I fucked a Mormon
Sex and sects part 1
The 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics are upon us, and the centre of the Mormon universe has been thrust into the spotlight. In honour of the Mormon Games, I shall reminisce about the five months I spent fornicating with a Mormon. Enjoy.
It happened during high school. We were both 17. She was a virgin. I wasn’t, but not by much.
She was having a “crisis of faith,” and gravitated towards my aura of uninhibited atheist sexuality. I was skeptical of her advances at first, but she assured me that premarital sex was permissible under the Mormon faith, “so long as you really care for the person.” An obvious lie, but I wasn’t going to call her bluff if it would prevent me from getting laid.
And get laid we did. But it wasn’t easy. Her respectable Mormon upbringing had left her so repressed she couldn’t even say words related to sex. She didn’t masturbate—the thought of touching herself sexually made her ill with guilt. She’d never had an orgasm, and I don’t think she ever will. She could hardly look at my penis (which is, incidentally, lovely), and the sight of my semen terrified her almost into unconsciousness.
When we undressed, she would conscientiously fold our clothes and pile them neatly on the side of the bed. She even paired our socks. As for the sex itself, it was about as exciting as a pile of neatly folded clothing. She didn’t move, she didn’t make a sound, and above all, she never enjoyed herself. Verily, it was terrible sex, but I was too inexperienced to realise it at the time.
Out of bed, our relationship was inundated by a plague of God. The woman, who taught Sunday school at her church, was so nutty she thought God helped her get her driver’s licence. He also helped her write exams—when she didn’t know an answer, she would pray. Christ, isn’t that cheating?
Predictably, she gave me a Book of Mormon. Unfortunately for her, I read it.
What a pile of crap. Mormon scripture is a joke, even by Judeo-Christian standards. Joseph Smith, the twit who sired the tome in the early 19th century, was so ignorant he wrote it in fake King James English, so it would sound authentic to other ignorant people.
(Note to Joe: God never said “Thou shalt not.” That was just the English spoken by Jacobean translators in the early 17th century.)
But I digress. Suffice to say that if The Book of Mormon is divine revelation, God is far stupider than I previously thought.
I retaliated against my girlfriend’s pro-Mormon propaganda by digging up all sorts of scandal and mayhem from Mormon history, which she dismissed as “anti-Mormon propaganda.” She insisted the Mormons were the only religion that was completely corruption-free. A few weeks later, an ex-bishop of her local church went to jail for child molesting. That shut her up for a few minutes.
The months passed. Bad sex and bad religion were my constant companions. Then, suddenly, she found God again and repented. She announced that we would have sex no more, and that she and I would remain a couple for another six months, until I left for university.
I counter-announced that if she wanted to return to her lifestyle of pure white chastity, that was her prerogative. But I had every intention of continuing the trend of heathen fucking she helped establish, and if she wasn’t interested, our couplehood was over.
That night she had a nervous breakdown and told her parents we’d been sexually active. Her mother called and threatened to sue me for having sex with her daughter, and while she was at it, she would sue the local public health unit for giving her birth control pills. It was a rough night.
When the smoke cleared, my ex and I were “just friends.” It was an odd friendship, especially after she smugly declared that God had put me in her life as a test of her faith. A test she initially flunked, but later rewrote and passed with flying colours.
Or did she? Five months later she showed up wanting to have sex again. I’d half-undressed her in a fiberglass tube slide at the local playground when I casually mentioned I’d recently fucked one of her closest friends, who was, interestingly, the biggest tramp at our school.
She burst into tears and confessed that, from the very beginning, she’d secretly hoped to convert me to Mormonism and marry me. She had come that day to show me the error of my promiscuous ways and usher me into her fold of chaste Mormon respectability—thus the premarital tube-slide sex.
With her noble intentions out in the open, I gently told her I would never, ever join her stupid religion. Further, after seeing what her Mormonic upbringing had done for her, I could sum up my feelings for her church in one word: “arson.”
And that was that.
Looking back, I only have one thought. People who think premarital sex is harmful should try premarital religion. That’s how you really get fucked.
Next time: I fucked a Catholic! •
Originally published in The Peak, February 11 2002.
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Letter published in The Peak, February 25 2002:
“Not in my backyard...”
I am a quiet guy, a simple guy who wants very little. Perhaps, on a good week, I have time to sit and read The Peak.
I greatly enjoy the ramblings of Glen Callender. Such low-brow sexual banter makes for excellent entertainment—brand of entertainment I can only parallel to the Saturday Night Live sketch, “Toonces, the driving cat.” It’s always disastrous, but somehow, you still laugh.
Sadly, I not only originate from the same one-horse town as Glen, but also used to live on the same street. I am pretty sure that the tube slide in Glen’s article “I fucked a Mormon” refers to the playground that I used to frequent as a child. The article has caused me to now have bad mental associations with tube slides, large pipes, and even the oversized straws in bubble tea!
I can’t fight the cold chill of paranoia that perhaps all of my favorite childhood playground apparatuses were befouled by Glen Callender.
I can’t get the image of Glen and several religious zealots on the tire swing out of my mind. Although I eagerly await further stories of perverse sexual mayhem, I hope they will be a bit farther from my own backyard.
Glen, you didn’t do it in my backyard, did you?
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