I’ve always been the small, soft-spoken one—5’6, 120 lbs, never the guy who commands attention. My female friends have always treated me like one of them, not in a mean way, but in a way that makes it clear they don’t see me as a man. I’m the one they feel comfortable gossiping around, the one they confide in, the one they never even consider when they talk about the kind of men they’re attracted to.
I sit there while they fawn over tall, strong guys, going on and on about how much they love a man who can make them feel small, how there’s just something so right about that kind of dynamic. And I just listen, because what else can I do? No one has ever talked about me that way. No one ever will.
But the more I listen, the more I get it. I hear them talk about real men, about how it feels to be handled, to be overpowered, to be put in their place. And maybe it’s done something to me, because now, when I’m alone, I can’t stop thinking about it. About how I’ll never be the one they want—but I could be what he wants.
Lately, I’ve started dressing up in secret, slipping into something softer, tighter, feeling how right it is to be small. To let go. To imagine what it would feel like to be taken by someone bigger, stronger, someone who wouldn’t even see me as competition—just something to claim. And no matter how much I tell myself I’m just curious, my body already knows the truth.
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