Boy Story- Father Stephen

       I have dated a lot of people, few of them long term, but all of them distinctly memorable for their own unique reasons.  I think of myself as a fairly nice and understanding person, ready to forgive minor faux pas, but most of my dates have gone so hideously and disastrously awry, it’s almost impossible to believe it was real.  I began to write them down when I would email my dear friend Meredith the blow-by-blow at the end of the date. She would send her own nightmare boy stories back to me and before long, we had enough dating disasters between us for a book.  At first I found the whole thing very frustrating and disappointing, but now I confess, I almost can’t wait to see how the guys screw things up. 

       
       I wish to share my stories with you, my dear reading public, in what I shall simply call ‘Boy Stories’.  NOTE:  All the names have been changed to, well, keep me from having to remember the real names.  I tend to go for titles or elaborate nicknames that usually have something to do with the crime so committed.  For my first Boy Story, I thought I would describe my first boyfriend… Father Stephen. 

       I met Father Stephen at a birthday party during that phase in my life where I was attracted to men who I knew would make my father apoplectic.  The first time I saw him, he looked like a Hot Topic ad.  He was a white, thin, toothpick of a guy in threatening punk gear and spiked hair, dripping chains from his pockets and sneering in that sexy Billy Idol way I have always admired so much.  I flirted, he flirted back and before long, I had my own punk in shining armor.  He freaked my father out completely along with all my other strict Mormon neighbors in the tiny town of Springville, Utah.  I was utterly delighted, and even more so by the fact that he turned out to be articulate and funny beneath the swaggering and eyeliner.

       As our relationship blossomed that summer and thoughts instantly turned to marriage (as they do in Utah), Stephen had an unfortunate “Come to Jesus Moment”.  Before I was really aware of what was happening, all the bad-ass clothes were replaced with polos and khakis.  The chains were gone, the wrist bands thrown away, the hair combed smooth.  I was horrified by the transformation, and even more by his expectation that I clean up to, so I could be the squeaky Mormon Barbie to his Ken. 

       “I would appreciate it if you didn’t wear shirts so low,” he told me one day on the way to a party.

       “Why?” I asked looking down at my peeking cleavage, “collar bones not your thing?”

       “Just do it, please,” he said angrily, “I want to keep my thoughts pure”. 

       I hadn’t had any problem with him thinking “unpure” thoughts about me until he put it like that.  Why don’t you just come over here and put a scarlet letter ‘A’ for ‘A Boob Flashing Whore Meant to Bring Down the Thoughts of Good Men’?   

       We drove the rest of the way in tense silence, me fuming, he feeling all self-righteous or whatever.  The party was for a friend of his in his church, a church that I did not realize he was attending. 

       After being introduced as the girlfriend, the birthday girl asked, “Why haven’t I ever seen you on Sundays?”  I was about to reply that I lived two cities away and hoped that would smooth over the uncomfortable moment of me having to reveal my status as “godless heathen” when Father Stephen got in ahead of me.

“I have been trying to get her to come with me for ages, but I haven’t given up yet.”  I have no idea what my face said, but the Birthday Girl was pretty quick to change the conversation and make her escape.  

       Later, in the car, I asked him why he had been all secretive about his re-conversion.  His expression became aloof and condescending, when with great dignity he said, “I am not sure I want to tell you about it.”

       Miffed but too annoyed  to fight about it then, I said, “okay, you don’t have to.’

He turned to me almost in agitation, “It’s not that I don’t want to tell anyone about it, you understand.” 

       “So tell me,” I said.

       “I can’t.”  With a sigh he said very solemnly, “I guess the best way to explain why I can’t tell you is Matthew chapter 7, verse 6.”  Seeing my blank stare, he restated, “’don’t cast your pearls before swine.’”

Two days later he asked if I would marry him. 

He asked to marry the godless swine. 

Oh, no thank you.