The Shrinking Man: A Cautionary Tale (Short Story)

The Shrinking Man: A Cautionary Tale

By a Gentleman of Diminished Stature

Below is a letter discovered from Victorian times, proving that male muscle drain is not solely a modern problem but one men have faced throughout history. As women have sought to rebalance the scales of power between the sexes, accounts like this have been buried and forgotten by history—but remembered in the herstory of women, passed down in their tales of strength.

To Whom It May Concern,

I pen this missive with a trembling hand, for it takes not just all my strength to recount this tale, but even to lift this light quill. My muscles tremble and quiver beneath the strain of this quill, and I am certain that upon hearing my tale, you too shall tremble.

You see, esteemed reader—if you but lend me your patience and your ear, or rather, your eye—I shall endeavor to recount a transformation most grotesque and lamentable. I am no longer a man of vigor, nor the proud, strapping figure I once was, but a shadow of my former self—a wraith confined to the margins of his own life. Let this account serve as a warning to those robust, carefree souls who, like me, once strode through life with a love and lust for its boundless pleasures. Beware, dear reader, the perils of matrimony, for the bonds of wedlock may prove to be chains that shrink not only your spirit but your very flesh.

For we live in an age of enlightenment, of revolution, of upheaval. The tide of time surges forward, carrying with it the cries of those who will no longer be content with their station. And yet, it should be a growing concern to all men, this insatiable thirst for female empowerment, they claim they just want equality, but I tell you they want total dominion and domination over men. For if the delicate balance of the scales is tipped too far, equilibrium itself may collapse. Women, once our delicate counterparts, may grow more equal than men, and whether or not it is fair, the so-called fairer sex may very well render us the weaker gender. That is the very warning I wish to engender upon you.

Can you not hear me? I know that if you could see me—my diminished, despicable form—you would know that these are not the demented ravings of a deranged man, but the pleas and warnings of one drained of his vitality. Ignore my words at your peril... pay no heed only if you welcome danger.

For can you not see the desperate words I slavishly etch upon this page? Even now, I am but a lowly slave, bound in servitude, enchained by my ball and chain—my wife. If you will not heed my words, then perhaps you will hear the cries of womankind, and I tell you, they are not kind to the ears... But left to their wiles, the fate of mankind shall be anything but kind.

Women, once confined to the quiet corners of society, have found their voices—loud, proud, and insistent. “I am woman, hear me roar!” they cry, and I tell you, gentlemen, if something is not done, we men might very well find ourselves at the bottom of the pecking order, indeed—henpecked, broken, and dwindled in both power and presence. We have always been told that we are the stronger sex, the mightier, the more formidable, but I caution you now—never underestimate what lurks beneath those modest petticoats. For they have something up their sleeves, and it may very well be brawny, muscular arms that will take from us what they desire, strong-arming us until they have their way.

You may think there is nothing mightier than man, but be warned of the perils of mighty female muscles. For women’s physical stature shall not only grow in accordance with their social stature but will expand exponentially—with hypertrophy of both body and ambition. And that trophy wife you so proudly married? She may soon make a trophy of your manhood, reducing you to a relic of a bygone era, and in plain and simple words, just plain reducing you...

With the march of modernity, the profound nature of the modern woman takes shape—believe me, and believe in my own profundity, for my words are not profanity, but truth. This is no delicate little lady to be seen and not heard. No, this is a woman so large, so obscene in strength and mass, that she cannot be unseen—a woman whose might is as loud as her voice, if not louder. And I fear my own voice—my words—are neither strong nor loud enough to stem the tide. They are but mere fingers in a crumbling dike, straining against the flood.

This may all sound strange, but such are the strange times we live in—where women demand not only to be treated as equals but to be recognized as something more. So let us discuss the strange body politic of modern gender relations, of women’s ever-growing role in society, and of their ever-growing bodies, each threatening to eclipse the men they once stood behind—now beside—but don’t be surprised when we are soon pushed aside.

Ah, what must you think of all my caterwauling? You must think me nothing but a sniveling wimp of a weakling... But believe me—even though there are times when I can’t believe myself, as I can scarcely believe the man I once was...

I was once a man of stature, both in presence and physique. I was a man of mirth and merriment, who enjoyed the fullness of life’s bounty. I was strong with strapping muscles.

I reveled in the freedom of my bachelordom, a life unburdened by the weight of responsibility or the demands of another. Yet, as the years passed, I found myself drawn to the idea of companionship—a notion I once dismissed as the folly of weaker men. If only I had known that the true folly of my actions lay in falling in love itself. Yet warning a young man against love is not just folly, but futility.

And I found an agreeable woman, or so I thought, and, as a man does when the wildness of youth has worn thin, I decided to settle down. But that agreeable woman soon became most disagreeable.

Something about her great beauty bewitched me—though in truth, I needed no spells nor sorcery to fall under her charm. She was such a slender, small, delicate thing, a creature of grace and refinement, a little lily swaying in the soft breeze of my affections. And yet—ah, if only I had seen it!—this lily would not remain meek and fragile. No, the only thing fragile was my pathetic male ego, which has since shriveled up like the rest of me.

As for my wife? She was no shrinking violet—unlike me and my ego. No, this little lily—this deceptive bloom—would take root, deep and unshakable, and blossom into a mighty oak. I know that’s mixing metaphors just as I am mixing genuses, but botany was never my strong suit—and sadly, as I have already lamented, I no longer have any strength at all. And that, dear reader, suits my wife just fine... Even if all my old suits of course no longer fit me—too big and baggy.

There was a time when I might have laughed at the notion of a woman so slight and fragile in appearance wielding such dominion over a man of my former stature. But she really did cast a spell over me—I was bewitched. And little did I know just how strong of a hold she had over me, how tightly her roots would coil around me, how completely I would be entangled. But I was in love, and there was little I could do to change my fate...

My fate of being the little man.

My fate of being ruled.

My fate of being hers—the mistress of the house, the ruler of my home.

Oh, how the transformation crept upon me! Subtle and insidious, like a shadow lengthening at dusk—only I wasn’t lengthening, but shrinking. At first, we were happy, in love, but as they say, the honeymoon cannot last. And that was when she began to belittle me.

Just a little at first. A word here, a gesture there—a slight correction, a gentle suggestion, a small demand. Yet, ever since we tied the knot, there was a knot in my stomach—a growing, gnawing feeling that I was shrinking.

I had this strange shrinking feeling in my body—you know the type, we all do—only mine was telling me that I was physically shrinking.

Yes, shrinking! It seems preposterous, does it not? And yet, the evidence was undeniable. My clothes, tailored to fit my once-proud and hearty frame, no longer clung to me as they once had. There was a looseness to all my garments, an unmistakable excess of fabric where once there had been none. My muscles, once firm and robust, grew languid, as though they had been sapped of their strength.

I am not too proud to admit that, perhaps, I had grown a bit too comfortable in my new routine of married life—less active than I had once been, less energetic, less me. At first, I thought it was merely the doldrums of matrimony. Gone was the excitement of my bachelordom, and with it, the unbridled joy and lust that had filled the days of our honeymoon. No, that moon had waxed, and now it was waning. And day by day, my lethargy grew, and with it, my stature waned.

And when I spoke of this to my wife?

She simply waved a dismissive hand and told me it was just my imagination.

But was it my imagination that she seemed larger?

Did I imagine that those once-slender arms of hers had thickened, that there was now a bulk to them? Did I imagine the mound that welled up inside her arm, the muscle that bulged, bunched, and bounced as she flicked her wrist in that same dismissive wave?

Such a sight, I for one could not so easily dismiss—her arm stretching the sleeves of her dress just as certainly and surely as she stretched the limits of my imagination.

And yet, I tell you, I could never have imagined that she was fitting me for a bridle, reining me in whenever I might exert myself, whenever I might claim some control—or, heaven forbid, make a decision of my own.

I don’t know why heaven would forbid such a thing—but my wife certainly did.

And yet, I was still bewitched by her. Still spellbound, still enthralled. I didn’t dare stand up to her—how could I, when I was dwindling before my very eyes? So, I let her belittle me, and she did so, day after day, her confidence swelling as I withered. She took more and more... and more.

And with each day, she became bigger.
And with each day, she became stronger.
And with each day, I became less.

Soon, the changes became undeniable. My clothes, tailored as they were, had to be tailored again... and again. Only to my growing shock and horror, I found they now hung loose upon my shoulders, draped like rags upon a scarecrow.

Only, I was the one scared.

More frightened with each passing day as I grew smaller and smaller—or rather, as I shrank...

For one does not grow smaller.

But then again, one does not shrink—unless, of course, one is bewitched.

And I know this all sounds like strange voodoo—but it’s not hoodoo, or hokum, and you would do well to believe me.

And what’s stranger still—sometimes—strange as this may sound—but let me assure you, it was stranger still to experience—I could feel it happening.

And yet, my wife—my once delicate, petite wife—seemed to be filling out her dresses in ways I could not quite explain. Where once she had been slender, now she bore a presence larger than life, her will more commanding, her stare more imposing—but maybe that was because she herself was more imposing...

Yes, I had more than a shrinking feeling about where all my strength was going.

My wife was no longer the little lily, no longer the shrinking violet.

Whereas I found myself not only lacking the strength to stand up to her—no, I found myself without a leg to stand on at all.

And in her presence, I wilted.

To my shrinking horror, I had become a little lily of a man—a shrinking violet...

To further mix and abuse metaphors—though no more than my wife abused me—much as I pale before her, so too had the bloom faded from my marriage...

If you could still call it a marriage.

But a rose by any other name would still smell just as sweet—but that’s what a poet would say.

Yet as I paled before my wife, so too had her sweetness soured—replaced by a sternness and strength that demanded subservience and obedience...

And I lacked the strength to stand up to her.

My marriage was starting to feel more like a prison, and my wife was the jailer—holding all the keys.

I conceded all arguments to her, all decisions, folding beneath the pressure—not of her strength, not of her stature, but of her stare.

Perhaps it was something in the water.

Or perhaps it was the new diet my wife imposed upon me...

Only by the time I considered the possibility, she had already become so very imposing in my eyes.

Being a hearty man, I often enjoyed hearty meals. But one of the first things she did was put me on that diet...

And while I was diametrically opposed to it—in fact, there were times I thought I’d rather die than be on that diet—perhaps I did die. A long, slow death of starvation and emaciation, as I felt the chains of my imprisonment tighten, along with my wife’s iron grip, even as my waistband and clothes grew slack and loosened.

And yet, as I wasted away, my wife only seemed to grow—more emancipated, yes, but more controlling.

And those meager meals she rationed out to me? I said nothing. I swallowed my pride, disgusted in myself—just as disgusted as I was in those meals I had to swallow...

Only swallowing my pride was easier.

Still, a man can only take so much. And having had so little, I was filled up with anger over my meals no longer filling me up.

This diet had been eating at me, gnawing me down to the bone—in more ways than one. And so, summoning what little courage I had left, I asked for just a little more food.

I thought—as the man of the house—I was entitled to more than my share. But my share seemed to diminish day by day, just as I seemed to be diminishing along with it.

Yet her share only seemed to grow.

And looking at her—at the way her dress fit, the way her bosom, once beautiful and bountiful, now bulged with a brutality and menace, stretching the neckline to obscene—though not wholly an unpleasant sight to see...

The way her shoulders broadened—why, you couldn’t miss her.

She was almost as broad as the broad side of a barn...

Hyperbole, to be certain. But such was the extreme hypertrophy of her thickness of limb—even her once-angelic face now framed by brawny, angular, sharp neck muscles, transforming her from soft warmth into something sterner, stronger.

I remember when I asked for more food at supper.

She merely chuckled, taking my plate away and announcing that I had had my share. My fill.

And if my fill did not fill me, well—I would simply have to adjust.

And so I did. Cinching my belt ever tighter.

Having to punch yet another hole just to make it fit.

But still, nothing fit.

I was too small. Too feeble.

Not just in stature—but in my own mind.

I thought I would grow accustomed to these changes...

But how can one grow accustomed when one is shrinking?

And so, in my dim-witted complacency, I thought nothing of it.

Day by day, my body withered, while hers seemed to thrive and thicken. Day by day, I ceded ground, thinking that if I yielded to her whims, she would love me and leave me be. But the more I gave, the more she took and took.

Her verbal harangues soon gave way to physical chastisement. What began as a mere rapping of my ears escalated into slaps and blows, delivered with a strength that belied what a woman should be capable of—but instead left me beleaguered by the inescapable truth: my wife didn’t hit like a girl...

Or perhaps maybe she did. Confusing, perhaps—but pray you never one day understand, or you too will have, in kind, fallen prey to womankind.

At first, I thought I could weather such blows. I was a man, and she was merely a woman. After all, who ever heard of a man being physically abused by a mere woman?

The only thing is, with the way her muscles sprouted up, there was nothing mere about her.

And as I tried to weather her abuse, I felt my own body eroding—hit by hit, slap by slap. Her hands, once delicate, now gripped me with a force that left me powerless to resist. She wore gloves of velvet, but beneath their soft exterior lay a grip of iron. Her arms, once petite, grew thick and powerful; her shoulders, broad and commanding.

She loomed over me, a colossus of feminine might, and I, once a man of considerable stature, found myself shrinking beneath her gaze, cowering in her literal shadow—not just the shadow of myself, but my own shadow, now invisible, shrouded and engulfed in hers.

Still, I was a man. And I was in love with her—though I did not love those beatings. She said she gave them to me out of love, to teach me, to train me to be a better man. I don’t know if I’m a better man, but I’m certainly a weaker man, a more timid man, with no more timbre in my voice, and no more strength in my body. My wife cut down all my remaining strength—cutting me down like a tree, but with her words and actions. Only, she never said, "Timber."

Still, I thought I could take all her belittlement. And so, I gave up and gave in to her, thinking she’d stop the abuse. But the more I gave in, the more empowered she became—leading to more frequent, harder-hitting abuse.

And I want to disabuse you of the notion that I was always this frail, feeble, feckless man. Or even that I hate my wife. I love her. And so, I gave in to her, hoping she’d find contentment, even if she only seemed to find anger and ire.

And then the day came when I had no more left to give—she had taken it all. The house was no longer mine. The very space I had once commanded with my presence was hers. She, the mistress; I, a mere guest in my own domain. No... not a guest, but a ghost, only I was the one who was haunted.

Then came the night of revelation. It was just a chance glance in the mirror, and I thought I saw some grim, ghastly specter. But as I screamed, I had the epiphany—it was no specter.

For it was not only joining me in the scream—but rather it was me!

And I knew then what had happened. I had allowed myself to be kowtowed, to be bullied, to be belittled. Never standing up for myself, I had not just emboldened but empowered my wife, who drained me of my vim and vigor as if she were a succubus—as if there were a creature as such.

And I knew what had to be done. For the first time in our marriage, I had to put my foot down and act like a man.

I resolved to reclaim my dignity. Summoning what little strength remained to me, I confronted her, determined to put an end to her tyranny. I didn’t know what to say—and it might surprise you—but I was at a loss for words. Just as I was at a loss for so very much. All my shortcomings as a man only seemed exacerbated as I stood there. In my exasperation, I did scream—for her to give me back my size, my strength, my stature, my manliness, my manhood, my muscles, my pride, my dignity...

Only I didn’t have the strength to say all of that...

And really, my scream came off more like a whisper—perhaps a weak whimper—as I stood before her, looking up instead of down at her.

There she was, looming over me. My wife—my love. My little lily that grew into a great oak. I realized with horror that she now towered over me, her body a monument of muscle and might, putting my withered form to shame. It was shame—and a lack of strength and resolve—that sapped and drained me.

She raised her arms in a powerful display, her menacing muscles strong-arming and outmuscled the confines of her dress. Her biceps bulged and burst through the sleeves, just as her heavy heaving bosom swelled and stretched and tore into her neckline. Great slabs of muscular femininity rose up and surged upon her chest, and as her muscles surged, the fabric of her dress stretched—if it had a mouth, surely it would have screamed.

And I would have done the same, if only I were still a man, if only I had the strength and voice I once had—before I lost it. But don’t think, as I watched her tear away the last vestiges of her dress, that I wasn’t losing it—losing my grip, losing myself—for the tattered remains of her dress might as well have been all that was left of my manhood and dignity.

She was practically naked, both in dress and intent, as I uncovered her devious plan to belittle and drain me. She wore naught but a corset, her form chiseled as if from stone—and so too was her expression—stone-cold. Her shoulders now as wide as our great doorframes, her abdominals hard as bricks, her legs as thick as stone columns.

Her arms, thick with muscular thews—smooth and silky but strong as iron and steel—rippling and densely packed with a truly Herculean physique. Only she was still all woman through and through—just greater than she was before—just as she was greater than any man. While I, of course, had become far lesser than any man.

“You are my husband,” she declared, her voice a thunderous roar. “My property. And I shall belittle you as I see fit.”

I protested, I resisted, but it was futile. She bent me to her will, as easily as one might bend a sapling. I was no longer the strapping man I once was. My wife had grown into a mighty oak, and she bent me over her knee, giving me a lesson in female muscular superiority that I shall never forget.

A lesson I beseech you to learn from, lest you be belittled like me and learn the error of your ways. And by then, it will be too late for you... Just as it might be too late for all of mankind.

As I lay across her knee, enduring the sting of her blows, I could not help but marvel at the cruel irony of my situation. I tried to put my foot down, but it was she who brought hers down upon me. Or rather her heavy hand striking down like the judgment of Hera and Athena and all the other goddesses.

My wife had transcended mere humanity. She was now a female muscle goddess!

And this thought struck me, just as over and over again, as her huge hands struck me—hurting me, humiliating me—until I could do nothing but submit, nothing but whisper my acquiescence. Nothing but acknowledge the truth I had been too blind and too stubborn to see before.

I gave it all up.

My strength, my manhood, my notion of male supremacy.

I gave it all to her, including my love—and she took it.

Yes. I was hers. I am hers.

And she is not my equal, but my better.

As all women are greater than men, as you will find in the very words themselves, and I shouldn’t have to spell it out to you in great detail how men are lesser than women. Don’t believe me? Just compare the words men and women, and you shall find there is no comparison.

My wife was now my goddess, and I shall have to atone for the sins of my past—worshiping her and her muscles. But really, I have little choice. I am so little now, and I do not wish to feel her wrath of fire and brimstone. She could go biblical on my behind, raining her hands down upon me—enforcing her iron reign...

No, I’d rather she go biblical on me in a different way, as our relations have taken quite the turn of the page, and we’ve since gotten to know each other in only what I will describe, too, as the biblical sense… As in carnal—just in case you might need it spelled out for you.

Isn’t that such a strange consolation? My wife went from the weaker of the sexes to the stronger—while I have never been weaker myself, my manhood, conversely, even if it isn’t something we in good company openly converse about, has never been stronger—even if now subservient and a servant to her pleasure. The physical relations between my wife and I have never been stronger, nor more satisfying. It is a paradox, a cruel jest played upon me by the fates, that even as I wither away, the bond between us grows ever more potent.

And so, dear reader, take heed. The women we marry, they seek to tame us, to rein us in, to mold us into something lesser so that they may become something greater. They will limit our freedom, they will belittle us, and they will do it all in the name of their own growth. And grow they shall—while we, once the lords of the earth, diminish to nothing.

Yours in diminished capacity,
A Gentleman and Man No More