Attack of the Giant Feminists

Intimates and associates, Here is the final story to be published in WRITERS MAGAZINE, and quite possibly the cause of its demise. Hope you're not feeling too politically correct today. Much love, Bob

 Naked, zombie-eyed, they loom over the landscape, advancing slowly, almost aimlessly, arms limp.
 We fall to our knees in wonder, rabbits in the headlights of a final revelation.  Their gaze excludes us.
 Tall as banks they tower over us, are almost upon us.  We must act or be trampled.  Some of us run forward open-armed only to be flattened by the great feet.  Their size and savor force us to rethink the line between desire and disinterest, and turn gay.
 Others scatter and hide in the hills.  Arms reach over the horizon, groping for us.  We squirm together in crude hiding places, not daring to breathe.
 Those who trust their gifts for flattery venture forward to negotiate, and are pounded down by huge fists.
 We jump into our Porsches and race back to the city.
 Behind us whole sections of countryside rise up as giant women, wounding our eyes with their beauty.  They spread their arms and fly over us, menstruating on us until the sky is red.  Their odors, which we have always understood to be natural, terrify us, and we speed on.
 Under the wail  of air-raid sirens we abandon our cars and crowd into the downtown trains.  When we arrive the streets are already being barricaded.
 They will not accept our surrender.  Huge catapults are erected from which volunteers are shot into the arms of the enemy.  They catch us in mid-air, wantonly suck our heads and swallow us whole.
 We watch, appalled.  Behind us our own women swell monstrously, bursting buildings as if being hatched, and rise against the sky.
 Searchlights whirl.  Huddled in a darkened bar we can see their silhouettes as they wander without, seeking what they might destroy.
 On the radio they exhort us in flat, dead tones to submit.  We will not be harmed, they say.  We exchange looks.
 A familiar calf appears in the street, and I run to the window.  Carol!
 Only now I have been consoling myself with thoughts of her shoulders, her proud kiss, her childish mouth--gifts I acknowledge with little gestures of passion.  It hurts me that I do not install  her in rooms, tell her my secrets, impregnate her.  But no, the hell with that.
 Now, rampage.  She lurches on, unseeing.
 We are calm.  What has happened transcends our understanding, a thing we are used to.
 Drinks are poured, rumors murmured.  Brain-washing, the hot knife.
 "Big," says Chester, "sure they're big.  But they can hide in grass you wouldn't think a cat could crouch in."
 We drink, pour.  After a little silence Fulton speaks up.  "What they need," he says, glaring defiantly around, "is a good fuck!"  Of course he is drunk.  We stretch our jaws, study our drinks, glance up at one another.
 Soon the mission is organized and we are stealing through the streets with each a bottle of Chivas in his shirt.  It is less dangerous among the ruins of the core than in the flatter precincts at the edge.
 We move along rail tracks, ducking when a giant profile moves past.  A flare bursts into agonizing seconds of broad day and we flatten ourselves to the ground.
 Not until we reach the suburbs can we be sure we have penetrated their lines.  Patrols pass.  We take cover in gardens, garages.
 We have regrouped and are squatting for a drink when suddenly we sight it: the camp.  One by one we rise to our feet while hilly farmland emerges as a vast terrain of sleeping giantesses.  The horizon alters as one of them stirs.
 We scurry across the road when our awe subsides and prowl in among them.  They lie in loose array.  Many snore heavily.
 We freeze when one of them moans and threatens to roll over on us.  Fulton gives us a knowing look and we pass on.
 Suddenly another one rises to her elbow and nuzzles through the whimpers of her neighbor.  They wrestle.  Big as cinemascope they roll and thrash before us, shaking the earth.  Only when they have mutually extorted whines and shudders do they drop back into sleep.
 We stand rooted.  It is some time before we can shake ourselves to and resume our purpose.
 Arguing over specifications we search among them until we find her.  She is lying spread-eagled with exhaustion.  We leap into the air with glee and tiptoe around her, appraising as we go, until we stand midway between the sweeping forelands of her feet.
 Cautiously we move in, subdued by the height of the canyon and the deepening darkness as it narrows.  We can no longer see the upper slopes of her thighs outlined in moonlight.
 We are close.  Under the faint fish-cannery smell we form up defensively.  And there, yes, as our eyes grow used to the dark, it is.
 We hold back.  Someone has to be first.  I steal forward.  The seam is a pucker of delicate elephant skin, so tall I must arch my head back to see the summit.  I pat it with both hands, gentle it, put my ear to it for oracular rumbles.
 Pulling  nervously at my pants I glance up at the crests of her thighs.  If they close I am done for.
 Holding it, as it were, by the lapels, I engage.  It is a potential cavity!  I press my cheek to it and give it my best stuff, pry at it with my tongue, surrender to its warmth.
 The fear seizes me that, tickled, she might bring her finger into play and pop me into the pit.  I hover, do I not,  before the primal abyss, and could easily  slip in and be swallowed.
 The moment passes.  I'm going good now.  From high over the mound comes a dreamy sigh.  Pride engorges me.  I grin back at the  others, perhaps foolishly, for who can be dignified with his pants at his ankles, humping at a pair of theatre curtains.
 But they have already gone, scattered each to his tryst.   And I, when I have confessed and collapsed, nestled and smoked a cigarette, I too buzz off to another flower.
 It is a big night.  We push ourselves to the limit, not noticing the streaks of dawn when they appear in the sky.
 In sudden military unison they sit up and smash at us as at ants at a picnic.  We scramble madly, colliding with one  another, striving only to survive another second.  At each blow the ground bucks beneath us and worries our confusion.
 I dive for a ditch and skitter into a culvert.  Fingertips block the ends.  It is unearthed, lifted, shaken, bent in two, in four, thrown down.  I lurk, peek out, run like hell.  Oh, how I run!
 An acre of shadow around me.  She crash-lands almost on top of me and seizes me in her hand.  "I want you," she breathes.  Wanda.  She twists my testicles.
 I am strapped to a chair, Wanda pacing before me.  Her legs are so-so, and I have never found it necessary to look at her during conversation.  Normally I pluck a hair from my chest and examine it.  Even now my attention drifts.
 Around me, debriefings, lectures on hand-to-hand combat, greased vibrators.  A squadron in training chants, "Kill!  Kill!  Kill!"
 I am slapped awake.  Electrodes are taped to shaved patches on my head and thoughts are implanted, doctrines of sameness as dreary as all the wisdom of the East.
 How long it goes on I can't say.  I am tired, tired.
 Suddenly I am on my feet straining at the straps.  "I've tried!" I scream.  "I've done my best!  I just don't have a position!"
 I slump to the ground still bound by the wrists, but the motion has freed my ankles, a fact that I am able to obscure as I am forced back into the chair.  All night I work the thongs against the arm-rests.  When they give I rub my wrists, look furtively around and vanish into the darkness.
 It is days before I can get back into town.  The bar, still undiscovered, observes black-out.  Some of us haven't made it.
 We start on the Jack Daniels, exchange stories, back-slap to keep up our spirits.  When troops pass in the street we appraise their ankles.
 Mere bravado.  We are beaten.
 One night we catch one in a covered construction pit.  She roars and kicks.  We stake her out like Gulliver and whip her until she hurts.  Then we let her go.  What's the point?
 Then, slam-bam, everything changes.  I am doodling on  the bar with my swizzlestick when a nudge directs me to a shape on the ruined skyline--a shape with a swollen abdomen!  We run to the window: more of them!  Pregnant profiles everywhere!
 They break ranks, forage,  claw at delicatessens.  Now they're really mad.
 We swagger against the bar and puff cigars, stand rounds.  The rucus outside delights us.  Have we fathered giant versions of ourselves, we wonder, or will hundreds of our own size emerge?  Bets are arranged.
 But even as their bellies swell the women themselves begin to deflate.  Soon, with only a few exceptions, they are on a human scale again, and come looking for us.  Now they want to get married.  This is no good either.
 At the last minute the Nude Police arrive to restore order.  After months without contact the outside world has sent help.  The Nude Police wear day-glo jockstraps color-coded according to rank, and affect high voices.
 "OK there, that's enough of that!" they shout.  "Form two lines!"
 Now there is only uneasy calm and the work of rebuilding civilization.  When we invite the women to dinner they discuss the merits of their fathers' as opposed to their husbands' surnames.  We are silent.  They seek reasons to laugh at us,  and stand when we leave the table.
 Of course the Nude Police are vigilant.  They are posted on each corner and shout "Just watch what you're doing!" at everyone who passes.  But incidents occur.
 Some women snatch cigarettes from our mouths and break them.  Others travel in groups and wait for chances to ambush us.
 Two of them catch me in an alley and shove me back and forth between them, do the point-to-something-on-your-chest-and-tag-you-on-the-nose trick, and shove me back and forth again.
 The other day I saw a rehabilitated feminist walking down the street and saluted her cautiously.
 "Don't forgive me unless I ask you to," she said.