffled up to her again and pulled harder
on the same place and yelled "uummm, miss!?"

This time glanced backwards over her left shoulder, barely bothering to cock
her head, and told me to "scram, you little piss-ant"; without breaking her
stride.

Clearly, she thought I was hitting on her.

So I gathered myself and ran towards her again. She had picked up the pace to
avoid me, and so each one of her steps was like four or five of mine. I
practically had to sprint to keep up with her. But this time, instead of
touching her, I started a dialogue.

I told her my name, and that I lived in the neighborhood near the flower shop.
She continued to walk and ignore me. I told her that my wife use to have a
flower business, which sent her to the shop on more than a few occasions. She
continued to walk. I told her that my wife was very pretty, for a classic girl
and that other guys would say the same thing. She continued to walk. Then I
told her, with a hint of coyness, that I thought that maybe her boyfriend also
thought my wife was very pretty.

That made her stop.

She spun around and glared down at me. I couldn't see her face or her body
very well, at this point because I was facing the sun; standing in her great
shadow. I could only see her enormous outline as she stood in front of me, not
moving an inch. For what seemed like several minutes, neither of us moved a
muscle. The silence was eerie enough to make me doubt the sanity of my plan.
My confident smugness was quickly beginning to dissolve in her unapproachable
stature.

I was starting to become worried and so I just looked straight ahead, to avoid
the dizzying spell that sometimes comes with looking up to the face of an
Idol.

Each one of her legs was as thick as my torso. Her hips completely filled her
jeans, and I would have had to shuffle a couple of half steps in either
direction to walk around her. I felt like I was being body-blocked by a
teenaged sexy coed, even though I was standing in a wide-open, public street.
And although we were not standing very close, I could feel incensed warmth
cascading off of her massive form.

She suddenly bent down into a crouching position; firmly grasping my arm as
she tugged me towards her in a single jerk. I naturally flinched as it looked
like a tower of pink flesh was collapsing towards me, but I wasn't going to
tug back. I realized in that moment that no matter what her plans were, I
shouldn't try to do anything to stop them.

After our bodies were inches apart, her massive hand slid down the length of
my arm until she was able to swallow my entire hand in her palm with two of
her fingers and an outstretched thumb.

I looked up towards her face as it approached mine because she leaned forward
and over me, still squatting on one knee. We were so close, that I could have
tilted my head up and kissed her square on the nose. Our distance, combined
with the fact that I was no longer completely engulfed in her shade, allowed
me to see her features perfectly.

She wasn't the model-perfect woman that I saw from a distance. I could see
that this girl had miniscule craters and blemishes around her face; plus her
tan, while perfectly toned, was a bit uneven at close inspection. But she was
still an amazingly pretty girl. She had bright green eyes; soft, naturally
plump pink lips; and a lovely oval-shaped face. Her hair seemed to be recently
oiled in its pulled backed style.

She tried to keep her face emotionless and calm, but her eyes showed signs of
tension.

She closed her massive hand completely around mine, but she didn't say a word.
At this point, she hadn't said a word since she told me to leave her alone.

Our eyes lined up and her gaze boar into me like a mother who was trying to
determine if her child was telling the truth about eating his vegetables. Her
fixed stare was piercing to the point that I could faintly make out my own
inverted reflections in her sparkling green eye lenses.

Her tightly sealed mouth was level with my collar and I could glance downwards
to see her colorless lips; drained of circulation from holding them together
so tight. I could also hear shallow breathing through her nose, and feel it on
my mouth. She waited in silence for several seconds and just looked intently,
directly into my eyes. I started to sweat around my forehead because my nerves
were getting away from me. How could I keep my composure when an attractive
giantess loams above to hold me captive by my own hand and my own peculiar
aversion to being manhandled? I couldn't. At that moment, I saw her in all of
her proportion and control. I felt utterly feeble.

I hopped and preyed that she wasn't beyond reason. My body started to quiver
and I said a prayer in my head that she wouldn't hurt me. I then started to
incoherently stammer out some sort of an excuse, or apology when she cut me
off...

..."What did you just say?"

Her voice, drowning my explanation, had a feminine quality that is both common
to women Idols and impossible to convey, in writing, because it was an octave
deeper than mine.

Her breath gust impacted both my collar and chin area in a puff of heat that
was as humid as the midday air. Right away, I recognized that her lunch menu
included a corned-beef sandwich, smothered in extra onion, melted cheese, and
probably a dill pickle. While this may sound appetizing to you as you read
this in your office; I can assure you that my sinuses were full of her air,
and it reeked. Some of the smell was masked by a hint of peppermint aroma, but
the stench of digested melted cheese and enough onion for a classic man to eat
for days, was too overpowering. My face involuntary clinched slightly from the
smell, but I tried to gather myself before I offended her. Her query had also
caused some spittle to spray my collar, producing a cooling sensation that ran
a chill up my spine. Glancing down towards the offending organ, I could see
that her lips had regained their pink hue.

I was frozen in her power.

She licked her full lips unthinkingly, even as I continued to gape at them.

She spoke again.

Seriously.

Deeply.

Threateningly.

"Don't make me ask you again, shrimp."

I awoke from my daze and quickly started to tell her my story.

She didn't move from her position as I told her most of tale that I have
written in this letter to you (sans the great details and the parts about my
wife bullying me, via Chris). By the time I finished speaking, her face no
longer remained emotionless.

She was pissed.

There was no doubt about it. She was squeezing my hand too hard for it to be
anything but rage. So, I figured that this would be a good time to beg her not
to hurt me. I told her that this wasn't my fault and that I couldn't tell her
boyfriend to stop because I was too small.

Upon hearing this, her face softened and she let go of my hand. She apparently
still had her mental faculties, because she realized that I was right. She
even apologized to me and said that I was just as much of a victim as she was
(well, really more so; but I was in no position to get in an argument with
her).

Then she took a seat on the ground, and spread her massive legs in a "V" on
either side of my standing frame. She tightened her gaze on my face again, and
hooked her massive arms around my waist to pull me close to her like an
overstuffed teddy bear. She looked down on me and said exactly this:

"Listen up little guy. You're going to tell me exactly where that little tramp
is hiding, right now. And then we are going to walk over there so that me and
her can have a little heart to heart. Got it?"

I remember smiling at her, and nodding my head. She never would tell me her
name, and I never asked. I was just glad that she was pissed at Christina and
not me.

Everything was going according to plan.

But it was still really hot outside.

It took several minutes for Chris' girlfriend and me to pass the flower shop
and the several rows of townhouses, separating the train station from
Christina's home. Well, it was technically our home, instead of "Christina's
home," but when a man is not the king of his castle he starts to feel as if he
never lived in a castle at all. By this point in the relationship, I couldn't
sleep in my own bed, eat my own food, or use the bathroom in my own house. She
held all of the cards and she played them all mercilessly. Eventually, I
stopped lamenting the lost collection of brick, vinyl siding, wood panels, and
insulation that I once called home. I instead, started to view it as my wife's
home; a home where I was just a visitor.

My best educated guess leads me to believe that Chris never saw us through the
window as we passed the shop. If he had, he would have run out of the store to
intercept his Idol girlfriend and his "classic girl-toy's cuckolded husband"
as we marched down the street together. To this day, I often wonder whether
the entire tragedy could have been averted by Chris, had he seen us in that
moment.

But he didn't see us.

By the time the giantess and I arrived at Christina's house, I could barely
take another step. I was drenched from perspiration; near exhaustion because
the giantess had walked at the sort of brisk pace that demanded a full sprint
from my ridiculously shorter legs. In my eagerness, I didn't wait to catch my
breath to inform the Idol that "this is the house." Through gasping pauses, I
crafted and conferred language designed to irk the colossus; revealing to her
that the woman who seduced her boyfriend sat smugly inside that very abode.

She stood silent for several minutes as I panted, desperately trying to steady
my pounding heart rate. When I finally began to regain my composure, I cocked
my head upwards to gaze into her face; instantly realizing that she had gotten
increasingly heated during the intervening moments. Chris' enormous girlfriend
anchored herself over our front steps, her legs astride on either side of the
railings and her hands on her hips.

The giantess actually seemed annoyed at the house; as if the building was
quietly challenging her through its comparable height. She was seething at a
dwelling in which she could never fit; a humble abode, further humbled by the
giantess' presence. It was like a grownup standing by a deluxe model backyard
playhouse for young kids (you know, the ones for ages 4 and up). Her pink
cheeks grew flushed with scarlet and she bristled with anger. Her breathing
deepened, and she unconsciously snarled; briefly curling part of her glossy
upper lip and exposing a slight sheen from a porcelain white incisor.

At that moment, I feared that she would break the door down to crawl in after
Christina. But through begging, pleading, and calming sentiments, I was
somehow able to convince the enraged goddess to control her excited
disposition.

Honestly, I didn't really care about what might have happened to Christina,
had the Idol seized her. It was a matter of practicality. I was expecting a
divorce after the scenario played itself out, and I didn't want my house (or,
what would again become my house) to be destroyed. Therefore, I wanted to
isolate the brawl to the front street.

In a flash of bravery, I told my new friend (well, asked her, really) to hide
against the left corner of the townhouse, next to the heat-pump and the rose
bushes, while I opened the door. The giantess was decidedly more relaxed, and
so I assumed that I was safe in making that request. If she had wanted to
ignore me and break my house into splinters, it would have been her natural
right to do so by our relative size and weight. Truth be told, a burp in my
direction from that gargantuan adolescent would have triggered my feral
instincts - forcing me to flee. But, to my relief, she agreed to my plan.

I had been secretly hoping for the giant to remain calm and display the same
sort of calculated, intimidating, and threatening techniques that Chris had
used on me. I wanted Christina to be just as humiliated as I had been.

I was almost giddy with excitement when I rang the doorbell, alerting
Christina to my presence. I'm ashamed of that fact now. But you have to
understand my mental state at the time. Christina had taken my key to the
house, months ago, and so I had to ring the doorbell to gain access to the
home that I paid the mortgage on. And so, I didn't feel like a man.

Now was the time for me to recover my manhood.

I could hear my wife say "just a minute;" her tone muffled by the thick pine
door. This only caused me to ring the doorbell several more times in quick
succession. Certainly she would never think that I would have had the balls to
do something like that, so I knew she would come faster.

Sure enough, I could hear footsteps approach from behind the door with an
"O.K., O.K...just a second".

Doc. You should have seen her face when she opened that door.

My wife was just standing there; damp with moister in a terrycloth pink
bathrobe with her wet curly hair uncombed and dripping onto her fluffy pink
shoes. She had clearly just taken a shower and she must have been in the
middle of getting dressed for the day. She was wearing one of her slim Rolex
watches and one of her legs was partially covered in white foam, apparently
from where she hadn't finished her morning shave. Never mind the fact that it
was well past one O'clock in the afternoon, which meant that I would have been
about seven hours into my shift at work.

One O'clock and she hadn't even bothered to get her ass out of bed, until
recently.

She saw me, Doc, and her face almost hit the ground in shock. Her eyes were as
wide as her mouth and her mouth was agape. She was at a total loss for words.
Crimson spread across her face in a flash while her arms tightened and her
fists clinched. She started to shake with indignant rage. It was finally her
turn to feel angry and humiliated.

I regret rubbing it in now, but I couldn't hold back my pressing sentiment.
With a great smile, I said..."hello, my dear."

She was about to start yelling at me when I interrupted her to say, "I just
wanted to introduce you to my new friend."

After I signaled for the giantess, the weight under my feet seemed to shift
slightly as the colossus stepped behind me, into plain sight.

I was facing my wife, and so the back of my head cooled as her shadow fell
over both of us.

The sight must have been awesome from Christina's perspective.

Looking over either side of my shoulders she would have seen one of the
giantess' massive thighs. Each thigh must have looked like an azure pillar;
denim covered firm muscle that could easily be mistaken for lacquered concrete
support columns for some divine structure – each much too heavy for my petite
wife to manage.

As she looked up further, she would have seen hips that filled blue jeans like
tight spandex. Tight enough to see the young giant's Idol-sized house key,
outlined against her front hip pocket. And yet, the pants were spacious enough
for Christina and me to have snuggled closely in slumber together using just
one leg - lying under the stars during much happier times.

As she lifted her eyes and tilted her head further backwards, she would have
seen an enormous taut stomach; a wall of tanned-pink athletic flesh, which was
most likely the product of countless sit-ups and sideways crunches per day.
The giantess was in amazing shape. My wife must have born witness to a complex
of feminine ridges that would have signified raw intimidation to, and power
over, such a diminutive woman. Because I was facing away from the giantess, I
could only imagine that her stomach was covered in minuscule, translucent dots
of streaking moisture from the unseasonably hot day.

As my beloved wife's eyes traveled further, she would have seen the giantess'
white shirt, barely containing her well endowed chest. Those breasts would
have appeared as giant orbs of womanhood, revealing all of my wife's
inadequacies. I imagined that Christina must have felt like a little
prepubescent girl who goes back to school, only to face the horrible discovery
that she is the only one of her friends who has yet to develop a womanly
figure.

This was a lot for my little lady to take in at one time.

I was looking directly at my wife's face and I could see her steady resolve
start to crumble, and her indignation start to ebb away. I watched her eyes
move further up and her head tilt further back. Here, through light and shadow
from shear eclipsing size, she would have seen the giantess' furious
expression.

It's hard for me to imagine what the Ogress looked like at that moment, but
from my wife's reaction, it must have been a terrifying sight. Darkening
circles formed around Christina's eyes and she silently gasped, unable to
gather the air required for a scream. My wife then shut her eyes and dropped
her head in defeat. Her legs became wobbly, causing her to grab the right
railing to our front steps so that she wouldn't fall.

The next words out of her mouth shocked my senses.

She spoke loudly enough for us both to hear, but she remained bowed - not
daring to lift her head to the young giantess.

"You...you must be Rebecca"

Christina took a swallow of her own saliva and started to sputter some more
words. These words were supposed to take the form of an apology, but they
sounded like an unintelligible and stammering attempt at an explanation.

Her inane clarification was cut short as Rebecca nonchalantly bent forward at
the waste; her cleavage spilling against the top of her tightened cotton
shirt, while gathering the fabric of the front of my wife's bathrobe into her
powerful fingers. My wife's reflex action caused her to grasp both hands
around Rebecca's wrist as the oversized fist tugged at the bathrobe. Christina
was effortlessly being pulled forward and upwards by an angry woman who was
twice her size. There was just no way for Rebecca to be stopped.

I stepped off and away from the steps at this point, and moved onto the front
street.

I watched as my wife's legs slowly detach themselves from the ground and
ascend skywards by Rebecca's straightening form. Her legs dangled hopelessly
and wildly in midair. The sight was almost comical; like a smaller but feisty
puppy and a much larger puppy play-fighting in someone's yard. While Christina
was looking wild and desperate, Rebecca's expression was one of contempt. At
this point, she really seemed more annoyed than angry at the little shrew.

Rebecca held Christina up to her face with a clinched fist, grasping the front
of my wife's robe, until she calmed down. Once she had resigned herself to
giantess Rebecca's control, she was given a choice. Rebecca told Christina
that she just wanted to know the truth. She spoke to my wife in a clear tone,
overemphasizing every syllable with her mouth, and occasionally poking
Christina's stomach using her free index finger. My wife's face grimaced with
each poke, but she didn't want to give the giantess any satisfaction by
begging her to stop. Rebecca made it clear that if she was lied to, she was
going to beat my wife to a pulp. Every irritated word blasted my wife's face
with the same searing, putrid, and soggy deli odor that I had experienced
earlier. Rebecca held Christina's face at an offensively close distance so
that their nose often bushed together. During the lecture, she periodically
reminded Christina of their sizes by saying things like, "Sweetheart, look how
puny you are," "I've taken bigger dumps than you," and "I mean, look at
us...what would my Chris want with you? This is ridiculous."

When Christina made a dim attempt to beg through choked tears, her jaw was
vibrated shut through the overpowering tone of a goddess and the violent,
saliva-spattering roar of a savage beast. The thought that such a pitiful
creature would try to talk over her caused Rebecca to lose her composure;
becoming incensed beyond reason. Rebecca yelled out commands, profanities, and
threats, such as, "shut the fuck up when I'm talking...only big girls are
allowed to speak," "when I want your input, I'll squeezed your head," "how
dare you talk back to me, you little shit," and "I ought to take you home and
toss ‘ya to my little brother...I doubt you'd have much in common with a boy
who's twice your size and half your age, but he's an imaginative boy...I'm
sure he'd figure out something for you two to do." Even when Rebecca wasn't
yelling, she was using a thunderous mocking whisper throughout her menacing
interrogation.

Her size caused her voice to carry most of the conversation across the
neighborhood.

At this point, some of the neighbors could be seen peaking out of their
windows.

During the later part of their one way conversation, Rebecca started to calm
down. It was then that Rebecca pointedly told Christina that she would not be
hurt and all would be forgiven, if she was completely honest. Rebecca shook my
wife violently in the air and told her that she wanted to know the exact
nature of her and Chris' relationship. Adding, "If you give me any bullshit,
I'll use you as my personal footstool."

She then gave Christina a chance to speak.

Seizing the moment, Christina took no pause in spilling the beans. She
explained, with total honestly, how she met Chris and how their relationship
bloomed. She told the giant that she didn't mean to hurt anyone but me and
that she genuinely loved Chris.

Christina held up her end of the deal and remained honest during the entire
explanation.

Rebecca lied.

Upon hearing of Christina's unyielding love for her boyfriend, Rebecca swung
her arm and my wife up and over her shoulder; releasing her grip.

Christina's flailing body was launched nearly sixteen feet in the air, for
what must have been several seconds. When she came back down, she came down
hard. The crash dislocated her right shoulder and brushed some skin off of her
right knee. She was bleeding from both legs and her robe was tattered; her
face covered by callused scratches from the fall and running splatter from
Rebecca's inadvertent spit mixed with Christina's own fear-induced sweat.

When I saw my wife's blood drip on the asphalt, my heart opened up. I started
to regret my plan; realizing that I had taken it too far.

Rebecca turned around and started to stride intently towards my wife's bruised
and cowering body. She was wearing that snarl again, and she had a crazy look
in her eyes. She put one of her fists into the open palm of her other hand and
squeezed; cracking her knuckles audibly as she walked forward. My wife, still
hunched into a ball of agony in the middle of the street, started to moan when
she heard the giantess pop her knuckles. As Rebecca stepped closer, I couldn't
help but feel shocked by the injustice of the situation. Rolled forward, on
the street, Christina looked like a wounded puppy dog being abused by its
cruel master.

Several of the neighbors had seen the Idol girl throw my wife in the air, and
so they came out of their houses in a mixture of curiosity and horror.

I foolishly jumped in front of Rebecca as she approached her prey, in an
wasted attempt to halt her onslaught. I raised both of my arms in front of me
with palms exposed and yelled, "please stop! This has gone far enough!"

To my surprise, she did stop.

Standing a couple of feet away, she looked down on me with a condescend smirk;
not unlike the smile of an amused schoolteacher whose five-year-old pupil just
gave her a "time-out". She then stooped down onto one knee; never breaking eye
contact. Bending forward, she relaxed her arm and placed her right hand
against my chest; her fingers spread outwards so that all five of her finger
tips touched in a different place on my torso. Then she simply straightened
her arm, giving me a stiff shove against my chest that sent me sprawling to
the asphalt.

Briefly stunned, I heard an ascending giggling as my focus returned; still
rubbing the back of my head after it had impacted the ground. Before I had a
chance to pick myself up, Rebecca grabbed me under my arms like a toddler and
lifted me into the air with neck jerk speed. I may have screamed from fright
at this point, I don't recall. What I do recall is that she held me firmly
against her chest with her left arm, and cradled my bottom in her right hand.
I felt a forceful heat emanating from the giantess body. I thought that she
was going to kill me right there for my insolence. Instead, she whispered that
I shouldn't interfere, and that "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I
have to."

She then extended her arms forward as I dangled in the air. Relaxing her grip,
I fell eight or nine feet from her chest level to the ground.

Clearly, I was no match for her.

I gathered myself to my feet and stumbled out of the giant's way.

Looking back, I saw Rebecca deliver a swift and solid kick to Christina's
side; doubling the little woman over in pain and causing her body to roll so
that she bowed towards the street. Christina was no longer crying, but I
watched in horror as the giantess raised her colossal foot and brought it down
onto my wife's back....hard.

Immediately, I saw specks of blood exit Christina's mouth and sizzle upon
impact with the hot asphalt.

Enough was enough.

A large crowd of neighbors had gathered outside, due to all of the commotion.
Everyone was just standing shocked in a semicircle, a mere ten yards from
where my wife was being murdered.

I yelled out to the group of my friends, confidants, social peers, and work
colleagues, "won't somebody do something? If we all work together, we can stop
this!"

Many faces in the crowed looked guilty, but everyone was too scared to do
anything.

"Come on...why are the men just standing around? One of our own is being
beaten in our own street. In our own neighborhood...why won't anyone fight?!"

At this a few of the men appeared to find resolve in their hearts. Some of
them even began to roll up their sleeves, but none of them had taken a step
towards Rebecca. They just looked at one another and waited for the other
person to go.

"My God! Are we fucking men, or are we mice? Come on then! Let's move!"

Rebecca, sensing the increasing bravery amongst the crowd, turned towards the
dwarf mob and started to walk in our direction. Shocked by this, some of the
men start to take a few pensive steps backwards. Rebecca appeared much larger
when walking closer to the group than she appeared when she was attacking
someone else in the distance. The various intensifying attempts to retreat
were all halted when Rebecca boomed, "All of you, stay right there! Don't move
another inch!"

Upon hearing the goddess yell, some of the female neighbors started to cry; I
also guess that some of the men must have felt their cheeks numb and their
stomachs drop.

I know mine did.

The giantess came upon the crowd, standing above us with hands on hips. There
was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was completely in charge.

She paused for several seconds, sizing up the pack.

Rebecca was a bully, and all bullies display the same behavior, no matter what
their size. She took a step into the crowd as little people backing away from
her on every side. After scanning the group, she locked her greedy eyes on the
smallest guy in the group - as bullies often do. This guy barely cleared the
top of Rebecca's knees. Of the guys who stood in the crowd, he was the least
able to defend himself.

No one even noticed him, until that time.

He was standing near the back of the crowd, about 5'3" with a slight frame and
coke-bottle-thick glasses. He wore his freshly ironed kaki pants snuggly over
his waist, his buttoned down yellow flannel shirt neatly tucked into his
kakis, and his black and white striped bowtie tightly tied. He fit the
stereotype perfectly. None of the neighbors knew him, but I found out later
that his name was Tom. He had just moved into the neighborhood from Omaha and
was just getting settled. He was single, had never had a girlfriend, and his
mother had just died a week ago. If that wasn't bad enough, when he woke up
that morning, he discovered that he had been dropped from his health insurance
provider because the company that he worked for was purchased by a group of
Idol investors who decided not to cover classic employees. And finally, his
car had been towed that day; four hours after he was pulled over and ticketed
for speeding.

And yet, the little guy's day was about to go from bad to worse.

Rebecca bent forward and reached down over the crowd with surprising quickness
as men and women scattered in either direction to avoid her lunging arm. She
grabbed Tom's wrist and yanked his arm violently towards her, venomously
teasing, "come here, little guy." His shoulder and elbow joints snapped as his
body jerked upwards and off of the ground, causing his head to collide with
her ample and pert chest. Coincidently, his face was lined up so that his left
eye deeply impacted her right nipple through the T-shirt – instantly rendering
his eye useless.

Tom screamed, hit the ground in pain, and grabbed the side of his head to stop
the bleeding. He started to cry and he tried to pick himself up, only to be
stomped on his left side by the sole of Rebecca's tennis shoe. The toe of her
shoe rested on Tom's armpit, while the heel rested at his waist; covering his
wounds in the dirt that was stuck to the treads of her soles. She then
maliciously shifted her weight to the leg being using to pin Tom, causing a
cracking sound.

Tom's ribs had given in to the weight.

She then lifted her foot off of Tom and reached down to grab him by his left
ankle. Yanking him skywards, she swung him back and forth, laughing girlishly
as he dangled upside-down from her full height.

I don't remember what she said when she let him go. I just remember the
distinct cracking sound the ground made as his head broke and spilt all over
the asphalt. His legs spread apart haphazardly, extending upwards with his
broken and flattened skull acting as a balance.

After seeing this, I couldn't stand up anymore. I was feeling sick and
confused, and so I just needed to sit on the ground for a little bit...you
know, to think things through.

"Who's next?" the giantess then said with satisfaction.

For the first few seconds, it was quiet. I sat on the ground, trying to
breathe deeply.

Finally, one of the women let out a blood curdling scream that was quickly
quieted by her husband's hand as he cupped it over her mouth and gave her
shaking body a tight embrace.

Nobody said another word as all of the neighbors slowly meandered away from
Rebecca.

After a couple of minutes, everyone had made it back to their respective
houses; audibly shutting, locking, chaining, and re-locking their doors.

Tom's corpse lay in the street, five feet from where I sat. Motionless.

Rebecca gave me another condescending smile before she walked back towards my
wife, who had somehow gained the strength to stand up.

When Christina saw that Rebecca was coming towards her for round two, she
started to howl. Now, this wasn't your typical yell, Doc. This was more of an
incredulous shriek; a horrible wailing noise that has cursed my nightly
dreams, ever since. The yell was primal. Like the kind of noise that a pack
animal makes as it's eaten by its much bigger predator. It was a sound of
outrage; a cry towards Heaven, asking God "why me?" It was a sound that has
constantly haunted me; ultimately causing me to lose my Faith.

Rebecca giggled in delight from my wife's screeching.

I assume that this caused my wife to completely lose her mind.

She charged head first at Rebecca, swinging her arms wildly and yelling at the
top of her lungs. Mucus, blood, and tears flowed from my wife's pores as she
gained ground upon her unfeasible target. Rebecca yielded initially, taken
aback by her prey's reaction, but that startled sensation was soon replaced
with joyous laughter as Christina beat her little fist against Rebecca's
thighs. Each frantic blow was wholly absorbed through the giant's tight
muscle. Christina was using every fiber of her strength, but trying to beat up
a tall Idol girl is an utterly futile task.

Christina eventually fell at Rebecca's feet from exhaustion.

The giantess casually reached down and started to tear off what remained of my
wife's robe; stripping her on a public street, in front of the entire
neighborhood.

Though, my wife no longer struggled, she continued to cry painfully and
loudly; her sobbed expression twisted in perpetual horror and alarm.

I can remember that the heat was starting to get getting to me. I was very
confused and I remember repeatedly thinking "How did this happen?" "My God,
how did this happen?"

Next, I remember that the giantess grabbed Christina's throat and laid her
face-up in the road. I witnessed Rebecca sit down on the street, beside my
wife, and roughly pin her back against the asphalt with a commanding arm.

The last thing that I remember is watching the love of my life's innocent
womanhood being savaged by the thrusting middle finger of a massive,
unstoppably powerful, and insanely jealous woman.

I don't remember anything else.

When I regained my senses, everyone was gone.

The front road was empty, and the night was undisturbed but by a public street
light. As I stumbled to my feet, I noticed that two puddles of blood remained
on the street; unwashed, like the stain on my mother's carpet. But this stain
was different in that it was filled with flesh remains, bone, and teeth like
I'd never before seen.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't find it in me. I remember being tired, and
thinking that I just wanted to go to bed. I guess I figured that I'd clean the
blood in the morning with a garden hose or something.

Still dazed, I walked towards home.

I walked up the stairs and into the house before I suddenly regained my
humanity.

There, standing in the crib, was my daughter. Stephanie was bouncing up and
down, smiling contently and innocently; completely unaware that her mother had
been killed.

And that's when I cried.

I walked up to Stephanie and held her in my arms, and cried and cried. She
started crying too, after a while. I realized that I loved her so much. She
was my entire world, and it didn't matter if she wasn't my biological
daughter. She belonged to me, and I loved her.

Growth hormone has ruined my life, and taken my angel's mother away from her.
I hope that you can find someway to curtail this unaddressed global plight.

Sincerely,

X

Thomas P. O'Brien