He slid into me like a nail in the coffin of my faith.
I knew penetration rocketed me past the point of turning back. I wouldn’t return to Mormonism.
It wasn’t my first or last intentional sabotage. After he and I buried the coffin, I crossed Canada to put emotional space between myself and this person who lit the match which burned down my religious ties. The flames of destruction grew more literal. I’d later set fire to photos, love letters, and possessions.
In one instance, I burned an apron to prevent myself from returning to a nerve rattling waitressing job. In the latter expressions of sabotage I intended to disrupt the system, but in regards to burying my religion, I didn’t know at the time what I wanted. I was too scared of hell and isolation.
Frankly, I was also quite drunk. I’d continue to drink down my fear and shame when facing the vulnerability of exposing my sexuality for the next decade.
Post burial, I officially dubbed myself a “For-Man,” a phrase I’d chosen to abbreviate “Former Mormon.” I took great pains to express and name myself as absolutely not a religious person! I dyed my hair black, drank copiously, and smoked in secret. I worshipped humans and the dirt. I courted vulgarity. Mostly I had a great time. I love my rebel. She saved me from a life that didn’t suit me.
Yet the sex part remained tricky. The sticky layers of my eroticism peeled back slowly, messily, sometimes angrily. The heaven of connection lay tangled in the hell of shame. I definitely didn’t know how to lay myself bare before another human without three to nine drinks in me, especially for the first time.
It was too much. Unbearable. Overwhelming.
Eventually I found myself outside a dingy room, straining to catch a glimpse of the assortment of strangers. They looked…. and I say this with both love and respect… haggard.
Not a single one of them hadn’t scratched and clawed their way back from death or ruin. I entered that room, repeatedly, over the next year and half. Those haggard bad asses showed me how to take accountability for myself. They taught me, through their stories and their tried and tested process, how to forgive the past and set down the bottle.
But nobody in those rooms taught me how to have sober sex. Instead they encouraged vigilance against my selfishness and previous patterns of sexual wreckage. I charted a course for how to be a better partner. I composed a list of relational habits to ward off. I pined for sexual satisfaction and relational bliss. I ached for it, yet I lived in constant vigilance towards myself. The thoughts rolled in like waves determined to pull me out to sea:
“What if I opened up to sexual pleasure and found addiction?”
“What if I barrel rolled down a hill of self pity after a rejection?”
“What if I stink in the sack when I’m not drunk?”
“What if I can’t let go?”
“How, for the Love of Life, does one get down without a cocktail??”
“What if I hurt someone?”
“What if I hurt myself… again?”
Can you relate?
Two miracles arrived in a successive order. The first miracle was a painful one. It appeared in the form of a delightfully kinky partner matched with some blurry boundaries (less delightful).
The sleeping dragon of my rebel lifted her head, her hot breath fanned the flames of my hunger. The second miracle came from a talented coach inviting me to Path to Passion™ and then to explore with her through the Erotic Blueprints Breakthrough Course™ and one on one coaching.
I eagerly anticipated accentuating my rebel and setting her free to roam in a realm outside of addiction. What I didn’t expect in my search for erotic expression was to reclaim my inner Mormon girl.
Buried deep in my heart, hidden beneath my bravado dwelled an innocent. She’s shy, slow, sensitive, and spiritually obsessed. She’d been banished from my sexuality. I’d overridden her, shut her down, and commanded her to shut up. If she didn’t comply I’d drown her out or drug her up.
Now that I was fully awake to my life, there was no override button I could push to rush past my youthful, Inner Innocent. In order to let someone in she’d need to feel safe, loved, and connected. She’d require a gentle touch and a slower pace, some tender coaxing, and finally, deliciously, the ambrosia to my retired saint, temptation.
This may read like the discovery of an Energetic Kinky Blueprint™. Indeed this is that tale, but more importantly to me, this emergence ended the war and repression within myself. When both my Innocent and my Rebel took their rightful places on the Pantheon of my Pleasure, the vigilance towards myself receded. The fear of my own unravelling fell away. The war was over. Love and Understanding stood solid in its place and ecstatic expression danced freely, mischievously, and innocently on Love’s solid ground.