Short People By Karma (karma_aw@yahoo.com) A short story about (you guessed it) short people. First of all, I know I’m short. Even though I am a relatively intelligent person, everyone seems to be compelled to tell me, "Gee, you’re short!", as if I didn’t know that fact already. Each time I grit my teeth and smile very politely at them, consciously suppressing the impulse to kick them right in the balls (if it’s an asinine male) or in a related part of their anatomy (if it’s an equally asinine female). Yes, I’m short. If I really, really stand on my tiptoes and am having a high hair day, I can pretend I’m 5’ even. I still know in my heart of hearts that I am actually 4’ 10 5/8". I have taken abuse for my structurally disadvantaged body for as many years as I have been on this wonderful earth. I compensate in many ways. I refuse to wear lifts, for one. I decided that if God (if there is a God) made me short, he (if God is a ‘he’) had a damn good reason for it. I’m still searching for that reason, but in the meantime I try to find some humor in my circumstances. I also make damn sure that everyone around knows that I am damn good at my job, and that the entire company would crash and burn in spectacular flames if ever I were to leave. I decided early in my life that if God (if there is a God) gives you lemons, sell them to someone else so they can go through the trouble and turmoil of making lemonade. I sell. I sell a lot. I sell so much that... well, words fail me. Suffice it to say that I could sell shampoo to Burt Reynolds. I could sell push-up bras to Twiggy. I could sell gloves to Harold Russell. I could sell Ginsu knives to O. J. In fact, I did... But that’s another story. I also work out. I decided that (boy, I decide a lot of things, don’t I? It must come with being a salesperson) there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about my height, but the rest of me was my responsibility to do with what I could. So, I started working out. I discovered two things - first, that I was good at it, and second, that I enjoyed the living hell out of it. I found that strength is not dependent on height. I am strong - very strong - but I hide it well. Prospective customers would not be enthused to find that their cute little salesperson is as strong as the proverbial damn ox. (By the way, why is it that a team of oxen is not called an oxtet? Wouldn’t that be appropriate? Instead, they are just called ‘a team of oxen’. Boring.) (Also, by the way, would two strong people be referred to as being as strong as oxen? I think not.) So - I hide it. I always wear long-sleeved shirts so that no one can see how big my arms are. I take care not to accidentally lift something or, God (if there is a God) forbid, open a jar that a macho male is struggling to open. So, life goes on. I am relatively happy, financially secure, contentedly romantically unattached (except for a few and occasional light-hearted flings) and physically fit. Also trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. If I were a boy, I’d be a good Boy Scout. A few weeks ago, we got a new employee here at... Wait, I better not tell you where I work. You’ll be looking for addresses, home pages, phone numbers, etc. trying to reach me. Let’s just say that a new employee started here. I heard about Gwen through the grapevine long before I saw her. When I thought about it, I realized that I probably would never have seen her unless we were introduced, since the two of us could have wandered about the cubicle farms all day and never even seen the tops of each other’s heads. Yes, she is also short. In fact, when I met her, we both broke out in wide grins, quickly acknowledging our shared short stature. I told her it was fun to finally have someone around that I could see eye-to-eye with. After smiling politely, she told me that it would be nice for her to work someplace where another person always came up short when it was time to collect for a birthday present. I told her where she could find the high chairs in the lunchroom. She offered to lend me her stepstool when I needed to get a pencil out of my top desk drawer. It was all in fun - I think. Short humor - sometimes it’s all that keeps us sane. Except for Randy Newman - we’d all like to take him out back and lynch him. Anyway, and somewhat surprisingly, we became good friends. It wasn’t just the stature that did it; I liked her style. She had a wicked sense of humor that matched mine, and co-workers soon learned to avoid us if they wanted to continue liking us. We would often arouse good-natured grins as we flew down the hallways, short legs churning. One co-worker said that he kept trying to interpret the Morse code sounds of our heels clattering on the parquet-floored hallway. When he mistakenly decoded one spirited sprint as our invitation for him to have sex with both of us at once, he became an ex-co-worker (Hey - How many times can you use two ‘-‘s in the same word? It’s kind of fun.) So, there we were at work. It was a Saturday, so there were not any other fellow workers around. Gwen and I had agreed to rearrange a few things in our shared conference room. It was hard and hot work. I was dressed, as I usually am after-hours, in a sweatshirt and sweat pants. Gwen was dressed much the same. Even though it was warm with the building air-conditioning turned off for the weekend, neither of us took off our sweatshirts. I knew why I left mine on, but I wondered about Gwen. Our work progressed. As is usually the case, a small job mushroomed (or ballooned) into a major undertaking. One damn thing led to another, and we soon realized that several boxes had to be moved so we could move the table into the corner so the copier could be shoved over so the new PC would be close enough to the electrical outlet so.... You get the idea. Before I could get over to help, Gwen reached down and picked up a box of paper. She lifted it easily and carried it across the room and set it down. I looked thoughtfully at her, then lifted a box myself. It was as heavy as sin (if there is sin), and I carefully kept my face expressionless as I set it in place next to hers. She looked at me and raised one eyebrow. I smiled as innocently as I could (which wasn’t very much - Innocent and I do not go well together). I was amazed and thrilled at the surprising strength she had just exhibited. I knew how much effort it took to move that weight, and she had barely broken a sweat. The competitor in me came to the fore when I saw her show off, and I couldn’t help but try to match her. It soon became obvious that Gwen was just as competitive as I was (am). Gwen very deliberately went over to the boxes and slowly lifted another one. She looked at me, and I swear I could read every word of challenge in her gaze. I joined her, bent down and hoisted my box. We looked at each other. I shifted my box, balanced it on one hand, and then removed the other hand so I supported all of its weight with one arm. Gwen’s eyebrows shot up so far I thought they’d disappear into her hairline. She looked down at the box, back up at me, then down at the box again, and carefully adjusted her hold on the box. "Voila!" she said with a grin, holding her box high (so to speak...) We just looked at each other for a few seconds, wide grins on our faces. Finally, I set my box down. "So, sweetheart, you’ve been holding out on me," I said, in my best Bogie. She set hers down beside mine and stood, hip cocked in an extremely poor imitation of a sultry pose. "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, big boy," she smirked, sounding like a cross between Ingrid Bergman, Mary Astor and Katherine Hepburn. Then she really smiled. "I’ll show you mine if you show me yours." Now that was an offer I could not refuse. Almost eagerly we stripped off our sweatpants; then, at almost the same moment we pulled our sweatshirts over our heads and stood exposed to each other. We were both wearing sports bras, and hers managed to contain her splendid tits very well, thank you. It can be odd how tits that would just be barely adequate on a taller woman can look so much bigger, fuller and... well, more enticing... on a short woman. Gwen’s were enticing enough, but what really grabbed my attention were her arms. Her arms seemed even shorter than normal because of the swell of muscle. Her biceps were big and hard even in repose, and her developed deltoids broadened her shoulders. Her forearms rippled with muscle as well, making her hands look even smaller than they were. She barely registered my interest as she was busy gaping at my appearance. My arms (and yes, my tits) were a match for hers (at least I thought so). Our eyes came up and met, and we both burst out laughing. "No wonder you always wear long sleeves at work," Gwen sputtered. "Any guy getting a glimpse of those guns would think twice about crossing you!" "And likewise!" I managed. "My God, woman, do you realize how ridiculous you look with arms like that on a body like yours?" "Look who’s talking!" Gwen retorted. "You’re not exactly a skinny little thing yourself!" "Oh, but you ain’t seen nothing yet!" Saying this, I brought my arm up and slowly flexed. I looked down at it in satisfied admiration as my biceps swelled and bulged as I flexed, rotating my wrist so the individual muscles rippled. I looked at Gwen as she gawked at my display. Then, with a shake of her head, she flexed. Now it was my turn to stare as I watched her arm grow so a startling size. Her biceps had an even higher peak than mine, and were at least as hard, to judge by the vascularity she displayed. The competitor in each of us came out as we flexed and posed. Gwen moved so her arm was right next to mine, so close that it touched. We examined our adjacent arms closely, trying to see whose was bigger. "God," she exclaimed. "I never in my life thought I’d see anyone - except for the pros - who could have muscles as big as mine." "Or bigger," I interrupted. "No way!" she immediately snapped. She turned away and grabbed a sheet of paper off the copier. She quickly tore off two narrow strips, then took one and wrapped it around my arm. I flexed to my utmost as she made a pencil mark on the paper to show my circumference. I then did the same to her with the other piece of paper, marveling as I did at how firm her arm was. We then lay the two strips down. I gloried in the fact that the comparison showed that my arm was very slightly bigger than hers. Gwen frowned down at the papers, then shrugged her shoulders. "Well," she said. "It really isn’t the size that counts anyway, is it?" I looked at her again. She looked back at me with an innocent expression that didn’t fool me in the least. "That sounded dangerously close to a challenge, there, young lady." She raised an eyebrow (I was getting used to that by now). "If it were a challenge, would it be accepted?" I didn’t say anything, but just stared at her. By now it didn’t surprise me at all when she stared right back. A slight grin came to her face as we looked at each other. "Don’t think you can intimidate me with that patented Cavanaugh stare," she said, as she moved closer to me. "I’m not one of your wimpy sales targets that you can scare into anything. I’ve practiced this shit in the mirror until I can stare myself down." I still didn’t say anything, but moved so close that our chests touched. She didn’t back away an inch, and her stare intensified as she gazed right through to the back of my head. It was now an active staredown as we both remained unmoving, unblinking. To my mortification I felt my nipples harden, but quickly realized that Gwen’s were hardening as well. Her look changed as she recognized the situation, and her gaze sharpened, but neither of us moved away. I felt my eyes begin to burn as our duel continued. Stubbornly, we kept staring at each other even as tears formed in the corners of our eyes. My vision blurred, and I was suddenly forced to blink several times to relive the discomfort. Gwen smiled in triumph as she kept her eyes on me for a moment longer, ensuring my recognition of her victory. I smiled a little grimly, and moved even closer to her, forcing our tits together, wondering whether she would now back away. To me delight and continued arousal, she did not. She swayed slightly, then recovered and pressed forward and I felt our nipples duel. "Did you say something about a challenge?" I asked in a suddenly husky voice. "Because if you did, I’m going to kick your ass." "Talk is cheap. Put your muscle where your mouth is," she replied. I finally moved back and glanced around the room. Not seeing what I needed, I turned and went out into the adjacent hallway. Gwen followed. I looked around to ensure that we were still alone, then knelt and sprawled full length on the carpet. I lay on my stomach, put my elbow down on the floor and put my arm up in mute invitation. Gwen looked at me, then laughed out loud. "Oh, my dear! You have absolutely no idea what you’re getting yourself into." I shrugged as best I could, lying there on the floor. "Are we gonna do this or not?" She lay down facing me. My eyes were drawn to the way her breasts flattened as they met the floor, and my breath was suddenly short. I tore my eyes away from the sight and concentrated on Gwen, who casually brought her arm up and matched my position. Our hands hovered close together for a few seconds, then we clasped hands. Gwen’s smile disappeared as we began our arm-wrestling contest. I watched her arm as it began to swell in response to the growing pressure I was exerting. Her arm didn’t move. Neither did mine. Her grip tightened as we increased the power, and within several seconds we were locked in battle. I saw her looking at my flexed biceps and I purposely flexed them even more. I was very confident that I could put her down, as I had very seldom lost at arm-wrestling, even given my distinct leverage disadvantage against a larger woman. In our case, we were evenly matched, as our arms were equally short. In also appeared that our muscles were equally strong, though, as the struggle continued unabated. I felt a tiny tremor run through Gwen’s arm and I smiled. She pleasantly smiled back, and when I poured even more strength into my arm her smile never wavered. By now my hand was growing numb from the pressure of her grip. I watched as her arm developed a tiny tic, one muscle jumping uncontrollably. She bent her legs at the knees and brought her feet up over her ass, as if that could make a difference, and I then realized that I was in the same pose. Our left hands were flat on the floor, helping balance us. I could not help it as I took my hand and gently placed my palm on her straining bicep. Her head came up suddenly and she stared at me. Then an almost peaceful smile crossed her face and she touched my own quivering arm with her hand. Her muscle flexed under my hand and my arm started down. I could not believe that someone my size could outmuscle me, and I called on all my reserves and managed to stop the downward motion. Gwen grunted, "Fuck!" "Shit!" was my contribution to the conversation, and we were suddenly panting and groaning as we battled. I managed to recover the lost ground, but could not put her down. Gwen was not losing ground, but she wasn’t gaining at all, either, as we both threw in our last reserves of strength. Our arms looked like two bars (albeit very short bars) of iron, every muscle straining and rippling as we tried to overcome the other. I gasped as I felt Gwen’s hand squeeze my arm harder, and I began rubbing hers in a frenzy, trying to distract her from our other battle. She gasped, "No fair!", but her arm started down. I felt her hand leave my arm, then felt it again as she squeezed my tit! I gasped even louder as I lost concentration, and my arm was wrenched back and almost pinned. Desperately I grabbed at her closest breast and began kneading it like a loaf of bread. That grab was an error in judgement as it had the opposite effect than I was hoping for. Apparently aroused even more, Gwen moaned, and in a paroxysm of effort slammed my hand flat to the floor. "God! Fight fair, why don’t you?" Gwen gasped, but I realized that her tone held no displeasure, and further realized that her hand never left my breast. Of course, I hadn’t let go of hers, either. Instead I had squirmed my other hand, now released from Gwen’s grip, down between Gwen’s body and the floor, where it was now busy massaging Gwen’s other breast. Within a few seconds we were lying face to face on our stomachs, supporting our upper bodies on our elbows while our hands were busy on each other’s tits. By necessity our faces were only inches apart, and I watched in a daze as Gwen’s mouth opened slightly. I could go nothing else but lean further forward and kiss it. We kissed. And kissed. And kissed. And eventually had a rematch, but that’s another story...