By Andrea Rebecca Isom
I crave your voice
As the drowned crave breath
That sultry lover’s death
You force with my consent.
I do not love exhaustively
Our coupling taunts eternal—
That contretemps nocturnal
Will vanish with ecstasy’s stain.
You are my lover extant
And I your devotee
As my resolve is lead astray
And nurtured by your wit.
Make no mistake, I love thee
But courting I’ll abjure
But with your blood I’ll conjure
A union everlasting.
photo credit: kay lay ale
His back was turned toward me as we both lay here in bed; dressed in our garments. He hadn’t initiated sex in years and I wondered once again if he found me attractive, if he was getting sexually satisfied through other women…or if he was gay. I cannot know the answers because no matter how many attempts I made to open the doors to communicate, he would shut me down.
Since I operated under the belief system that a couple should have sex at least three times a week, I touched him and attempted to arouse him. At first he didn’t respond, but I was persistent. We were allowed only one position (his choice, but I did not know why because it was not up for discussion, yet again)…no variety, no foreplay for me, just me attempting to arouse him. I got the feeling he resented me taking the initiative, yet I was at an utter loss as to what else I could do.
No hugging or kissing was allowed. He had stopped holding my hand, kissing me or hugging me years ago.
In the beginning, when he would initiate, I would orgasm, but anymore, I would fake it, it was easier that way. I craved intimacy. I knew it was possible, yet it eluded me. No matter how many times I reached out to him, no matter how many attempts I made, no matter how many self help books I read, intimacy in my marriage and in the bedroom evaded me every time.
The garments came off; well, almost. I had stopped taking off my garment top, as he would not touch my breasts any more and the energy necessary to take it off wasn’t worth the effort. He climaxed and used his garment top to clean up the cum and immediately rolled back over–away from me.
Once, afterward, he turned toward me. I replaced my garment bottom and turned so my back was toward him and cried and prayed silently to let sleep overtake me, begging for some intervention to my grief and despair. Intervention that never came.
It is now years later…I’m divorced, and in a relationship with another ex-Mormon…
The climax is exhilarating as he kisses me and presses his weight into me. I feel his wet skin on mine and I breathe his scent in as he wraps his arms around me and rolls us both over, pulling me on top of him. I lay my head on his arm and turn my face into his neck, kissing his ear and neck softly. I feel every part of him.
I feel the soft underside of his arm next to my face, I feel his soothing breath as he eases into a rhythm that matches my own. I feel his heart beating and racing from the energy expended from the exhilaration of two bodies climaxing together.
He takes his hand and begins to slowly caress my side, the soft curves where my hip moves into my waist. His hand slowly moves up my side to my shoulder. We are so in touch with each other, it feels as though our bodies have become one. I can feel the imprints of his finger tips and I love it.
My legs are interwoven with his, my foot rests softly on top of his, moving ever so slowly up and down, feeling his toes and the soft inner inner skin of his foot.
As his fingers tingle up my shoulders, I feel them move ever so evenly down the arch of my spine. My nerves and his hands are connected as he moves down and touches my contours. My skin is his skin. My breath is his breath. My heart beat is his heart beat. There is no such thing as time. There is no world outside of this moment. This is all there is; this moment, this experience.
As I lay here, being one with my lover, I marvel at another time when the most important thing was to put on garments after sex. The intimacy I have learned to embrace, I never dared to imagine in my former Mormon life. I have learned to embrace my body, my mind and my soul–and with them, my lover. It is I, who have expanded myself in this new life. I have learned to live in intimacy by being one with myself.
Thank you, Mormon God, for abandoning me, for with you in my life, I could never have known the joy of this moment.
photo: krossbow
I remember my first interview with my branch president after entering the Young Women program in the Church. We were going to the Arizona temple to do baptisms for the dead, and I had to pass a “worthiness interview” in order to participate. I remember walking into the branch president’s office, my bony knees trembling. I sat in the chair, across from his desk, afraid to look at him. I was sure he could see all of the horrible things I had done. I was quite an accomplished liar; I stole from time to time, sneaking candy when nobody was looking. I fought with my siblings, and a thousand other things that kids do wrong. I was, however, also a very naïve, chaste, and pure twelve years old.
I remember my branch president asking me if I live the law of chastity. I answered, yes. Then he asked me if I knew what that meant. I said, sure, it means that I wear modest clothing. He chuckled a bit and told me that it had more to do with kissing and stuff like that. I think he could tell from the horrified look on my face that I had done no such thing. Ewww, kissing boys!
I have come to realize since then, that I had a pretty good branch president. I’ve since heard stories of young girls, the same age as I was hearing the word masturbation for the first time ever, coming out of the mouth of a bishop. It wasn’t until after I left the church about 10 months ago, that I was even aware that youth are questioned about masturbation. Nobody ever even told me masturbation was wrong as a youth, nor asked me specifically about it. My parents certainly never brought it up. I guess my church leaders assumed that girls don’t masturbate, and luckily for me, I was spared that particular humiliation.
I am a mother of five sons. After leaving the church, and realizing for the first time that my older (now adult) boys were likely asked these kinds of probing questions, I started to get angry. I thought of my sons, sitting in the bishop’s office being asked very personal questions. It’s the closest I’ve come to feeling real, seething anger at that monstrous corporation that they call a church. My boys were either likely introduced to the concept, or humiliatingly grilled about their own private business. It never occurred to me that because masturbation is “wrong,” that a bishop would actually ask my kids about it.
I intend to ask my boys about it, when the time is right. Adult sons aren’t all that eager to have conversations with their mothers about masturbation. I was an uptight Mormon mom and left all of the sex talk to my husband, since we have all boys. I’m getting quite good at talking openly about things like masturbation, sex, and other “hush-hush” topics.
I interviewed many ex-Mormon friends about this practice in preparation for writing this article, and I promised to keep identities a secret. Not having been exposed to such questions as a teen, I was shocked at the depth of the harm caused by the church.
One man I spoke with joined the church in his teens. He was well down the masturbation path as a familiar pastime by the time he joined the church. He wished to serve a mission, but unfortunately, he was honest with his bishop and confessed about his masturbation habits. His mission was delayed six months as he struggled to control the urge to masturbate. He was required to report every week to his bishop whether he had been successful in conquering his “sin” that week or not. Finally, he was allowed to serve a mission, and served honorably.
He slipped up once or twice on his mission. He felt horrible guilt, and turned to his mission president for help. I’m certain that mission presidents must get masturbators lining up at their office doors. Maybe they should get one of those “take a number” machines like they have in ice cream shops.
Most women I spoke with were never asked about masturbation, by anyone. Not by parents, church leaders, bishopric members, or anyone else. Most men were grilled, with some of the innocent confessing because they were called liars when they denied masturbating.
One particularly heartbreaking story came from a man who began masturbating at the age of 14 after learning from a sex-ed book that it was no big deal. He then read some things by Spencer W. Kimball, and the “To Young Men Only” pamphlet (filthy piece of disgusting trash) by Boyd K. Packer. “I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and shame,” he confided. “I felt like I was evil and filthy. But I was also too ashamed to tell the bishop. I knew I was unworthy to be passing and taking the sacrament but I did it anyways because I felt so ashamed.”
After years of cycling through trying to stop, being successful for a few months, confessing to a bishop, slipping up again, and then trying to stop again, he eventually felt worthless. In his words again: “I wished to kill myself– a lot – largely because of this. But I knew I couldn’t because I would go to hell – so I just felt horrible about myself.”
No young man should feel that kind of crushing guilt, and over masturbating, of all things. It makes me angry, it makes me want to smash things, and it makes me want to sob. This is a natural activity that provides a psychological and physical release so necessary for teenage boys with raging hormones and sexual urges. I think of the innocent boys, doing what comes naturally, and by most of the world is considered healthy, being served a platter of guilt sandwiches. I think of those boys, who, like my friend, hide their remorse and shame. I think of the other boys who tell the truth, only to suffer public shaming through not being allowed to pass or partake of the sacrament because of their sins.
It makes me wish I could take every one of these suffering boys in my mother’s arms and hold them tight. I wish I could tell them that God doesn’t care. They need to know that there’s nothing wrong with them, it’s not shameful, dirty, sinful, disgusting, or is it filthy, vile, and evil. How many are led to the doorstep of suicide, like my friend? These poor young men, with so much to offer, so much to accomplish, so much promise.
This powerful video introduces a world where gay relationships are the norm, and heterosexuality is considered deviant. It provides some food for thought…
photo credit: www.layoutsparks.com
Today, we are going to interview Dick and Molly, two former Mormons, for the Tribunal News. Dick and Molly were married for 20 years, and had four daughters together. Dick left the LDS Church several years ago, but Molly has only recently come out of the Mormon closet as a non-believer. For the first time, she is sharing with us her experiences as a pubescence young girl, what she was taught at home and church, and how that affected her marriage.
Molly, what kind of information did you receive about your body and sexuality growing up within a Mormon family and culture?
My first period came while I was on vacation at my aunt’s house. The only education I had received about puberty was the film that every girl watches in the fifth grade. My mom never once talked to me about my body changing or my impending period. Not once. I remember I was 12 years old, so it had been two years since I had even seen that film. It was a Sunday and everyone was getting ready for Church. I was in the only bathroom when I began bleeding. I began to cry. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave the bathroom and nobody could come in. I called for my mom. Through the cracked door I asked for a maxi-pad. She had none. Nobody in the entire house had any. Somebody had to run to the store to buy some. I sat in the bathroom and cried the entire time. Nobody came in and comforted me. Everyone in my family knew by this time that my body had betrayed me. I was humiliated and horrified. Now, years later and a mom of daughters myself, I realize that this should have been a wonderful experience between mother and daughter. Yet, because my mother could not embrace her own body, she could not help teach me how to embrace my body.
As I continued into womanhood, I would learn overtly and covertly that there was only one proper view of woman, that of the Madonna—a woman who is supposed to remain the good girl—virtuous, virginal, even asexual. The problem is, the girls that got all the attention from the boys were just the opposite; they were the whores—sexual, promiscuous, flirty, vivacious. I called them “Trixies.” I envied the Trixies.
Dick, did you date Mollies or Trixies?
Oh, I dated Trixies, and we had a great time, but I married Molly. That was the only real choice, after all. The Mollies are the ones who are virtuous enough to have kids with, after all.
And how did that work out for you?
Well, after we married, I wanted her to turn into the Trixy in the bedroom that I knew and desired and had a great time with before I got married. But I just couldn’t see her that way. I could only see her as this virginal person. Especially when she was having children…it was as if she was the Madonna herself!
Molly, were you always a Madonna, even before your marriage?
Oh, yes, of course. My bishop made sure of that. He interviewed me every year and asked me all sorts of private questions about whether I was letting boys touch my private parts. I didn’t even know what he was talking about when he asked if I was petting or necking, but I made sure I wasn’t, whatever it was that he meant.
Well, Molly, were you excited for your honeymoon night?
Oh, I was terrified. My Mom didn’t talk to me about what to expect. My girlfriends talked with me about it, but they didn’t know any more than I did. When Dick came at me on our first night together, I was so scared, I just didn’t know what to do. I covered my eyes and thought about my first puppy.
Dick, how was your marital sex life?
I was becoming increasingly frustrated, to tell the truth. I wanted to try different positions, to have sex several times a week, to have variety, but Molly was having a lot of headaches and was just wanting it over with. I didn’t feel as though I could please her at all. I was also conflicted about whether I should please her. She was the Madonna, after all. After years of this frustration, I felt justified in having an affair with my secretary… she was a Trixy, after all.
Molly, what was going on with you during this time period?
It just didn’t seem right to feel sexual. It seemed dirty, like I was doing something wrong, bad, or nasty. I never had an orgasm. As long as we were having sex to procreate, I was okay with that, but sex for pleasure? Who does that? It just seemed as though Dick was wanting it all the time! I would tell him I had a headache even when I didn’t just so I could get some sleep. A part of me wanted to enjoy sex, but I just couldn’t get beyond the thinking that it was bad; after all, our bodies had to be covered all the times with garments, unless we were showering or having sex, and I felt exposed and uncomfortable both those times so that was proof that sex was bad, right?’
Dick, did Molly ever find out about the affair?
Yes, and boy was she angry! We tried counseling with LDS Social Services. I just couldn’t get past seeing her as the Madonna.
Molly, what about you? Did LDS Social Services help you?
Well, I just wasn’t willing to learn how to orgasm for one thing. I also didn’t like the advice of the counselor. He wanted me to hold Dick’s hand, as though that would solve everything! So we went our separate ways. Dick left the Church when we got a divorce. I stayed within the Church for a time, but eventually left it too.
Molly, what is your life like now?
I went through a process where I learned to exorcise past relationships out of my life; I went through a sexorcism, of sorts, if you know what I mean. I learned to see myself in a more healthy way. I’m now dating a great woman; her name is TrixMo.
Dick, what about you?
I’ve learned to cuddle.
Guest Post by Coco X Mo (TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Abuse)
Age 8
I stand in front of the dryer, folding the clean whites. I check for black magic marker initials on the underwear, fold it neatly, and place it in the proper brother’s stack. It’s especially awkward when I fold one of His. I hope He doesn’t notice His underwear in my hands. If He’s got his eyes open, He will see it. I hear His breathing in my ear. I try not to notice His hands in my underwear. Because it’s easier if Nothing Is Happening.
Instead, I think about laundry.
I’ve scrubbed clothing with a washboard and galvanized pail on a Pioneer Day Parade float. (He was Pioneer Boy w/ Rifle. I was Pioneer Girl w/ Laundry. My parents were Pioneer Saints w/ Many Children. Our ward’s float won first place.)
I’ve fed a wringer washer and hung clothes outside. (I watched Him through the V His wet jeans made when pinned upside down on the clothesline, as He tried to out-piss the Others in the middle of the almond orchard.)
In our new house, I found a new and rare privacy in the tiny basement laundry room with the automatic washer and dryer. (He discovered and invaded that privacy, too. Just like the lilac bushes. And the crawl space. And the irrigation ditch. And the topmost fork in the almond tree.)
I wonder what smart laundry inventors will think of next. An automatic laundry sorter? A mechanized chute system to transport clean laundry to each closet?
I feel a sort of pulsing tingle in my legs and it brings me back to myself. I see my hands methodically folding underwear. My legs are jello. My hands and face are flushed and I’m dizzy. I am seized by an uncontrollable mysterious wave of sensation. What IS IT? I force myself to stand and fold because Nothing Is Happening.
The sensation passes and He hasn’t noticed. Good. I must learn how to avoid that sensation in the future. Nothing Must Happen. I hope He goes away before I run out of underwear to fold.
I watch my hands. I wonder about a mechanical laundry sorter. 15 people make a lot of laundry. As we all get bigger, so will our clothes. That much sorting might justify a machine. And then, maybe I won’t have to touch my brothers’ dirty underwear.
photo: ajmexico
How did I learn about sex? I lived near animals. That’s a guarandamntee that you’ll see a peni part before you even know what it is. Cows and horses mounting and dogs doing it on the front lawn, cat mating rituals, and of course Oregon Bunny Sex were all things I saw from the time I could walk.
Bunnies copulate really quickly. The Buck sniffs for a second and without even a bouquet of flowers or kind word he hops on the girl bunny’s back, wiggles a bit, and is done before she has even finished a mouthful of clover. She sort of looks behind her like, “Did I feel something?” and then she goes on about her business. The buck spends most of his day looking for other bunnies to bang and the girl bunnies just eat clover and wonder why their back fur is so sticky. I don’t think they feel a thing. If a Buck bunny tried to mount me, I’d probably not notice either. Horses, on the other hand, now that’s some pretty wild sex. The long part gets coated with flies and is sort of disgusting if you look too close, but it is impressive.
Cows are filthy and disgusting and usually the heifers are just irritated. I’ve never heard of bovine orgasms from the heifers, just the bulls. I think to be a heifer must be a lot like being an LDS woman.
Cat sex is bizarre. The female will tempt and taunt and tease and coo and sway and sachet in front of the bevy of tomcats, but then when one comes near, she slaps the shit out of him. Then the tomcats fight, sometimes to the death. The fur flies, the screams fill the night air, and eventually the female sort of lays her hips down and the favored tom (or often several who are in it for sloppy seconds) mounts her, bites her ears, and then goes off to lick his wounds. Cats are bitches and very very slutty. No wonder there are so many sexual terms about them.
Dog sex is sort of freaky. I don’t think the female dogs really enjoy it, and instead seem bewildered that every cur in town is breaking down the fence and scratching through the front door while she sits there in her pretty white living room with a diaper on. It lasts longer than bunny sex but I’ve never seen a really contented JBF look on a female dog. She’s in it for the puppies. Sort of like some LDS women.
In the 1960′s and 1970′s when I was a young girl it was considered quite taboo, especially among my LDS family and friends, to discuss sex or body parts or anything related to body functions. I was in the third grade before I knew that human boys had a penis, but my LDS mother didn’t call it a penis. She referred to it as a “Kickstand” so I imagined it as a slanty thing that stuck out the front and held the poor kid up should he topple over. Then when I was in high school and encountered a real one, it was pointing in the other direction, ALL THE TIME, so I thought they were like this ALL THE TIME and with something that insistent it was no wonder boys were so consumed with sexual thoughts.
We weren’t even allowed to say the word “pregnant.” We had to say “with child” as if a woman was without child one day and suddenly some little fetus just crawled right up her skirt and now she was “with child.” I actually believed my own mother was a virgin until I was in the fifth grade, even though I was the seventh of eight kids.
When my Irish twin sister and I were in the fifth grade we were sent home with a permission slip to go to a maturation program and my mother, being a very proper and naive LDS woman, decided that such a program was going to be laden with porn and wild 1970′s hippie free love influences so she would not allow us to go. I was a tomboy and didn’t care much anyway and hadn’t given a thought to the idea that I would someday have woman parts and woman issues. So when my sister turned twelve and started her period she was equally naive and ill-prepared for what her body was experiencing. She was in the bathroom and saw the blood, felt the cramps and suddenly started screaming because she thought she had crotch cancer. My mother came running in and then in her Victorian way she told my sister to just bear it in silence, never discuss it with anyone (way to build the shame Mom!!), and to always wear dark skirts in case there was an accident. Then she showed her how to put on those nasty humongous Kotex pads with the belt (à la SNLKotexClassic).
My father overheard some of what was going on and teased my sister. Soon my brothers joined in and she was mortified. I promised myself that if and when I finally started I’d never ask for help, never let anyone know, and never, ever suffer the humiliation she went through. When I didn’t start at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, I decided maybe I was off the hook and wouldn’t have to suffer such degrading humiliation, but then the Spring of my fifteenth year Aunt Flo came with a vengeance and hung around for five weeks. I actually thought once you started you just bled and bled forever. Still, I never told my mother. It just wasn’t something that was discussed. I suspect a lot of LDS girls have similar experiences or did in that era.
I didn’t get girl bosoms until I was 15 but then they just suddenly appeared one summer morning and kept growing and growing, like a chia pet for my chest. Previously I’d been known as “Chet’s little brother” or the Pirate’s Treasure but then I got boobies, and in my vindication at the cruel jibes from Jr. High boys I proclaimed, “I’ll show them!”
I named them when they first made their perky, pink-nosed appearance. I was so proud of them back then and so named them after two famous Norwegian twins, Ano and Tano. I’d had a school reader that had a story about these two kids who had snuck the nation’s gold on their sleds right under the noses of the Germans during WWII. The picture in the book showed these two round-faced, whiter-than-white kids with little red noses, swooping full-faced down the mountain. So Ano and Tano were born, here to save the gold from the Nazi’s.
Later when I was experimenting with necking and petting, I had no idea what to expect regarding a young man’s body nor my own. While dancing with some kid from another town, I noticed his breathe was warm on my neck. Suddenly I realized how good it all felt and was purring like a kitten in short order. I had no idea what was going on with my southern hemisphere since all it had ever done before was expel fluids but now they were coming from a place I’d never imagined had a dispensary. I wanted nothing more than to experience that thrill as often as possible. Yet still I was conditioned to believe that any such feelings were dangerous, bad, evil, and would only lead me to the depths of Hell. Guilt, shame, and thrills. What a roller coaster!
By the time I met my first husband I was so hungry for completion that I had little will power. Birth control was never discussed and my knowledge of how to use or even where to purchase such things was close to nil. So of course I got pregnant the first time, which indicated that I should marry this guy I barely knew and didn’t really like, which resulted in an eighteen-year farce. In the meantime, I still hadn’t figured out what all the good parts were for and had little in the way of full satisfaction. He was as much a naive virgin as myself and seemed to have even more guilt and shame over his body and the procreative acts, so we really didn’t explore all the fun stuff that is quite possible and should be encouraged in marital relations.
I was 21 years old before I knew that women could experience orgasms. Tom Cruise and I did IT on the couch by ourselves; he was wearing the same underpants and button-down shirt he wore in Risky Business. After Tom Cruise, it was several large Samoans from a group called the Nono Seno Dancers, who performed at the Tiki Lounge in Disneyland. They were very, very good. There was a Nordic God named Thor. He took me in every which way.
My mother’s advise when I first got married (she still hadn’t figured out that I was two months pregnant) was, “Well, Sister (she always calls us “Sister” so she doesn’t have to remember which one of us she’s talking to), just think about IT as if you’re canning peaches. By the time you’ve scalded the skins and peeled them it’s over and you can just go clean up the sticky mess and go back to sleep. It’s your duty and a chore, but usually over very quickly. I’m so sorry for you, Sister.” She once admitted that she wasn’t sure if she’d ever had an orgasm. That’s a guarantee you haven’t. If the back of your head doesn’t explode, lightning shoot out the tips of your toes and fingertips, and stars rotate around the ceiling, leaving you spent and trembling, it’s a good sign that you haven’t yet experienced a good orgasm.
And that’s where my second husband comes in—thank you, BABB, for finally showing this naive farm girl the real joy of sex. You are my hero.
by Andrea Rebecca Isom
The room absorbs impending dusk
And she reclines, alone and effortless.
The stillness spreads around her
Like fountains of desert hot springs.
The only sound–outside traffic, muffled and inconsequential.
Embraced by comfort, thick and belted, swaddling.
Her hand slips beneath kimono folds
Cupping, coddling, culling
For abstract doom
Another month away.
Breath exhales the sound of air, pining.
Her fingers linger pondering
Present joy, past loves unfulfilled and never.
Caress compels a deeper search.
A must untapped, a chance untaken.
A selfish joy unshared of poignant insinuation.
Uncoupled and unafraid as the rising spring engulfs to drown.
I had lunch with a friend I grew up with who is also recovering from Mormonism. She too married young and did not experience the normal life of sexual expression and exploration. As we sat there enjoying our lunch in a little Asian deli, I opened up and shared with her something that I thought I might not be alone in.
“I have to shower after sex. Like, right after. Forget cuddling, I need to be clean.”
“ME TOO!”
Our lunch date turned into comparing notes about this phenomena in which we thought we were isolated. She said that after sex she hops right up and into the shower to scrub down. Her husband never had to struggle with wondering how long to cuddle while keeping the desire for a sandwich at bay.
I admit I have some germaphobic tendencies; I am anxious about exposure to things that could make me sick. I carry hand sanitizer wherever I go and cringe when someone wants to shake my hand – I have no faith in humanity that they wash well enough, or at all, after going to the bathroom. I could be shaking the hand of a person who may or may not have just got finished picking his nose and wiping it on a damp towel that has spent the last hour welcoming any microbial a safe landing spot. Do not get me started on sponges.
I am currently reading the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon where the main character, Claire, goes back in time from the late 1940’s to Scotland in the 1700’s. The books are filled with passionate, erotic encounters. Most of the time I am drawn in by Gabaldon’s seemingly accurate details of the era and settings. But it never fails, in the midst of a lusty tryst I begin to think of how dirty it must have been. Consider not only the lack of running warm water for bathing, but the lack of hygiene at all in those times. So here am I in fiction, missing out on the opportunity to enjoy the joy of sex between two people sharing a bond – even if it’s in the dirt-filled forest of the Highlands.
I shared these concerns and cases of extreme mind-racing regarding my own germ-filled sexual experiences with my friend. She was right there with me. Up until our lunch visit I had thought that this tendency was the culprit of my bedroom woes, but the focus on germs cannot be rational when it is impeding something very natural. Sex is not about sharing germs – although that may be a secondhand outcome – or focusing on how dirty the environment is during the act. Sex is about connecting to another person through the most intimate option available to humans. Opening your heart, mind, body and soul to the one you love. I was inclined to think there must be more to my phobia. Being that we had both left the church, we began to wonder if our shared sex-germaphobia was not in fact microbial-induced but rather stemmed from the one thing we had in common – the Church!
The Church is well known for its sexual oppression. There have been books and pamphlets published by the Church regarding masturbation and the horror it causes on one’s eternal salvation and the tools to combat it. The infamous Mark E. Peterson gave some horrific advice regarding masturbation:
“In very severe cases it may be necessary to tie a hand to the bed frame with a tie in order that the habit of masturbating in a semi-sleep condition can be broken. This can also be accomplished by wearing several layers of clothing which would be difficult to remove while half asleep.”
Although girls in the Young Women program do not have specific lessons on masturbation avoidance like the boys are riddled with, we were constantly shamed about our bodies and the evils of touching them or letting someone else touch them. I had thought my vagina was a place where dirty sins dwelt waiting to be released – nestled in my labia and burrowing up through my vagina and to my holy hymen.
In talking with my friend I reflected on the first weeks after my marriage. I had quickly noticed this desire to make a B-line to the shower after intercourse. Being touched was now sanctified and approved with a church seal – why was I wanting to scrape the proverbial germs off of me?
There were never instructions given to navigate the feminine body I was graced with but only warnings and the focus on being pure. I was taught pure meant untouched. Once married, was I no longer pure? Was I now tainted? The transition from being single to becoming married was not accompanied with washing the mind of the shame-induced indoctrination we were exposed to. So it was still there!
After comparing notes with my friend and finding that we both suffered from the views the Church instilled in us, I realized that this was not normal. I accepted the challenge to unravel the shame that had been conditioned into me. I had enough non-Mormon friends to know that people who were not indoctrinated with organized religion had a much healthier view of sexual intercourse and sexual expression.
I began to devour articles regarding masturbation, sexual oppression and shame. Even hearing stories of the male experience growing up in the Church was a huge eye-opener into my own shame. I remember my bishop inquiring during an interview if I had ever masturbated. My initial thought was: “Uh, no! Ewwww. That’s a weird question and isn’t that question for boys? Do girls even masturbate? Ewwwwww. Can we just please get on with this interview already? Do I drink, smoke, obey my parents… carry on please. NOW!” Most of the focus regarding masturbation in the youth of the church is towards boys. Girls must get enough lessons on their body being a temple and other such dribble that they must assume girls don’t need to tie their hands to bedposts.
I was able to walk away from my research knowing that 1) I was not alone, and 2) feeling “dirty” was not normal. So my quest began – could I change my thought process to allow for better enjoyment of the act of sex and for sharing the bond between two people?
This conversation between my friend and I happened about 4 years ago. I have to admit I still shower after most all sexual exploration, but I no longer forgo the cuddling or have racing thoughts of the germs packing up one camp to migrate to another. I have realized these germs were filled with mitochondria fueled by shame. There was no antibiotic given with wedding vows, and therefore, after researching sexuality in the church, I began to understand that sex is not dirty and my own logical mind would have to be the penicillin that would rid my woman parts of these little beasties.
The Church has a choke hold on the sexuality of their members. This last year I have developed another theory as to why the Church finds its way into our bedrooms, our showers, the back seats of our cars, and any physical contact we have with ourselves and others. What if our sexual energy is the way to connect to the pure love in which we are made of? What if that love through which we entered the world with is the center to our being and tapped into through sexual stimulation? The ecstasy that is experienced when our bodies reach that moment of climax and is free of all ailments we physically and mentally harbor is potent. It is in those moments we feel relief, we feel exponentially divine and we feel connected to the other person with whom we are sharing these intimate activities.
This energy could possibly be the life force within us that shows us we are beings that are capable of connection without doctrine from on high. This liberating realization helped to me see why the Church might want to hinder that independence. Tapping into one’s own power may negate the need for a Church to govern them and, heaven forbid, foster a life where people may feel they are whole and capable of leading their own life. Slippery slope? Yes, maybe.
But maybe that is exactly why sexuality takes up a huge portion of the lessons given, the talks in conference, and the publishing of books like A Miracle of Forgiveness. Should we have to atone for tapping into our core energy that is lying within our sexual organs?
It is my hope that more people, religious or not, come to find that connection within them and move away from the dirty, deviant views of sexuality and into empowerment. I want a world where women do not feel burdened with confusion or lack the understanding that our bodies are truly ours and ours to love. My body will no longer be a source of shame and even hatred. No Church owns my body now, and I work consciously on loving my germ-filled body and appreciating the energy that swells within.
“I have it on good authority that Spirit does not belong to any particular church, but resides in the deepest part of your very own heart every time you love.” ~David Deida
It was 2002. I was 39, a Republican, Mormon single mom of 4 kids, ages 17-6. I was preparing for what was my first big road trip alone with the kids since my divorce. In my newfound moments of quiet when the kids were with their father, I was allowed some time for dreaming and I’d decided that I wanted to see Crater Lake. I was a little nervous about being the only driver and taking many unfamiliar roads but I didn’t let it stop me. We were all excited. Little did I know the unfamiliar roads and changes I’d be exploring internally.
I was looking forward to some time out of town, away from a man who had recently appeared and who offered me a previously unexperienced level of sexual attraction if I was within shouting distance. He was heartbreak in a bottle and I knew it. I was in a very satisfying time in my personal life and he was not in my plan. I liked neat and tidy and was determined to be smart with my heart and keep the covenants I had made in the LDS temple, namely “no sexual intercourse except with someone to whom I was legally and lawfully married.” I was discovering my own head. Realizing that I actually had my own thoughts and opinions about things and I was taking time to contemplate, read the thoughts of different authors whose voices seemed to be meant just for me. They were stimulating a new paradigm which seemed to be quickly emerging. I wasn’t dating because this pursuit had me otherwise occupied. The only reason I had even been out socially that Saturday night was that we were celebrating my friend’s birthday. She brought along her second cousin once-removed, or something like that, who she hadn’t seen in over a decade. To be honest, I wasn’t even paying attention at the introduction.
After dinner we all moved to a monthly Single’s Dance our church was holding. I used to go regularly, hoping that this just might be the night I would be blessed with a temple-worthy love. Over the years I’d become mostly disillusioned at the prospects and had taken to making jokes about the overall patheticness of the music and the men. If they were playing the song “Love Shack,” it must be 10:10pm. I looked up at the clock. It was.
I honestly hadn’t given this guy at the birthday party a second look. Then he asked me to slow dance. We chit chatted about nothing I can recall until he asked me something about dating to which I half-sarcasticly and half-seriously replied, “Oh, I don’t date men who know Mary.” I had had a string of small train wrecks with men Mary (his cousin) had introduced me to, including a broken engagement. He seemed undaunted and replied, “Not even me?” with eyes that pierced multiple parts of me. If cupid actually owns arrows I was shot multiple times in that moment.
It’s been over 10 years so parts of my story are growing foggy, but I do remember he showed up regularly after I got off work, he was wickedly funny and I melted when he kissed me. He was fire to my shivering cold body but I was afraid of getting burned. It didn’t take me long to realize he was not a good idea, on multiple levels. He had a history of bipolar disorder that left him ever-prone to impromptu major life changes, a good job in an unstable company in the process of a long, slow layoff, an ex-wife with 3 of his children and he was only months separated from a current wife who had discovered she was pregnant within a month of their separation. He was not proceeding with a divorce to keep her on his insurance until the pregnancy was over. Ending the marriage was not her choice. He had parked himself in Portland, to get away from their relationship, at a satellite office and slept between his office, his car and Mary’s couch. Get the picture?
I looked at this roadtrip with my kids as a way to wash him out of my hair. But all I could do was think of him. I could not understand what was happening to me. I didn’t want any part of this and yet I couldn’t seem to break my heart or body free.
The last few days of our roadtrip were on the southern Oregon coast and found me with a few spare moments alone at the beach sitting cross legged in the sand, contemplating my deep predicament. I had recently returned to doing some meditation and in my torn state decided to just close my eyes and concentrate on my breath and see if I could just get him out of my head. It wasn’t helping, so in exasperation I silently said these words to nothing or no one in particular, “What is he doing here and what am I supposed to do with this?”
What happened in the next moment was completely unexpected, out of my paradigm of possibility, and yet shook every cell of my spiritual shelf at once. It made absolutely no sense in the Mormon world view. It’s difficult to put into words because what happened was an instant, but telling it to someone else in words takes much longer. Perhaps it was some sort of download? In the past, I’ve described it as a message to my soul and my soul understood it completely.
The words trickled down through my brain clearly: “You know, you’ve always been so safe in love. Always held your heart so close and careful, lived so protected. And really…look at your life. What good has it really done you? (Enter stage left images of a lifetime of healing my disappointed, broken heart). The last few years of your life have been about learning to love others unconditionally. And you’ve got that. Now…(there was a slight pause in the thoughtstream) it’s time to let yourself learn to be loved unconditionally. And he is here (another pause, perhaps for effect), and he loves you. It’s time to let him love you.”
I’m not sure in earth time how long it actually took to soak in the truth of that message, but I knew that it was 100% true. I HAD safely locked my heart away and only bared it in moments when it had seemed safe. I did NOT, in the slightest way know how to open up and be vulnerable. And this man offered raw, exposed nakedness on a platter of inevitable heartbreak, not to mention the likely Mormon consequences. I also understood that this was not really about him at all. This was about me learning to open my heart in the face of uncertainty, and I knew this would be a sexual relationship. I contemplated my options. I realized taking this path could and likely would deprive me of my membership, through excommunication, and thus I would my children’s weddings and endowments.
It was a choice point. There was no middle road. I soothed myself with the fact that there was always the repentance process and conveniently failed to entertain the idea I might never return. That was probably best. It really was the choiceless choice.
It was the first time I began to grasp the possibility that the world was not black and white and that all the lessons and growth I was here to experience could not be found within the small box of carefully divided right and wrong. Fate had intervened and stirred its finger in my carefully separated colors. My black and white turned gray.
I returned home with a quiet knowing that it was time. Time to learn to be vulnerable, with an imperfect man with a messy life and more chaos than I could handle. I did let him love me and I will never regret it. My heart will never be the same—my body will never be the same. I relaxed into a satisfying sensuality that every cell in my body knew was not a sin. I had been told my whole life that we had to be worthy to have the Holy Ghost with us. I was determined to use that as my benchmark, and that most of all I would take care of myself and not betray myself. That, I had to figure out as I went, but this I can say: What I had come to know as the Holy Ghost was with me more strongly and consistently than ever. I felt led and loved in every step in the process. My entire life became an experience of God in all her forms and flavors. I learned that love and its expression, whether given or received, is never sinful or wrong if we are freely giving and receiving. The sin is, perhaps, in the taking in selfishness or the giving only for what’s in it for us.
“The Holy Longing”
Tell a wise person or else keep silent
For the massman will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive
And what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm waters of the nights of love
Where you were begotten, where you have begotten,
A strange feeling comes over you
When you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught
In this obsession with darkness
And a desire for higher love-making sweeps you up.
Distance does not make you falter.
And now, arriving in wonder, flying,
And, finally, insane for the light,
You are the butterfly,
And you are gone.
And so long as you haven’t
Experienced this—to die
And so to grow—you are only
Another troubled guest darkening the earth.
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
As the story goes, we did go our separate ways in about a year. I was only slightly heartbroken but mostly so grateful that this man came to me all messy and oozing with a passionately open heart and let me play on the stage of life with him. I did learn to let myself be loved wide open. I came to believe that there is a reason people cry out, “Oh God!” in the height of their greatest sexual experiences. Never are we more open and alive and in the presence of God and the Divine than in our emotional and physical nakedness with another.