Big Girls Don’t Cry

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I am going to see the Queen! Queen Kong! Queen Adrena! Matilda the Hun! Call her Queenie for short, she’s tall, six-four, three hundred and eighty pounds, with a furze of curls and a bosom so much better than mine! I am on a plane, hurtling through clouds and over canyons, all for a glimpse of this glow-girl, this lady of glow, spell it, G-L-O-W, Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling, she is famous in a worldwide way for her strength and sexiness, her web pictures showing slick skin, cherry-topped tits of superior size and shape; you could curl up in there. You could just have a good cry in her clefts. I am excited, hurtling through clouds and over canyons all for a glimpse and a touch and a talk with America’s premier porn queen and proclaimed giantess, her specialty smothering and trampling this country’s masochistic men. Men! The Queen has promised me an education. “I promise you a real education,” she had said on the phone, a few days before, her beefy chuckle full of innuendo. I love
innuendo! No more toddling after toddlers and long-term lovers. For the next forty-eight hours I am whooshing past the frontiers of my own modest flesh, traveling to the very edge, the ruby rim, in search of something huge and true, in search of sex.

Here’s what I know, ahead of time. Queen Adrena is fifty-four years old. She is considered to be the top giantess fantasy facilitator in America. There are technical terms here: learn them. Macrogynophiles are men who love huge ladies, who wish to be enveloped with weight and pain. Giantessophiles are men who do not necessarily wish to be enveloped but who also adore large women, as Queen Adrena is adored by many thousands of viewers. Her sessions, which she undertakes in her special fantasy factory — located in a mysterious section of Los Angeles — include trampling, cock-beating and having men suck on stiletto heels shoved deep in their throats. Queen Adrena makes movies, too. She signs all her emails “love and Big Body slams to you, ta ta.” The mission lying closest to her huge, hot heart is to promote, on the one hand, the power and beauty of large women, and, on the other hand, to facilitate men’s secret desire to be dominated. She calls it all her “kinky craft.” She says, “When you’re walking on a man, all four hundred pounds of you, you have to be very careful not to kill him. It’s a skill.” Both she and her clients especially like prolonged sitting sessions, which involve Queen’s ripe crotch masking the mouth, all her juices flowing. “A long time ago,” Queen says, “many men had the experience of being smothered by their mothers. They were maybe sleeping in bed and their mother rolled over on them, so they get a fetish. What I do for these men is allow them to re-experience and release these deep needs. It’s spiritual.”


The first signal I get that not all will be as grand as expected is the weather. Los Angeles, when we land, is wet and gray. The second signal is the houses. The Queen has given us an address for her fantasy factory. I had pictured, perhaps naively, something, well, fantastical, Oz-ish, with rhinestone-studded walkways and plushness. I had pictured a place all satin and sheen, a bit like a very strange dream. Instead, we drive down highways, squeeze into narrow streets. Red clay villas give way to tin-topped shacks. In front of us, in the half-dark of winter dusk, stands a concrete abode with peeling paint. In the yard, tires drift in rubble and black mud boils.


I go in. This much is true. The Queen, at least, is all that was promised. She is beautiful. She is a towering giantess with massive handles for hips. And yet, I find her in a dingy living room, sitting on a plywood throne, crumpled cartons at her feet. Her lips are blood-red, her eyes lined in kohl. Her husband, Ken, sits on a worn mattress, smoking, stubbing, smoking. A boy drifts into the room. “I’m a freaky kid,” he says, “that’s why I live here,” and then suddenly he’s gone. He just melts into the mist.


The Queen clears her throat. She is readying herself for speech. “Titty Bear,” she calls, “bring our guests some tea.” A little elfin thing dances out of the shadows. “I’m Queen’s slave,” he says, “her toy, your toy, at your service.” He bows. Titty Bear, a twenty year old with acting aspirations from Rochester, New York, brings us tea with little leaves floating in it. The Queen says, “In this world, there’s the haves and the have-nots, the rich and the poor. I have always been huge. My daddy was huge. My mum was huge. I used to fight marines on Saturday nights, just for the fun of it. I would smash their faces in. But when I tried to get into professional wrestling, I couldn’t. No man would wrestle me. My first match was with a bear.” She pauses, takes a sip from a twenty-ounce lidded cup with a straw the size of a drain pipe. “Bears,” the Queen says, “are born to dance and fight. I fought the bear in a professional wrestling ring and I lasted longer than any man. Fifteen minutes.”


“She can beat the crap out of any guy,” her husband says.


“Can she beat the crap out of you?” I ask.


“Hell no,” he says. “I’m the one who taught her everything she knows.”


I look at the Queen for confirmation. Despite her size and stories, she doesn’t look violent in the least. She keeps pulling on her ear, like a tired child just before sleep. It’s such a sweet gesture. She has one biological son and two adopted ones. She sips from her plumbing pipe. “Look,” she says. “You don’t have to call me Queen. Just call me Queenie, for short.”




Queenie is a busy woman. She no longer wrestles because, as she puts it, “I have a hole in my foot.” Still, that doesn’t stop her. In the fantasy factory, which doubles as their rather crowded house, she runs an Internet business with over five hundred subscribers, each wanting pictures of her majesty. Queenie sells her underwear, worn all night and with special stains, for a hefty price. During the day, she processes orders and FedExes her panties to panting customers all across our great nation. Queenie, despite her very on-target sense that the poor get poorer and the rich richer, still thinks our nation is great. “Kink is everywhere,” she says. “America looks normal, but what we have discovered is that ninety percent of America wants kink, and what I mean by kink is fetishes. I love my work. It’s feminist, in that I’m altering ideas of beauty, promoting big women, such as myself; and it’s ecstatic, in that when I’m walking on a man, when I’m letting him surrender to me — surrender through me — it’s like, well, it’s like walking on a cloud. I have cried when walking on men, it’s so beautiful. I’m so beautiful,” she says. “I’m fifty-four and I still look good.” The Queen pauses. She seems to be considering something deep in her. “Occasionally I wonder if I’ve made a wrong turn,” she says. “It’s true I’m a dominatrix, but I would never want to hurt anyone. When you’ve lived a life as far out on the edge as mine has been, you just get to hoping you haven’t made a wrong turn. There are days when I wish for a picket fence.”


Queenie likes commentary and is good at it. Her voice, surprisingly, is soft. She does not smoke. She is lyrical and intelligent. She seems to be smart as the whips she wields. She traffics in flesh but dwells at least as much in theory. “The problem with malehood today,” she says, “is that chivalry is out. There is no more knighthood. Men need a way of proving their love for a woman, and the only way they can do that is to show her how much of her they can take. When a man submits to me, when he lets me trample him, he’s really showing me how strong he is.”


Queenie’s favorite stories, not surprisingly, are about her grand-slam successes. “I’ve done slam-a-gram parties for millionaires,” she says. “I’ve been in over four hundred movies and twelve hundred TV shows. Imagine what people do when I walk into the room. ‘Oh my God,’ they scream, ‘it’s Matilda the Hun.’ Once,” she says, “I stopped the whole world. I went into the stock market, grabbed some yack-yack broker off his chair and sat on his face, my cunt right up in his nose. Everyone was so shocked, they just got off the phone and the stock market stopped — dead! — for at least ten seconds. The whole world went still because of me,” Queenie beams. “Now,” she says, “I’m barred from every major world trade center.”


I am confused. I like listening to Queen Adrena’s tales. She has the amazing ability to be at once super-sweet and super-strong. Her face is doll-like, despite its size. Her stories are like all good stories, full of engine. Nevertheless, things here don’t add up. The grand-slam successes, the fat-priced panties, the thousands of subscribers and fans have not left their mark, their money. I ask her how much she really makes but the Queen does not want to say. She lives in a run-down neighborhood, in a city called Torrance where smokestacks belch black smoke. In her house, everyone except for her smokes, smokes, smokes, and it occurs to me she may traffic as much in smoke as substance: a glittery Internet image, a far rougher reality. Her eyes seem tired, a tiny hemorrhage reddening the left one. Queenie shows us a video of one of her famous slam-a-gram parties. In it, she is wearing a Matilda the Hun horned headpiece and thigh-high boots. She grabs a man and hurls him over her shoulder. Ha ha ha, the audience screams, and Queenie says, “They love me.” In the next second, though, she squints, as if seeing the scene differently — how I’m not sure — and doubt flits across her face. Do they love her? Or are they laughing at her? “Sometimes,” she says, “I feel extremely neurotic. I’m a spiritual person and as far as I can see, the world we live in now is the basement. There’s no place to go but up.” I suddenly feel sad. “I love your wallpaper,” I say.


The Queen seems to know I’m lying. She puts down her twenty ounce drink. “You see how dirty that wallpaper is?” she says. “You know what color that wallpaper is?” she says, and she suddenly sounds pissed. “It’s called lung cancer,” she says. “It’s the color of lung cancer, and I live in it.”

Queen Adrena has many slaves. Besides her husband, who is vocal about his disdain for monogomous relationships, Titty Bear is her main man. He lives with her and collects a small stipend for acting in her fetish films. There are also, however, Pony Boy, Viking Boy and Pierre, from San Diego.


I ask her if her slaves service her. Titty Bear pipes up, “All the time.” I picture, of course, the obvious: nights of cunt-licking, ass worship, Queenie’s majestic back-end lobes creamy and glowing as the little man sets to licking. “So, like, does he give a lot of oral sex to you?” I ask again. “Or, intercourse?”


I figured it would be okay to pose this question, given that these people are not shy, to say the least. I should have known better. Nothing here is so straightforward. “Does he service you orally?” I ask, and the room goes dead. The smoke stills in the air, so I can see each individual particle, the carbon and monoxide spinning on their little axes, dazzling, dirty. Queenie flushes. Her husband coughs. I might as well have posed the question to a bunch of southern Protestants in church on Sunday. “Well no,” says Queenie slowly, “that’s not what it’s about.”


Now I’m quite confused. What is it about, if not the ruby rim, the edge of sex? She promised!


“Look,” says Titty Bear. “There are many, many ways to service a woman. You can rub her feet. You can paint her house.”


“That’s right,” says the Queen, regaining her composure. “It’s not about being serviced orally. The best slave in the world doesn’t work with his tongue. All a woman wants,” she says, and now the Queen looks tired, so tired. “All a woman wants is a man to do a little bit of window washing. There is nothing like a man who can clean,” she says, surveying the filth around her. “Cleaning really turns a lady on,” she says, and we all laugh, Titty Bear, the Queen, her husband, Ken, and I, we all laugh a little too hard at how it comes down to this, always this, not sex but soap and buckets.





The Queen is on disability because of this mysterious hole in her foot. She moves stiffly to show me the stacks of videos she’s made and sold. She shows me the newspapers she’s been in, and there are, in fact, many: The Miami Herald, The London Daily Mail, The Sun, which shows her on its cover with a serious snarl on her face. Headlines read: “Queen Kong Takes All!” “The Giantess Triumphs!” She has a large portfolio, some of which she says she is ashamed of. “I don’t like my beaver shots,” she says. “I think it’s very important to get the whole woman. It’s important to keep the class in what you do.”


Queen Adrena then shows me one of her favorite pictures. She is eating a plate of raw meat in a British pub, her huge mouth hungry, vital, stained with wolfish hemoglobin. Around her an audience cheers. “Before I became a fetish queen I wanted to be a singer,” she says. “Actually,” she adds, “sometimes I even wonder why I’m a fetish queen at all. It’s the stage I really crave, the musicals. I have a lot of talent, but no one wants you if you’re past a certain size.”


“Can you sing one for me?” I ask.


“I wrote this one,” she says, then sings:

“Raw meat

Raw meat

I need your meat

To feel complete.”

Her voice is sweet and high. “That was my best song,” Queen says, looking nostalgic, “but there’s others.” The Queen is not kidding. That, she feels, really is her best song. Suddenly, I could just cry. Oh Queen, Queen, I want to say. To me, it’s parody; to her, it’s power. Why? Am I a snob or is she a fool? She’s no fool. She sees right through the smoke. Her eyes have so much intelligence. I would like to do something kind for her, serve her a bowl of hot soup.

The next day, we go to the Temple to watch the Queen at her “kinky craft.” Here, she assures us, we will see her making a real, live, flesh-and-blood fetish film. The rain keeps coming down. I have sunk into a funk. Last night, at the motel, I called a friend and told him about Queenie. “I just don’t know how to describe her, she’s, she’s a crusader for women’s rights in a real way,” I said. “And she has been in a lot of newspapers, but she also makes films with titles like Panty Thief’s Pounding and Queenie’s Human Furniture Store.”


“White trash,” he’d said. Now, he is no longer my friend. The Queen is not trash. She is suffering, struggling, and she has a hole in her foot. She is fetching and lovely and full of desire, not for sex, but for credibility, visibility. Who wouldn’t want that? Sure, she tells a tall tale, with words like giantess and temple, long-looped chains and so many silver dollars; it’s her own personal fairy tale, and a good one, too. It may even be brilliant, her talent for forming an image, on the Internet, through emails; that’s where she likes to live. And
that image, which I met long before I ever laid eyes on her, is so very compelling. What you see on her website is all sparkle and spike. She’s a storyteller. She’s the Pied Piper, plus.


We get to the Temple. It’s actually one room in a duplex. Inside, Queenie’s star actress, Kyla, has a cold. Titty Bear is in boxers, with a dog collar around his neck. He pants when he sees us and offers to lick my knee. “No thanks,” I say. The filming begins.


One. Two. Three. Ken is the cameraman. Titty Bear lies on the floor while Kyla pulls down his boxers to show a demure little ass with hair in the crack. She paddles him, but the whole time, she keeps coughing, and her nose runs. This, I would imagine, does not make for good porn, but no one seems to mind. “Oh, this is so great, so great!” Queenie says. She grins at me. “Kyla is a gorgeous girl,” she says. Titty Bear cries, “Mercy.”


They roll over. Kyla stands on top of Titty Bear with her six-inch high heels. Queenie enters the scene and puts a black mask over Titty Bear’s face. The acting is wooden, devoid of emotion. I don’t know at what point this changes. Hours go by. Someone lights up a bong. “Okay,” says Queenie. “Now, Kyla, I want you to feed him your heel. Titty Bear,” she says, “I want you to take her whole heel in your mouth.”


Titty Bear opens his little mouth, like a baby bird, and desultorily sucks on the stiletto’s tip. The Queen starts to puff. That’s the only way I can describe it. She puffs and puffs and, quite all of a sudden, rage is palpable in the air. “I said the whole heel!” she bellows. “Go on, Titty Bear, take the whole heel into your mouth, Kyla, Kyla, shove it down his throat, shove, shove.” She’s yelling, and the cameras are whirling, Titty Bear choking as he’s orally raped, Kyla, in a trance, plunging her foot — plunging, plunging — and so I see it. I see it. I see the Queen’s rage. “Really give it to him!” she yells. She paces the floor. Titty Bear struggles, his face red, my God, is this a snuff film, stop, stop! I want to cry, but there is no stopping the Queen. Not for these moments. She is in a rage, on a rampage. She grew up poor. She’s always been poor, and as a child, because of her huge size, she was the butt of just too many jokes. “I work eighty hours a week,” she’d told me earlier that day, “and I can’t get ahead. So many people have stolen from me!” Watch out, the Queen is pissed and you tell me, who wouldn’t be? In this country, the rich get richer, the poor get poorer. “I want some recognition,” she’d said. “I want a real position.”


“Shove it in,” she yells, and I can see her quest for power in a powerless place, her need to master something so much larger than she — invisibility. It’s so big, that invisibility, we all feel it. And then it’s over. The heel comes out. Titty Bear stands up, wipes off his mouth. Click click. The cameras close. End of scene.

Back at her house, before we are to leave Los Angeles for good, I ask Queen Adrena if I can see her bedroom. She shows me. “There are no windows in here,” I say, looking around the low-ceilinged, water-stained box.


“I hate the light,” Queen Adrena says.


“I do too,” I say, and I feel, for some reason I cannot articulate, that this is true.


“I’m in menopause,” Queen Adrena says.


“Is aging hard?” I ask.


The Queen nods. I feel, at this moment more than any other, that I have come to some sacred center with her, because she nods. Because she has shown me rage, and sadness, and also this, a body failing, a body first growing to awkward lengths and now, and now, at this mid-point, the juices drying up, and it is painful, no matter what twist, what mask you put on it, this mid-life point is painful, even if you swear you’re big and beautiful. Before I came out here, Queen Adrena promised me a real education, sex more spiced than anyone could imagine, and in many ways, she has delivered. She has given me a real education, but like any good curriculum, it’s not at all what I expected. Like any good poet, Queen Adrena is full of swerve and surprise; you think one thing, she says another. You plan to see this. She shows you that. The Pied Piper plus, her lute is large and silver. I had come to find the ruby rim, the edge, but, of course (we should have known), there never really is an edge, or
it is always folding in on itself, taking you straight back to the plain
old center where all the small sufferings occur. Larger than life, no. Just life, life, life. As for Queen Adrena, she says she deals with life and all its letdowns with her spirituality. “Do you believe in heaven?” I asked her, just before we left.


“An afterlife?” she said. “Yeah, I think about it. Sometimes I see it as a place full of angels and flutes. Other times, no matter how hard I look, I can’t see anything at all.”



For more Lauren Slater, read:
Cut Free
The Devil Inside

Lauren Slater and Nerve.com