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."