Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2002 18:21:23 -0600
From: L
Subject: Garments

------------------------------------------------------
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.