A Short Story

I’m not much for watching TV, but I watch so little of it that what I do watch tends to make quite an impression on me.  Years ago I watched an episode of CSI where a BBW convention and a dwarf convention were held at the same time.  They found a dwarf dead on the bed in a pool of ejaculate and dried sweat; turns out he’d taken a liking to a BBW, took her back to the hotel room, she’d gone on top and he’d been crushed.  What a way to go.

Seemingly unrelated points follow, but I ask your indulgence.

I’ve not had a relationship since the millennium. I have ongoing sexual arrangements, sometimes monogamous, sometimes not, but the most I will commit to is a friends with benefits scenario.  I’m always very clear on my limitations from the outset; I never promise more than I can deliver.

Sometimes, though… ah, sometimes.  Sometimes I wonder whether I shouldn’t just grow up, settle down, have a proper relationship like a normal person.  What I have is wonderful in many ways: I never have to explain myself, never have to lie about money I earn or my spending habits, never have to spend time scrubbing stains out of someone’s underwear, never have to argue over whose turn it is to take the rubbish to the bins.  In return my partners always get me in a groomed state, always fresh bedding, always pleased to see them and enthusiastic in my welcome.  They never have to deal with my mood swings or hormonal times, never have to see me bleary, greasy-haired and pale-faced after a late and boozy night, never have to listen to me vomit when ill and never have to pretend to be interested when I whine about the latest incompetent supplier at work.

Our families judge us as nobody else can, and sometimes I feel the pressure to date and settle for someone I can introduce at a family event.  I resolve to quit the hookup sites and stop giving my sexual favours quite so freely.  I sign up at a proper dating site and carefully word my profile to avoid all mention of fun or sex or casual.  I insist that I’m just dating and my prospective beau will be lucky to get to first base – no chance of underwear removal until at least three dates have passed.  Apparently there are rules.  I’m not sure what they are, but as a newly-created Good Girl I vow to follow them to the letter.

I was going through just such a phase and was signed up to just such a site when I got chatting to G.  It was the type of site where your profile was linked to your social media in an effort to reduce catfishing.  G’s profile was basic; one slightly odd photo of him skydiving, with helmet and goggles so you couldn’t really see his face, not a huge amount listed in interests and likes, not a huge amount of entertaining conversation but times were hard and pickings were slim, so I found myself arranging to meet him at a bland chain pub off the M6.

I arrived and sat at one of those ridiculously high stools by the bar (seriously, why does any stool need to be so high you need a stepladder just to mount it?), ordered a drink (soft drink as I was driving) and waited.

At length he arrived.  All 4’6” of him.  In spite of my spelling out my size in explicit detail in my profile, at no point had he thought it worth mentioning he was a dwarf – perhaps he thought I wouldn’t notice (spoiler alert: I did).  To be precise, he had disproportionate dwarfism, so his hands and head were full sized but his torso and legs were dwarfed.  I had thought his photo odd but I put it down to perspective; his face was nearer to the camera than his body was, after all.

I like to think I’m fairly broadminded, but flashes of the CSI episode kept coming to mind and there was no way I was going to explain to Merseyside’s finest why he was dead in my bed. I’m quite comfortable with awkward conversations (firm but fair, like your favourite schoolteacher), so I explained that the situation was an issue for me and I wasn’t going to take the date any further.  G explained that he found it difficult to arrange dates when he stated his condition on his profile, a position with which I had sympathy (I do get rejected due to my size), but I have always believed that it’s better to get the deal-breakers on the table early so you don’t waste time with someone who will never be interested.

All was going well and we were parting with reasonable good grace, when he asked whether I’d have a quickie in the car.  I drive a Corsa.  No matter how I tried to mentally arrange us, I couldn’t get the two of us to anything like a satisfactory position in a Corsa.  I had to say no, not because of my resolve to be a Good Girl but because I couldn’t get my head around the physical placement of bits.

I am not given to regrets but I do regret one thing.  G, as I’ve mentioned, had disproportionate dwarfism.  He had full sized hands, but short legs.  I will always feel a prurient curiosity as to the size of his manhood.  I didn’t ask him, because I didn’t want to raise a false expectation, but the question still pops into my head at the unlikeliest of moments.