zHEIGHTgeist

You signed up for an amateur baseball league that guaranteed an all-expense-paid trip to Tokyo. But after three supremely nauseating days at sea, you’re escorted onto the field to discover you’re no taller than a field of injection-molded green Army figurines, your opponents for your first match. You look up to see gigantic leering faces of elderly businessmen and excitable young Japanese women ogling you and your shrunken compatriots, outside the protective Plexiglas dome over your field. Do you embrace a lucrative career of objectification, or do you bide your time and find a way out, to escape into a foreign land of giants and a language you cannot comprehend?

Welcome back to the show. It’s only two weeks to you, but it’s an entire season of Ted Lasso, judiciously distributed, to me.

This time I want to talk about the Crush fetish. Like all aspects of macrophilia, there’s more than one side to this coin. That’s right, picture a three-sided coin: one that’s Gentle, one that’s nihilistic, and one from the giant perspective. I’ll try to treat respectfully, though as a Tiny I can only relate to two of them.

The Crush fetish within Size Fantasy refers to a Biggo using any part of their body to flatten and suppress a Tiny’s body, to apprehend them or even to snuff out their Tiny life. The dividing line between incidental Size Fantasy destruction and eroticized death isn’t so much the part of the body used, as it is the intentionality of the action. A rampaging giantess is crushing everything in her path, but this scenario does not qualify it for the ranks of Crush literature. When a giantess goes on a tear and stomps everything around her, hip-checking buildings and stomping on cars, they are technically crushed, but this doesn’t fall within the category of the Crush fetish. They’re crushed, yes, but this isn’t capital-C Crush. The destruction of a city is all about the unlimited power of the giantess (or giant) as infrastructure is laid to waste en masse, wholesale, collectively.

The Crush fetish, within macrophilia, savors the moment of impact on the personal level. A giantess (or giant) large enough to stomp on a building does so in a celebration of their own potence. The Crush fetish focuses on the individual who’s snuffed out in that action, it centers on the tragedy and the overwhelming unfairness of immense forces overwhelming some hapless normal-sized Joe, like you or me. The fetish can stand some feet away from the victim, watching their futile struggle as a gigantic foot descends upon them, or the camera can take us into their POV, watching the smirk in the distance of the giantess (or giant) as they hoist their meaty foot above our body for a few tense moments before bearing their incalculable mass upon our frail frames.

Like I said in a previous episode, some self-righteous and woman-hating trolls like to call giantesses out for their behavior. They claim to be concerned for the faceless masses who are eradicated beneath the soles of enormous women, giantesses out for a good time as they knock over the works of Man, devastate the end product of centuries of infrastructure, with no authority capable of telling them otherwise. To those trolls, I require they go after anyone who’s ever bought a first-person shooter, and its sequels, before even thinking of barking at a giantess in the midst of her fantasy. Criticize your fellow basement-dweller who’s ever lined their crosshairs upon an opponent, whether a player or NPC, calibrating for the perfect headshot, before you even think about going up against a giantess who simply flattens the greater metro beneath her dainty and well-turned foot. Giantesses don’t think in terms of body count, they don’t rack up numbers and percentages: they simply flex their agency.

Yes, the people who live on the streets of the ill-fated city under assault by a giantess (or giant) are technically crushed, but several other adjectives apply to them, many of which aren’t isolated to a macrophilic fetish.  Crush, capital-C Crush, has to do with a giantess (or giant) targeting a Tiny, even if they’re normal-sized, and oppressing the smaller figure with almost any portion of their body. The point is a giant person’s fixation upon a small person’s body, the demonstration of overwhelming power focused upon a single, discrete recipient. When the giantess (or giant) steps down, yes, an entire city block may be pulverized into dust, but in the Crush fetish, it’s the giantess’s foot bearing down on Dave from accounting, his paltry arms pushing up against her second toe as the ball of her foot weighs upon his hips and legs, spreads around his body, bleeding its heat into his form while the pounds-per-square-inch increase exponentially.

It doesn’t just have to be her foot, either. Sorry, I’m going to lapse entirely into F/m dynamics for convenience’s sake. It’s what I like, it’s where I come from, and I’m recording this shit. I don’t want to picture a gigantic man’s hairy ass coming down on me; I do, in fact, savor every single second between watching a woman’s bulbous buttocks swing into view and feeling my bones jellify beneath her tonnage. If you’re a tiny woman who wants to feel a giant man’s ass descend upon her, let me assure you that you already possess all the equipment necessary to make your own podcast. Audacity is free, there are hundreds of videos to teach you how to use it, and your mobile phone’s microphone is superior. I invite you to share your under-represented perspective with the world.

So, yes, it doesn’t just have to be a huge foot, descending from the heavens and swinging into view, smothering you beneath sweet pink-and-white flesh to evacuate you from your mortal coil. It can be one massive, hemispherical buttock that smooshes you flat. Were you hiding, ill-advisedly, upon the seat of a giantess’s chair, or did she toss you there contemptuously, in punishment for some or other transgression? Either way, her huge ass came slamming into you, like an erotic asteroid, smothering you for a period of time or mashing you into jelly outright. Me, I prefer to aim for the crack, finding myself pinned by immense buttocks on either side, sandwiched in intimate comfort with the distant promise of one orifice or the other tantalizingly nearby. I don’t want to die outright, I want to savor the experience.

That’s another important aspect: there’s Crush that kills, and Crush that simply dominates. And there are two sides to each of those coins. For the deadly Crush, there’s the giant who wants to feel their power unchallenged, who wants to savor the struggle and surrender of a tiny person beneath some mere part of their body. It’s one thing, you see, to crush a shrunken person in your fist or between your teeth. It’s something else to step on them or “accidentally” sit on them, using some region of your body as a slab of death that takes them out without finesse or intention. The ignoble, incidental death is savored by the consumer, whether reader of literature or viewer of artwork. Sometimes the consumer wants to picture themselves as the victim, imagining the press against their limbs as a huge foot or buttock or breast, or anything else, mashes their body against the unyielding surface they lie upon. Other times, the viewer simply wants to watch this happening to someone else. They don’t want to experience the injury and torment, but they want to witness someone else’s useless struggle against overwhelming forces, as a tiny person fights against a simple foot, the least extremity of a gigantic entity, shoving ineffectually against their toes and the ball of their sole as it comes down upon them. They want to watch the last seconds of a writhing, panicking individual in the shadow of a gigantic ass, to hear the Wilhelm scream of a life being stifled and quelled beneath a huge, mindless butt cheek, to be both inundated with sexuality and manslaughtered.

You can get crushed between thighs, for that matter, beneath any flexing limb that pivots on a joint. You could be the tiny person creeping up between the colossal thighs of a giantess (or giant), heading toward the treasure yield of their genitalia, when suddenly their legs close around you. Maybe they knew you were there and they’re stopping you in the laziest way possible; maybe they didn’t, and you simply got caught up in their bodily processes as they prepared to roll over into a slightly more comfortable position. Either way, their muscular thighs have pinned you helplessly between them, restricting your movement, stifling your breath, and relaxing massively against you as you slowly expire.

Or maybe you were crawling across a gigantic chest, exploring the lumpy terrain of a bodyscape, before you tumbled down their ribcage and fell into the gap of their armpit. There you found yourself reconciling with their fine hairs, coping with the musk of their sweat glands, before one massive bicep closed against one massive side of ribs and you were pocketed summarily into a huge armpit, large enough to contain you… or slightly too small to do so. Now you find yourself crushed against their limb, with no defense and no way out.

Yet again, another scenario could entail your tiny self lying upon a bed, enjoying the massive spread of linen real estate stretching around you, when your attendant giantess decides to join you on the bed… or perhaps she doesn’t even know you’re there. Either way, she lies down on her front, and your last glimpses of life are of an enormous, pendulous breast swinging freely below her ribs as she arches over you and lowers herself to the bed, unmindful of your presence (or, worse, entirely mindful of you). The immense mammary piles upon you, all softness and warmth, covering your body and resisting the effort of your frail arms to push it aside. Your fists sink into the soft, pillowy flesh, with more than enough breast meat to swell around you, not to mention the sheer bulk of the giantess weighing atop her boob. From there she could be chuckling at your fate, for all you know, or simply drifting off to sleep. Either way, you are Crushed.

Crushing is the focus of one massive body against one tiny body, intentionally or tacitly intentionally. Hundreds of screaming city dwellers can be crushed under a gigantic foot, but that is not the Crush fetish. The Crush fetish sympathizes with the crushed individual. The fetish wants to watch someone being crushed, or it wants to savor the last few moments as a gigantic body part crushes the individual. But what of the giant person? Do they enjoy the crushing? Does it even pop up on their radar?

To be sure, the giantess on a rampage truly enjoys laying waste to buildings and bridges and everything else that puny little men have built as a security against chaos. And it may have stood against hail and tornadoes and earthquakes, but they all fell beneath the idle play of a giantess. Yet this is not Crush, the Crush fetish, because she doesn’t care about the tiny barista behind the counter of the chain cafe. She doesn’t care about the guy in his 20s, starting to drain the oil from a 2013 Hyundai Elantra. She doesn’t care about the owner of the daycare, frantically brainstorming how to herd a dozen toddlers out of the way of the gigantic foot that blots the sky and shoves the atmosphere out of its way.

Crush would be caring about the would-be paramour who dares to introduce himself to the giantess, who presumes to offer something she could value, and who struggles against the power of her least appendage while she smirks. She condescends to appreciate his struggle, his efforts, and she pauses her busy day of wholesale destruction to bend her second toe against the inadequate suitor, solely (no pun intended) to feel his impotent labor against a mere digit, the tiny fists that must presumably be digging into the round, fleshy, pink tip of her toe while she applies pressure as slowly as she’s capable of at her gross dimensions. He’s so small, you see, and fractions to him do not resemble fractions to her. As subtle as she tries to be, he’s soon wiped out and finished. And that is Crush.

It doesn’t have to be intentional, in some cases. Like I said, all the pedestrians in a city scenario have been crushed beneath gigantic feet during an invasion, sure, but that is not the Crush fetish. That’s the fetish of the giantess who craves supremacy, who desires complete and unmitigated freedom, and it’s the fetish of those men who wish to watch an unrestrained woman wreak her vengeance upon a defenseless populace. But this is not the Crush fetish. These scenarios fall into other purviews. Crush is the focus of one person against another person, and like I said, it doesn’t have to be intentional. A woman could bring her tiny lover to bed with her, each of them feeling affectionate and positive about the other, and yet she could roll over in her sleep and suffocate him beneath her boob or mash him beneath her ribs, and that counts as Crush. Even the city rampage scenario, stomping on crowds of fleeing people doesn’t count as Crush, and yet if one giantess should shove another giantess bodily, and that second giantess should fall to the ground, landing ass-first upon a fleeing crowd, that could count as Crush. The focus has shifted away from the potence and agency of a giantess to a part of her body—a sexy part—landing upon a dozen tiny people sprinting inadequately away. That, for no good reason, counts as Crush.

Is it Crush when a giantess places a tiny man inside her mouth and mashes him against her palate with her tongue? Her tongue could be strong enough to mangle and mutilate him, crushing him in satisfaction of many senses of the verb, but is that the Crush fetish? What if she inducts the tiny man into her vagina, clenching her first few inches of vulva around his little body? He can’t fight against the strength of her pelvic floor. Is that a form of Crush?

Let me say that Crush is mercurial and indefinite. There are gross definitions, like a massive person focusing some part of their body (erotic or otherwise) upon an individual, a defined individual the artistic consumer may relate to. And we know that the Crush fetish doesn’t apply to the hapless hundreds of people who find themselves beneath the next footfall of a rampaging giantess. But between these two parameters, between body parts and motives, there are dozens of qualifying scenarios and exceptions. Perhaps it exceeds the creator’s intent and relies entirely upon the consuming audience, a standard that does not transfer from consumer to consumer.

But now for the third side of the coin: what of the gigantic person? What do they get out of Crush?

Think about stepping on a tiny little person. Don’t think about destroying them right away: imagine how they would struggle beneath your foot, tiny arms pushing against you and failing in every endeavor. Think about their cries for mercy, questioning what they could have done to deserve this. Think about their pathetic little threats, cursing the idea of you, railing against you with words when their strength fails. And think about how little it costs you to make them squeal, how readily they cry out when you’re not even paying attention to them. The giant person gets to indulge in a marginal dopamine hit, feeling a little person fighting against some distrait part of their body, unquestionably overpowered no matter what they do. It’s silly, it’s ridiculous. You want the tiny person to fight harder, but they’re already fighting as hard as they can, and they’re defeated by nothing more than the half-conceived inclination to sit down or whatever urge places your feet where they fall. The fact that it’s everything to them makes the fact that it’s nothing to you that much more savory and valuable, for the moment. You’re so powerful, and you didn’t even have to do anything for it. You just are.

Now, why would someone want to be crushed?

The simple answer is what we’ve already covered: to be overwhelmed by the sensate experience, conveyed by someone else’s merest body part. If you like feet and you like being crushed, then you’ll want to envision a huge, cute foot descending upon you. If you enjoy asses, as I do, then you would enjoy the last few moments of a gigantic ass descending upon you and smothering you in its brutal embrace. If you like tits, then how nice would it be to see a huge, round breast lowering itself upon you, blotting out the light, and covering you in its intimate warmth and satiny softness, backed by hundreds of pounds of womanly flesh? Her aroused nipple nudges insistently into your head while you uselessly shove her boob away from you, fighting for a little space before she finally smothers you with nothing more than a sack of fat and skin hanging from her chest. No muscle, no exertion to end your life, simply the act of lying down and not caring what’s beneath her.

In many sexual fantasies, we love the situation of all choices being taken away from us. The consequences may vary, of course, but we have this in common: someone’s acting upon us in a way we can’t resist, whether that’s to force the sexual experience upon us or to use that sexuality to erase our life (or someone else’s, as we watch). We adore the concept of being surrounded by someone else’s sexuality, to be inundated by someone else’s desire, the implication being that we are a tool for their satisfaction. Our worth is measured by how well our being used gets someone else off. That bizarre selflessness can redirect into partaking of someone else’s sensate experience. We don’t duck under the crushing foot for our own orgasm, but we contribute in some small way to the satisfaction of someone greater than ourselves, whether in fact or more likely in our estimation. We want to see someone we admire and adore come harder, and we want to know that we’ve had some small role in that consummation. We aren’t worthy of elevating ourselves to lover and peer, but we’re happy to be an instrument, one among many, of the ecstasy of that giantess we adore.

It’s a weird selflessness that no one ever asked for, but something we decided ourselves that the objects of our affection must desire. This is a constant and repeating trait of uninformed masculinity, deciding in a vacuum what women must find desirable, like martial arts or a collection of swords, but in this case the giantess accepts all comers without discrimination or even awareness and smashes us all alike, rendered to equality beneath her cushioning sole. Did she want to kill us individually? Of course not: the giantess adores the power of being able to render destruction without a second thought, that’s all. She doesn’t hate me, she doesn’t hate the person standing next to me: we’re all held in contempt as she wipes out the landscape with her foot or buries the metropolitan arena beneath her all-encompassing ass or breasts. It’s as impersonal as it can get. The desire is to eradicate and erase what has been created, with no one capable of stopping her. It’s a celebration of unlimited power, and we Tinies are simply the collateral damage that make up a fraction of this achievement.

That’s Crush. And if you asked someone else about it, I’m sure they’d disagree with me on several points.

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Questionnaire

Tonight (it’s always “tonight” where I live), the Questionnaire has been answered by Aphrodite. She is an actual giantess, someone I’ve admired not just for her colossal size but also for her incisive takedown of aspects of our Size culture, notably the entitlement of toxic masculinity. Through her artwork she has crystalized many of the problems of male-gaze culture in Size Fantasy. She underscores the paradox of a community that claims to desire and worship giant women, and the treatment giantesses have to put up with once they interact with that community.

Aphrodite (she/her) describes herself as a writer, an artist, and a connoisseur of Size Fantasy in general. Personally speaking, I have treasured her contribution to the Size Riot contests as well as her artwork, whether idle doodles that occur to a giantess on the rampage or a concise statement on the fallibility of the Size community. She prefers being at least a thousand feet tall, and comfortably enjoys any dimensions well beyond that, without limit. More power to her, I say.

I can honestly say, I’m not really sure how I started. It sounds a bit cliche, but I seemed to be born like it.

Ever since I was a young child I was obsessed with dragons, monsters, anything like that, that was huge, terrifying, mysterious, and a lot of the time misunderstood in a way.  When I was a young girl I didn’t really feel like I was the same as everyone else, so it just kind of contributed to that, of just wanting to be my own thing, above and beyond, and not restricted, not restrained, not bound by rules, not bound by society. It kind of led on from there. I’m not really sure when it eventually transitioned into wanting to be actually me, gigantic. It just kind of blended, eventually, and became that.

It was only really later that it even became sexual. A lot of the time, I didn’t even know it was sexual, I just knew it felt nice. So it was just that. And I suppose that leads into how it makes me feel, which is … It’s almost like a metaphor, an expression of every single kind of feeling I can possibly have: if I’m angry, if I’m sad, if I’m happy, and also sexual, of course. And it’s also a way of safely expressing all of the sort of dark inner thoughts of my mind in a way that’s not harming anyone or hurting anyone or causing any suffering. And also in a way that … it just thrills me! Can’t say why, it just does. It’s like the taboo of just being absolutely massive and horrific, it just thrills me to the absolute core. I cannot say why, it just does. It just feels … I shouldn’t say it feels right, because it doesn’t feel right, I’ve accepted that it’s harmless. But yeah, it just feels like a great way to express those feelings to bring out that sort of carnal, savage, deep desire … in a safe way, I suppose. (laughter)

Episode Links

• Aphrodite (DeviantArt)