Further to my post “Beauty and the Blank,” below, let me tell you why I have such a thing for monsters. People seem to think it’s because I’m creepy or weird–honestly, my friends, who know me to be the most mimsy and prosaic of people, would be surprised by how many more casual acquaintances think I’m creepy. It’s not because I’m creepy and weird that I like monsters: it’s because I’m creepy and weird.
That is to say: It is not uncommon, I think, for women to want to feel physically as they do psychically: smaller than their male counterpart but incredibly important (a sort of emotional density like the matter of a star), vulnerable but safe and cared for, pretty, remarkable in an ordinary way. Worthy of being seen as precious.
(I don’t know how men feel psychically, or how they want to feel physically; I only know that whenever I try to make men feel the way I want to feel, as above, they get extremely uncomfortable and don’t want to have sex with me anymore. I think it must be because those are the things they’re taught to fear feeling. Maybe the bedroom is not the place to explore and break through that anxiety. At least not in the first instance.)
Anyway. I want to feel that way. Small but powerful, vulnerable but safe and cared for, pretty, remarkable. Precious. And, being a woman who is both large and fat (particularly in Britain–the British are quite short compared to the Americans, and although they have the same rate of obesity, I would say empirically that they do not as frequently become as obese), the only way I can imagine feeling those things–delicate, in short–is around someone even more monstrous than I am.
Recently I’ve been fucking a guy who is much larger than I am–which is saying a lot, because I’m not short, even for a man. I wouldn’t describe him as tall so much as slightly out of scale with the rest of reality. He’s 6’8″, and his frame is, rather than being stretched or attenuated or lanky, solidly built. It’s like fucking an oak tree. Although he has very soft skin for an oak tree.
This has been my only opportunity thus far to test my feelings, above, regarding monsters and my own monstrousness (which remember is bo, rn of size, as women who are large are universally considered monstrous), and holy shit you guys have got to try this. Like, all you petite people will know what it’s like already, but for those of you medium-sized or larger–seriously. Find someone much larger than you and fuck them.
It. Is. Awesome.
It’s the only time in my sexual history I haven’t had to worry about crushing someone when I put my weight on them, about being too wide or indelicate–delicate is merely a comparative measure, so you are the delicate one if your partner is larger. It’s the only time I’ve felt surrounded and overpowered and held, or felt like someone has had put effort into being gentle with me (instead of having to put effort into being rough). The gentleness, set against such a background, gains depth and vividness the way meat does when you cook it in wine or gems do when they’re displayed on velvet or velour surfaces.
And it sucks hardcore, because this guy I’m fucking is a friend, not a permanent romantic partner, and I’m frankly so awful I don’t know at this point if I’ll be able to find any permanent romantic partner, to say nothing of an enormous one, and having now had a taste of what that’s like, I’m mulishly unwilling to settle for anything else because seriously. It’s like there’s been an extra 40% of sex and touch and cuddles that I didn’t know existed suddenly having been made available to me. I imagine this expansion of horizons is what discovering you have magic powers feels like.
I would argue that there is a male corollary to the trope of Born Sexy Yesterday, which is the Beast: a man of outsized physical power and unusual appearance, capable of great violence to his enemies, that everyone finds frightening, resulting in his extreme isolation and subsequent heightened sensitivity to femininity and kindness, leaving him open for the One Special Girl Who Isn’t Like the Others and can See He’s Really Gentle to become the sole force for good in his life, whom he then adores to the point of worship and whose need for protection provides a focus for his violent urges.
There’s Beauty and the Beast, obviously, but think also of the Hulk and Betty Ross, Christine Daae and the Phantom of the Opera, Spock and Christine Chapel, Dracula and Mina Harker (particularly in the hilariously inaccurately named 1992 film Bram Stoker’s Dracula), Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, R and Julie of Warm Bodies, Fido and Helen Robinson of Fido, Edward Rochester and Jane Eyre, Edward Cullen and Bella Swan, Eros and Psyche, Hades and Persephone, pretty much everything going on at any given time in Penny Dreadful, and every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had about the Predator. As you can see from the list, this is a trope that’s been around a while. I’d bet money that you’d be able to find it in other mythologies older than that of ancient Greece.
It’s an awful sexist trope, of course, but goddamn it works for me. I see now why people get into that French-maid or fucking-your-secretary or keeping a pet slut or Dom(me)/sub or Happy Housewife bullshit: it works for them.
(Maybe religions are the same way. Maybe that’s why people like them.)
Anyway, the point is, I’m well fucked, currently in both senses of the phrase, and also, oh look, another wonderful thing I’ve discovered that I DON’T GET TO HAVE AND HAVE TO GO THE REST OF MY LIFE KNOWING I AM LIVING WITHOUT BECAUSE I’M TOO FAT AND UGLY AND HIGH-MAINTENANCE AND POOR AND FRAGILE AND OTHERWISE UNSUITABLE FOR HUMAN COMPANIONSHIP.
Yes, I’m on a waiting list to see a psychiatrist about a meds change. Stop asking.