Disclaimer: This post is based on real events. Certain names and details have been changed
I was fifty—f**king—years-old and had never asked myself, “What does Lucy want?”
I sat in a worn, brown leather armchair in Kristen’s sparsely, but tastefully, decorated office at the women’s shelter. I was assigned to her, the rape crisis specialist, even though I’d told the intake counselor I’d forgiven my perpetrator a long time ago. This was my first visit with a therapist, of any kind, and I was nervous. But after a few minutes, her kind demeanor helped me relax into comfortable and meaningful conversation. Eventually she asked me what I wanted to do and I rambled off a list of things that I figured my husband, children, mother, friends, and church leaders wanted me to do.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, confused, my answer was straight forward, filled with sincere concerns that pressed on my mind.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“No. What? …maybe I don’t understand your question.”
“I asked you what YOU want to do.”
I squirmed in my chair, searching for an answer. She sat quietly, waiting as I fidgeted. I finally looked up and said, “I have no idea.” I’ve always done what everyone else wants me to do.
Nowadays, I’d just say, “I have no f**king idea.” But back then I wasn’t the f**king Mormon, well, actually, I was the f**king Mormon, like about 6000 times during my thirty-year-marriage; which was not an actual count because we never owned a bedpost. Based on our sexual “terms of agreement,” which I’ll explain in just a sec, and subtracting out the less frequent sex in the latter part of our marriage due to early stages of erectile dysfunction, the approximation is quite accurate.
But let me back up…all the way to my first sexual encounter. Mormons just love creating family trees, so here’s my perverted “pre-marital sex-tree.”
Beginning at age four or five—because that’s when my older brother became curious about girls—sex began with the usual stuff:
- Childhood Molestation (a secret, but common, occurrence in many Mormon homes).
- One sexual assault that would’ve been rape but, fortunately, the perpetrator hadn’t f**ked anyone before and didn’t know what the f**k he was doing.
- The onset of my own curiosity and subsequent caressing and exploration that oftentimes takes place during sleepovers with girlfriends.
- First Orgasm. A very erotic experimentation with cunnilingus, post high school, with a married man—whom I believed was single—and still has me yearning for more.
- One failed attempt at masturbation with the end of a hair brush. Didn’t know about vibrators; wish I had. It might have kept me from throwing myself at men. But, again, Mormon’s don’t masturbate.
- A date-rape.
- Lots of Levi-Lovin (dry humping) at BYU, which wasn’t allowed, though everyone did it anyway and then lied about it or confessed to their bishops and were promptly forgiven. Except for the girls who, with childlike understanding of date rape, confessed to date rapes. Those girls were disfellowshipped; which is another long story that will require lots more wine or maybe even some whiskey.
Okay, back to f**king during marriage. Naturally, it wasn’t frowned upon if you were licensed to f**k. Silly me, I actually framed and hung my f**king license in the bedroom just like attorneys and doctors hang licenses in their offices to practice law and medicine. And practice is probably the best description of it because it lacked the intimacy that most couples strive for in marriage. When attempting to orgasm every day became a chore for me, I suggested a new schedule. But not achieving my O every day was akin to me saying I didn’t love him. So, as a good f**king Mormon wife, I proposed and he (after a colossal temper-tantrum) agreed to the following terms of sex:
My ex could f**k me day or night, anytime, anywhere, and as many times a day as he wanted as long as he didn’t require me to achieve my O as often as him. I was required to have my O—and I never-ever faked it—every third day. Not an easy feat, mind you, in a loveless marriage lacking much foreplay. Though he had no idea it was loveless because I faked being madly in love with him right up to the two hours prior to landing in the women’s shelter.
Right about now, you might be wondering how I achieved so many O’s (about 3000 and hoping for 3000 more). Well…that was easy as making homemade pussy pie—a skill not taught at Enrichment classes on Thursday nights. While ridin his red rodding hood, my mind was busy creating wild sex scenes in my head—there were about six plots that got me off quickly because a good f**king wife performs posthaste—and my ex never once starred, or even appeared, in a single mind-porn show.
“What does Lucy want?” my therapist was asking and I’m still trying to answer it. That was the first of many questions I started asking myself. “What does Lucy want?” is a question I still ask myself every day, a question I ask when someone’s pushing me to do something I’m not sure I want to do, or when—as a f**king Mormon people-pleaser—I feel obligated to do. In these moments, I silently ask myself, “What does Lucy want to do? And if I’m really honest with myself, the answer is always decisively clear. This question keeps me safe.
For those of you who can relate with the people-pleaser mentality, I’m hoping this question will help you too. Please share your stories, thoughts, feelings, opinions in the comments below.