He fits right in my pocket, snuggled against my wallet, keys, and phone. Sometimes, out of comfort or exhaustion, he takes a short nap and I feel a spritely patter against my thigh as he snores. Such a gentle intimacy. His face, as well, takes on a luminous red glow when I stick a pinkie down his throat; the words he tries to scream come out malformed and gurgled as he chokes on finger meat. In times of high stress (who can blame me?) I dig a fingernail into his skin—deep enough to leave a crescent moon laceration—and then lean back and grin as he emits the mellifluous whine of a dog toy. His minuscule form, it must be said, is gnarled with scars. I can even, if I so choose, wring him out like a wet dish rag, twisting him back and forth until multi-colored fluids spill from his body. Consider: torture this tiny feels euphoric; sadism on a small enough scale is no sin.
And The Little Man is not without recourse: at night, while I slumber, he dips a toe into my sphincter as if checking the temperature of a pool, then plunges his whole body up inside me. As he swims through my bowels he claws them to ribbons, leaving in his wake only billowing intestinal shreds. In the morning, coming into consciousness, I feel him squeeze through my gullet, his proportions all speckled and smeared with the remnants of my interior. He smiles. And I smile. This is devotion. This is why I love The Little Man.