Ed. Note: This is a continuation of the entry, How to Make the Perfect Sex Doll. It is not necessary to read that entry first, but it will help.
Guys, are you sick and tired of bitches who talk back? Bitches who nag at you until you want to smack them across the face? You know what I’m talking about. Women these days are real ballbusters, only looking to kick you in the nuts. You’re tired of having to deal with that shit, aren’t you?
Well, come over here and take a look at this. For a limited time only, we are offering the Stepford Minna doll. Not only has she been trained to be the perfect sex doll, she has been broken in every other important way. If you’ve ever read Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, then you have a hint of what kind of effort was put into training the Stepford Minna doll solely for your pleasure.
If you are feeling sad, she will feel sad for you. If you are angry, she will absorb your abuse without breaking a sweat. If you want to fuck her until you break her, well, she will happily comply. Or rather, she will obediently comply. I can’t tell you if she’s happy about it, but it’s not important, anyway.
You won’t have to talk about your relationship or worry about how she is feeling. She feels nothing on her own. She feels what you tell her to feel. Genius, really. You don’t have to worry that she will want to take your relationship to the next level because she is perfectly content to let you define what the two of you have.
She will do anything you want–except cook and clean. She was never properly trained to do those two things, but you could probably teach her with the right, ah, persuasion in due time. Or, you can just hire a cook and a housekeeper because there will be plenty of things you will want your Stepford Minna to do for you.
Whatever you are interested in, she will learn. Whatever you want to talk about, she will listen. Whatever opinion you have, she will accept. It’s all about you, baby–your needs, your wants, your desires.
She won’t ask you for anything because she knows better than to want. She won’t bother you unless you specifically call for her. She will not call you at inopportune times; she will not ask you to buy her anything; she will not demand tokens of your affection. Do what you want with her and then toss her in the closet when you are done. Or the trash, if you prefer.
She comes with accessories such as a dog collar emblazoned with “Property of” and your name on it. You can request shackles, gags, blindfolds, leashes, and a variety of other restraints when you place your order. Once in a while, she does show a flare of independence, so we have included a bullwhip at no extra cost for those problematic times. Give her three or four lashes with this baby, and you will have her back in line in no time.
This is the full-figured version, but we also have the anorectic/bulimic version if you prefer your bitch to be skinnier. Don’t worry–she still has the big tits. Those come with either version. Act now because she will be gone before you know it!!!
During my last therapy session, I realized that my training went much deeper than just sexual. From a very early age, I learned that I did not really think what I thought I thought. If I said to my mom or dad that I was mad, I was told it wasn’t true. As I’ve written before, only my father was allowed to be angry. The rest of us were expected to subjugate our negative emotions and pretend they didn’t exist.
My father is a narcissist. He cannot fathom someone thinking/feeling something that he himself does not. In his mind, I am not a human being in and of myself; I am merely an extension of him. Therefore, whatever he felt, I must be feeling, too. If he was cold, then I had to be cold as well. If he couldn’t fathom living on his own, then I couldn’t fathom it, either. I used to try to explain to him why I felt the way I did or thought the way I did, but I realized some time ago that it was useless. I quit trying and accepted that he would never know the real me–nor that he would ever really want to.
People love my father. He is charming and handsome, funny and just plain irresistible. I’ve seen grown women act like teenagers around their teen idol crushes when he’s around. Each of them felt as if she were the center of his universe. None of them realized that the minute he walked away, he completely forgot any of them existed. None of them mattered a whit to him.
I do not matter a whit to him. His idea of a daughter matters to him. The fact that I am of his blood matters. The fact that I have his name matters. The fact that I am not highly successful matters. If he gives me, Minna Hong, the person, any thought at all, it’s probably to wonder what the hell happened to me.
Every time I talk to him, I can tell that I am just a bit player in his drama. He says he loves me, but he doesn’t know the first thing about me. He could not name my favorite book or even genre of literature, what I write about, what kind of performance I’ve done, who my friends are, or my two cats. He probably knows my favorite color, but that’s really hard to miss. I highly doubt he knows what field I received my MA in. He does know I got my BA in psychology because he was dead-set against me studying my mom’s bailiwick.
The things he does know about me, he merely dismisses because they don’t fit his paradigm of what his daughter should look like. When I was a teenager, he gave me a French doll he had bought in Taiwan. It was wearing a pink dress and had blond, fluffy curls and big blue eyes. He gave it to me proudly like it was some kind of fucking treasure. I looked at the doll and then at him, and I wondered who the hell this man even was?
I hated the color pink. I didn’t play with dolls–I preferred stuffed animals. I didn’t wear dresses, and what the fuck, blond hair and blue eyes? I never played with the damn thing, and every time I looked at it, it mocked me with the knowledge that my father cared so little about the real me.
The Minna of his mind: A giggling girl who played helpless to get a man. A fairy princess who would get married to her Prince Charming in a castle (literally!), push out a couple of kids, and become an economist. No, seriously, that’s what he wanted me to be. Guess what he has his Ph.D. in? She would live in the suburbs and take care of her man while working at the same time, and she would never ever question societal norms.
My mom is that way to a certain extent. She is a brilliant psychologist and a trailblazer in sandplay therapy in Taiwan, and yet, in the house, she is nothing. My dad treats her like a maid or a servant who is beneath him. Or, he did. She would run around serving him, and he never even said thank you. He just accepted it as his due. She can’t call him at work or he gets mad. She can’t buy him the wrong shirts or he gets mad. She can’t ask him when he’s coming home or he gets mad. And, she’s fucking put up with it for forty-two years.
The Minna of his mind: A girl who speaks softly and doesn’t laugh out loud. A girl who will put on a sweater when he is cold. A girl who doesn’t talk back or show any emotion other than empty happiness.
During my lost years, I felt nothing. Why? Because I had learned that I wasn’t allowed to feel. I had to mimic other people’s behavior and words in order to simulate actual feelings. If someone told me that her mother had died, I would say, “That’s horrible!” with the right amount of pain in my voice, but it was purely fabricated. Inside, I was dead. My mind knew she was telling me something awful, and yet, I couldn’t translate that into actual feeling.
Conversely, if someone told me something good such as, “Minna, I got a new job!” I would smile and say, “That’s great!” I would force my voice to sound excited because I knew that was what was expected.
Inside, this is what my brain was doing. News: “I got a new job.” Brain: This is good news. Good news should make you happy. Smile. Be excited. Say, “That’s great!” And then, I would.
There were tricky times if someone told me news, and I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. Then, I would have to watch the person closely to take my cues from her to see how I should react.
I got very good at it, but it was fucking exhausting. I constantly feared that someone would see through my act and call me on it, but it never happened. When I was deeply depressed and couldn’t summon up the energy to dissimulate, I would hide. Then, when I had a modicum of strength, I would go back to pretending.
I realized all this because to this day, I have trouble asking for anything. I don’t call people because I don’t want to intrude. If I’m depressed, I withdraw from my friends or I put on the mask because I don’t feel I deserve to have their support and love. In addition, since it’s the people I love and trusted who systematically dismantled me in the first place, I’m a bit chary about it happening again. Intellectually, I know that I have people in my life who love me for me and who only want me to be me, but emotionally, I am constantly afraid that I am disappointing the important people in my life. I know it’s not logical or rational, but it’s really difficult for me to break my early training.