Note: This blog was originally published on my MySpace blog, September 12, 2007.
So I write these stories. In the majority of them, at least one of the characters will grow taller. It’s one of the many many components that make up my complex system of fetishes. You can read about another of those components in my MG blog. One day I might blog about wings. Or collars. But today I’m blogging about the height thing.
It’s quite the fantasy of mine. Sometimes I dream about it. Sometimes I write those dreams into hot little stories. Those are good nights. The shift in dynamic, the shift in power, the shift in perspective. Bliss.
I’m not usually a player in these fantasies. It sounds strange, I’m sure, but I’m more of a voyeur in these cases. And that’s lucky for me, because then every fantasy is different—with different characters reacting to different plots—and that makes for brand spankin’ new stories. Hmm… spanking.
{forces self to stay on track}
On the rare occasions I am a player, I’m not the one who grows. I just find it incredibly hot to watch the other person. A voyeur even there, I guess. I’m not sure, but I’m thinking a lot of writers are that way. We much prefer to crawl into our characters’ minds, get comfortable, and take notes as they do their thing.
I had a doctor’s appointment Monday. Nothing serious, just a check up. Temperature, pulse, blood pressure—all normal. Go me. Then it’s time to measure my height.
Dutifully, I stand against the wall as the nurse brings the ruler thingy down to my head. She reads the result aloud.
“Five foot seven.”
I blink. “Say what?”
“That’s how tall you are. Five foot seven.”
More blinking ensues, along with a shake of the head. “No, that’s not right.”
She checks again, standing on her toes. I realize with a start that people don’t usually stand on their toes around me. “Oh, my mistake. You’re just a few millimeters shy of five foot seven.” She winks at me. “But it’s not even worth noting. I’ll just round up.”
My mouth works a few times. It takes me a while to remember how to form sound. “I’m five foot four.”
This time the nurse looks surprised. That maybe the patient’s not playing with a full deck of cards surprised. “I don’t think so. I’m five-five and you’re obviously taller.”
No way. Looking at her I can see she’s a tiny little thing, and she’s got no reason to lie to me. But I know what I know, and I try to talk some sense into the trained nurse. “I’ve been five-four since eighth grade. I was five-four this time last year.”
She shakes her head. “You must have measured wrong.”
“I was measured here.” I point behind me. “With that ruler.”
Now, the waiting room on the other side of the doors is filled, so this nurse is on a schedule. I can understand why she just politely smiles and leads me to the examination room.
What she doesn’t understand, however, is that I’m on the verge of a full-blown freakout.
I pull out my wallet, show her my driver’s license. “See, five-four. They measured me and everything two years ago.”
She pats my shoulder and tells me to sit. Then she proceeds to enter my stats into the computer. Quiet. I’m clutching my wallet, checking it periodically to be sure that it does, indeed, say I’m five foot four. Finally, my mind tries to wrap around my situation.
“Do people have growth spurts after turning thirty?”
“Sometimes.”
Okay, I didn’t know that. I absentmindedly note there might be a plot hole in Michael Finally Grows Up, but I reason that big leaps in growth never happen overnight, so Avery’s line in that scene is still good. Then I snap back to real life.
How old was I in eighth grade? Thirteen? I count back on my fingers because it gives me something to do. I know that was the year I hit my absolute tallest—I’d shot up three and a half inches over the summer and everyone asked me if I was going to be a basketball player when I grew up—which was why I remember the five-four mark so clearly.
It didn’t seem plausible. Who doesn’t grow for seventeen years and then just starts up again? Even Michael’s body had a reason.
The nurse leaves and the doc shows up. He asks how I am, and I tell him I measured taller this year than last. He waves me off, tells me that height fluctuates throughout the day.
I raise my eyebrows. “Three inches?”
He stops short, goes to the computer to check my old stats. “Interesting.”
Interesting? That’s it? That’s all I get? “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
The doc looks me over. “You’ve come in here a few times for joint pain, right?”
I nod, deciding not to tell him I’d figured it was my body falling apart because I’d turned thirty this year.
“Have you been bumping into things, feeling unusually clumsy?”
Crap. I’d been meaning to ask him about that. Lately I’ve knocked my foot or my knee or my elbow against everything in sight. I’d thought sure there was a disconnect somewhere between brain and body. “Yeah.”
“Growth spurt.”
“Growth spurt?”
He smiles and nods.
And so it came to be that I am three inches taller than I was this time last year. My clothes still fit, because I wear them oversized anyway. I noticed that they’ve been fitting differently lately, but figured I’d shrunk them in the wash. Shrunk them in the wash. After my appointment, I realized I’m as dumb as some of my characters. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
None of my local friends noticed until after I told them; I think because they live here with me. My parents came to visit me last week, and they didn’t say anything. I ended up calling Dad on Monday, telling him the whole story. His reaction was a typical dad reaction.
“Yeah, I thought you looked different. Figured it was your hair, like usual.”
I don’t even know what to make of that statement. I may react by putting green highlights in my hair.
Today I had to stop by the grocery store, and I caught myself comparing heights with other shoppers. I’m definitely in a different bracket now, and it feels, well, bizarre.
I shouldn’t feel different at all—it’s not like I noticed the growth. But for the most part I live in my head. Now I’m paying a little attention to the outside world. The whole fantasy colliding with reality thing is enough to jar anyone.
Freakout city seemed to be where I was headed for a while. I’d jump from scared to confused to kinda turned on. Mostly confused. I was comfortable with my image of myself. I liked being in my skin. It’s disconcerting when your body up and changes for no apparent reason. I’ll have to remember that for my next MG story.
But I got to thinking about my Touching Fire series. In that world, when incubi feed, they swell up, grow a little because they’re so filled with passion. I’ve been writing like a madman these past few years, and I’ve loved every minute of pouring my passion into those stories. The more I write, the more I get to watch wonderful, sexy characters do their thing. There are times when I feel like I’m going to burst open and all these totally random ideas will spill onto the carpet for the world to see. Or for the mutt to lap up.
Ahem. I had a point here… Oh yeah.
Maybe I’m a little like those incubi. Maybe my body had to get a bit bigger just to hold it all in.
Maybe fantasies had more power than I thought.
