Across the room a devilishly handsome man holds me in his gaze. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I return a coquettish grin. Then he tied me up and spanked me. Wait! That’s in my other book, Fifty Shades of Mormonism. Oops. Without turning my head, I watch him slowly wind his way past bar stools, a pool table, patrons in various stages of inebriation, to stand behind me. I turn, hold out my hand, and introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Lucy.”
“Tom. Nice to meet you. I’m from Nevada…here on business—oil and gas.”
He announces his profession with brash confidence that screams of hidden insecurities. A real oil man—the rich tycoon he ineptly portrays—wouldn’t brandish his ace of spades with unsophisticated flair. I quickly deem him an out-of-towner hoping to plunge his dick into a Utah pussy bush.
“What do you do?” I ask, poking at his façade.
“I’m in oil and gas.” He announces again as though I didn’t hear him the first time.
“No, I get that. What do you do in oil and gas?”
“Sales.” He says, as his head drops briefly downward.
I imagine most women wouldn’t have noticed the almost imperceptible tipping motion of his head; but I see everything—a singular raised brow, furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, twinkling eyes, eyes that turn from sweet warm hazel to molten hate–a survival skill learned from having lived amongst fuckiopaths for so many years.
I hesitate. I’m a realtor zealously attempting to transition into a full-time writing career. Even though I’m currently writing three books and a blog, I still won’t call myself a writer. I can’t claim that honor until at least one of my books is on the market.
But I hate the meaningless conversations that follow after revealing my profession. I can almost answer the next question, “How’s the market?” before it’s even asked. Jesus Fucking Christ, who the hell cares about the market! They’re just houses. The real topic is me—the passionate, kind, intelligent, sexually-charged, fascinating person wrapped up inside this hot, albeit menopausal, body standing in front of you Mr. Suitor. I’m not at a bar, wearing a mini-skirt and dancing shoes, hoping to sell my newest listing.
“I’m a…writer.” Oh, God. Did I just say that?
“Really?! Wow. What do you write?”
Fuck. Let the mental gymnastics begin. Do I say, “A memoir titled, The Naughty Wife,” giving him the impression that I put out—an easy lay? Or do I provide my new working title, The Obedient Mormon Wife, instilling the visual of a sexually-repressed dreary-old MoMo? Maybe I should say I’m authoring a blog, Church of the Pink Vibe of Latter Day Sex. But I hardly know him. Do I want the men I meet face-to-face reading my intimate thoughts? I’d almost rather bear my beautifully augmented breasts than expose my vulnerable inner world.
“A book,” I say, “The Obedient Mormon Wife.” I go the safe route since my interest in this wannabe-tycoon began to wane the moment he opened his mouth.
“Yeah? I’m Catholic. But I’m not judgmental. Doesn’t matter to me what religion you belong to.”
Not “judgmental”? I’ve heard that word a lot lately as friends and neighbors attempt to love-bomb me back into the LDS church. It’s the mother fucker of loaded words for religious folks, and apparently, not just for Mormons. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Love the person, hate the sin. He, who is without sin, cast the first stone. Only God can judge—and, of course, Mormon Bishops.
“Oh, I’m not Mormon. Used to be, but now I’m atheist.”
“Seriously! His eyes widen. “You don’t believe in God?”
“But what about the afterlife?! You actually believe that when you die…it’s…it’s…ALL OVER?! Your loved ones put you in the ground…throw dirt over you…and that’s it?”
“Yep. You got it. Or incinerate me and use my ashes to plant a tree. Hell, I’m okay if they just flush me down the toilet. Once I’m dead it doesn’t matter anymore. At some point ya gotta grow up…use your critical-thinking skills…stop believing in Santa Claus…the Tooth Fairy.”
I turn my head to take a sip from my Mai Tai and…whooooooosh…he’s gone.
I chuckle. No. He’s not judgmental…as long as I believe in God.
To be fair, I judged him first. But, hello! Using one’s brain to judge someone isn’t a fucking sin! Yes, I prefer to have more data when making judgment calls, but, sometimes, scant information will suffice.
Lucy Furr Words of Wisdom, post 35, verses 1-2
- Behold,” sayeth the High Priestesshood of the Church of the Pink Vibe of Latter Day Sex, “Be not foolish, fair maidens hotties. Useth thy intellect at club-eths and bar-eths.
- Yay, yay, yay…yo, yo, yo…boom chicka boom boom…wo, wo, whoa…be ye therefore judgmental when God-believing—and non-believing—dumbasses seeketh to diveth into thy busheth.
(No…I don’t have a lispeth. Just making my scripture sound super-duper holy and legit.)