Sex in Mo-Town

I recently received word that the Independent has been flooded by E-mails from concerned readers wondering whatever happened to the Boneman's niece? Did I leave town in disgrace? Did I have a melt-down and float away in a river of self-pity and Utah near-beer? Not exactly. If you're new to the story, a few years back I had a close brush with Mormonism when I fell in love with a Paiute Indian named Jack. As you may remember Jack was a seemingly flawless male specimen who, interestingly enough, was also a Return Missionary. As it played out, if I were to become the bride of Jack, it would be necessary for me to walk down the aisle sporting a pair of Mo-undies beneath my gown. Thus the courtship came complete with a total spiritual make-over, plenty of smooching and a medium soft drink. Yea verily, Jack took me by the hand and lead me straight down the Mormon-trail. And for my part, I was too moonstruck to resist the Temple-tation. But Lo' it would come to pass that during the last days before the great event, Jack would dump me like a dog turd on fire. Ouch! Heaven, as it turns out, can wait?

True, the whole "Jack-Mormon" episode was something of a baptism of fire--but I'm young and strong and I'm moving on. You can't keep a good girl down--at least not one so full of vengeance and holy wrath. But I'm cool--I'm in no hurry. In time the bitterness will mellow and grow stronger like vintage wine. The grapes of wrath can be more effectively administered if they're corked and set aside until the timing is right. I have the rest of my life to find someone much better than that "indian-giver," but I will, oh yes I will. As God is my witness, one day that fickle "feather-head" will fester in a cesspool of his freak'n mistakes and I'll be right there to rub his nose in it. So anyway, how's it going? It's nice to be back.

You may be happy to learn that I've since found a fine replacement for Jack in the person of the lanky and adorable "Jerry the Mormon." Yes Jerry is a Latter Day--but, as he likes to point out, he's not very good at it. Which is just fine with me. Let's just say that as the girlfriend of Jerry, my spiritual development has fallen a bit out of focus. Jerry is a regular guy, always up for a party, tall and cute with definite leanings in the direction of skateboarding and punk music. Gone are Jack's themes of grave eternal consequences and back is the regular stuff of relationships--TV shows, cars, money--things I understand.

Jerry works at one of those telemarketing scam-houses and is surrounded by tall skinny guys with tall skinny girlfriends. I'm a little bit out of my league, here; but I have no fear of anything now--and Jerry's been the perfect Rx for my confused soul and sore heart. Though I'm somewhat smitten by the guy, I'm coming at the whole thing on the rebound--so when he tells me he loves me, I tell him he's full of crap and slug him in the stomach. It's been a tidy arrangement, and under these lax rules-of-order we've drifted into mutually agreeable comfort zone. No big expectations. We're just about having a good time.

How good of a time? If you've read any of my past installments you know that Jack and I were postponing our naked physical activities until after temple-day; and perhaps you might be wondering if I've since thrown in the towel and partaken in the iniquities of the flesh?

The answer to this is yes and no. Sure we've done a little of this and a little of that, but no, Jerry does not know me in the Biblical sense. I can rightfully consider myself a virgin and I'm faithfully hanging on to the vague concept, because after this long, I'm not willing to trade it out cheaply. My virginity is going to come at some sort of a price. So let it be written.

Lately, however all this moral fortitude seems to have backfired. Jerry has suddenly decided that he's more comfortable in the company of his friends. Friends? When we first started going out he scarcely left my side and I wouldn't have guessed he had a friend to his name. Suddenly he's got a million friends and his interest in little-old me has become but a faint blip on the radar screen. Blip blip . . . To be honest the whole thing is really starting to suck. Practically overnight I've gone from the Queen, cherished and beloved, to feeling about as wanted as a Pakistani hitchhiker with pinkeye.

The bastard--doesn't he know I'm special? He's all about "if we're not gonna have sex, what's the point? Myaa Myaa Myaa . . ." Men are so tough to read--such fragile, complicated creatures.

This isn't to say that I was ready to abandon ship. I was supposed to be meeting his parents and this is always an encouraging sign for us gals. The night they were to arrive was typical of the state of things. I found myself hanging out at Jerry's apartment by myself, waiting for him to show up. All alone in his place I couldn't help myself from poking around his room a little. I'm not a snoop by nature, (that's not true, I am a snoop by nature, because I'm a human and we're all a bunch of snoops). Anyhow, I started sorting through his video collection and quite innocently stumbled upon a blank cassette with writing that appeared to be in some kind of code. Since I was just hanging around with nothing better to do with myself, I decided to go forward with the investigation.

Quite to my shock, as I pressed play on the VCR, I would soon see Jerry's butt bobbing about; and, if my eyes were to be believed, he was copulating with a girl who was supposed to be my friend. (For the purposes of the story, we'll call her "The Whore.") Fortunately the camera was far enough away from Jerry and "The Whore," that I couldn't
see much more than the naked truth. But at one point during the proceedings I distinctly heard my name mentioned. Were they talking about me during this unspeakable transgression?

After repeated rewindings and faithful scrutiny, I have to admit that I'm not sure whether my name was mentioned or not. And once the shock had worn off, I can't say I was all that surprised. From the President to the Priests, you can't trust anyone not to screw. Still, this wasn't a matter of Jerry's hormones getting the best of him--he had to set up the camera and seduce my friend. This was an ugly act of betrayal that cried out for revenge. I'm not a vengeful person by nature (blabbity bla.) I just couldn't get the thought out of my head that I was sitting here waiting to meet this guy's parents, who were on their way to look down their nose at me because IÕm not the same religion as their son.

In a brilliant flash of inspiration my course became clear. Prominently placed upon the TV was a videotape marked "Family Stuff," I knew this tape all too well. It was a painfully tedious chronicle of a recent family reunion that Jerry had shot with his fancy new camera and was terribly proud of. He couldn't wait for his folks to see it. But since I'd already been obliged to sit through it three times I was in no hurry. Fatefully, also on top of the TV was an extra stick-on-label that I would use to carry out my divine mission. I peeled off a new label and laid it smoothly over the one that featured "the Mo and the Ho." Then with the same Sharpie marker (which was sitting right there) I wrote "Family Stuff" in a hand that was remarkably true to the original.

As I was replacing the original "Family Stuff" video with my porno-imposter, I heard a car pull into the drive. Dashing for the blinds, I peaked out to see Jerry's folks fumble out of a dark-blue Ford Taurus. "I can handle this," I thought, "no problem." I straightened myself up, pulled it together and snuck out the back door.

Jerry, if you're reading this, I hope it's too late.