Single woman thought of the day

I wait, in the suffocating emptiness of impatience, for a man–worthy of my love–to love me.


Missionary Bunnies Visit Cupidland

My dating profile identifies me as an atheist. Fearing religionists will slam me for my non-belief, or worse, attempt to woo me away from Hell’s Afterlife party, I wrote the following warning: Please do not message me with your testimony of the Easter Bunny. I gave him up too.

Today, this message arrived in my inbox:

Sorry for the short message but I’m getting on a flight in a moment. Wow, I thought your profile was hilarious and then I read your photo captions–an absolute laugh out loud. In fact, people are looking at me for doing just that.

I am saddened that you have not excepted the truth of the Easter Bunny into your life. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with our prophet who had received the Golden Eggs(tm) and the eleven cronies who, while never actually seeing them, swear that they did? No? Not a problem – We will have some college kids at your door tomorrow to explain it in detail. Is it okay if they park their bikes in your driveway?

Yeah, looks like I gambled it all on derivative LDS humor. 🙂

Anyhow, have a good day and hope to talk to you again.


51 minutes ago

Me: You gambled well, my friend. Not many responses to my profile elicit a laugh, or even a chuckle, from me. Well done! I smiled, giggled, AND laughed.

With Easter around the corner, I’d be interested in having cute bunnies deliver golden eggs to my door. Hell, they can even park their bikes on my lawn as long as their eggs are solid gold. But if they pop out foil wrapped bullshit, I’ll personally flatten their bikes with my Land Rover in a seething, homicidal rage. 😉

Nice to meet you, D_.

Lucy Furr


I think D_ and I are off to a great start. I’m overlooking his incorrect usage of the word, “excepted.” He was, after all, boarding a plain. 😉

Bar Etiquette 101 – What Not to Say

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.

“And you?”

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

  1. 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.
  2. 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.)


How the LDS Church Handled My Date Rape in the 80’s

While attending BYU years ago, I was date-raped. Most victims of rape blame themselves, so naturally, I did the same. I agonized over my feelings of shame, knowing I’d disappointed my Heavenly Father. Then one night, I woke to see an angel hovering next to my bed. It was likely the same angel that visited Joe Smith –the one who told him to marry and rape little girls. Even though my night visitor never spoke, I was pretty damn sure he was there to call me to repentance.

All night I lay frightened in my bed, tossing and turning with remorse. But when light streamed through my bedroom window the next morning, I realized my angel was actually a long white bathrobe draped over the closet door.

Mormon girls oftentimes seek for signs, answers to their prayers, to help them make decisions.  I told myself that even though it wasn’t a real angel, God was sending me a message. Yay, verily, he wanted me to confess my sin to the bishop of my BYU single’s ward.

Unlike the girl in this article, (, I wasn’t whisked off to the police station to report a crime or offered treatment by BYU’s Social Services. Instead, my bishop held a disciplinary council, the Mormon’s so-called “Court of Love,” and was promptly disfellowshipped from the LDS church. Then I was booted from BYU. But not before being publicly disgraced.

In those days, they announced the fallen statuses of aberrant individuals to the men in the Elder’s Quorum and High Priest’s meetings—essentially, to every potential suitor in the ward I attended. The men weren’t supposed to discuss this with other ward members—the women—but, of course, a secret this scandalous was too fucking juicy to keep secret. Whisperings circled round me like ravenous vultures.

I was naive and didn’t clue in that I was wearing a huge fucking Scarlet Letter across my voluptuous breasts. Yep, that’s right, I was totally unaware that I was tainted goods, unfit to be the wife of any of the respectable LDS returned missionaries—the most prized bachelors in all of Mormondumb.

After my “Court of Love” was over, my bishop said, “You’re a brave young lady. I’m impressed with your courage.”

I wasn’t courageous. I fucking stupid!

Then along came Aaron–my future fuckopathic husband.

I was easy prey.

Obscured Superiority

“I don’t have a fancy diploma that tells the world how f**king amazing I am. I’m not an artist with a gallery of paintings to be admired. But my accomplishments are just as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than a Botticelli angel. My life’s work has been the sacrifices I’ve made to give my children a bright and happy future. Sadly, my shattered family unity eclipses my greatest accomplishments. Maybe, I’m writing my own life story because it’s painful to be lumped into the category of an unsuccessful, slutty, exmo, divorcee.”

Those are the words I shared with a gentleman today. They are the same words I often share with people when I feel my hackles rise. I’m not as defensive as I once was–when I initially left Mormonism. I’m getting more comfortable in my new skin. But there are times when someone hits my “hot” button and I get really pissed. Today was one of those days.

In a message, this nice gentleman presented himself as a rather magnificent catch. While I was impressed with the many fine qualities he could bring to a relationship, his closing words were off-putting.

“I have only slept with women I have loved, so you can imagine I have slept with only a few women in this life. I am saving myself for that one special love that is my future. I will know her, and she will get all of me. I won’t expect that of her, because we each have our own path to walk where love is concerned. But I will be able to say to her, I turned down many invitations waiting for you. And the only way I will give myself to her is that my inner knowing sees her as the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Thus, she will know that I honor myself, not in some religious way or prudish puritan fashion, for I have known a few lovers, but in a way that says, I don’t give myself away until I give myself a way to love you forever. That way you could be assured that, when we had sex, it really meant something profound, and that feeling allows the friendship I desire to build into a relationship I cannot imagine life without. And when that happens, you have all of me, all of me, both feet in, and fully present.

For most women, this would seem like a really great guy. Not a player. Awesome. But for some f**ked-up reason, it left me feeling as though he’d placed himself on an altruistic pedestal and was pointing his judgmental middle-finger down at me. And even though he claimed he won’t judge another woman for having taken a different path, his words still stung with obscured superiority.

I know it wasn’t his intention to shame me, but, suddenly, I felt shamed. As I explore my sexuality sans ecclesiastical guidelines, I’ve found, much of society has this f**ked-up idea that it’s not only “okay” for a guy to score some pussy, but it’s actually really “cool” when he does. And, yet, when a woman puts more than one dick inside her, she’s a bona fide slut.

Following is my utterly defensive response to his glowing representation of himself:

 “To be truly honest, I’m not sure how to feel about your message. In some ways, you’ve led me to believe you’re the perfect man and, yet, I feel as though you’ve talked down to me–as though I’m lesser than you. I’m sure your cog dissonance will chalk up my reaction to my being an insecure person, but I assure you I’m every bit as competent and confident as you.

I’m a daughter of a literal genius (my father), and an accomplished, six-time award-winning playwright (mother), a genetically perfect blend of left and right brained talents. Like you, my EQ (Emotional IQ) is off the charts. I’m so f**king brilliant that I kept a hoarding f**kopath incredibly happy for thirty f**king years. Every day of my life was spent reading the emotional nuanced signals he sent out. I had to adapt quickly to all kinds of bizarre scenarios and irrational thinking in order to keep my children and me safe. While in this environment, I didn’t have emotional, physical, spiritual, or financial support from a normal husband. As a result, I raised our children as though I was a single mom. The entire burden of providing for them, nurturing and teaching them lay squarely on my shoulders. But it was more difficult than just being a single mom because having a f**ktard for a husband was akin to having one more child…and not just any child…a special needs child. And not just any special needs child…a child who sought daily to destroy me because eight years into the marriage I made him angry when I asked for a divorce–even though I didn’t go through with it. For the next twenty-two years, he attacked me with Machiavellian-style cruelty. He was so bent on destroying me the he didn’t mind hurting his own children in the process–the worst hurt that can be inflicted on a mother. I didn’t receive help from church or community because we appeared to be a normal functioning family. It was me that presented this picture to the world because that was what was required of me.

On top of these challenges–or as Mormons would say, “Growth Opportunities”–was the burden of caring for a child who was also personality disordered. While raising her I didn’t know anything about personality disorders, so I was left to my own motherly instincts and creative devices to help this child face major hurdles in life. This meant I battled a f**ked-up school system that doesn’t cater to non-mainstream children while attempting to keep the daily emotional outbursts to a minimum.

Simultaneously, I launched and maintained a successful real estate career, nursed my ailing father—a stroke victim requiring 24/7 care for nearly three years—assisted my emotionally-imbalanced histrionic mother, faithfully fulfilled my numerous church callings, ran herd over my other children, and took care of all the household needs of cleaning, repairs and maintenance, including yardwork. I did all this with a smile on my face and stilettos on my dainty feet. I did all this with a major ball-and-chain-of-a-husband hanging on my leg, holding me back from every attempt I made to get help for our daughter. While in the midst of her multiple suicide attempts, he repeatedly counseled me, “If we just live the gospel, she’ll be fine. The Lord will help us. Psychologists are full of shit.”

My dear friend, I know you didn’t intend to make me feel defensive. I’m sure most of that is coming from me. I guess I just had to unabashedly brag a bit because, from the onset, I believe you may have misjudged me. I assure you that I’ve not responded in this message as a plea to have you as my lover. I’m in no way interested in a lover right now. I’m glad that you’ll be helping individuals with your brilliance. We aren’t much different from one another. We’re both good people with big hearts and much to give and share with the world–and with a future soul mate. I truly wish you all the best in your endeavors.

Warmest regards,


Note: For more on the topic of slut shaming, please visit, Laci Green at sex+


Party of One

Sometimes, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched and look for a red laser beam on my chest. I always close my blinds when the sun goes down.

Sometimes, I wonder what day he’ll choose for his suicide/homicide. My birthday perhaps?

Sometimes, I wonder whether or not to attend a dance or special event because “he” might be there with a loaded gun.

Sometimes, I wonder about seemingly selfless acts of kindness. Why is this guy being nice? Who is he really? Who will he become when my wall comes down?

Sometimes, I jokingly say, “All men (and women) are sociopaths until proven otherwise.” I’m not really joking.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll go to my grave having never been loved.

Sometimes, I wonder if Humpty Dumpty is laughing at all the king’s horses and all the king’s men trying to put my shattered soul back together again.

Sometimes, I remind myself that I can’t possibly go to the grave having never been loved because I love me…and, it’s okay if I’m just a party of one…because I’m a f**king awesome…worthy of love.

Note from Lucy Furr: If you suspect that you’re in an abusive relationship or have been in one, I have several tips and resources that helped me escape my perpetrator. They are as follows:

  1. You don’t have to be physically assaulted to seek help from the women’s shelter. When I landed in the women’s shelter, my then-husband had never beaten me, though I lived in fear that he might.
  2. If you’re not sure you’re in an abusive relationship, seek help from the women’s shelter. They can help you sort out your emotions and answer questions.
  3. If you don’t want live in the women’s shelter, contact them anyway. They have an out-reach program that offers many resources and classes that are helpful.
  4. If someone is holding you hostage via suicidal threats, you’re likely in an abusive relationship. The women’s shelter can help you learn how to deal with suicidal partners in a healthier way.
  5. I strongly recommend reading the book, “Why Does He Do That?” by Lundy Bancroft. Even if you’re not in an abusive relationship, this is the best book on the market to learn about the red flags of manipulation and control. It’s the most important book you’ll ever read. All young girls should read this book before they start dating. (Note: The book isn’t just for women. It’s written for men too. The author didn’t want to say he/she throughout his book so he chose one gender for ease of writing.)
  6. Leaving an abuser is the most dangerous time for a victim. If your perpetrator hasn’t physically assaulted you yet, he/she might easily escalate to physical violence when he/she believes you might leave. Most domestic related homicides take place when a victim is leaving his/her partner. Don’t let your perpetrator know that you’re leaving.
  7. Just because a controlling person has no record of having been physically violent in the past, this doesn’t mean he/she won’t become physically violent in the future.
  8. Don’t jump into other relationships after leaving an abusive partner. Trust me. You’re f**ked up. It will take time, therapy and a lot of self-reflection to break the pattern of abuse.
  9. Movies and television don’t depict sociopaths accurately. They don’t look or act anything like Dexter or Hannibal Lecter. I highly recommend reading the book, “The Sociopath Next Door” by Martha Stout.
  10. Before you attempt to date again, I recommend reading the book, “Dating Game Secrets to Marrying a Good Man” by Alisa Snell.
  11. Educate yourself about sociopaths. Visit: or

F**king Fearless

On Saturday, I walked into an upscale cafe and the host was a GQ model look-alike with his dark swept-back hair, graying beard, pearly white smile and toned pecs. Having recently thrown off my inhibited Mormon-style of speaking (and thinking), I boldly asked, “Are you married?’
“F**k” I shot back, “because you’re Hot as Hell and I’m Single and Horny. God dammit, why are all the good ones taken?”
“Why thank you,’ he chuckled, “you just made my day.”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. *wink wink* God I f**king love men…and being exmo!