I’ve a unique girlfriend. She is 10’3” tall. Giant! I’m a big guy, 6’4”, but she dwarfs me.

She is gorgeous, however, and I don’t think I could ever let her go. Only one exists like her in the world. We’ve been on news programs and late night talk shows several times. We’ve become sort of a celebrity couple.

Sure, there are tall girls out there, but none as tall and beautiful as my girl. She doesn’t carry her immense size with the strange gait of most extremely tall people.

It is rather difficult getting her in my house. But it’s okay, because we normally go to her place. Her house has been built especially for her largeness. The doors are huge, twelve feet tall and four feet wide. The door knob is level with my head, rather than my waist, where most door knobs are. Inside, chairs, couches, and loveseats float like pontoon boats on a sea of cushy carpet. I must jump to sit on any of them. Her bed, which I can happily say I’ve been in many times, also reminds me of a vehicle for water travel. The headboard is like the main-mast of a large sailing vessel.

It’s Wonderful making love to this woman. As I said, I’m a big guy. Most women say I’m well-endowed. But in her huge hands my cock looks like an earthworm being fondled by a five-year-old, so thin and vulnerable. Even when I’m fully aroused and she takes me in her mouth, it looks like someone sucking on one of those tiny dum-dum pops.

Her vagina is huge. To really get her off, I have to stick my whole arm in, up to the elbow. She likes it kind of rough, and I can get in there pretty good with my whole arm.

I can get off by standard copulation with her. Despite the largeness of her vagina, it is still moist and warm and inviting. In the missionary position, my face is level with her enormous breasts. Proportionately, the girl has big boobs, so imagine what these things are like from my perspective. I would say each breast is two feet wide, and they each stick out about two and a half feet from her chest. Big!

I never have to worry about a fight. My girl can take on any guy. I am no longer embarrassed about my girlfriend’s superior physicality.

Every once in a while, a stupid guy will yell out something derogatory about her size. I’ll tell the guy he needs to be quiet, that I will take him outside. Mostly this works, but sometimes the guy continues, perhaps his friends get involved.

One time, after I had told a couple guys to stop bothering my woman—that, yes, we know she is big; that their jokes were not at all original or funny—they would not stop. My girl and I grabbed the two imbeciles and took them out of the bar and onto the sidewalk.

One of the guys said, “I would never hit a woman, but I’ve got nothing against punching an ogre.” Then he swung a right haymaker at her face (he had to jump to try to hit her). She smoothly stepped back, avoiding the punch, and threw a relaxed right front kick to the guy’s chest. His body flew against the outside wall of the bar. He slid down and passed out on the sidewalk. The other guy was watching. I took the opportunity to punch him in the face, knocking him toward my girl. She picked him up and slammed him on top of his friend. They lay there in a heap. It was great.

She feels like a freak sometimes, gets worried that I will one day leave her for a normal-sized woman. I tell her that I love her and that there is nothing to worry about. I tell her I like her largeness. Truthfully, I do yearn to be the man again sometimes. Though it is not embarrassing to me anymore, it is still something that wears on my psyche. I want to satisfy a woman properly, with the proper body parts again. It gets a little old, using the ulna and radius of my arm, the metacarpals and phalanges of my hand, as a horse cock for my giant woman.

We’ve sort of discussed this, but I am not as candid with her as I am here. She senses things, however, which only makes her more endearing. She has offered me the right to sleep with smaller women, though I wonder if it was only a test.

“Then does that mean you’d like to sleep with some larger men?” I asked her.

“Of course not, honey,” she said, stroking my leg with a finger the size of a thick Kielbasa. “Most guys over seven feet tall are uncoordinated and awkward. I don’t want anyone else; you are perfect.”

“Well, maybe a basketball player… Shaquille O’Neal perhaps. He is coordinated.”

She only laughed. She would dwarf him, too. She is mine and I am hers. We will not be sleeping with other people.

We talked about traveling. The problem is that standard airplane seats will not fit her. Not only that; the ceilings of most planes are only about 8 feet high, making it nearly impossible for her to move about the cabin. We needed a C-130 or some sort of plane designed to transport cargo.

She has a car which was specially designed for her. It’s a giraffe-car, I always tell her. It looks silly going down the street, like an upside down ‘T’, with the roof many feet above the hood.

We settled on just cruising around the states in her giraffe-car. We went to Mt. Rushmore. More people took photos of us than of the famous dead heads; people seemed more interested in her bust than in the busts of past presidents.

We went to Las Vegas, and my girl was offered a job as a cocktail server at the Rio Hotel and Casino. They begged her, but she is wealthy and has no need for a job.

We traveled to Los Angeles, where she was immediately asked to be in a movie. She was offered the part of the Amazon Queen, Penthesilea, in a film about the Trojan War. She turned this down, too, though the work would be fairly easy and the pay high. Again, my girl is in no need of extra money. She received a large inheritance when her normal-sized parents died in a car crash, driving a normal-sized car.

One day, sitting on her giant loveseat, watching a movie, I asked her if she ever wished to be normal-sized. She said, “Sometimes,” but didn’t elaborate. When pressed, she began to cry. A tear drop fell and landed on my knee, hurting me (there would be a bruise). This caused her to cry, too; she ran into the bathroom, the whole house shaking violently. We ended up having to use her larger-than-normal Shop-Vac to clean the flooded lavatory.

The thought of hurting her frightens me. She is not a violent person; however, I think she could be driven to inflict pain if I were to be untrue to her: especially since she offered me the right to do so and I turned it down. She values veracity, as anyone, regardless of size, should.

I am glad to have such a unique woman. The disadvantages are far outweighed, and overshadowed, by the huge benefits. For instance: I can use her fingernail clippings as letter openers, I can sit on her shoulders at concerts and see the stage well from anywhere, I can swim in her bathtub, she can swing me around by my legs or arms—as if I was a small child, I can go down on her while standing up, her washer and dryer can clean and dry my whole wardrobe in one load, her refrigerator is eight feet tall and is always stocked with large luscious fruits. And, again, I can’t stress this enough, the breasts are incredible, like nothing on earth; they are natural, and could belong to no other woman without looking freakish.

We very much get along. We enjoy the same types of books and films, and though she can only read large hardbacks—her large fingers tend to rip the pages of paperbacks, we read together often. We recently read some essays and travel writing by one of our favorite authors: Anthony Burgess.

I used a little of John Keats’ poetry to send her love letters in the beginning. I thought it would be harmless to keep it from her, let her think the words were mine, but, of course, she was too smart for this. Keats had been her favorite poet when she was only a fledgling giant in middle school. She stood 6’4”, my fully-grown and current height, when she was 13.

I’m not sure what will become of us. I do love her: her large intelligent blue eyes, her long hair, which, like the mythical Rapunzel’s, could be used for a rope, her big soft hands, and her cavernous vagina. I am safe with her; I’m in danger if I leave her. My fate has been decided… unless… unless perhaps I move out of the U.S. But then she’d probably spend the necessary cash on a custom plane and try to find me. Wait, here she comes. I can hear her footsteps coming down the hall. Damn! It takes me so long to type anything up on this damned custom-made keyboard, each key is as big as a garage-door-opener, and I always have to stop before I’m finished. There goes that picture again; it always falls off the wall when she stomps around. I must sign off now and save this in my private file.

This is a story by Fighting Monkey Pants, about him and a Girl. hope you enjoy it, as you can hear me laugh all the way through it.

You already know the story we go to diners when we fail at picking up girls earlier that evening.

At the time, a large woman was waitressing there almost every night. She was the best waitress we had! She always got the food right, and she kept our drinks full! That Fat girl could move! I am telling you! She was all over that diner, like a rat on cheese!

Her co-worker (Bus Boy) was a good guy, too. I don’t think he had any mental issues, but he definitely had a screw loose. He was always talking about the gothic clubs, and the girls there. MCizzle and I knew this man couldn’t get any of those girls because he had a huge walking problem. He had this limp that just made him look like he had a fake leg!

Well we walk into our favorite place and we see (Bus Boy) and his gimpy leg walk right into a bus cart. The cart fell on him, throwing him to the ground, and the silverware went everywhere. He had some trouble getting up, but I couldn’t come over to help, because I was laughing so hard.

After a while, I was able to calm down and I began walking to my seat. On the way as I passed through the mess, I shouted. Nobody move; he’s gotta clean that up!

Finally, I was at my seat. I took my jacket off, sat down, only to hear my fat waitress scream…

I FUCKING QUIT!

and she stormed out of the diner!

I took some time to stop laughing. Threw my napkin down simultaneously with MCizzle and shouted I FUCKING QUIT, TOO! and we stormed out with her. you’re done, we’re done! Mcizzle said.

Don’t you go dying on me! I told her.

MCizzle let our fat waitress know “If you don’t own the place, we’re not coming back! and we rolled out. I asked, “Dude are we really not coming back? Fuck yeah we’re coming back, I was just being nice! he said.

A day later, I received a phone call from my fatty waitress. I’m manager! she told me. That night, MCizzle and I went back and enjoyed our coffee!  like the dude in the Big Lebowski says: I’m staying  enjoying my fucking coffee!