Published in Pulp Empire

Have you ever made love to a woman over a foot taller than yourself? I have, I do it all the time. I’m doing it right now, in fact. Sorry, but that’s as graphic as I’m going to get. So if you’re looking for details, gory or otherwise, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you won’t get them here. This is not that kind of a story.

The thing that makes it easy to find women so much taller than me is that there are so many of them. I’m five foot nothin’, and that’s in my sneakers. You might think that this would be a disadvantage when it comes to women, and for the most part, you’d be right. But contained within every liability there is the seed of opportunity. At first I only went for short women, figuring that my limitation would be mitigated. I was wrong in this regard, and it took me years to figure this out. The problem with short women is that deep down they want a tall man to balance out their genes.

And that’s what it all comes down to, genetics. No matter how much we try to kid ourselves, we are all animals. Really smart animals with thumbs. The sex drive is one of the strongest drives in any species, and the thing that drives it is genetics. Every sexual act is driven by a base, subconscious desire to produce attractive children. In the service of this drive, we are drawn not just to the beautiful and powerful, but to the suitable.

This is why opposites often attract.

Obvious though this may seem, it took me years to figure it out, and until I did, I got very little action. Then one day it just came to me, as if in a revelation. If biology drove short women to prefer tall men, wouldn’t it, at some level, impel the opposite? While the concept might fly in the face of convention, wouldn’t tall women, at least some of the time, be open to the idea of sharing favors with a man of very short stature?

Indeed, on many occasions I have found this to be the case.

It’s not just that I can scratch itches that have gone hitherto unscratched, although with my size I can hit some pretty exceptional angles, and I do like to give everyone a little something extra, something they haven’t had before. You know, any job worth doing and all that.

But that’s not the reason I end up with tall women.

Every woman over five foot ten has at some point in her life been made to feel bad about her height. As a girl she was called Big Bird, as a teenager the boys only asked her to dance slow dances so their faces would be in her breasts. As an adult, men are intimidated, and call her Amazon. Deep down, in that part of the brain that controls the most basic drives, every tall woman is looking for a wee man that will give her a daughter who won’t grow past five foot six.

These issues of insecurity have nothing to do with looks. Take runway models. You don’t get to be that thin without an eating disorder. And how do they get an eating disorder? Poor body image. Insecurity. I know, I know, you might say I’m taking advantage of human suffering, exploiting it even, but hey, I’m five foot nothing’, and I’ll use what I can use.

As far as I know, there aren’t a lot of guys working this angle, and I’ve carved out a nice little niche market for myself. I’m doing alright.

My work takes me all over the country. Right now, I’m in Miami working on a job. I don’t care much for Miami, too many Latinas. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, it’s just that among their charms, height is not foremost. When’s the last time you saw a six foot Cuban woman?

Anyway, back to the current story. My line of work involves a lot of waiting, so I’m killing time with a very attractive woman who can’t be an inch under six foot two. I’m almost quite literally losing myself within her, wrapped in her long, entangling limbs. No sooner do we finish, when she sits bolt upright, almost sending me flying across the room.

“It’s my husband.” She’s surprised, but I’m not. “He’ll kill you.” She looks at me earnestly. “I’m serious, you won’t be the first.” I believe her.

I grab my clothes, feel for the weight in my jacket pocket, and hide in the closet. It’s a cliché, I know, but it’s one that works for me. I’m very good at hiding in closets. I do some of my best work hiding in closets. I hear the husband walk into the house, and I hear the woman scurry into the bathroom. His footsteps climb the stairs, and I hear him enter the bedroom.

He crosses the floor, and the closet doorknob clicks. He opens the door, and I fire one shot into his stomach. He drops to the floor. I check his face, then finish him with one to the forehead. I use a silencer of course, so the woman hears nothing from the bathroom. She walks into the bedroom, fully dressed. She looks down at her husband, lying in a pool of blood spreading from his head and stomach, then at me, standing naked over him. Before she has a chance to scream, I fire once more.

It kills me to have to do her like this, but that’s the nature of the job. Part of the value of being a five foot nothin’ hit man is no one expects me. It’s a trade secret I have to protect.

I hope my next job is in Saint Paul. They’ve got a lot of tall women up there, I can tell you.