So...that last post took us from innocence to experience. Incidentally, I was so wigged out with guilt or what-not that despite our “relationship” continuing another several months, the most we ever did after that was one brief breast fondling. We were in the bedroom of the little brother of one of our very good mutual friends. It was completely black. I remember when her shirt came off and her bra sprang up over them. She moaned a bit—presumably because that's what she thought she was supposed to do—and I glided my right hand over them. They were small. But her nipples were rock hard. After a couple of passes, she whispered something (I don't remember what it was, but it wasn't a reminder to Return With Honor), and I took my mouth from hers and moved my face downward, wanting to put her nipples in my mouth. But I couldn't do it. I hovered over them briefly, close enough to feel the heat of my breath reflecting off of them and back on my lips. I kissed her again, moved back down to her breasts, hovered again without touching down, and went back to her mouth. She seemed disappointed, as her kissing became more perfunctory when it became clear that I wasn't going in for the suckle. I don't recall whether we just faded out the make-out section on our own or were interrupted by a noise. But that was the last “reportable incident” of that relationship. Which is good, because I'm starting to write like Harold Robbins. (Yes, I've read one of his books – it was on the pre-stocked bookshelf at a rental property I was living at—with my roommate, Kate's
guy—and I had lots of free time. It was nearly 15 years ago but I think it was Goodbye, Janette. Although from the looks of the cover, perhaps that time would have been better spent with The Adventurers.) To wrap things up: One day when I went to school with her (we attended different schools, which, in those days, made the little affair that much more of a big one), she'd written a note to a friend in French class that she was feeling down because her period was starting. I'm not sure I even read the note, but somehow it ended up in my coat pocket. My dad borrowed my coat some time later and then took me on a drive for a sequestered discussion in a remote corner of our neighborhood. Shortly thereafter, following a conversation or two between him and her father (a prominent physician, who, according to her, allegedly responded to the call by asking her, “Why on earth is this guy's dad calling me about your period?”) I was forbidden to see her anymore. Things were done within a few weeks – the thrill of defiance wasn't worth the hassle.
But, my hands at least having “known” a woman's body, I was now among the initiated and decidedly into the world of Experience. So that's where we'll pick things up here.
Aside from what we'd call non-aberrant porn usage (and the accompanying M, which people in the church generally don't mention along with it, but they invariably go, uh, hand-in-hand) of which there has been plenty and which has been and/or will continue to be addressed elsewhere in this blog, what follows below is a chronicle of sorts of everything “bad” I've done, from Original Sin until marriage. I provide it simply for further perspective.
You may understandably assume that I was an adolescent rake...a walking contagen. While I did have a reputation of sorts later the upper-class years of high school, it was just for nicmo, not for anything more than that. No drugs, no booze, no bishopworthy hanky panky, no nothing. Just nicmo. And the fact that I was a bit of a BMOC during my senior year helped to ensure that there was no lack of nicmo:
In the huge, back bench seat of my old Chrysler.
On my waterbed, which wasn't as fun as I'd imagined it would have been.
On the floor of her living room. Her mom walked in on us. I never looked up at her mom, but she did, in shock. Based on the smile that I saw on her face when she moved back down toward me as her mom turned the lights back off, I suspect that mom was pleased. I learned later that I was her first kiss. She was a junior in high school and I was her first kiss. And she was a remarkable natural beauty, kind, and very, very smart. And a phenomenal natural talent – one of my Top Five Kisses of All Time.
In the back of a truck on St. George Boulevard during spring break. To clarify: The girl was in the back of the truck; I wasn't. I was hanging out with my buddies on the corner, trying to be spring-breakish, but having no luck. Then a truck with half a dozen girls in the back stopped at the red light in front of us. In a flash, I assessed the opportunity. In surveying the ladies, I saw that the five I could see were all very cute. The one closest to me, sitting on the sidewall right over the rear right tire, had her back toward me. All I new is she was blond and not fat. And based on her comely company, I figured the odds were outstanding that she was above average at the very least. So I sprang unto action. Tapped one of my buddies on the shoulder. Stepped over the curb. Approached her slightly to her left. Could tell that I'd caught the eyes of her friends, who started to gesture to one another. Reached up and tapped her on her right shoulder. When she looked over it (i.e., to the opposite side of where I was standing...you know the old trick), I grabbed her right shoulder with my right hand, put my left hand up over her waist, and dipped her out of the back of the truck (her butt and legs remained on the sidewall and in the back, respectively) and down into a low “Fred Astaire” kiss...kind of like this,
but under slightly different circumstances. It was a full, mutually-engaged, tonsil-tickling kiss that lasted at least five seconds, maybe ten. As soon I heard the engines of the stopped traffic start to rev indicating that the light had changed, we unlocked, I pushed her upright, and walked back toward my buddies, my clenched fists pumping overhead in triumph. The guys roared, joined by maybe a hundred or more who were crowded on that section of the block. And I heard the girls clapping and squealing behind me as the truck headed back down the Boulevard. I never turned around to look at her. Never saw her face. I should mention that this was just a few days after the encounter with First Kiss/Top Five, mentioned above. The morning of the first day back at school after spring break, First Kiss stopped me in the hall, looked at me with a combination of sadness and anger in her eyes that I'd never encountered before (nor since then, although some of my wife's have been in that realm – but my wife's, when they happen,, have more of an emotional detachment to them, as if she's protectively already distanced herself to some degree from the hurt before encountering me), and said, “I heard what you did, and I will never forgive you.” And walked away. I don't think we ever spoke again. My friend mentioned having seen her while shopping right before she left on her mission (some Pacific island), and that she walked into the store in a white linen sundress, with glowing cheeks and a radiance that overtook the place. I just looked her up on Facebook. Found her. Her profile links to her blog. Four kids. Looks like she's gotten granola-y and zenny, not surprising. Short crop cut. Not as glowy. Features a little more severe...angular than they were. But distinctive. Even elegant. Seems happy. Good girl. I'm happy for her.
In the dark room in photo class.
On the set of a forthcoming play on the stage of the school auditorium, while sluffing photo class.
On my cousin's doorstep (again, St. George) with one of my cousin's friends, whom I'd met just that afternoon on the tennis court and with whom and whose two other friends I'd driven aimlessly around town all night joking about, among other things, how a mop handle dipped in axle grease is a girl's best friend. (Where I'd picked up that genteel concept, I honestly don't know.)
On the couch in the foyer of a place where a big group of us were staying in Europe. (Actually, this wasn't nicmo per se. It was more of a weird PG-rated sex game, in which I'd playfully take something away from the girl –several years my senior-- and in order for her to get it back, she'd have to give me hickeys anywhere I wanted that was a) concealed, but b) not around the verboten nether-regions. I don't recall how this delightful quid pro quo developed, but it happened intermittently over the course of a few months, as I recall. She had braces, which gave the whole thing a little more bite. We never actually kissed. W-e-i-r-d.)
In the indoor hot tub of one of my best friends (when accepting my invitation, the stunningly beautiful girl –who had been the girlfriend of one of my other best friends...but that's high school for you-- said, “Sounds great! I've got a new two-piece I've been wanting to try out!” Ba-boinnnng!), who tried unsuccessfully to covertly film us from his basement stairwell, while we watched the Holiday Bowl. Or at least had it running in the background. Oh wait - this must have been after high school because for some reason that remains utterly incomprehensible to me to this day, within a couple of weeks I was over at her house mumbling through some garbage about, "I'm in college now [she was still a senior...speaking of which, I may not have mentioned yet that it wasn't until my own senior year that I dated, kissed, etc. a girl who was younger than I was; not sure how that plays into the whole mess] and won't have time for a serious relationship..."
On the stage at the stake center while a rousing basketball tournament was happening on the other side of the curtain. We were rolling all over that hardwood and having a blast. She later married a guy from my mission. I never mentioned it to him.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
In today's environment, those probably would have been hook-ups involving at least oral sex. [in today's environment would have been oral sex as the starting point...the gateway drug. boys will face, girls these days, media, my space, blogs (errrrr), amateur web 2.0 exhib; no se como yo lo habria sopravissuto; NoticiasWoche Oct 08 Bennett pnification “duo argue that”; medlar hljsingles aggro divs 2 ninos demanding petit mort] But all-in-all,I wasn't out to get as far as possible with the girls. This was aided by the fact that I ran with a pretty decent crowd of which I certainly dropped the weighted average morality score substantially as it was. (As I recall, my only act of real impropriety with a girl from my high school was during my sophomore year when I went on a double date to the Halloween Dance with reasonably cute junior whom the older guys had nicknamed, as I later learned, Snatch. Still not sure how we ended up together. I look at that picture and look like I was fresh from the crib – a real baby's crib, not a Snoop Dog crib. Although I really like the sportcoat I was wearing. Anyway, the evening went OK, nothing particularly memorable. But as things wound down and my buddy pointed his Bronco toward the part of town where our dates lived—the opposite side of town from where we lived—Snatch turned toward me (we were in the back seat) and started biting, licking and breathing in my ear. Then after a minute she hoisted her legs over mine, so that the napes of her knees were both over the outer side of my right thigh. She kept going on the ear thing. So I started sliding my right hand up her leg. And kept going. And she went harder at the ear. So I kept going. Then I got to where I, uh, couldn't go any farther, and started rubbing her crotch through her nylons. She kept at the ear and started making little noises. She was an inferno down there. So I moved my thumb up to hook the top of her nylons, stretched the waistband away from her, moved my hand inside of her nylons and laid it flat against her abdomen. I then started moving my fingers down, under the top of her panties, and when I started to feel the transition from smooth skin to rough hair, she quickly pulled away and swung her legs back to the floor in front of her. A few minutes later we were at her doorstep, where she said, “Sorry about stopping in the car. It just felt a little weird because we hadn't even kissed yet.” I don't remember whether we then kissed at the door. We only spoke a couple of times after that. She knew my brother-in-law, who knew we'd gone on a date, and told him a while later, “Yeah, we see each other in the hall and there's kind of a look like, 'Maybe next year,' you know?” But she disappeared the next year – rumor was she went somewhere like Hawaii to have a baby or an abortion. I don't know. I never saw her again.)
So that's the tale of nicmo. With the exception of Snatch, it was all for the most part fairly vanilla, all things considered, although I remember that back in the day The Brether'n preached against that as well, as being anything but “vanilla” – in fact, the very embodiment of justifying “a little sin.” (Today they seem to be too busy worrying about triples and homers to focus on the walks and bunts.)
But that doesn't mean that there weren't plenty of (mostly) regrettable activities.
A short time after the breakup with New Year's Day girlfriend, I got my first real job, which was washing dishes and prep-cooking for $2.55/hr at a fairly upscale restaurant. I have no idea how I came up with this idea, but I figured that if I went through the ceiling panel to access the attic above the supply room, I could access the upper portion of the wall and the ceiling of the women's small, single-occupancy restroom. The entire room was enclosed in sheetrock (ceiling tiles and/or recessed lighting fixtures would have made things more convenient), so I made a little hole, no bigger than a pencil, up in the very corner, which looked down directly from the front angle on the toilet. Even though it was well above the line of sight of the occupant, I pseudo-camouflaged it, as I recall, with something like a little bit of loose speaker wire and a piece of masking tape, so that from the inside it might have looked like someone was installing or removing a speaker and getting ready to patch and mud it, or something. This happened no more than a dozen times as I recall, but during lulls, I'd steal away to the storage room, crouch up there and wait for five, maybe ten minutes at a time, for someone to come in. It was a small restaurant, so there wasn't a lot of restroom traffic, especially during lulls. But then the door opened, my pulse went into frenzy, and one of the waitresses (the cutest one, Kris – she had spiky, frost-tipped hair like one of the Go-Go's...I have no idea which one, as I only know Belinda Carlisle and the other one who did the goofy flop video when she's swimming with dolphins. Wait, OK she actually resembled BC here. While we're at it, here's a glimpse of Ms. Carlisle's legs from "We got the beat" live, evidently before she got chunky - not bad! On that subject, I remember the effect it had on me when I firs
t read about how crazy those girls were at the peak of their fame. I'd associated them for so long with a relatively innocent time of my life, the calm before the storm, and then to learn that they basically took the pick of the guys from their shows to backstage drunken orgies, etc. was all a bit sobering. And also made part of me wish I'd been a few years older and at one of their shows...) came in, pulled down her pants, and sat on the toilet. My view was from such a vertical angle that everything but the front portion of her thighs was covered by her upper body leaning over. While I had been titilated by the prospect of orchestrating such a violation of someone's privacy, I was disgusted that it had actually happened, even though I hadn't really “seen” anything after all. During my next shift, when I went in early to prep for the evening and was sure the owner was gone, I stuffed the hole with wet toilet paper, as flush as I could with the wall, and was never interested in that particular endeavor again. Curiously, I'd told the head chef (from my ward, coincidentally, and his parents and older siblings good friends with mine; he and I became friends as well) about this during the planning stages, and he'd been supportive, even covering for me when I was away from the kitchen and at my “post.”
I found a copy of The Hite Report: A Nationwide Study of Female Sexuality in my parents' room (surprising, because doesn't one generally envision one's parents as being celibate, if not altogether asexual? Or is that just a Mormon hang-up thing?) sometime during the early teacher years, and had it virtually memorized before I was a priest teacher. I remember not being as interested in the portions about intercourse (I didn't really want detailed descriptions of anything involving other guy's bodies) as I was about M and lesbianism, a preference that remained consistent when I eventually started using porn – nothing killed the mood more quickly than a guy entering the scene. I remember being fascinated, and even a bit jealous maybe, by women's reports that they could M to orgasm by crossing their legs and bouncing the raised calf while flexing their PC, or something in that general vicinity. (One woman reported that she could do this while driving, and that whenever she'd see a lone woman looking pleasantly but intensely relaxed in a car next to her at a stoplight, she'd think, “I know what you're doing!” I remember another description of a woman's ability to orgasm by bunching a pillow between her legs and flexing. Regrettably, I remember telling my best friend about this book and letting him read it occasionally.
I usually M'd with the massager (as mentioned previously) but didn't limit it to that. It (d)evolved into some weird stuff involving...who knows, let's see: A variety of lubricants (Warning: Icy Hot is not a good idea.), tampons on a few occasions, odd positions in the bathtub, etc. In pre-marriage adulthood, weird locations became a bit of a turn on – alone on a mountain peak in Colorado (I remember thinking that I was communing with nature, mixing my seed with the virginal earth, or something goofy like that), looking out from my partially-open hotel window over a busy intersection in downtown Rome, etc.
HB – one of just a few ongoing "affairs" - Sweden (after train bathroom once there were just 3 of us, bra up "I love you too much to do this with you" very sobered "most guys say they can't do it because they don't want to get in trouble"), subsequent, train, room; face not beautiful but not unattractive, generally slender, decent legs and a small butt; deep scar from I believe appendectomy...she liked it when I licked it, maybe it indicated that I was accepting of her "flaws" or something...too accepting; she had large D cup breasts that I could barely get my hands around, talked about how they got her a lot of attention on Bourbon Street when she and TX friends (incl LDS) would go over there for Mardi Gras; once for some reason I couldn't get hard while lying on top of her and she said that made her sad because she'd never had that happen with a guy before; said sometimes she had a sore jaw from giving head; the last couple of months while we were covertly fooling around she was dating an Austrian guy...he drove one of those old Citroens a la Griswold; my parents were rightly concerned even though I denied everything and they tried to force separation (heat from students; when I admitted to sister #2 years later that stuff had happened she was so angry she cried and pounded on my chest), bra M “sick of clothes that don’t fit!” & “near reciprocation,” even on plane ride home I lay in her lap and with one arm hidden under, cried when we split @ JFK and she flew to Texas, traumatic...but I was aware, told her once that I was like a little puppy she could kick and I'd keep coming back to her; remember when she got back to BYU I jogged to her apartment in the snow to see her because she was "lonely" but it was clear there would be no continuation; had her room key back at BYU, stole bra. Later got “Oh, officer!” visit. Married. Ended up going out once or twice with her little sister who was my age, weird.
A couple of girls actively levi lovin' my thigh (both times to its rightful concusion) – one in her garage, one in my parents' basement “I'm not very good at controlling myself"
LP - candles & mystery pube, Celica - Santiago sqeaky wheel
DV8 (told stake pres within a week, “we've got to get you into the Elders' Quorum”); a week after that met the woman who got me onto my mission.
Several saves from the precipice: Hafen EQ>LMH; SB>Ogden>8’Gem (post after 8’); met Wife...gretchen coat tails, my damnation and my salvation
Gretchen http://www.cummingsstudyguides.net/Faust.html
As I approached my mission, largely because of the influence of the amazing girl I was dating (I've mentioned her briefly but she deserves and will probably end up getting a whole chapter worth of posts before my entire history is plunked out here), I went cold turkey on M-ing, and well in advance of my mission, i.e., not a few months before I went into the MTC, etc. Which makes the following kind of funny: In those last few months before my mission, for some reason I got in the habit of just sitting around and air-drying in the bathroom after showering. So I'd just sit in there, after the water stopped running, for...I don't know, three minutes? Five? I don't know why, but I just liked it. Maybe it was relaxing or refreshing or rejuvenating, who knows? Anyway, so for whatever reason I was oblivious as to how this may appear to those outside the bathroom: 18-year old boy...just took a shower...now everything's gone dead silent in there for several minutes...Can only mean one thing, right? So one morning (that included an air-drying) I jumped—five minutes after the designated departure time, as I am chronically tardy—into the car with my dad. About halfway to our destination, he (who, it occurs to me, despite having been my bishop for a couple of those late-teen years, had no hard evidence that I had M'd at any time during my youth), he broke the cold silence by opening this dialogue:
Him: You know, your habit is going to have to stop before you go on your mission.
Me: Huh?
Him: Your habit. Your problem. It's going to have to stop.
Me: Why?
Him: As your bishop, I can't in good conscience let you go into the MTC unless you take care of it first.
Me: Uhh... I'm not sure I'm going to be able to 'take care of it' in the next couple of months.
Him: Well, work on it!
Me: But it doesn't even really matter!
Him: Doesn't matter?!
Me: Well, it's something I've been doing for as long as I can remember. It's not like I can just flip a switch and it's magically gone.
Him: Then you'll need to figure something out, won't you?!
Me: But it's how I am, dad, and I can pretty much guarantee you that it's not going to change before I get into the MTC!
Him (slamming on breaks): Get out of this car with that insolence and...and...disgusting fatalism!!
(click of latch, squeak of door, slam of door, screech of tires as car disappears down the road and around a corner)
It took me just a block or two by foot to realize that while he had been drawing conclusions from my air-drying, I'd been talking about my habitual hardiness. I laughed so hard, I hurt. I went to his office during lunch, shared my revelation, and we had a good laugh over it. And my tardiness neither keep me out of the MTC, nor from having a productive mission – fortunately I went Latin American, where being late by my standards was almost obsessive Swiss precision by theirs.
Speaking of my mission, there was no lack of titilation all around, but I fared remarkably well. The women in the downtown area of where I served were (are), to put it bluntly and with zero exaggeration, some of the most beautiful on the face of the planet. And while it wasn't Times Square back-in-the-day at every turn, there were plenty of more overt distractions. I remember, for example, the exact location of the newsstand where I saw that “the” Stephanie Seymour Playboy had come out. I remember exactly how she was posed on that cover, her mane of hair, how her arms covered her perfect breasts but not her cleavage, the warm sunset-glow lighting, and the look on her face. (At the risk of entering a minefield, I'm going to try to do a laser-targeted google for it... [we now pause for technical assistance] Hey – I did it without including the word “playboy” in the query, thereby avoiding a certain opening of pandora's box! Well that was a nifty trick.) 
And the newsstand was on the same block as our apartment building, which means that I could easily have slipped out while my companion showered, slept or otherwise, snagged the mag, and been back in three minutes. The instant I saw that cover, I wanted so very badly to see her body, all of her body, that it almost suffocated me. It's all I could think about for...for about ten seconds. You see, of all the beautiful supermodels who reigned over mankind at the time (namely Cindy, Linda, Christy, Claudia, Naomi and Tatjana), Stephanie was for me the cat's meow. Almost. One woman was more exquisite to me, and that was my girlfriend. So at Second #11, I struck a deal with God: “If I banish Stephanie from my mind...don't even think about her, much less think about getting my hands on that magazine, I want you to promise that I will be with [my girlfriend] someday.” And Poof! that was the end of Stephanie. But this is a circuitous route to reporting, with no little sense of accomplishment, that, despite leggy Latina temptation swirling all around, I went my entire mission without M-ing once. Not a single time. Zilch. Zippo. Nada. Ironically, the one time on my mission that I came close to it was when I was sick and left alone in the apartment and took out my stash of a few prohibited pics I had of my girlfriend from Lake Powell and elsewhere. (This wasn't the only time that I was, for one reason or other, alone on my mission; it was just the only time that there was a convergence of enough aloneness, self-doubt, frustration and temptation for me to get into the Danger Onanzone.) I don't remember what exactly tripped the trap—a combination of feeling like what I was now doing (“selfish school”) paled in comparison to the big-pic importance what I'd done on my mission, frustration and confusion about what to do about my girlfriend, and feeling like I'd made a great effort on my mission but that God was now leaving me to fend for myself—but within a few months of my return home, I M'd, and I was devastated. In fact I called my second-oldest sister, with whom I've always had the closest relationship, and sobbed to her, “I...I mastu...mastu...I hadn't since way before my mission, but last night I...I....bwaaaaaaaaahhhh!!” I was apoplectic. She was so kind. She just said, “Hey, so you goofed it a bit. Don't worry about it. You're a great guy. The Lord knows that. Don't worry about it. You're gonna be OK.”
Not surprisingly, in later years I ended up amassing all the shots of Stephanie from that Playboy. As amazing a body as I'd expected, although the knowledge that grimy Axl had been on, around and in it lessened the luster a bit, much like learning about Marilyn and the lovely little Ditta.
3x peep LMH, Heidi Keith, DJK's date (actually not absolutely positive I wouldn't do it again)
LMH - death throes of relationship while still @ byu; black g-string– light of alarm clock, (so sad from where that relationship had fallen, then scared) expulsion from BYU
2 clubs my kind of town, "don't look so sad"
Penthouse/pearls/VS lace teddy and knee-highs
Riddle - Bathroom vent behind fridge; hole in wall to couple room. Brandi.
A watershed moment in understanding my own attitudes etc. had nothing to do with an actual physical transgression. Anglesy handrub realization - korean
Landlord's partner Unterhosen im Ohio keller
Amber's friend Kate - nicmo, on couch "scared"; Opportunities - erotiblanket - wonder if we'd had a "friends with benefits", although our 3rd roomate (also a dear friend) was nosy and gay
Lisa – longest ongoing this was not long; kissing on washer; roomate "don't stop!"; piano keyboard practice room; most openly sexual relationship. One time thought I'd gone inside of her (hadn't - we did what "splitting the warrior") and was very somber. "I've been going to mass" -- thinking, you don't understand that what I'm doing manifests my waning interest in my beliefs/traditions. Met wife within a few months. Told bishop everything. Came over to my house. Probably thought it was worse than it was.
A watershed moment in understanding my own attitudes etc. had nothing to do with an actual physical transgression. Anglesy handrub realization - heawon
11/3/10
Got squeegee? Is this the sendero que sigo? Is this where it goes - start w Wolford, graz train door guy, col. russell wms "eventually, his compulsion turned violent" canada luftwaffe
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