The window men shared a moment of silence.

I asked if the young man died and they all moaned, exhausted by my stupidity.

“Of course he died,” the window washer said. “You can’t take more than a four-story fall, not in this town anyway.”

Then Jeffrey Lee got off the phone and said that, given a choice, he’d rather fall from a higher floor as it would allow more time for his life to flash before his eyes.

The window men said that all depends on the life you led. And then they changed the topic and began discussing women.

In today’s mail I received two copies of Giantess along with a letter from Hank, who writes, “Please keep in mind that stories featuring continuous, spectacular growth are among the most popular with our readers.” The magazines contain stories titled “A Growing Girl,” “Blimper” and “The Big Date.” There are illustrations and ads for videos, one of which is titled Trample and Crush. This is a publication for men who long to explore a vagina the way others might visit the Luray Caverns. Reading it over I noticed that, once they start growing, the women become very moody and aggressive and the knee-high men seem to love it.

My sister once gave me a magazine called Knocked Up and Gun Toting, which featured nude, pregnant women sporting firearms: pistols, hunting rifles, Uzis — you name it. I don’t imagine Knocked Up and Gun Toting has a very wide circulation but I’m certain its subscribers are devoted and happy in their own way. Still, though, like with Giantess, I have a hard time sharing their fetish. I shudder at the thought of nipples the size of manhole covers. Beneath the surface the Giantess reader seems to be a man who longs for his infancy. He looks back fondly at the time he was dwarfed by his mother and scolded for soiling himself. And that’s just about the last experience I care to reflect upon. Sure I received a few spankings but I never considered them a high point. I moved ahead and got on with my life. Didn’t I?

Barrel Fever

THE CURLY KIND

I WAS carrying out the Rosenblatt’s garbage this afternoon when the maid from the next apartment closed the door behind her, straightened her white uniform, and pushed the button for the elevator. This is the twelfth floor, four apartments per level and only one elevator, so it usually takes a while. I watched as the maid was joined by two young children accompanied by an Irish nanny. As they waited, the nanny reached into her canvas bag and handed the boy a bag of Cheetos, which he opened and immediately emptied onto the floor, screaming, “I wanted the CURLY kind. Don’t you know ANYTHING?”