And far more sincere thanks to my friend Dick, the Micro Giant, who let me roleplay this little comfort scene off and on today to work through these feelings.
Ten minutes. Just a scribble. Let go of whatever you think this needs to be, Elle. Just write.
(Ten minutes turned into an hour and a half of writing, with another half hour of edits. I never know if I should feel pleased at my accomplishment when this happens, or annoyed with my inability to keep my projects small. I do feel really good about this one, though.)
Kinky Scribbles: Body Pillow
(M/f, male Giant, female tiny, shrinking, cuddles, comfort) 1020 words, est. 1.5 hours of writing, 0.5 hours of editing
I have had the good luck to end up with a writing coach for the month of January, and she’s helping me figure out ways to lower the stakes of writing more often, both for erotica and for my mainstream projects.
Step one is to attempt what I’m calling “writing scribbles” that will be quick, short, relatively unplanned, and can have only one round of edits before sharing with the world.
This is basically what I achieved many times over with Tumblr’s format, and what I’ve been avoiding with my shiny personal website for the last year. As if I went from a commuter train full of conversations with friends and acquaintances I see regularly, to a personal vehicle where I make all the decisions of where to go, and I do it alone, and have to roll down the window or deliberately invite people inside to talk to them. It’s clunky, lonely, and it feels like the stakes are higher (silly ideas about identity, success, connection) if I decide to go in the wrong direction or say the wrong thing.
Fuck the wrong thing. Nothing is wrong–it’s either unethical, painful, uncomfortable, or various shades of awkward. I might regret a thing, but who cares? It’s on my website, and I’m in control of whether or not it continues to see the light of day. I’m going to take the steps to make sure it’s as ethical as I can make it, by offering tags and informed consent and giving credit to other writers and artists. As for pain, that can heal. Discomfort and awkwardness are also hallmarks of change and growth. Nobody ever made progress or created something wonderful by staying 100% comfortable.
Scribbles can be drawing, writing, any kind of creative art. The point is that it has to be quick, simple, and low-stakes.
At this point in my process, I’m not allowed to turn it into a big thing or make extra work for myself with extra ideas. I’m not adding it to my mainstream works. I’m sticking to kinky content only, because it’s the one kind of writing that brings me the most joy and escapism right now. And also because it’s a way to keep my scope small.
Ironically for someone with size dysmorphia, I have no idea how to keep my ideas and goals small.
I know how to “go big or go home” in other parts of my life, but over the years I’ve let it become too overwhelming with writing because I get cloudy with assumptions of what it means to be a writer and what it means to be “enough.” (Fuck you very much, Impostor Syndrome.) Even discussing the scribbles concept with the coach and how to fit 10 minutes into my schedule a week, I quickly morphed the discussion into how I could carve out 30 minutes a day, every day. When she pointed that out and reminded me that I am already enough regardless of how many minutes I can or can’t put into my schedule right now, I burst into tears.
Fuck going big all the time, fuck that overachiever mindset that’s burned me out so many times. Fuck the toxic productivity culture of never believing I’m enough.
I want to learn how to go small. I’m a sizeshifter, damnit. This is a skill I can develop, just like any other. I just need to find a way to show up and do the work without self-sabotaging all my efforts with last-minute deadline scrambles and other misguided attempts at staying comfortably far away from risk and failure.
Last weekend I reached 700 followers as @mightytinygiant on Twitter, and have decided to celebrate by sharing two things that are important to me. After nearly half a year on hiatus to heal from depression, it’s good to be back. I’m grateful for all the support I’ve received and the messages urging me to take care of myself. The writer is worth more than what they write.
The first thing I’m thrilled to share is this gorgeous portrait of me by the talented and friendly DTV_art. I have admired her work for years, since I first laid eyes on her Tumblr treasure trove of lovely queer Giantess girlfriends and sizeshifter boyfriends and so many gorgeous Giant/tiny moments. Trust me, she is so incrediblyskilled and talented and awesome and her work is queer-friendly and romantic AF. I am humbled by the way she took my photograph and translated me into my most femme-tastic witchy woman sizeshifter self. As of this writing, she is still open for commissions!
The second celebratory tidbit I’m sharing with you lovely folks today is one of my favorite pieces of writing, first shared on Tumblr, January 12, 2016. I was struggling then with depression and size dysmorphia, just like I have been this year. I have made huge strides this summer with therapy—thank the Gods for sex-positive, kink-positive, polyam-friendly therapy—and for insurance to help me afford it. More people should have access to that kind of healing.
That support has given me the hope I needed to delve into my feelings about my body and my writing. I’ve been revisiting what I love most about what I’ve written. I’ve been working on befriending my body and accepting that the way she feels large or small may actually be healthy for me, even if it’s not a thing people commonly feel. Commissioning a portrait of myself as a new avatar is part of that work, and I’m grateful for DTV working with me to get it right.
It’s okay to feel small. It’s okay to feel large. It’s okay to take up whatever space you need to take up, in this world. I need this reminder now, as much as I ever have. Maybe you do, too.
Sometimes when you grow, you’re scared of ruining your clothes or destroying your favorite pair of shoes. Sometimes you’re just scared of how they constrict you, how a necklace could choke you or a beloved coat could trap you like a straight-jacket. But not always.
Sometimes when you grow, shredding through your layers of fabric and fashion feels better than breaking a chain with your bare hands. You’re no longer made for the world of thrift shop jeans or business casual blouses. You can stop worrying if it looks wrong. It belongs to the person you used to be when you still apologized for taking up space.
Small wonder, then, when you stretch your shoulders just to feel the seams tear. When you breathe deeply so the hooks on your bra unbend themselves, unable to hold the glory of your breasts as they grow in size, weight, and consequence. You roll your hips and savor the shredding sound of that pencil skirt you used to love, which has been too small for far too long. It slips to the ground like a memory, followed quickly by the remains of your panties. The lace surrendered by unknitting itself. It wasn’t up to the task of containing the beauty of your other massive assets.
Tearing through the leather on your high heels seems almost obscene, but deep down you offer it like a sacrifice. Your bare feet fill the ground with presence. The crown of your head lifts above the crowd where you walked alone in your smallness.
You feel your own beauty as you never have before. With awe and gratitude and no regrets. You see the world differently and know yourself fully as you grow in all directions, pushing outward, but especially upward.
You have every right to stand tall no matter your size. Breathe deeply in the body that bears your heart, and never apologize again.
Content warnings: some NSFW artwork and language, discussion of body dysmorphic disorder, gender dysphoria, grief, gun violence, depression, neurodivergence, kink, microphilia, macrophilia, and shame
Introduction: arguments with my body
It will come as no surprise to you that I’m sitting at a table in a chair with my feet on the ground, while my hands type comfortably on a laptop. You—and most of the people who know and love me—might be intrigued to know that my senses also tell me I can lift my hand and touch the ceiling with no trouble, because it’s dangerously close to brushing my head.
Would you like me to open the front door, fifteen feet away? It’s within easy reach. Or, at least, that’s the argument my body makes.
My senses agree I’m sitting at the table in the usual way, but they also feed me contradictory information about the walls seeming to close in around me, about how there’s no space for my knees and legs between the table and the wall, no way this chair should be able to support my weight, and no way that my fingers could possibly type on a laptop that feels like a toy for a doll.
If I close my eyes, the sensation intensifies and logic takes a backseat to a kinesthetic awareness of overwhelming size. Some days I feel overwhelming smallness instead, as if everything is huge and heavy and beyond my isolated reach.
Luckily for me, if I open my eyes again, I’m able to use the visual information to combat the strange, contradictory physical information. I concentrate on the evidence of my eyes and wage a war against my kinesthetic senses—the same kind of battle I’ve been fighting quietly since childhood.
In some circles, this experience is known as size dysmorphia: a sense that your body’s size feels larger or smaller than you know it to be.
I know that I stand five feet, two inches tall. I know that my body does not change in size. And yet, it’s as if some ancient part of my brain and body refuse to completely accept this data.
Sometimes it happens without warning, like a radio shifting channels and offering music and static from two different stations. Sometimes I go for days without noticing anything unusual, my broadcast uninterrupted on a steady playlist of “five-foot-two” with no interruptions.
When I feel a sizeshift coming on, sometimes I groan inwardly and grit my teeth. Other times, I try to induce the feeling myself, just for the sheer joy and arousal and exhilaration of it. Few sensations are as empowering as a sense that you stand twice as tall as everyone around you.
Until about three years ago, I refused to tell anyone.
Call me Elle Largesse. I’m a sizshifting bisexual polyamorous kinky erotica writer who made my presence known to the “Giant/tiny” community on Tumblr in December of 2015. That community became the safe haven that helped me cope with size dysmorphia, embrace my sexuality, and find new multitudes within myself.
Three years and ten days after beginning this experiment in sensuality, I created this privately hosted website to continue the conversation and share my work on my own terms, with less threat of censorship.
This blog is mostly NSFW / 18 & up only. You’ll find original writing and collages, and occasional RP. Topics covered include shrinking and growth, microphilia and macrophilia.
My name is Elle and my pronouns are she/her. I’m fine with Ms. Elle, Mistress Elle, etc. but please DO NOT CALL ME GODDESS. Ask before you assume my size.
I have a thing for licking, lips, insertion, breast expansion, and obscenely large cocks. I like very softcore “pre-vore” like tongue and mouth play, and that’s about it. I’m not into hardcore violence but I have complex feelings about nonconsensual acts and a bit of a crush on butt crushes. Beware the puns.
Website hosting assistance from the wonderful Kreeyz.
ADULT CONTENT WARNING
This site includes content intended for adults only. Depending on your location, you must be at least 18 or 21 to enter. If you’re under 18 and are seeking sex positive resources, stop reading now and visit scarleteen.com.