Leaving Salt Lake City

by Matthew Timion

  Someone finally stepped up and did a semi-decent job remembering the translated version of Joseph Smith’s words. He was given a Butterfinger bar as a reward. The questions continued. “Who has gotten married?" Butterfinger bars handed out. “Who has children?" More candy given to the faithful. I suddenly remembered how often President Wagstaff had given out Butterfingers to those who performed the best on the mission. Everything I learned in college later told me that he was simply rewarding the behavior he desired. It was very Pavlovian.

  Faithful former missionaries who had wives and children had the most candy as a reward. I had none. I didn’t really want any though, mostly because I told myself I didn't want their approval. I tried extra hard not to play into their mindset. I did this partially to show I was better than my missionary pals and also to show Jessica I wasn’t one of them any more.

  We talked and caught up some more with my former brothers in Christ, my former fellow soldiers in a war against Satan. All the while I felt eyes on me, as if I was being observed. Most of them wanted to know how a former Mormon behaved. I was a test subject to be observed, an anecdote to be relayed back to their families about the consequences of denying the faith.

  A scrapbook sat on the table which all of us signed when we ended our missionary service and left the mission for our homes. We wrote our dedications to President Wagstaff and his wife.

  You are the closest thing to parents I have ever had. Thank you so much. I love you two!

  When I wrote that I was twenty one years old, and I was terribly sad that none of my family was Mormon like me. I wanted a good Mormon family. President Wagstaff and his wife served as role models for quite some time. “What the fuck Matt?" Jessica asked me, a little louder than I felt comfortable with. She couldn’t believe that at one point I had totally believed it all. She couldn’t believe that at one point I had wanted a perfect Mormon life. Jessica always had had her doubts. She always rebelled against the religion of her parents. I was so jealous of her conviction, or lack of conviction, when it came to religion.

  We left soon afterwards with my new book and audio CD in tow. “Seriously Matt, that was fucked up.”

  “What?" I was probably being naïve; not instantly understanding what she had meant.

  “Why the hell did we even go to that thing? What were we doing there?”

  “Visiting with old friends of mine.”

  “Yeah, next time you’re going by yourself. I’m not subjecting myself to that again. Everyone kept looking at us. If I wanted that kind of judgment I would go hang out at my family’s house.”

  Her point was made. No more missionary reunions for me, especially ones I had organized. She was right though, they were all staring at us. No one had expected the former Mormon missionary to come. Let alone come willing to discuss shared memories and refuse to bring up anything negative. No one expected the former Mormon missionary to actually think their two years abroad was a positive experience.

  We pulled into the driveway and she reiterated her previous statement. “Never again,” she said.

  “Okay, got it.”

  | SEVEN|

  A Black Dress

  October 2005

  I’d never seen so many tattoos in my entire life. Walking the streets of Salt Lake City, with its old buildings, beautiful landscaping, and snow capped mountains in every direction, I was still focused more on the tattoos. They were everywhere. I am told that cities like Seattle or San Francisco have more tattoos, but I never saw more tattoos in those cities when I visited.

  Salt Lake City is a city of subtle protest. With (at the time) 70% of the state being Mormon, people go to extremes to show that they were either not Mormon or that they rejected Mormonism. In some instances this would mean wearing revealing clothes; pious young Mormon girls would only wear a spaghetti strap top as long as it had a t-shirt underneath. Tattoos signaled to the world one's identity; finding a person with tattoos up and down his/her arms could be as difficult as finding a Catholic priest in Vatican City.

  From what I had heard, City Weekly, the local independent newspaper, had a column at one point where the writer would walk up to the most tattooed person they could find on the street and ask them where he or she served his or her Mormon mission. Not surprisingly, every single person had a story about his or her mission. In a culture where having two SUVs meant you were righteous and in God’s favor, having tattoos meant you were not Mormon. The two sides played by the same rule book.

  Our wedding planning was also a subtle protest. While we didn’t get tattoos for our wedding, we made a conscious decision to do everything opposite of what they would think we should have done. Our decisions were well thought out and meticulously planned. Some were a slap in the face of Mormonism, motivated by Jessica’s insistence that her family was to be constantly reminded she was no longer Mormon. Other choices were subtle and I doubt anyone besides us recognized them for what they were.

  Our wedding was organized around a black dress. White symbolizes purity, and we refused to repeat traditions from a Christian wedding. The sleeveless black wedding gown with small white flowers flowed when Jessica walked. It was perfect, simple, and elegant. She looked like a rock star when she wore it. Jessica confessed that she secretly hoped her appearance would offend her Mormon family.

  We drove down to Las Vegas, where our wedding was to take place. After we arrived at our hotel room, we spent the night getting ready for the next day. Jessica made our wedding cake, pursuant to her new fascination with baking. It was a lopsided chocolate cake that looked like it had been made by a teenaged boy in a high school home economics class, but it tasted wonderful. Her friends showed up and helped with her makeup. We ignored the rule of not seeing each other that morning. Beliefs like that were built on superstition, and superstition had no place in our marriage.

  We took photos as part of the casino’s wedding package. The door to the chapel opened and everyone turned their heads in anticipation of us walking in. Jessica asked a quick question before we stepped through the door. “Hey, which side does the bride’s family normally stand on?”

  “I honestly have no idea." My first marriage was in a Mormon temple without aisles, tuxedos, or many family members. Since my first marriage ended by exchanging a secret handshake over an altar, my knowledge of traditional marriages was lacking.

  “The left!” The casino worker told us. She was thrilled to be a part of this wedding, which according to her was the most unique she had ever seen. That says a lot when your job was holding twenty weddings a day.

  “Okay, let’s switch sides. I don’t want to be part of this patriarchal bullshit." And we switched sides.

  We walked down the aisle together, arm in arm. In a room full of people, only her father stood up to see her. The rest of the room remained seated.

  Jessica’s sleeveless dress showed off her tattoo of the letter “M” with wings on it. It was her mother’s first initial. At the end of the aisle stood Lester, the ex-Mormon spiritual guru. He stood there in flip flops, slightly tattered jeans, and a see-through silk shirt. Tattoos covering his torso were visible to everyone. Of course we wanted to be married by a flamboyant gay man. It was one more way to be different. It was just one more way to show everyone how “recovered” from Mormonism we were.

  When we first asked him, Lester was reluctant to officiate the wedding, but he agreed to do it anyway. He had initially said that he would never attend another wedding until he had the right to be married himself. Offer an attention-hungry person center stage, and, like Lester, he or she will rarely turn the opportunity down.

  Family and friends were all around us. Although some people boycotted our wedding due to our perceived involvement in yet another online harassment brouhaha, many members of the ex-Mormon community traveled from all over to attend. Our wedding was a momentous event for our group of former Mormons. It brought together years of friendships; it was a reason for everyone to celebrate.

  Lester spoke and everyone
listened. He talked about true love. He talked about how he saw an example of true love conquering all in Jessica and me. It was a very touching ceremony. “I don’t talk about this much, but I occasionally perform services for people where I give them a blessing. This is not like the Mormon version of a blessing, but a very spiritual one." I was surprised it took so long for someone to mention Mormonism. He held our hands and blessed us with a long marriage, children, and a long life together.

  “As some of you may know,” Lester continued, “I crochet. I import yarns from all over the world and make hats for people." He reached into his satchel and pulled out two long coils of yarn. One was brown, the other was white. He put one coil of yarn around Jessica’s neck and one around mine. “Okay, that’s it.”

  There was no “I now pronounce you man and wife.” There was no “In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen," as we would expect in Mormonism. “That’s it” ended our wedding ceremony. It was October 16, 2005, and we were married. Music played and people clapped.

  We rushed up to our hotel room where the reception was held. Free alcohol and cigars were readily available. These items, which possibly made her Mormon relatives uncomfortable, were free for the taking. “If they are uncomfortable with who I am Matt, fuck ‘em. I don't want them at my wedding.”

  Fifty people crammed into a small hotel room. We used the opportunity to mingle. Jessica’s family met my family. Our ex-Mormon friends split between occupying one of the beds or huddling around the bathroom where the Mojitos were being produced at a record rate. Jessica’s Mormon family mostly stayed in one corner of the room. Her step-mother kept complaining about the heat. “That fucking bitch, this is my day, and all she does it bitch about the heat,” Jessica snapped. If I had learned anything from years of television, you never tell a bride to settle down on her wedding day. I said nothing in return.

  Her family began leaving to drive home so that they could attend Sunday church services the next morning. My brother and his wife left too, but that was only because they had three children and the reception was turning into a drinking fest, which was inappropriate for children.

  Those of us who remained went to the top floor of the hotel and ate dinner. Directly outside the restaurant was a rooftop club. There was a bar and dancing. The air was still warm, and there was only a slight wind. We all went outside and started to dance. Well, everyone else danced. Although it was my wedding day, I refused to embarrass myself by looking like I was having a seizure while “dancing.”

  I looked over and saw my mother dancing with James, a recently out of the closet ex-Mormon. Next to him Lester was dancing with a man, a straight man. Soon Lester’s dancing partner switched to another straight man. In what I can only imagine was an attempt to show just how free and how unaffected he was by Mormonism, Lester’s straight dance partner started french kissing Lester. And then it was another man, and another.

  Straight married men, and women, started lining up to make out with the gay men. “Oh my God!” Jessica yelled. “That’s hilarious! Matt, you should kiss Lester!”

  “Nah, there is only one person I want to kiss tonight." Not only did kissing another man seem like a weird idea to me, but Jessica suggesting it made it seem that much more bizarre. The dancing continued. The kissing continued. People started leaving the rooftop bar, and eventually we left too.

  We walked down to the lobby of the casino with my boss and his wife. They were both Mormons, but very liberal Mormons, an uncommon trait. They had tattoos and piercings. They drank alcohol and smoked pot. They participated in a gay bowling league on Friday nights. Although they believed in Mormonism, they spent their lives in a not-so-subtle protest. They were both drinking, and my boss's hands were all over his wife’s body.

  “I got a new piercing,” my boss’s wife told Jessica and me.

  “Oh yeah?" Jessica was half drunk and giddy.

  “Do you want to see it?" my boss’s wife asked again. My boss was right there, encouraging us to take a look.

  We nodded and my boss’s wife pulled down her shirt in the lobby of the casino, fully exposing her breast. She had a nipple piercing. My boss loved if when people admired his wife’s breasts. Her implanted DD breasts crowned a petite 5’3” frame as a trophy for him. His actions bragged, “I get to have sex with this, and you do not."

  We stared at her exposed breast in the hotel lobby. I half expected security to kick us out of the hotel, but no one came. Nothing happened. It was Las Vegas after all.

  We retired to our hotel room happily married. The future was unwritten for us, but if our wedding ceremony was any indicator, we were going to have a very interesting life together.

  PART 2

  | EIGHT |

  Our Gay Child

  October 17th, 2005

  We drove home from the wedding elated. Our bond was official. Actually, it had been official for over a week. We had secretly married in the Salt Lake City courthouse ten days prior, but we had never told anyone about it. Getting our silk-shirt-wearing yarn-enthusiast minister registered in the state of Nevada was too much of a headache. We had done it the old fashioned way: in front of a justice of the peace. No one knew this, not even our families.

  We arrived home to find our friend Tyson living in our house. He was from out of town, someone we had met as a result of our association with the ex-Mormons. However, Tyson had never been a Mormon. He was interested in Mormons, and he was going to spend two months living with us so that he could complete research on his doctoral dissertation.

  Life went back to normal quickly with the addition of a wedding band. Jessica started knitting the yarn draped over us at our wedding into two hats that combined the two colors of yarn together. She also knitted a smaller version of the caps for a potential child. Our first baby would one day have a cap made from that same exotic yarn. Tyson spent his days traveling to libraries and universities. When he came home we would all talk.

  “The most amazing thing happened to me today,” Tyson would begin. His words were slightly muffled from the small meows coming from the bathroom. Jessica had insisted on getting another cat, we named him Tom Jones. The cat was in the bathroom so that he could adjust and survive without being eaten by the two large dogs we had patrolling the house.

  “I went to BYU today and felt like I could have as much gay sex as I wanted.”

  “What!?!?!” Jessica's contagious laughter encouraged Tyson to continue with his story.

  “I swear, I have a great gaydar, and it seemed that every other male on that campus was gay. I am positive the guy at the library was hitting on me." Tyson was gay, but not in the same way that Lester and James were gay. Tyson had always been gay, and he had never lived in a sheltered religion where gay people went to support groups and received electroshock therapy in an attempt to cure homosexuality.

  Tyson's being gay excited Jessica. She used his presence in our home to gain attention for herself. His presence gave her a good excuse to do what all progressive people do: hang out at gay bars and invite everyone to go with us.

  Our gay bar adventures started at a bar with a younger crowd that was our age.

  Most of them were good looking without shirts or chest hair. They obviously worked out a lot. I felt like a total frump in that crowd. I wanted to take our group of friends to a video arcade so that I could be the best looking guy around. Interestingly enough Tyson was not dancing with other men. He had a boyfriend back in New York. The ex-Mormons who came with us though danced with each other and other random men. Since male-on-male make-outs were now okay, having received such great feedback at our wedding, the same behavior occurred in the gay bar.

  But one gay bar wasn’t enough. We had to experience more than one bar with a tame crowd. We had to be different and explore everything we could while we had Tyson with us. As usual Jessica took the lead.

  “We need to go to the lesbian bar!”

  The lesbian bar? Admittedly I did not know many lesbians, but everything I had heard of The Pap
er Moon made it sound like a place we would not fit in. No one in our party was a lesbian. My straight wife, my straight self, and our gay roommate, Tyson, would not fit in at a lesbian bar.

  But Jessica persisted. “C’mon! It’ll be fun! Imagine what we might see!”

  She was right. I had no idea what we might see there. What secret treasures could a lesbian bar hold? What stories would we be able to tell? Besides, we had to show everyone, and mostly ourselves, that we were accepting of everyone despite their lifestyles. We had to prove that the behavior Mormonism deemed as inappropriate was okay with us.

  While at the Paper Moon I went into the male bathroom, half surprised such an establishment would even have accommodations for men. I walked up to the urinal and unzipped my pants. “Hey,” a voice came from behind me. I looked around and a butch woman was in my bathroom walking to the stall.

  “Oh, hey,” I said back. Was I in the wrong bathroom? Certainly I was in the right place. Women’s restrooms do not have urinals, do they?

  “Having a good night?” She spoke to me from the stall adjacent to my urinal. There was no door and we were essentially talking face to face.

  “Yeah, you?" I finished my business and zipped up my pants. She responded while I was washing my hands. I didn’t want to be rude, but I don't even normally talk to men in the restroom, let alone a random women doing her bathroom business in front of me. I was more concerned with getting out of the bathroom and telling everyone what I had just experienced.

  I walked out of the bathroom, did a double check that it was in fact the bathroom for the boys, and found my group at the bar. I heard Jessica’s loud laughter from across the room. “Watch this,” she said to the group. “Bartender, I want a wet pussy!” She laughed again. She easily thought she was the funniest person in the room, having asked for a drink she was certain never existed. It was all for shock value.