Tiny Tim and Small Sam

Chapter 1

I was always so self-conscious of my height. Despite coming from an average-sized family, I was only 5’3”. I was pretty normal-sized until sixth grade, when I just stopped growing. My parents even took me to the doctor to see if I had any hormone issues. I didn’t. I was just naturally short.

Growing up, I felt like a real freak. My name’s Tim, so of course everyone called me Tiny Tim. I hated that so much.

Over time, I learned to accept how I looked. Once I went off to college and entered the dating scene, I discovered that a lot of guys had a thing for pocket twinks like me. Not everyone was into that, but there were a few guys with a fetish for shortness, and those guys were really into it.

I personally wasn’t interested in anyone my height. I liked the size difference. My last few boyfriends were all over six feet. We got a lot of stares from people, which was kind of a turn on.

Then last year, I met Sam (or “Small Sam,” as everyone called him). Sam was exactly my height and build. Really handsome, though. He had these blue eyes that were jarringly pale. He could’ve been a model if he weren’t so short.

We met at a bar and immediately hit it off. He seemed interested, but I really wasn’t. I needed a big man.

I couldn’t tell him that, though. I’d sound like a total hypocrite. Plus, I’d never been with a guy my height before, and I figured I might as well try it out.

So when he asked me back to his place, I said yes.

The sex was incredible. Everything was incredible. Despite his size, Sam was the most masculine, powerful lover I’d ever been with. He had all the power of a much larger man concentrated into one stumpy body.

I ended up staying the night and then spending the next day with him.

And before I knew it, Sam and I were a couple. Small Sam and Tiny Tim. For months, we did everything together. Going to film festivals. Surfing. Yoga. Karaoke. All our friends thought we were the cutest couple. (We heard the word “cute” a lot, which always felt demeaning.) Things were great, but there was always a part of me that missed the size difference. I never said anything, though.

Then one evening, months into our relationship, Sam and I were drinking wine on his balcony. We were both pretty drunk (it didn’t take a lot), and I’d just made some dumb joke about the identical step stools that we had in our kitchens.

He looked at me, his beautiful blue eyes a bit glossy from the alcohol, and said, “God, Tim. You’re perfect. Why couldn’t you just be bigger?”

He immediately got this guilty expression. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d been sober. The words just came out.

That was the moment I realized that he felt the same way I did. He liked everything about me except my size.

I knew it was hypocritical to be mad at him, but I totally was. I felt like he’d just slapped me in the face.

The awkwardness between us seemed to sober us both up. I squeezed his hand and asked, “Do you really feel that way?”

It was too late to take it back. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Does this mean you want to break up?”

“No,” he said. “I never should’ve said anything.”

The rest of the night was really awkward. We watched a movie together. (Some dumb romcom.) We usually made jokes throughout movies, but this time, we just sat there in awkward silence. Neither of us laughed at any of the funny parts. It was like Sam’s confession was a storm cloud hanging in the air above us.

I ended up leaving early and going back to my place.

That was the last time I saw him for three months. We talked on the phone the next day and decided to end things. It was a mutual decision, but it still hurt.