The Mormon

She was a Mormon, who'd grown up in a strict, religious family in rural Utah. Her father was a bishop. Her older brother went to Chicago on a mission as a 19-year old and came back a couple of years later an even more fervent believer. He too later became a bishop.

Most of her extended family lived in the same town; aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces. Their family gatherings involved nearly half the town.

She was 40 when I met her. And disliked everything Mormon. She considered Mormons to be hypocrites. She worked as an office manager for a medical services company owned by an old couple in Orem. I asked her if she ever considered moving out of Utah.

"All the time," she replied.

"So why haven't you?"

"I know no other place."

She was a small town woman. Her world was small. But she knew there was a larger, more interesting world out there. But she was afraid of leaving the cocoon of safety, of the familiar, even though she hated it. That she had agreed to meet me was a surprise. Perhaps I represented the other, and not just any other, but someone as far away from rural Utah as possible.

We'd met online, and after a couple of weeks of chatting we decided to meet in Salt Lake City. She was big built like a lot of Utahans. Utah had perhaps the largest percentage of obese people I've seen. But she wasn't obese, just plump. She was a pleasant person; she had a nice smile. And was white. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant and had a pleasant conversation. We connected easily, effortlessly.

"Why do you dislike Mormons so much?" I asked, hoping she wouldn't be offended by my question.

"Because it's a suffocating society. Because they weren't there for me when I needed them. Because they believe in controlling their women."

"What did you need from them?"

She gulped. She looked stricken for a moment. I was about to apologize when she said, "I was sexually abused by my cousins for many years as a girl."

I was stunned. And she told me the whole story. Of how for the first time as an 8-year old an older cousin had taken her behind the house one Sunday after service and had forced his penis into her mouth. How another cousin started doing the same thing a few months later. And this continued until she was 18, when she finally summoned enough courage to run away from home. She was terrified and did not tell anyone. Nobody would have believed her anyway. They were pious cousins, destined for respect and status in their community. And she regretted that ever since she found out that later her younger sister had also fallen victim to these cousins, which she did not know. "Had I spoken up then, I might have saved my sister," she said as she furiously tried to fight back her tears.

I had no words for her. I simply held her hand and listened, trying to imagine her life, marveling at the fact that she look like such a normal, well-adjusted person now.

"Years of therapy," she later explained. "I still have a lot of scars."

But talking to me seemed to make her feel better. She wiped her tears and brightened. "Thank you for listening. I don't talk about this with anyone, but I just felt very comfortable telling you."

As we left the restaurant, I had my hand around her shoulder. She gave me a hug and smiled. I wanted to kiss her, but I didn't want to take advantage of her at a moment when she was vulnerable. So I just embraced her and walked her to my car. For a few moments we sat there. I feared that the date had come to an end. "Would you like to stay a little longer?" I asked.

"Sure," she said brightly.

So we drove around. It was dark, cold and there was nothing to see. So we went back to the parking lot, which was nearly empty by now. "Can I kiss you?" I asked her.

"Of course."

I was surprised by the passion with which she kissed. I looked around nervously. "Oh, if there are people, let them see," she said playfully. So we continued to make out. I put my hand over her ample breasts. She did not push me away. So, bolder, I slipped my hand inside her coat and under her blouse. Her breasts were buttery soft. Her nipples were barely there. I unbuttoned her and took her breasts out. They flopped over her bra. I buried my face in them and sucked them. She moaned softly. I unzipped my pants and took my hard penis out. She hesitated for a moment and I gently took her hand and placed it on my penis. She stroked it gingerly. I was very aroused by then, and not thinking clearly.

"Do you want to suck it?"

"No," she said apologetically. "I have issues with doing that. I don't do that any more."

Of course. How insensitive of me! She took my hand and rubbed it against her crotch as she kissed me. Then she unzipped her pants and pulled down her panties a little. She wanted me to finger her. I hesitated. But seeing that she was so happy, I obliged. As I explored her wet vagina, she shuddered and shivered. I stroked her harder until she moaned and buried her face in my shoulder, staying still.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the pleasure that we both felt.

"You have nice eyes," she said, touching my cheek. I'd never heard anyone say that. It felt good. "When will you be back next?" she asked.

"In a couple of months. Maybe next time you can come and spend the night with me?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

It was getting late, and she had a long drive back to Orem. So we kissed and I saw her to her car.

I liked her and wanted to see her again. I started to make plans to visit sooner, perhaps soon after Christmas, or early in January. We kept in touch by email and chat. I got busy and so did she since her bosses were trying to sell the business and retire. Our conversations became sporadic, but still very personal. Then around Christmas she disappeared for 10 days. I presumed she had gone to visit her family for the holidays. When she resurfaced in early January she dropped a bombshell. She got married over the holidays. To a man she'd met 3 weeks ago. I was aghast.

"I hope you did the right thing," I said to her.

"I know I did. I feel good about him. In fact he's here with me. Say hi to him."

We made awkward small talk. When he left, I asked her again, "Are you happy?"

"Very happy. I know you think I'm crazy. But I don't meet good men like you and him often. And I've learned that I should not let go of such opportunities." Sensing that I was disappointed, she continued, "I really like you. But you're not here. He lives in Orem too."

After all she'd chosen the familiar over the foreign. She's chosen comfort over adventure, reality over fantasy. "I understand," I said. "I wish both of you a very happy marriage and a wonderful life."

"Thanks," she said and blew me a kiss.

We never contacted each other after that.