Free The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir by Elna Baker Page B

card. Just as I was about to turn it over, Jeff put his hand on top of mine. “Let’s make a wager,” he said. “You win, I won’t touch your boobs; I win, I get to touch your boobs.”
    I thought it over. There really wasn’t anything in it for me. If I won, my boobs would not be touched. I didn’t exactly have to play a game to earn that. I could walk down the street and no one would touch my boobs.
    I looked across the table and into Jeff’s blue-green eyes. Then I asked myself the real question: Do I want someone to touch my boobs? Two different guys had tried to touch them before, both at college parties, but because they were drunk and clumsy, and I was sober and astute, I had pushed their hands away. Still, at that moment, looking at Jeff, I was intrigued. I wondered if a man would like my boobs. Did I have nice boobs? My boobs are big, men like big boobs, but then again everything about me is big, and men don’t seem to like that. I decided that half of me wanted to be touched and the other half did not. Jeff ’s fifty-fifty wager matched my indecision.
    “Okay,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
    Jeff and I shook on it, as if having someone grope you always involved an official handshake.
    I turned my card around and looked at it. Ben Forrester was the name of my person. Ben had brown eyes and a round face with a dark beard and he was wearing a hat. I looked at him again. He looked like my dad. Great. The last thing I wanted to think about was what my dad would think if he knew about this wager.
    “Does your person have red hair?” Jeff asked.
    “No,” I answered. “Is your person wearing a hat?”
    We asked each other a dozen yes-or-no questions. I tried to apply all of my intelligence, but I couldn’t focus. Why? What I call my “Mormon filter” kicked in. Every time I consider doing something wrong, this happens. I can’t just make a bad choice. I analyze the consequences too thoroughly and I filter all the information through my religion.
    For example, if someone offered you a glass of wine, you’d probably be able to reach out and just take a drink. Not me. Before my hand reaches the glass, I’ve asked myself, Is it worth it to put yourself in the position of being addicted to something? I’ve thought, The entire purpose of life on earth is to make choices, and addiction limits your freedom of choice . By the time my hand gets to the glass of wine, I’ve already talked myself out of it. It’s exhausting.
    As I sat across from Jeff, I could think only of the things that would happen to me if I did something impure like let a man touch my boobs. My body was a temple and I needed to respect it as such and not defile it. The things I did with other people before I was married would limit my ability to completely love my partner because it introduced an element of comparison. Sexual acts were supposed to make me feel unholy in the presence of God, like my light had been diminished. I thought about what Mormons call the “eternal consequences” of your actions: Sexual immorality is the second worst sin, the first being murder. And I was so busy analyzing these potential consequences that I wasn’t at all focused on figuring out who Jeff’s player was.
    That’s when Jeff said it—before I was ready, before I knew what I wanted to do.
    “Is your person Ben Forrester?”
    I looked down at my card; the man who looked like my dad smiled unknowingly. He had failed me.
    “Yes,” I answered.
    Jeff smiled.
    “I live around the corner,” I said. “We can do it there.”
     
    It’s weird how your senses heighten when you’re about to break character. If someone asked me, “As a Mormon, do you let guys touch your boobs?” I would say no. But there I was, not ten minutes later, sitting on my couch across from Jeff, lifting up my shirt. I was wearing a black bodysuit. Once I discovered bodysuits I always wore them under my clothes. It’s really a pain when you have to pee. But just when I was