Stuff Mormons Say

Fellow blogger O’Shea Shenanigans had a great post about “Shit New Yorkers Say” recently, and it got me thinking about some of the weird sayings Mormons have here in Utah.  Now, clearly life isn’t as exciting in End Of The World, UT as the Big Apple; we don’t have celebrities or cool nightspots or even two newspapers to choose from.  But what we do have is a bizarre, cult-like religion that preaches family values while ignoring the obvious paradoxesinconsistencies and outright racism of their culture.

But I’m not trying to start a debate about the merits of the Mormon faith.  Nor am I campaigning for or against Mitt Romney.  Nope, I just thought you all might get a kick out of some of the silly things that come out of people’s mouths around here.

So here goes:

“Oh my heck.” — Perhaps the most common expression unique to this area.  This one makes no sense to me.  Shouldn’t it be “Oh my gosh?”  I mean, do you know any heathens that say “Oh my hell?”  Personally, I’m on a mission to spice this one up by saying “Oh my fuck!” whenever possible.

“Kick some trash.” — Another one that makes no sense.  I guess Mormons are just trying to be extra creative, make it their own without appearing to emulate us gentiles too much.  Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just say “Kick some butt?”  “Kick some posterior?”  “Kick some gluteus maximus?”  I can’t think of any way to either make this cooler or make fun of it.  It just needs to go away.

“Good night” — A less common one, I don’t think this one is unique to Mormons so much as it’s just so outdated that nowhere else in the United States still uses it.  I think my grandmother used to say this when I would piss my pants.

“Oh Mylanta.” — I don’t even know where to begin with this one.

“Shut the front door.” — I have to give the Momo’s props on this one, it’s pretty funny.  Some of us heathens here in Utah have even adopted it in a mocking sort of way.  I would suggest everyone give it a try; next time you’re shocked and feel like saying “Shut the fuck up,” give “Shut the front door” a try.  Sometimes (rarely, but sometimes) the less profane way is actually funnier.  Like the first time a friend told me he’d had “butt sex” with a girl.  That just sounds so much funnier than “anal” or any variation, don’t you think?

So there you have it.  Just a few of the things you might soon be hearing coming out of the mouth of our Commander in Chief.

But hey, at least Mormons know we don’t have 57 states…

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Taking One For the Team

When I worked for that school in Southern California I had a small army of hot college girls who worked for me.  No shit, there were like 8-10 girls that were just smokin’ hot, and they were actually referred to in the Athletic Department as my “harem.”

Ok, maybe my Harem wasn't quite this hot, but they were pretty stellar.

The ringleader of the group was Country.  She has only acquired that name recently, since moving to Nashville after college.  But Country was a pure-bred Orange County SoCal girl.  Not one of those stuck up bitches you see on TV shows though, Country is to this day one of my closest friends and my female confidant whenever I’m struggling to understand the psychotic mind of the female species.

Country and I have never hooked up or anything like that.  It’s odd, but I’ve just never thought of her that way.  Sure, she’s hot and all, with a remarkable rack, but to me she’s always been like family; I only half-jokingly refer to her as the big-breasted younger sister I never had.

One of Country’s best friends was HeartStopper, who was one of many hotties recruited to my Harem by Country.  HeartStopper is a sexy blonde, but that’s not why she has the nickname HeartStopper.  No, she’s had heart problems her whole life and has had (at last count, I have trouble keeping track) 14 heart operations in her young life.  She has a scar down the middle of her chest that she used to be extremely self-conscious about when she first started working for me.  Not to toot my own horn too much, but I feel like I helped her get over her self-consciousness by always telling her that her scar, rather than being a turn off, really just served to draw attention directly to her cleavage; it was like an arrow pointing to the promised land!  Nowadays HeartStopper proudly wears low-cut tops to show off her very nice cleavage.

(As an aside, as a result of all her operations, HeartStopper has no pulse in one of her wrists.  I don’t know how or why but if you check that arm for a pulse you’ll feel nothing.  It’s creepy.  So one year for a birthday present I got her one of those Medic-alert bracelets, you know for Diabetics and such, and had inscrbed on it “Check other wrist.”  You know, just so some rookie EMT doesn’t pronounce her dead if she ever passes out drunk at a party.)

Alright, enough background, on to my story.  Country and HeartStopper were living together in their later college years.  HeartStopper had just gotten out of a long term relationship with a guy.  I had never been too fond of the guy, seemed kinda like a douche to me, so I wasn’t too upset when they broke up.  But he was one of HeartStoppers first real boyfriends and sexual partners, so obviously she had some trouble getting over him.  Country, good friend that she was, did everything in her power to help HeartStopper move on.  Seriously, this girl was like a dude the way she stepped up as wingman.

Country had had a brief fling the summer before with the only member of BYU’s baseball team that wasn’t Mormon.  It hadn’t lasted long but they were still friendly and I assume still hooking up whenever he made his way to Southern California.  When BYU came to town to play San Diego State in baseball Country went out of her way to help hook HeartStopper up with one of BYU Guy’s teammates.  (Mormon or not, college kids still hook up no matter where they go to school.  As for BYU’s so-called “Honor Code,” read this article if you want to know how hypocritical and racist that whole school really is.)

HeartStopper picked out a player she thought was cute and Country got her guy to bring him out, a double date of sorts.  Things went great, everyone got along, and a good time was had by all.  The next morning HeartStopper was beaming.  She wasn’t all that thrilled with her new friend’s conversational skills, or his personality.  But she was impressed with his penis.  She went on and on about how big he was, gushed enthusiastically how it was so massive she could barely fit it in her mouth.  She claimed she “wouldn’t know what to do with it” if they had tried to have sex.  When pressed for number, she estimated him to be 10 inches.

10 inches!  Jesus.  When I heard this I immediately felt inadequate.

But I was also skeptical.  I mean, come on.  I’ve seen my fair share of porn (I’ve also seen your fair share of porn too, probably the entire state of Utah’s fair share).  I know there are 10-inch cocks out there, but they’re few and far between.  And they’re even rarer on skinny-ass white baseball players.  So I called bullshit.  But HeartStopper was adamant.  He was huge.  Double her last boyfriend, at least.

Being the good friend (and good supervisor) that I am, I turned to Country and said, “We’re going to need independent confirmation of this.”

Country agreed.  A little too eagerly, perhaps.  (Again, feelings of inadequacy growing inside me.)  HeartStopper didn’t mind at all if Country gave him a throw next time he was in town.  As I mentioned, she hadn’t been terribly thrilled with him personally, and since his dick was so massive she was afraid to have sex with him, she didn’t see much future for them.

The next time Mr. 10inches came to town I don’t know who was more excited, Country or me.  It was exciting just to be a part of this whole sordid tale.  The drama, the suspense, this was better than a TNT drama.

When I saw Country the next day the look of disappointment on her face told me everything I needed to know before she even opened her mouth.  “Average,” she said.  “At best.”

“Come on,” I said, “he’s gotta be better than average for HeartStopper to go on and on about it.  Maybe not ten inches but better than average.”

Maybe five and a half inches,” she answered.  “Probably less than five.  I was so disappointed I couldn’t even fuck him.”

Suddenly my inadequacy was disappearing.  “Wow, that sucks.  So… you didn’t fuck him, what’d you do?  Just laugh at him and tell him to put it back in his pants?”

“I felt bad for him,” she said.  “So I gave him a hand job.  But seriously, it was so small the head barely popped out when I put my hand around it.  I couldn’t even jerk him off properly.”

I was laughing so hard I could barely talk.  “Well, you do have big hands.”

“Yeah, for a girl, but still!  It was tiny!”

After I finished laughing for a good five minutes straight a new thought entered my mind (I have to admit, I was probably thinking about penises more than any straight man should be): “So if HeartStopper thought this barely average guy was huge, what does that say about her last boyfriend?”

Country thought for a moment.  Then she held up her pinky finger.  Combined with her look of disappointment, the picture was priceless.  I started laughing all over again.  “Yeah,” I agreed.  “He’s gotta be hung like an angry toddler.  Poor bastard.  No wonder he was always in such a bad mood.”

Floating

I took this off a Mormon discussion board:

“…Mormons have different ways of stimulating their genitals.  The first… is called floating.  Rather than actually engaging in back-and-forth penetration, a Mormon male will leave his penis in a Mormon female’s vagina and just let it float there for an extended period of time.”

See, this is the kind of shit I have to deal with here in End Of The World, Utah.  Floating –also known as Soaking– is apparently all the rage with Mormon kids these days.  You gotta admire the ingenuity of these people to get around their own beliefs.  But it does raise an interesting debate: Is this really just a way to justify breaking the fundamental tenets of their faith, kind of like deluding yourself that oral or anal sex doesn’t really count?  Or, my personal belief, is this just another scheme by horny teenage boys to trick naïve girls into bed?  Kind of like playing “Just the tip?”  Because, let’s face it, like “Just the tip,” once you breach that barrier all bets are off!

When you have to wear underwear like this, I guess it's no wonder Mormons have to come up with sneaky ways to get laid.

I’ve heard that some of these kids will even try to recite scripture while Floating, as if quoting a few lines from the Book of Mormon will somehow dampen the severity of their sin.  Personally, I think this is just a way to keep themselves from cumming too fast, like thinking about baseball or long division.  They may think they’re better than the rest of us, but we’re all really the same perverts at heart.

But, in the spirit of this new non-sex sex act invented by our Mormon friends, I think we should play along and see how we can make Floating as much fun as possible.  If the idea is that it’s ok to stick your dick in a girl but not ok to actually thrust away, there’s got to be ways to heighten the experience.  Just a few ideas we’ve come up with so far:

— What if you sneeze?  That’s an involuntary action, so surely that won’t send you to hell, right?  Damn, I never envied people with allergies so much in my life.  Quick, grab the pepper shaker, I’m gonna sneeze my way to climax!

— Do they still have vibrating beds in cheap motel rooms?  That could be the best quarter ever spent.  Or a water bed?  That’d be like a slow, sensual fuck, literally “riding” the wave.

— What if you go Floating on top of the washing machine?  It’s not MY fault the machine was on spin cycle!

Who else has ideas?  I want to turn this into a national fad!  Maybe Vince Vaughn will even make it a rule in Wedding Crashers 2

The Mormon Stalker

I have a stalker.  A Mormon stalker.  How I get myself into shit like this is truly beyond me.  Back in my younger days I used to joke with friends whenever they’d talk about girls that were obsessed with them, I’d say things like, “Man, I wish I had a stalker, I’d never turn her away.  If you want to come over and fuck me that bad, who am I to turn it down?”  Man have I learned my lesson on that front.

I won’t bore you with all the details of how I met her (for the sake of this story I’ll refer to her as Momo), how she decided I would be the target of her full-on crazy, etc.  I’ll just jump right to the heart of the story.  After about two months of her throwing herself at me with reckless abandon and me making excuses why I wasn’t interested (“I’m not looking for a relationship,” “I’m still hung up on my (imaginary) ex,” “I’m an emotional cripple,” etc. etc.) I finally broke down when she texted me on my birthday and told me she wanted to give me my birthday present.

So I invited her over.  I sat her down on my couch and re-iterated that I was not interested in a relationship; I did not want any emotional entanglements, this would be nothing more than a booty call.  She said she understood.  “I’m going to need you to say it,” I said very firmly, and then proceeded to make her repeat after me, “This isn’t going anywhere.  It is just a booty call.”

And then I titty fucked her.

She had big sloppy D-cup breasts that weren’t much to look at (I’m a shape guy, size is completely secondary to firmness for me) but they felt pretty good wrapped around my cock, though not enough to get me off.  She refused to give me head, said she’d never done that before (damn Mormon girls), and her handjob skills were inadequate too.  The best thing about her, though, was that I could make her orgasm in about two minutes by going down on her.  Tongue, fingers, combination, whatever, she would shake and lose total control with almost zero effort on my part.  It was quite an ego boost; I felt pretty damn proud of myself turning this innocent, inexperienced Mormon girl into a quivering orgasmic mess.

Over the next couple weeks I worked hard to keep it casual, to make sure she still understood that this was not going anywhere.  I kept the frequency of our hookups low and refused to do anything that could be construed as a “date” with her.  I made up a story that I couldn’t sleep in a bed with another person, so she had to leave every night and couldn’t try to cuddle.

Eventually, I decided it was time to hit paydirt and we had sex.  Just like with the oral, she could orgasm with almost no effort, and I was feeling like quite the stud.

And that’s when it all started to unravel.

Glenn Close, the original psycho stalker

All of a sudden she claimed she was looking for a new place to live, and before I even knew what had happened she had moved into my apartment complex.  She now lived in the building directly between my apartment and my buddy Blackout’s; it had been a great situation beforehand, both Blackout and I enjoyed the benefits of living alone, but we were also less than 100 yards away whenever we wanted to get drunk.  But now she was right in the middle, and I felt like she was watching out her window to see when I was coming or going.  I started taking the long way around the complex to get drunk at Blackout’s place.

Meanwhile, she kept talking about this friend of hers who was so fun and so cute and I’d like her so much.  She wanted the three of us to all hang out.  I was confused.  Was she offering me a threesome?  It seemed almost impossible but I had to give it a shot, right?  And her friend (who you all know now as BJ, author of Wordplayforeplay) was indeed much more fun than Momo, much hotter than Momo, and she could take the wrappers off of Starbusrts with just her tongue.  Indeed, one of the biggest regrets of my life is that, after convincing the girls to play a game of strip poker, BJ (who I don’t think had ever played poker in her life) utterly destroyed us and only took her shirt off out of pity once Momo and I were down to just our unmentionables.  Needless to say, the threesome never materialized; BJ went home and I ended up banging Momo again.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that was her plan all along.

The next weekend she wanted to hang out on a Saturday night.  I wanted to get hammered with my friends.  Guess who won?  That’s right, alcohol and the guys.  And as I was laying in my bed Sunday morning, hung over as all hell and swearing I would never drink again, she sent me this text:

“Just thought you should know that I’m late.”

Now, the rational part of my brain new this was just a ploy.  She was on the pill (at least she claimed to be), and we used a condom anyway, so the odds were somewhere around 1 in 5000 that she could actually be pregnant.  But, of course, pregnancy isn’t something one can really think about rationally.  Especially not with a clingy Mormon girl that you’re pretty sure is mentally unbalanced.

Thus began three of the longest days of my life.  To this day I still don’t know if she was making the whole thing up, or if she really was late.  And if she was, was she really panicking, or was she fully aware that girls are occasionally late on their period and figured a dumb boy wouldn’t know the difference, so why not make the bastard sweat for standing her up on a Saturday night?

After that incident I told her we couldn’t have sex anymore.  I was a little shell-shocked by the whole ordeal, but more than anything I just thought it made a good excuse to withdraw a little bit on the relationship.

And it was just about that time, oddly enough, that she decided she wanted to try her hand at giving blow jobs.  No woman has ever been able to make me cum just from head, but I still enjoy it immensely, and she showed a great eagerness to learn to give great head and be the first to get me off.  Her enthusiasm for cocksucking, combined with the turn on of her multiple orgasms whenever I’d go down on her, and it wasn’t too long before I broke down and fucked her again.

It was a truly dysfunctional situation.  We’d hook up for awhile until she started to get too close and start pressing for more than just a booty call relationship, I’d break it off, and then in a couple weeks either she’d come crawling back with a text along the lines of “I want to come over and suck you off,” or I’d get rip-roaring hammered and drunk text her something along the lines of, “I want you to come over and suck me off.”  Wash, rinse, repeat.

The final straw came the last time we had sex.  The condom broke.  Now, considering she still claimed to be on the pill I didn’t think this was that big of a deal.  But she flipped the fuck out.  Practically had a nervous breakdown right in my bed.  She was trembling and nearly in tears, rambling incoherently about having to go to Planned Parenthood the next day to get the morning-after pill.

I was leaving town the next day for a vacation, but she wanted me to go with her before I left for the airport.  Now, I’ve never been to a Planned Parenthood before, so I don’t know what they’re like in other, more civilized parts of the United States.  But in End Of The World, Utah, it’s located in the basement of a strip mall.  We sat in the waiting area watching the dregs of society pass through, the meth-heads and illegals, the pregnant teens and the toothless trailer trash.  The whole time she insisted on holding my hand like we were some old married couple.  Once again, the rational part of my brain knew full well that this was just another one of her ploys.  The pill is 99% effective, so even with a broken condom the odds of her being pregnant were miniscule.  But sitting in that house of horrors with a crazy girl clutching my hand, rational thought all but flew out the window and my stomach began to churn at the idea that I might soon be a father.  I started wondering how she felt about abortion; although she was Mormon, she clearly wasn’t very devout (after all, she was fucking a Heathen).  But considering she was in love with me, might she try to keep the kid just to keep me in her life?  I started formulating my strategy in my head.  “Look, there’s either going to be an abortion or a suicide here, because I would rather kill myself than spend the next 18 years attached to you.”

About that time I happened to glance up at the wall where the magazine rack was located.  In a moment of irony I will never forget, I noticed the latest Newsweek with a picture of Sarah Palin on the cover and the bold headline “Saint Sarah.”  Personally, I found this quite amusing.  Can you imagine if you actually were pregnant, wrestling with your conscience and emotions of whether to get an abortion, and as you sit in the waiting room you see Saint Sarah staring down unapprovingly at you?  Seems like poor planning by Planned Parenthood, don’t you think?

So, long story short, she took the morning after pill, and I bolted out of town for about a week, during which time I had to endure daily text messages from her about how nervous she was, how she wished I was there to hold her, how she needed me, etc. etc.  I kept telling her to go take a home pregnancy test but she refused, said she was too scared.  At that point I knew 100% she was just trying to latch onto me, that it was all just so much crazy bullshit.

When I got back to Utah I drug her to the store, bought a home pregnancy test and made her take it.  Negative.  Of course.  We had now had sex five times total and had managed two “pregnancy scares.”  This girl was crazy as a shithouse rat.  It was time to extricate myself from the situation.  But that was easier said than done.  She lived practically next door to me, and she had made it clear before that she was fully capable of wandering outside my apartment to see if my lights were on.  And although we didn’t exactly work together, we were on the same campus and she worked with people I worked with, so she constantly seemed to be lurking in the shadows.

I went to a wedding in Nashville over Labor Day and when I came back I told her I had met a girl and we were going to try a long distance relationship.  (Thanks, Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress, for being my imaginary girlfriend!)  She tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, she even said she had started going back to church and so couldn’t hook up anymore anyways.  But even that didn’t stop her completely.  She would text occasionally, saying she missed me and asking how things were going with my new girlfriend.  Depending on my mood (or how drunk I was), I would make something up, building my cover story with highs and lows, good times and fights.

Meanwhile, her friend BJ had moved across country to New York, and we were texting on a semi-regular basis.  As I promised in an earlier post, someday I will tell you the story of how I taught her to deepthroat when she came home for the holidays.  It’s a story with a much happier ending than this one!  But BJ, whose friendship with Momo has more or less faded away, informed me that Momo is a certified sex addict; she’s been in counseling for it!  So all that shit about never having given a blow job, not being experienced?  Yeah, all bullshit.  The girl is fucking Looney Tunes!

I had one final relapse sometime around November or December.  I hadn’t had any action in awhile, and it gets fucking cold here in Utah, so when she texted me one night I said I had broken up with my imaginary girlfriend and asked if she wanted to come over.  She was at my door instantly and within minutes was naked on my bed giving me a blow job.  But by now I knew it was a huge mistake, and after she failed to make me cum again I sent her home and started ignoring her texts.

Now that I have a real-life girlfriend I donn’t even have to lie.  I told her I had moved on and she needed to as well.  The messages still haven’t stopped, but they are becoming less frequent, and I think as long as I don’t wake the bear she will eventually move on.

Or maybe she’ll cut off my penis in my sleep…