Stepford’s Agony Aunt
I did it, I stopped being a coward and told him I loved him.
It was the perfect evening; we were hanging out in the fields after a day of horse riding. Sitting on a fence, drinking beer whilst the sun went down. God you had to be there.
But then he spoiled everything by saying he was going away on missionary work. You’ve probably heard of the First Church of Stepford sending out young men to recruit new souls to the flock. He told me he’s going around Colorado and Nevada for two months.
My heart was breaking, two months without seeing him!
“I like you,” I blurted out.
“Oh,” he replied totally innocent “I like you too.”
“No,” I gulped before my courage failed me “I mean I really, really like you.”
He frowned, god he’s so naïve, but that’s just one of the things I love about him. And without thinking I flung myself over the guy and kissed him. I mean fuck my first kiss was me forcing myself onto somebody.
We pulled apart and he was muttering something about what a good friend I am, and he’s flattered but…
I ran away sobbing, feeling like total shit. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be the old me, the tomboy who didn’t give a crap about boys or romance but god.
I’ll never be good enough for him. He’s too handsome and I’m a skinny runt. He deserves a beautiful charming woman, and that’s something I’ll never be. I don’t think I’ve got anything worth living for.
God, I hate myself for being such a lovestruck weakling. What can I do?
First off, well done for plucking up the courage to tell him how you feel. Many a boy and girl miss out on a promising relationship by not having enough guts to confess their feelings.
And you’re his best friend, trust me, you are charming and likeable. If you weren’t why would he hang out with you? I’ve read your letters, and you’ve always struck me as a quick witted, nice young woman.
Now as for that guff about not being good enough for him. What rot, you can be every inch as beautiful as any girl in this town.
Oh, just wait dearie, you’re in for a mighty big surprise.
Oh, good god! Why does my boss have to be so nice!
I mean he asked me to do overtime, not at the office but at his house. I said yes because he’s so wonderful in bed and the promise of another satisfying fuck just got to me.
So, whatever, he left a key under the doormat, and I showed myself in. His house was a typical bachelor pad you know, and it really needed a woman’s touch.
I was supposed to go over some spreadsheets before he arrived, but I kept staring, almost tutting at the floor. There were a few stains on the carpet out in the hall, and those dirty dishes in the sink made me bite my lip. I don’t know why but I drove a finger across the mantelpiece and found too much dust.
You’ve heard of OCD, that condition which makes you grit your teeth if a picture on the wall is at a funny angle? That was me, trying and failing to supress the need to clean his house.
God I was supposed to be working, but as soon as I found his vacuum cleaner, I gave his home a good once over, which then became a twice over. I cleaned his dishes too, dusted the shelves in his study and I was soon lost in a mindless bliss which is something I haven’t felt for a while.
I’m supposed to be this committed career woman, but there I was, wearing rubber gloves with my hair a mess, when I heard the jangle of keys by the front door and my boss entered. Goodness, I was wedged between a vacuum cleaner and a bucket and mop whilst he stared for five seconds before laughing. He then leaned forward and kissed me before strolling into his study. I blushed, I mean I should have been ashamed by my total lack of professionalism, but my real shame was that I hadn’t finished cleaning when he came home.
I could have joked about it, marched into his study saying, “Well anyhow boss, enough housekeeping let’s talk about that presentation due Monday.” But I didn’t. Instead I spent some time doing up my face and hair in his bathroom. Gotta look professional I told myself but really, I wanted to look good for him.
And I didn’t help him on the presentation instead I fetched him coffee and rubbed his shoulders and um…sat underneath his desk to help him relax.
Oh Agatha, what’s happening to me? Pulling this silly little stunt soothed me. I felt womanly and so content.
Is this the real me? Deep down, have I always held a submissive side? I feel good acting as a housewife and I’m struggling to remember that I used to dream of having my boss’s job one day. This is bliss, but somehow, I want to be the old me again if that makes sense.
What should I do?
Ah my dear, you’re quite the natural little housekeeper. Felt so good when your boss came home and smiled at the sight of you right? Let me tell you something honey, if you marry him and become his stay at home woman, you’ll have this blissful feeling all the time. Now isn’t that far more satisfying then long gruelling hours at the office?
Why fight being happy? I dare say you’ve discovered the real you. Just embrace it and you’ll never regret it.
We’ve failed. We were strong, we were proud but then it all went to hell.
Our group is open to anybody, the more the merrier but one day as our “Fuck Stepford” get together was in full swing, some good-looking guy stuck his head around the door and asked if he and his buddies could join us. Now, we’re all for male feminist allies so we said sure, but when dozens of men stormed into the room, we instantly knew they weren’t on our side. Probably arrived to disrupt us.
They didn’t speak, just said they were there to listen, but we felt uneasy all the same.
God they were handsome. You remember being a little girl and crushing on a boyband for the first time, losing your mind in a wave of hormones? Well that was us staring at those men. So good looking it almost hurt. I mean our group leader; you’ve surely seen her viral video by now, was in the middle of a speech. Before these handsome hunks came, she was spitting and shouting with passion but on catching sight of these boys she got a little flustered, mumbled and kept losing her trail of thought.
I tried talking but I heard a cough and saw a cute dude, dimples, bright blue eyes, blonde hair, smiling at me. Jesus, I stared at him open mouthed for ten seconds before blubbering and couldn’t recall what I was saying. Fuck, he was gorgeous!
So, this is the opposition’s plan? Sending out the hottest men to make us horny and hope we’ll give up on our activism? It’s working, goddamn it! Our attendance is dropping off ever since those hunks showed up. The night they first appeared the attendance was twenty, next week it was thirteen, the week after that, it was five.
Former members have been posting on social media going on dates with their new boyfriends. Yeah, it’s the same guys at our meeting. Christ, I hate women sometimes. We’re fighting against a diseased society and they turn around and do this?!
Agatha, it appears your side is winning; I hope you’re happy. Attacking us in our most womanly parts.
Go fuck yourself.
Oh my, I can remember my first crush, I was a headstrong eleven-year-old, proudly declaring I didn’t need any stupid boy, but then I saw a movie starring a god of the silver screen. When he told the starlet, he loved her and would always be with her, I imagined he was saying those things to me and I swooned.
It was then I noticed how dishy my male classmates were and in no time, I was a hopeless romantic. Goodness isn’t it just dandy when you’re feeling flustered? Give in dear, what have you got to lose?
I saw something incredibly strange last night, but I can’t say if it was for real. I was pretty drunk you see.
Okay it’s like this, I was hanging out at a bar, that one you told me was for men only, right. Well the guys there were as is typical for this town, pretty traditional, almost bragging about their conservatism, but in the absence of women, they were more open and so more revolting then usual. There was one middle aged man who told me he loved seeing the fresh meat coming in from out of town.
“Only a matter of time before they snap.”
“Snap,” I had asked
“Oh, you know, embrace the Stepford way,” he giggled. “I remember when my wife arrived, rebellious as hell but I worked my charm and let me tell you watching her throw out her fancy ideas, stop being such a feminist bitch and become a proud baby maker. Man, still get hard just thinking about it!”
I shook my head; all the locals are so unashamed of their dinosaur views. It’s suffocating.
Anyway, I might have drank more than I ought to for I staggered home, pretty miserable, just counting the weeks until college started.
Since I was drunk and in a bad mood, I kind of lost my bearings. I stomped around identical streets for ten minutes before leaning against a lamppost, trying not to be sick. It was then I spied three women sitting on a bench.
Two of those ladies were Stepford regulars, but the third, pale skinned, cladded in knee high stomping boots with body piercings and tattoos running up and down her arms, looked sullen as hell.
A fellow native from sanity land, I thought. Thank God!
“Christ,” said this goth, “this place is hell!”
“Now, now,” said one of the Stepford Natives “Let’s not take our Saviour’s name in vain, after all this place is perfect for women like us.”
“Oh yes,” the other girl breathlessly sighed “Just think of all those dishy men, the joys of dating and gosh when a handsome hunk slides an engagement ring on your finger and tells you that you’re his property, oh, makes me melt.”
“Fuck off,” the goth spat back, and I found myself liking her more “I’m not marrying any stupid bastard, ‘specially not some dumbass from this shithole!”
“Oh,” cautioned one of the Stepford women “you may say that but when you meet a good-looking feller…oh…”
She swooned helplessly.
“Well,” explained her friend “falling in love makes all common sense go out the door.”
The goth bolted up and glared at her two acquaintances “Getting struck down by goddamn cupid? Here of all places? Why the hell would I ever…”
But as she spat this out, I heard the steady thump of feet on the ground and the sound of someone panting.
A male jogger, good looking, had just appeared out from a bystreet. He was a tad sweaty but the goth, upon catching sight of this fellow, dropped her angry facade. Her jaw hung open whilst her two friends exchanged amused glances.
Sure, the guy was handsome, but hadn’t the goth lady seen good looking men before? Probably not judging by her blushing and transfixed expression. That was a tad odd.
But then as best as I can recollect, without warning or explanation, the goth lady, tall and skinny, no chest or hips to speak of, suddenly expanded. I swear I saw her tits rise from her torso, ripping through her black t-shirt, likewise, her widening hips aided by an inflating ass, tore her denim shorts to shreds.
What the fuck was going on? Had a fishing rod just bloomed into an hourglass?
Her tattoos seemingly vanished, her nose and lip piercings fell from her face, and her hair no longer spikey seemed to soften and curl.
The angry goth was replaced in a few seconds by a bashful native of Stepford. The tattered remnants of her outfit were the only clue she had once been anything other than a local girl.
I gasped. This was insane, impossible, a woman didn’t gain weight, shrink in height and become a walking wet dream in the space of a heartbeat.
But yet what had I just seen? A special effect, a bolt of madness? Regardless this newly minted Stepford Lady nervously walked over to the smiling gentleman shyly muttering something I couldn’t catch before flinging herself to the ground by his feet, in horny worship.
“Marry me!” she moaned “marry me and give me your babies.”
I can’t remember anything after that, I just woke up very hungover, and this begs the question, did I dream it? Sounds ludicrous but it’s almost a sped-up version of the typical Stepford story. I’m always encountering folk who talk about how this town changed their lives. Just yesterday I met a former flowerchild turned prolific mother, another was by her own words a pure anarchist/atheist but in no time, she became a minister’s doting wife. In short way too many people, from very diverse backgrounds come over here and without exception it seems proudly embrace a patriarchal middle-class conservativism.
But the thing is people are stubborn, very stubborn. They don’t chuck out their ideals in a heartbeat and become everything they once hated; I know I wouldn’t. So, how does Stepford do it? Bear in mind one couple said they changed their outlook and lifestyle over a weekend. That sort of radical change shouldn’t happen but evidently it does.
I’m getting kind of frustrated by the walls I keep bumping into. Everyone says they simply fell in love with Stepford and they won’t go any further. I think I make people uncomfortable if I ask too many questions. God knows it makes my Dad angry.
Hmm, you think there’s a riddle to Stepford. Well the big secret to Stepford is there are no secrets, what you see is what you get.
If, however you’re still not convinced, then book an appointment with the local church, there’s a few senior members who can fill you in so to speak. I sometimes feel a little down and confused (goodness even an agony aunt needs advice) and the elders of Stepford’s First Church put me right. They might also give you a good angle for an article.