Lois becomes a strict prude

The Daily Planet saw a very different Lois Lane after that night. A very prim and proper Lois entered the newspaper office wearing a high-collared, long sleeved business frock, gray in color. Instead of high heels, sensible shoes adorned her feet. A modest pill box hat rested on a tight bun that severely pulled back her black hair.

Editor Perry White approved of the reserved style. In the days that followed, he didn’t approve of her stories.

After Perry called her into his office, he noted that Lois no longer wore any make-up, but her natural beauty made it difficult to notice. He shut the door.

“Lois, these stories you’ve handed in these last few days. They aren’t up to your usual hard-hitting standards.”

Lois sat straight upright in the chair in front of his desk. “It just isn’t proper for a lady to report on such shameful topics. Home and hearth are appropriate. Informing young ladies of religious socials are important. How else will they meet a husband?”

“We were scooped on the tax scandal in city hall! You have the contacts.”

“Women shouldn’t be concerned with politics. Those are matters for men to discuss. As for my former acquaintances, I do not associate with those strumpets anymore. Disgraceful.”

Perry rolled his eyes. “Drive your ass over to City Hall and find out what’s going on.”

“Mr. White, language. Please.” She arose from the chair and exited in a huff.

Lois continued to write the articles of her own choosing in lieu of reporting Perry’s foul language to human resources.

Lois wouldn’t have been able to drive to City Hall. She sold her car because women shouldn’t drive. Taxis and buses were less costly.

Perry and everyone else at the newspaper was unaware that the night she went to track down the missing women changed her dramatically. After she was traumatized, she went home and threw out all her jeans and tops and boots. Any piece of clothing that in any way could be considered ‘sexy’ was discarded. The mere thought of that word, “sexy,” sent shivers in her soul now.

In public, she was attired in only in simple dresses that extended below her knees. Usually she selected long sleeves with gloves. She preferred fashionable jackets to offer additional coverage over her bosoms. She consciously wore those clothes so not to entice men into any immoral or impure thoughts.

In the coming weeks, her colleagues became aware that she wore no make-up when she let her natural beauty fade. Her peaches-and-cream complexion became pasty and sallow. She was no longer concerned with hiding any wrinkles because she considered them a sign of wisdom. The wrinkles deepened from her constant frowns and knitted eyebrows as she often disapproved of the unseemly behavior that surrounded her.

Gray crept into her severe hairstyle. When a female co-worker asked if she would consider coloring her hair, Lois was appalled. “Only streetwalkers and hussies dye their hair. Gray is an admirable manner to display one’s virtue as God intended,” she huffed disapprovingly.

Lois started wearing glasses to appear more respectable. Her perpetual squint at rude language and behavior soon required that she would need them.

Besides swearing, Lois eschewed nicotine, **** and the company of men. She’d request a chaperone because it was indecent for a single woman to be in the company of men outside of work. Her language was curtailed saying “Dang” or at worse call a woman a “tramp.” Her stifled use of language infected her work. Soon, she was directed to only write fluff pieces.

Lois was fine with that because the decision was made by a man. She no longer sought investigative articles. She enjoyed focusing on cooking and flower show as well as religious events, because that’s what “proper women do.”

Her most hard-hitting writing involved editorials protesting the indecent costumes worn by female superheroes. They were too tight and revealing fitting only for “harlot and trollops.” She added that they should be at home taking care of their families.

Being an unmarried woman, she accepted that she needed to work rather than become a burden on society and collect welfare and such nonsense. She would work until she would find a suitable husband.

If she ever got married, it would be platonic. “Sex,” she trembled at the thought “would only serve to complicate the relationship.”

After several months, Lois looked over her black cat-eye glasses. She surveyed suitable prospects for a husband. Most were married, too old or crude brutes. Her eyes settled on Clark Kent. “Now, there’s a respectable choice for a spouse. He’s very polite and staid.” At one time she considered, Mr. Kent a “fuddy-duddy.” She shook her head at the youthful, impetuous youth. She intended to pray on the matter. She would humbly beseech God in his wisdom to guide Mr. Kent to approach her so that he would escort her and a chaperone to the ice cream social at The Metropolis Methodist Church. For her to initiate the social interaction would highly salacious.

“Praying. That’s what a proper woman does,” she sighed as she went back to her article on an upcoming home show at the Metropolis Auditorium.

Her prayers would go unanswered. Clark barely acknowledged the graying, dull, puritanical spinster who continued to dry up more and more every year.

Unconsciously, Lois accepted that “Bad sluts don’t deserve to get married.”

Every night her **** mind lulled Lois to sleep with the same mantra. “I’m a bad girl. I’m a bad slut. No one wants to fuck me. I don’t deserve to be fucked.” Her guilt, her shame, increased her prudishness on a daily basis. That mantra became a self-fulfilling prophecy to ensure that she never would, indeed, get fucked again.