------------------------------------------------------ NOTE: While this story is purely fictional, it draws on my actual experience as a former LDS missionary. (There's a story there, of course, but it's not the story you're about to read.)
For conscience's sake, I should say that my decision to submit this story to the Nifty Archive does not necessarily mean that I approve of the content of other stories in the archive. Nevertheless, I applaud the archive's goal of collecting "the diverse hopes, dreams, aspirations, fantasies, and experiences of the Queer Community." Gay Mormon experience--and fantasy-- is one piece of that diversity. ------------------------------------------------------
GARMENTS
Darren saw temple garments for the first time the day I moved into his apartment. We were unpacking boxes, trying to decide where to put all my stuff. He opened the box where I stored mementos from my missionary days--and there was a stack of my garments, unworn since I'd put Utah a continent's width behind me and started coming out of the closet.
Darren was thrilled. "Hey! This is the sacred Mormon underclothing, isn't it?"
"Yes," I replied, a little warily. I still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Darren's enthusiastic interest in things Mormon.
"Can I look at them?" He didn't want to violate any taboos. I shrugged. He unfolded the garments with an air that could only be described as reverent.
"I didn't realize they came in two pieces," he said. "I thought it was going to be one piece, like a union suit."
I explained that originally, the temple garment was a single piece; the two-piece garment had been available for only a couple decades. I also explained, as long as we were on the subject, that the original garment extended all the way to the wrists and elbows but was gradually shortened over the years as a concession to modern dress. Theoretically, it should still reach to the knee, but in practice it now went to a couple inches below mid-thigh.
Darren listened, intrigued. Then he peered more closely at the garment, fingering a series of closely laid stitches forming a backward L on the right breast of the upper garment. "What's this?"
I suddenly felt more reticent. "Oh. That's...the mark of the square. It's a Masonic symbol."
"There's one over here, too." Now he was fingering a V-shaped series of stitches over the left breast.
"That's the mark of the compass. There's also a mark over the navel, and one over the right knee of the lower garment. They're...supposed to help remind of the, um..." I faltered. "Of the covenants I made in the temple."
He looked up, concerned. "Is this not something we should be talking about?"
I tried to laugh the question off. "If I were still an active, church-going Mormon, I would say yes, this isn't something we should be talking about. Of course, if I were an active, church-going Mormon, I wouldn't be moving in with my boyfriend. So don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. Ask whatever you want."
He folded the garments and put them back in the box. "We'll leave off there," he said.
I was afraid I'd upset him. "No, really, it's ok."
He shook his head, smiling gently. "I crossed a line. I know the temple's supposed to be private. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
I was surprised to realize how much I appreciated his backing off. I tried to extend an olive branch. "If you want to know about the temple, it shouldn't be hard for you--a librarian, of all people--to get your hands on an expose. You can find them on the Internet, for that matter."
Now he frowned. "I would never do that. That would be infringing on something that's sacred to you."
That used to be sacred to me, I wanted to clarify. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. I sensed it wouldn't be true.
Darren asked me to move in with him four months after we started seeing each other. I worried that four months was too soon for such a big step. But as Darren pointed out, we'd gotten to a point where I was spending most nights out of the week at his place anyway. So we might as well have a go at making it official.
We met on a blind date set up for us by Leonard, a portly, middle-aged, Episcopalian theater queen who believed matchmaking was his divinely appointed calling. I knew Leonard through Integrity, which I discovered when I began attending services at the Episcopal cathedral. Leonard met Darren at a party in the home of a mutual acquaintance. Leonard told me the story when he called to inform me I would be having dinner with Darren that coming Friday. "We started talking, and I said to myself: This is the man for our little Rob. He's a librarian. So the two of you can spend the rest of your lives discussing literature and reading to each other in bed."
Darren and I did develop the custom of reading together in bed, but not to each other. The only reading I had time for in those days was the reading I did for my post-graduate work in Spanish Literature. Darren didn't know Spanish; he'd studied French. He used to say that he needed to learn Spanish so that someday he and I could travel together to Chile, where I'd served my mission.
Darren was thirty-four, nine years older than I was. "The age difference will not be a problem," Leonard told me once. His tone suggested he was not so much offering reassurance as laying down the law. But he was right. Darren and I were evenly matched intellectually, which for me was the important thing.
During dinner on our first date, Darren mentioned that Leonard had told him I was Mormon. I was ticked at Leonard for advertising the fact. "I was raised Mormon," I clarified, then made my usual joke. "Though as you can see, I got it all backwards, because I fled east across the plains."
Normally when I told that joke, people laughed and the conversation moved to other topics. But Darren followed up. "So you don't attend the Mormon Church here?"
"No. I stopped attending the LDS Church as soon as I graduated from BYU."
"What was it like growing up gay and Mormon?"
Surprisingly, no one had ever asked me that question. We talked about it. Or rather, I talked and Darren listened. After a while it dawned on me that my coming out story and accompanying monologue about the LDS Church's appalling treatment of gay and lesbian people had gone on much longer than Darren had probably anticipated. I stopped, sheepish. "Sorry. I'm a little passionate on that subject, as you can tell."
"Nothing to apologize for. You obviously needed to get that off your chest."
Yes, I thought, I had--though I hadn't realized it until he'd set me off.
I shifted the conversation by asking Darren about his religious background. His parents, back in Wisconsin, were Lutherans. "We only went to church for Christmas and Easter, though. One summer my folks enrolled me in vacation Bible school, but I complained so much they never made me do it again. So that was the extent of my church involvement. Personally, I don't feel a need for any kind of organized religion. I try to act ethically and responsibly, and I figure that's really all that matters when push comes to shove."
I nodded in agreement. "Same here."
He laughed. "That's pretty big talk coming from someone who spent two years as a Mormon missionary and just graduated from Brigham Young University."
He was being good-natured, but I felt defensive. I wanted to make clear that I was not your typical, straight-laced, conservative Mormon type. "My life's undergone major changes since I started coming out. That's why I left Utah: I wanted to be someone new. I wanted a clean break with the past."
That seemed to make him think of something. "How have your parents reacted to everything?"
I dropped my eyes. "They don't know anything, actually. Or at least I haven't told them anything; I don't know what they may suspect on their own. As far as they know, I'm attending church every week. Which I am, actually. Just...the Episcopal Church, not the LDS Church." I laughed, nervously.
He was sober. "I'm sorry."
The emotion in his voice created a silence which for me, at least, was charged with sexual tension. I broke the silence by asking, "So, does your family know about you?"
"Yes. I came out to them back in college. My father was noticeably uncomfortable for a while. And neither of my parents were quite sure how they ought to...behave, I guess. But now we're to a point where when they call, they hassle me about my love life. The same way they would if I were straight and about to turn thirty-five without having gotten married, or partnered, or whatever."
"I am so jealous of you," I said.
I hadn't intended to say it so intensely. Another charged pause followed.
He didn't invite me back to his apartment, which made me worry that I'd scared him off. But he asked for my number before we parted, and the next day he called to invite me to see a foreign film with him. He reached out to hold my hand almost as soon as the movie started, and later on he put his arm around me. Afterwards we dissected the movie at a coffee shop over his espresso and my hot chocolate. This time we did end up at Darren's apartment, where we made out in the living room. When I started to unbutton his shirt, he teased, "I didn't think a Mormon boy would take things so fast."
"A good Mormon boy wouldn't," I said.
We removed each other's shirts and went back to making out. A few minutes later, he put his hand down the front of my pants. I gasped--from pleasure, but he broke off, concerned. "I'm serious, Rob. Tell me if this is moving faster than you'd like."
It bothered me that he seemed to think I might be prudish. "I have no problems with this," I assured him.
He resumed fondling me. I reached around him to slip my own hand down the seat of his trousers. I ran my fingertips through the hair in his crack, down to where his butt curved around to meet his scrotum. Now it was his turn to gasp. "You found my magic spot," he grinned.
We adjourned to the bedroom. He had me lie down on the bed so he could finish undressing me, slowly and luxuriously, down to my briefs. Then he stood by the bed and stripped to his shorts, while I watched. He stretched out on top of me. We kissed and humped. I didn't feel I had much sexual experience, so I was content to let him lead. Eventually we sixty-nined. At the same time I sucked him, I played with what he'd said was his magic spot. The feeling must have been intense, because he stopped sucking me and made anguished mewing sounds. He cried out a little when he came.
I knew that a blowjob wouldn't stimulate me enough to make me cum, so at Darren's suggestion, I sat between his legs and leaned back against his chest. He clasped me from behind, nuzzling my neck and playing with my nipples while I jacked myself off.
I stayed the night. Before we went to sleep, Darren confessed that he'd been a little disappointed to discover I wasn't wearing the special Mormon underwear he'd heard about. I told him that I'd stopped wearing garments when I decided to become sexually active. Since one of the covenants the garment represented was a vow of chastity, it hadn't felt right to keep wearing it. Just as taking on the garment had represented a commitment to a certain way of life, so laying it aside represented my intention to break with my Mormon past.
He snuggled closer, already half-asleep. "I never imagined I would fall for a Mormon," he murmured drowsily.
My first impulse was to correct him, to remind him that I was actually a former Mormon. But then it hit me what he had just said about falling for me. I lay awake in his bed, feeling thrilled and a little scared, while he drifted off with his arm around me.
Everything Darren knew about Mormons he'd learned from the play "Angels in America." When he told me that, I launched into a soapbox about how fascinating it was to see Kushner play with Mormon symbols like the temple garment or the angelic visitation to Joseph Smith, but how disappointed I'd been that Kushner's characters hadn't felt like accurate portrayals of Mormons, even though I realized that hadn't been the play's primary concern. When I finished, Darren laughed and said, "Well, remind me never to mention 'Angels in America' again." I apologized for carrying on, and he said, "Don't apologize. Teach me what I ought to know about Mormons instead."
I filled him in on the basic beliefs I'd taught people back when I was a missionary, as well as the more esoteric beliefs missionaries didn't typically talk about--the law of consecration, plural marriage, the Mother in Heaven, men becoming Gods and a God who was once a man. I told him about Mormonism's dirty laundry: blacks and the priesthood, the September Six excommunications, the Hoffman forgeries, blood atonement, the Mountain Meadows massacre, the millions of dollars the Church spent each year settling child abuse scandals out of court.
Mormonism wasn't the only thing we talked about, of course. We also talked about books, and films, and politics, my schoolwork, his job, our likes, our dislikes, our families, our experiences growing up, our plans for the future. We were consciously feeling each other out, deciding if we could feasibly build a life together. I didn't think my Mormon background was a crucial consideration, but Darren clearly thought otherwise. He wanted to get acquainted with that part of who I was--or as I preferred to put it, that part of who I had been.
One evening Darren leafed, fascinated, through my mission photos. That evening stood out later in my memory as one of our most enjoyable dates. I told him about Chilean culture, missionary life, my companions, my investigators, church members I'd come to know, humorous anecdotes, disappointments, spiritual experiences. I talked about my mission for three hours. When we finally reached the end of the photos, I could feel myself coming down from the natural high I'd been on all evening.
"It was a great experience for you," Darren observed.
"The best two years of my life," I said fervently. "It's a cliche, but it's true." I suddenly felt a need to shift gears. "Of course, in retrospect I'm embarrassed about a lot of things I did, and about the whole idea of proselyting. I couldn't bring myself to do it today."
"Why not?"
"There are more important ways to serve. I mean, we used to strut around Chile--we missionaries, I mean-- with this arrogant attitude that the work we were doing was the most important thing in the world. Of course, if we'd really wanted to help the people we should have been building schools or clinics or something. The Chileans need those a lot more than they need cookie-cutter Mormon chapels dotting their country."
Darren gave the impression of waiting for me to finish my little speech so he could turn the conversation to something more important. "Have you ever been back to Chile?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Would you like to go back?"
"Sure. Someday. It would be really awkward, though. I wouldn't want to meet any of these people again." I gestured towards the photos."
"Why not?"
I laughed as if to say: Isn't it obvious? "I'm not the same person now I was then. I've chosen a life that's completely the opposite of what I was down there teaching."
He made a pensive "hmm" sound. "When you say you've chosen a life that's the opposite of what you taught as a missionary, you mean coming out as gay?"
"Sure, that. Plus the fact I haven't set foot in an LDS chapel in two years. And I'm hardly a believer anymore."
"But you told me that you weren't really a true believer even on your mission--that you had doubts even then about some of the Church's teachings."
"Well...yeah." I didn't see what he was getting at.
"I guess what I'm saying is, you may feel like there's a huge difference between who you are now and who you were back during your mission. But I don't see that you really are that different. I mean, by the time you were a missionary you'd already basically realized you were gay, even if you didn't know what to do about it yet. You'd already decided that you didn't completely buy into Mormon doctrine. So it's not as if you made this total 180-degree change when you came out. Even now, you still live by a lot of the same standards that you did back then. You still go to church every Sunday, even if it is a different church. You've never tried drugs. You don't smoke. You don't drink. You still don't even drink coffee."
"I've just never gotten into the habit," I interjected, wanting to defend myself against what felt like an accusation of lingering Mormonism. But he kept talking over me.
"You don't swear--or if you do, you feel bad about it. You don't go around dishing people. You've never done the bar scene. You don't have the slightest interest in the party circuit. You disapprove of porn. You still have the same ideas you did back then about modest dress. You still have the same haircut. You're still clean-shaven. I mean, you look like the same person." He flipped to a random photo. It showed me posing with a convert family just before their baptism. "Look at that face." He was speaking now in a quiet, intimate voice. "That face is so radiant. And so sweet." He fixed me an intense gaze. "That face is you."
I still didn't understand what he was driving at. Also, the flattery was embarrassing me.
He put the photos down and cupped my face in his hands. Then he kissed me. It was such a hungry kiss, I was startled, but after a few seconds I responded in kind. He pulled me down on top of him and crushed me close. When we finally moved to the bed, he had me lie down on my stomach. He lay on top of me, squeezed his lubricated prick between my thighs, and humped me until his cum exploded against the back of my balls. Then I mounted him the same way.
Afterwards, I lay with my head on his chest, while he stroked my side. "Let me ask you a question," he said. "If the Mormon Church were gay-friendly, would you go back?"
I replied without the slightest hesitation. "Absolutely not."
"What would be your reasons?"
I counted them off on my fingers. "Mormons are overwhelmingly Republican; they're anti-feminist; they're cultural imperialists; they excommunicate intellectuals; they insist on a version of history that doesn't match the facts; they subscribe to a nineteenth-century worldview; their spirituality's based on guilt; there's no democratic church governance; the leaders can't be criticized; they won't seriously confront problems with spiritual abuse or sexual abuse; theocracy's their ideal form of government; they make blind obedience a cardinal virtue; they demand conformity while doing lip service to diversity..." I was sure there were more, but I couldn't think of them at the moment.
"Those sound like pretty good reasons," he said. His tone suggested he was being humorous, and I realized by comparison how angry my own voice had sounded as I'd rattled off my list of grievances. My anger bothered me: I didn't want to be the bitter ex-Mormon type I'd been warned about growing up, the type who could leave the Church but couldn't leave it alone.
On the night of Holy Saturday, Darren accompanied me to the Episcopal cathedral for the Easter vigil. I attended services there weekly, but this was the first time Darren had come with me. We sat with some people from Integrity, including Leonard, who shot me a self- satisfied "I told you so" look when he greeted us.
When it came time for communion, Darren whispered to me, "Aren't you going up?" I shook my head. Darren and I remained seated in the pew while Leonard and the others filed up to the rail.
On the way home, Darren asked me why I hadn't communed. I'd been asked that question a lot when I first started attending Integrity. "I never commune," I told Darren.
"Why not? You attend services every week."
"It just doesn't feel right to me." To prevent him from saying what I suspected he was thinking, I continued, "It's not because of the Mormon thing. It's because I still don't feel like the Episcopal Church is really my community. If I ever decide to be formally received into the Episcopal Church, then I'll commune."
He didn't say anything for a while. When he spoke, it was with an air of shifting to a new topic. "So what do you like about the Episcopal Church?"
"It's liberal. It's gay-friendly...or a large part of it is, anyway. It's not just a top-down organization like the LDS Church is, so things can change democratically. And I like the ritual. It reminds me of temple worship in a way. I mean, the temple ceremony and the mass are two very different things. But they both have a certain...feel that I like. The robes and the altar and the sense that you're performing this ancient ritual. Just the whole idea of a fixed ceremony where you always know what they're going to say and you always know what your response is. I'm drawn to that for some reason."
He shook his head. "That kind of thing doesn't work for me. Lutheran services are the same way, basically. It always felt really artificial to me."
"That's how most Mormons would feel, too," I said. "Worship is supposed to be spontaneous--outside the temple, anyway. I always preferred the temple. LDS Sunday services bored me."
A couple weeks later, Darren said to me during dinner, "I want to visit the Mormon Church."
I was floored. "Why on earth would you want to do that?"
"Because I think it would help me get to know you better. I understand why you might not want to go with me. But would it bother you if I went?"
I knew it was irrational, but I had this vision of Darren converting to the LDS Church and going straight. I feigned nonchalance. "Why would it bother me? If you want to go, go."
He went the very next Sunday. I briefed him on the three-hour block of meetings: sacrament meeting, Sunday School, then priesthood meeting for men and Relief Society for women. I offered to let him borrow my old scriptures, so he'd blend in better. He laughed and said this wasn't a covert operation.
While he was gone, I sat down to correct a stack of student papers from the introductory Spanish course I was teaching. But I couldn't concentrate. I spent most of the time fidgeting and staring into space.
Darren returned two hours later. "How was it?" I asked.
"Very interesting."
"You didn't stay for all three meetings," I observed.
He didn't answer the implied question. "It wasn't like any church service I'd ever seen before. A lot more...informal. No ceremony, no pastor. The people who spoke were all just regular members. It surprised me, actually. I remember you complained once about the Mormon Church being so hierarchical. But the meetings struck me as rather democratic."
"What's democratic is the fact that Mormonism uses a lay clergy. You don't need formal training to preach or do ministry. But the structure of the institution is still purely hierarchical. Everything's top-down." I traced the hierarchy in the air. "Prophet, apostles, stake presidents, bishops. No democratic governance. No dissent."
"Oh yes, I could see that, too. Several times during the meetings, people emphasized how important it is to follow the prophet and the other leaders. And when we met for Sunday School, you could tell that even though anyone could speak up, there were definitely right answers and wrong answers. It wasn't a free exchange of ideas, by any stretch of the imagination."
"So did they sic the missionaries on you?"
"No. I had several people approach me and introduce themselves and ask who I was. They were very nice, very welcoming. Then this sweet little elderly lady asked if I was married, and I told them, No, but I do have a boyfriend; and people kept their distance after that."
I was horrified. "You came out to them?"
"Sure. Why not? It was no skin off my nose. It would be different for you, of course: you're one of them. But I'm just some guy who walked in off the street who they'll never see again. So anyway, after that people weren't as friendly. They weren't blatantly rude or anything. But no one talked to me anymore, and I could tell some of them were whispering about me. So after Sunday School, I decided not to stay for the third meeting." He pursed his lips, remembering. "They were very passive-aggressive about it." Darren had done therapy for a while after he started coming out, and he still used the lingo from time to time.
"That's the Mormon way," I said ruefully.
"Which explains why you do it."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're passive-aggressive, too." He spoke matter-of- factly, without judgment. "If I'm doing something that bothers you, you won't tell me it bothers you. On the surface, you'll be very nice and patient and accommodating and tell me not to worry about it. But you'll make it perfectly clear from your body language how pissed off you really are."
My face burned with shame. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I do that."
"It's nothing to be sorry about. It's just the way you are."
"I'll work on it."
He laughed. "That's another very Mormon thing, I realized today. At church there was a lot of talk about self-improvement and overcoming your weaknesses. I see where you get your perfectionism from."
"I guess I still haven't gotten away from all that yet."
"I'm not sure why you think you should." I didn't understand what he meant. He seemed like he was about to elaborate. But then he changed his mind, along with the subject. "Come on, it's a beautiful day out. Let's take a walk in the park, and then you can finish grading."
That summer, the city library where Darren worked held a children's fair in connection with the Fourth of July. The theme was American Heritage, and Darren dressed up as a cowboy to tell Pecos Bill stories. I stood in the back of the room with the parents, watching Darren perform for the children seated on the floor around him. He spoke in an atrocious imitation of a Texan drawl. I found myself getting turned on by his costume. He had on a red shirt, a black vest, black denim pants, leather chaps, and boots with spurs that jangled when he walked. He wore a lasso at his side, a bandana around his neck, and a broad white hat on his head.
A fantasy began to play itself out in my mind: I'm a shy bachelor schoolteacher in a frontier town. One night, after correcting papers, I take a walk down Main Street. Darren is lounging outside a saloon, one foot propped up against the wall behind him, arms crossed over his chest, a long stalk of wild grass arcing out of his mouth. He has a scruffy three-day beard. Our eyes lock. Without a word, he leads me up to his tiny rented room. The moment the door is closed, he pins me against the wall. He locks his mouth onto mine and humps me roughly. Then he shoves me down onto the bed and...
I slipped my hands in my pockets and pushed the fabric of my pants forward to conceal how hard I was getting. For the rest of the storytelling hour, I forced myself to think about my masters thesis on performative gender in sixteenth-century Spanish drama.
Days passed before I got up the courage to ask Darren, as casually as I could, where he'd gotten that costume.
"Some rental shop in the Yellow Pages." We were sitting in bed, reading. He didn't look up from his book as he answered. "Why? Do you need a costume for something?"
"No. Just curious."
Something in my voice must have given me away. He looked over at me. "What is it?"
I was flustered. "Nothing. Forget it."
A sly, knowing smile crept across Darren's face. He set his book down so he could give me his full attention. "Does somebody have a cowboy fetish?"
"I would hardly call it a fetish." Embarrassment made me huffy. "I just thought you looked really...hot." I felt stupid saying "hot."
"Would you like me to rent the outfit again some night?" He wasn't teasing now, but he was still visibly amused.
"Sure." I spoke in the kind of voice I would have used if someone had asked me if they could use the public phone ahead of me because they really, really had an emergency and it would only take a minute. Passive- aggressive, Darren would have called it. I felt guilty for sounding so ungrateful, but I was still deeply embarrassed.
Darren knew not to say anything else. He went back to reading, though he made a point of laying his hand on my thigh--his way of telling me that I didn't need to feel stupid.
That Saturday, I had to spend almost the entire day on campus, in the library, doing research for my thesis. When I got back to our apartment, I could hear Darren back in the kitchen, cooking. "Don't come into the kitchen yet!" he called. "I'll call you in about 15 minutes, when dinner's ready."
I waited in the bedroom. I thought I knew why he didn't want me in the kitchen. Sure enough, when he finally called me in, he was wearing the costume. He tipped his hat at me slightly with one finger. "Howdy," he drawled.
I blushed. "You look great."
He'd prepared the fixings for soft tacos, in an effort to create a Southwestern ambiance. He kept his hat on throughout dinner. Afterwards, he leaned back in his chair with his boots up on the table and his hands clasped behind his head. "So," he said in his regular voice. "You need to fill me in on this cowboy fantasy of yours. Where do things go from here?"
I shook my head. "No. Let's not go there. This has been great, Darren, really."
He put his feet down, leaned forward in his chair, and clasped one of my hands between both of his. "I'm serious, Rob. I want this to be hot for you. Tell me your fantasy, and let's act it out. You don't need to be embarrassed."
I didn't say anything for several moments. He waited. "OK," I said finally. I couldn't bring myself to look him directly in the face, so I focused on the kitchen wall beyond his shoulder. "We...go into the bedroom. And then you..." I took a deep breath. "You push me up against the wall--kind of roughly. And you kiss me hard, and run your hands up and down my body, and hump me a bit, while you're holding me up there against the wall. And then you throw me onto the bed and take off my clothes. And then you take off your clothes--except you keep your hat on. And your bandana." I felt a little light-headed. "And then you hold my ankles together in one hand, and lift up my legs, and...um...finger-fuck me with your other hand while I jack off." I disliked using the word "fuck"; it sounded vulgar.
"How many fingers?" Darren interjected.
I glanced at him. He had a studious expression on his face. I gave a short, nervous laugh. "I hadn't thought it through that far. Two, I guess."
Darren nodded, committing this detail to memory. "So then what?"
"That's it. I've never...imagined it any farther than that."
My knees felt slightly shaky. It suddenly occurred to me that Darren might have been expecting my fantasy to be kinkier, involving ropes and gags, perhaps. I wondered if he was disappointed--if my fantasy had been too unimaginative, too vanilla.
If he was disappointed or bemused, he gave no sign of it. He bent down to kiss my fingers. "Let's wash up," he said. "And then let's take this into the bedroom."
I washed dishes while he put the leftovers away. No sooner had I finished rinsing out the sink when Darren grabbed me from behind and clapped his hand over my mouth. I grunted, startled. He dragged me backwards down the hall into the bedroom and slammed me up against the wall, hard enough to make me wince. When he took his hand off my mouth, I said, "Maybe not quite that rough."
He didn't reply, but he loosened his grip on my arms so that his fingers weren't pinching me so hard. He used his boots to force my feet wider apart. Then he pushed close against me with his body to keep me pinned against the wall while he slid his hands slowly between us, down my chest and stomach, between my open legs, and up again. At the same time, he thrust his tongue deep and hard into my mouth. I couldn't remember having ever been so aroused.
Without warning, Darren pulled me away from the wall and shoved me down onto the bed. He climbed on top of me, spurs jangling. With one hand he held my wrists together over my head, while with the other he unbuckled my belt. "I'm gonna take you for the ride of your life, city boy," he drawled.
He did everything I'd described from my fantasy. I came ferociously, bucking my hips and shouting, which was unlike me. As soon as the climax subsided, I felt ashamed--ashamed for having been so vocal and for having climaxed rather sooner than usual. I'd wanted this to last longer.
"Don't apologize," Darren told me. He was speaking in his regular voice again, wiping me dry with a cum towel. "This was obviously a huge turn-on for you. I'm thrilled I could help make that happen."
He knelt on the bed, straddling my stomach, naked except for the hat on his head and the bandana around his neck. He jacked off onto my chest while I stroked his perineum the way I knew he liked. The sight of him towering over me in the remnants of his cowboy drag kept me turned on. Almost as soon as he came, we slid into another round of foreplay. Forty-five minutes later, we'd each climaxed a second time. We hadn't enjoyed such sustained lovemaking since the period when we were first dating.
Afterwards, while we spooned, he said, "There's something special I'd like you to wear for me some night, if you're willing."
"Oh?"
He turned me around so he could look me in the eyes. "Now, before I say this, I want to make clear that I'm not trying to be funny or kinky. Not that I have any objection to being funny or kinky, as I think we've amply demonstrated tonight. But that's not what this is about. I take what I'm about to ask you extremely seriously."
"OK, I think you've built up sufficient suspense now."
He stroked my hair, still looking me straight in the eyes. "I want to make love to you, with you dressed in your missionary uniform. Including the garments."
Several long seconds passed.
"Why?" I asked finally.
"Because your mission--your whole Mormon background-- is an important part of who you are. And I want to make love to the whole of you, which means making love to that part of you, too."
He'd obviously rehearsed this speech. "How long have you been thinking about this?" I asked, incredulous.
"I don't know. A couple months."
I turned back around so we were spooning again--and so I didn't have to keep meeting his intense gaze. "I need to think about it."
He held me tighter. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I'm not upset. It's just..." I didn't know what to say.
"If it would feel like sacrilege or something," he began. I cut him off.
"It's not that. I'm just...thrown for a loop, I guess." I laughed a little, nervously. "The idea feels bizarre to me, that's all."
He planted a delicate kiss on my neck just beneath my ear. "Don't do it because you feel you need to reciprocate for tonight. But let me know what you decide."
He didn't mention his request again, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I waited two weeks before I told him I'd do it.
I dressed in the bathroom while he waited in bed. The garments smelled slightly musty from having sat in a box for two years. I tucked the upper garment into the waistband of the lower garment and looked at myself in the mirror. The fabric of the garment hugged me closely, accentuating the shape of my body--my shoulders, my chest, my hips, my thighs--while concealing the flesh from view. The effect was erotic, as I well remembered from watching certain mission companions walk around in their garments. The body was exposed and invisible at the same time. Intended to promote modesty, the garment was unintentionally titillating.
I pulled the rest of my clothes on over my garments: white shirt, suit pants, belt, tie, dress socks, shoes. Over my breast pocket I placed my old name plaque, retrieved from my box of mission mementos. The glossy black surface was badly scratched and the white lettering was beginning to flake away. But I could still read "Elder Turner" and the name of the Church in Spanish.
Again, I looked at myself in the mirror. At first glance, it was like looking at a picture of myself from my mission days. But on closer inspection, I could tell my face was older, fuller, less radiant, less naive. Sadder. What's happened to the person I was five years ago? I thought. Who have I become instead?
I felt depressed. This had been a bad idea.
I walked into the bedroom. Darren set aside the book he'd been reading by the light of the bedside lamp. He was under the sheets, naked, his clothes piled conspicuously on the floor in a way that would normally be a turn-on for me. His mouth stretched itself into a languorous, beaming smile. "You are so handsome," he told me.
I shook my head. I was afraid that if I tried to speak, I'd start crying. I sat on the edge of the bed with my back to him.
His hands closed over my shoulders. "Come here," he whispered. He eased me down onto my back so that my head rested in his lap. He laid one hand on my chest and stroked my hair with the other. I tried to look at him. But as low as I was feeling, I couldn't bear to make eye contact. I focused on the ceiling instead.
I expected Darren to ask me what was wrong. But he didn't. From the way he was watching me and touching me, he seemed to know I was feeling depressed. But it was as if he already understood why--or at least was convinced he understood why--without having to ask.
"There's something I want to tell you," he said quietly. "It's something I've wanted to say for a long time now, but it never felt like the right moment to bring it up."
Something about the tone of his voice aroused a fight- or-flight instinct in me. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation of his fingers running through my hair.
"I know that you're at a place right now in your life where it's important to you to feel like you're moving beyond Mormonism. You see your Mormon past as something that you need to get away from. You want to be a different person than you were raised to be."
He paused. I waited.
"What I've been wanting to tell you is: I don't think you're really moving away from Mormonism, the way you want to believe you are. And I don't think you need to move away from it, at least not the way you're trying to. Obviously, yes, the Mormon Church is not a welcoming or friendly place for you, given the way you've decided to live your life. And yes, you've come to hold beliefs that are a lot more expansive than what you were taught growing up. In a lot of ways, you have become a different person.
"But this--" The hand that was resting on my chest moved up and down the length of my upper body as if to indicate that when Darren said "this," he meant my missionary clothes and the identity they represented. "This is still you. You may not realize that. But when I watch the way you move through life, it's perfectly clear to me that the values you hold, and the choices you make, are still heavily influenced by your Mormon upbringing. Mormonism has played a major role in making you the person you are. And the person you are is beautiful. You don't need to be ashamed of any part of who you are."
I swallowed and squeezed my eyes even more tightly shut.
I could feel him bending close to my face now, his voice so low he was almost whispering. "I love the person I see in those photos from your mission. Whatever else you decide to become, I don't want you to ever stop being that person. Because I would feel that as a terrible loss."
Suddenly he sniffed, as if he were crying. I opened my eyes. He wasn't crying, exactly, but his eyes were moist; I could see them glistening in the light from the bedside lamp. I felt like crying, but something was holding me back from actually doing it. I felt that something inside me was dead--or at least sound asleep, needing to be revived.
We kissed, tenderly at first, then passionately. He unknotted my tie, pulled it out of my collar in a slow, sexy, fluid motion. He unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it open, exposing the upper garment. We were still making out as he did this. My hands were up behind his head, one on the nape of his neck, the other running through his hair. He ran his own hands along my chest and stomach, on top of the garment. He fingered the marks stitched into the fabric of the garment over each breast, squeezing my nipples as he did so. He removed my belt in the same way he had removed my tie, opened my fly, fondled my growing erection through the fabric of the lower garment. We kissed and petted for several minutes more. Then we stopped so he could help me finish stripping off my outer clothes. We lay on top of the sheets, he naked, I in my garments.
And what we did after that, I'm not going to write down. Because what happened after that stands out in my memory as something sacred; and as I learned in the temple, it is better not to speak of the sacred. Not so much because doing so would be inappropriate, but because there are no words that would adequately convey the meaning of the experience.