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Thanks for tuning back into Oh My Heck, the podcast where I make fun of myself for believing some really goofy stuff and throw back the curtain to show you the man running Oz, also known as the Mormon Church. This week we’re talking about

[Music clip: Berlin’s SEX! (I’m a)]

And if you know that song, it’s hilarious how she can be all sorts of objects for his desire, but he just repeats, “I’M A MAN” with more and more dogged determination. Methinks he doth protest too much, but…. Note for you guys. I’m keeping the PG rating, but I am talking about

[Music clip: Berlin’s SEX! (I’m a)]

and using medical terminology for the body and various acts and possibly an overdose of euphemisms. So use caution in the workspace or what have you.

Something you need to know upfront is that Mormons are OBSESSED with sex. Obsessed. Oh, you think they’re all good and square-jawed and pure? They are! And they are constantly thinking about or worrying about or judging others about

[Music clip: Berlin’s SEX (I’m a)]

Is that going to get old? Okay. Sorry. Question for you, the listening audience, and I’d love to hear your feedback on my website, laura-stone.com or hit my Twitter, linked on my site. If you grew up in the States or say, Western Civilization, did you guys talk about sex in Sunday School? Like detailing what is acceptable and what isn’t? Dry humping? I guess I’m asking if your Sunday school teachers outlined how dry humping is a sin. And soul-kissing. And bare shoulders. (On girls, of course.) Or “turning on your factory” by masturbating was a sin? No? Because that’s how I grew up, as did all of my cousins and Mormon friends.

My parents gave me the basic sex talk when I was 12, my dad actually used my mom’s Relief Society Easel and felt-board, so he gets bonus points for attention to clinical detail with cut out pages from some medical book he’d found. Because of this, I knew that my menstruation-bits were about to be switched to the ON position. However, it was the Church’s job to tell me what to do with them and more importantly, what not to do with them.

It’s pretty straightforward, and again, I’m using the cis-binary language the Church prefers: lady bits are to be in cold storage until the wedding reception is over, and then the factory should begin immediate production. There shouldn’t even be a foreman strolling on the grounds of the factory until the front door’s key has been handed over to the CBM, Chief Baby Maker, who is, of course, supposed to be my husband and Priesthood holder.

One memorable lesson from Sunday School (because this was taught on Sunday in Young Women’s class—a gendered Sunday school class all female-identified youth are expected to attend after our general Sunday school class and sacrament meeting because Mormon church is three hours long every dang Sunday… Sorry. Lot of time devoted to this stuff. Now, this particular lesson I’m going to share with you was taught at least three times a year. This particular lesson featured our teacher pulling out a box of cupcakes, all frosted and scrumptious looking.  There were just enough for each of us in the class to have exactly one. Before she passed them out, however, she took one out, licked the top, and put it back in the box. Naturally no one took the licked cupcake, so one girl was left out of the deliciousness.  See, if that wasn’t clear enough – anvil dropping–your virtue, your chastity, YOUR WORTH AND VALUE is a frosted cupcake. And no one will want you if you let them lick you, metaphorically and literally. [uhhhhh]

But…I really like frosting, I thought, sitting in my shin-length floral dress with a Peter Pan collar. So… what did that mean when I, filled with naïve yet very real concupiscence, took my cupcake before I understood it was an object lesson and languidly dragged my tongue through the crests and valleys of delicious, sweet frosting? What did it say about me as I sat in my chair, as my mouth filled with its sweet, sweet nectar?  Probably that it was Fast Sunday and I was starving.  [whispers] Let’s…not look too closely there just now, unless you’re Hayley Atwell and into it.

There were lessons where a vase of perfect white roses were put before us, and one was passed around. We were encouraged to touch the velvety petals, to pinch them a little (some people like that sort of thing) and breathe in deep their intoxicating, delicate aroma. By the end of class, the rose was wilted, bruised, and wholly unappealing. Just like a slutty high school student would be. And really, there isn’t anyone in history who wanted a teenage girl once they knew she had been touched or passed around, you know: sullied in the Biblical sense. That has never, ever happened. Thus endeth the lesson.

Well, not quite, because another lesson consisted of the teacher offering us a piece of gum, either an untouched, unwrapped stick from the package, or the chewed up and spit-covered glob now in her hand. More to the point was the lesson where a plank of wood, unmarked, was brought in and nails were hammered into it. Oh, you can pull out the nail (slowly, slooooowly, then really fast, then when you hammer it back in, go in at a different angle. Mmm hmm, just like that)

…sorry. Problem: there’s always going to be a hole left in the wood, right? And no one will buy a piece of wood with a hole in it. NO ONE. Never gonna happen.

All of these very subtle lessons were actually trying to teach me about how disgusting I would be to the Lord and to my potential husband if I let a boy put his hand on my boob over my sweater. Not even side-boob is okay, guys, sorry. If I wore flashy clothes—you know, where my shoulders were exposed, or cleavage, or my quadriceps– if I wore too many earrings and one in each ear is all that are allowed– or if I talked dirty, I would be no better than a nasty ol’ piece of chewed up and spit out gum.

My body is a temple, and no one will gain entrance.

I don’t care if you’re from Orem, Odgen or Oregon, if you were a young woman who was Mormon, you had one of these lessons, if not all of them.

One of the most hard-nosed leaders of the church, Spencer W. Kimball, talked about sex all the damn time. He harped on the youth CONSTANTLY to tell us to avoid even THINKING of sex until we were married. Uh, good luck with that! (Or rather, if they could charge you for every moment you felt shame as a youth for thinking the mildest of dirty thoughts, they’d be even richer than they are now) Every good Mormon has a copy of his book, “The Miracle Of Forgiveness” in their library, which you might remember me talking about in episode 7.  The title is hilarious because everything is a damn sin to this guy, so yeah, I guess it’s pretty miraculous if you can be forgiven for any of the many, many sins.

But there is nothing, save murder, as abominable as fornication. No, really. First paragraph of Chapter Five. Embezzle millions from a nursing home forcing the elderly to become homeless? Well…did you let anyone touch your hoo-hoo dilly while you were embezzling their life-savings? Because if you did, we’re talking some serious ramifications here. You might even be kicked out of the church. Oh, no holding the hoo-hoo? Alright then, you rapscallion, but don’t forget to pay your tithing, pray for forgiveness, and we’ll see you on Sunday.

I mean, I get that

[Music clip: Berlin’s SEX (I’m a)]

is a taboo in most religions. Believe me, when I find the mainstream religion that’s gung-ho about doing the dirty, I’ll make sure we all know. Most of the Bible-belt religions view sex in a manner best described by Piper Laurie in the movie Carrie: “I can see your dirty pillows! Go to your closet and pray, and ask to be forgiven.”

In the Mormon church, it becomes trickier. First of all, the curse of Eve (whisper: menstruation) doesn’t exist because it’s believed that Adam HAD to fall in order for Adam and Eve to obey the second commandment: loosely translated from the original Sanskrit as “get that woman with child, and fast.”  (And on behalf of Eve, fellas, “Not too fast!”)

Women aren’t considered harlots seeking to destroy man’s inner goodness. Well, not at first. First, women are dainty, precious little gifts, clean as the driven snow, pure as the water from a new spring, untouched flowers just waiting to be told it’s okay to bloom. Now, go to second base with that treasure and she quickly becomes the carpet in a movie theater after a midnight showing of Rocky Horror.

Not to forget the fellas in all of this, because they also had the licked cupcake lessons. Because no guy wants a cupcake that’s been licked. The girls were the cupcakes there, too. Not once did it occur to any of the teachers to offer hot dogs, drop one on the ground, and ask who wanted that? Because I’ll be real. I’ve been to plenty of cookouts and we all have dropped a hot dog in the ashes, knocked the dirt off and ate it anyway. Too subtle? It’s no hammering a pristine block of wood, true, but still. Women are to protect their virtue by covering up and hiding and men are told to control themselves, or end up with a woman with whom they couldn’t control themselves.

Back to Fear Factor with Spencer W. “Don’t Let The Boys Touch Your Gift!” Kimball. Sex is tantamount to murder. And golly, do the leaders hate that they have to harp on this, but their hands are tied. (Don’t do that, either.) It would be a disservice if they didn’t routinely teach the youth that sexy thoughts, sexy desires, sexy acts, sexy clothes, sexy music, sexy pictures and sexy sex were about as evil as it gets. It’s unclean; it’s filthy; it’s ungodly; it’s abominable.

One story about Kimball that everyone loved to bring up in these lessons revolved around how moral President Kimball was. He took a stroll along a beach in Brazil for… some reason, and some girls from Impanema were walking, and when they passed this chaste man, he only said, “Hi!”  Some of the Brethren allegedly asked him if it wasn’t distracting, all of those scantily bikini-bottomed and topless women on the beach (really, what the hell was he doing on a beach in Brazil? The man was like, 106 and slept in a three piece suit.) The story goes that President Kimball looked at them with a benevolent countenance and said that he didn’t even notice they were in bathing suits.

So he was imagining them completely naked?  Wait, no, it’s supposed to mean that he just saw their sweet faces because he is so moral, he’s above being turned on by chicks in their thong-th-thong-thong-thongs. And then in the same breath, they’d teach us the parable of the donkeys and how close to the edge of a treacherous road they could get, and how many donkeys were lost.

Quick summation of the parable of the donkeys. Treacherous mountain road, donkeys loaded up, people liked to see how close to the edge they could get for… who the hell knows why. Money, I assume. But! Danger! Why? So the smart man was the man who took the inside curve and avoided the edge of danger. Well, obviously. And way to drive your donkey on the wrong side of the road, like THAT’S moral, you law-breaker.

But one does not simply walk into Moral; its white gates are guarded by far more than just sacred panties. It’s guarded with your very life.  Because, you see, we girls were told repeatedly that it would be better for us to die than to lose our virtue.

“There is no true Latter-day Saint who would not rather bury a son or a daughter than to have him or her lose his or her chastity—-realizing that chastity is of more value than anything else in all the world.” The Miracle of Forgiveness, Chapter 5, page 35. Or from Gordon B. Hinkley, the prophet of the church in the 90s, who said, “I know what my mother expects. I know what she’s saying in her prayers. She’d rather have me come home dead than unclean.”

Nice. And interesting to note that if you go right this minute to LDS.org, the official church website, it says clearly: “The Lord’s standard regarding sexual purity is clear and unchanging.”

Unchanging. Better to come home dead than unclean. Hey, so I want to talk about Elizabeth Smart for a moment. You remember Elizabeth Smart, the pretty little blonde-haired 14 year-old-girl who played the harp and who was kidnapped by a polygamist goon and his wife, kept her hidden in the mountains for about 9 months where he, well, “Made her his wife” in every sense of the word. GROSS. So gross.

So her parents probably stoned her instead of taking her back, right? I mean, it says the Lord’s standard regarding sexual purity is clear and unchanging! Chastity is of more value than anything else in all the world, after all. From the Prophet’s mouth, and he’s the spokesman of the Lord. Now, you and I are intelligent and emotional beings equipped with empathy. Obviously, OBVIOUSLY sexual assault isn’t Elizabeth Smart’s fault, or anyone else who has been assaulted.

But Elizabeth Smart assumed she’d lost her virtue. She has spoken countless times about that chewed up gum lesson, and how she fully believed that that was her. It’s taken her years to come to terms with her own sense of worth, her own words. And I remember being told I should kill myself to avoid being raped. “She’d rather have me come home dead than unclean.”

Eff you. Just… piss off with that horrible mindset.

Because I knew that I was a special flower who must remain untouched or I’d wither, bruise, and die, I knew all about keeping my body untouched and unsullied by boys. But when I became a teen, I wanted them to touch me. (Like my hand or something, come on. I was still a totally innocent virgin who didn’t understand how the pieces fit.)  I fretted over whether wanting that was a sin, because I was also taught that your thoughts carry as much weight as your deeds.

My father fortunately didn’t subscribe to the idea about thoughts being equal to action, and did his best to keep me from freaking out all the damn time. He taught me that humans were made to think and figure things out on their own, stumble a few times, clean themselves off and try again. He explained to me that the sins of youth were about passion. We were hard-wired to screw up, and there wasn’t much that could be done about it but to try and not screw up too badly, learn from it and try harder next time.

One of my cousins came to visit us from Salt Lake City one summer. We stayed up late and watched old episodes of Saturday Night Live. A particular sketch came on one night. Dan Akroyd plays a pimp with Larraine Newman as a spandex-wearing chick.

The premise is these two unlikely art-aficionados discuss various Renaissance paintings, but in a totally base and sleazy way. It’s hilarious. Dan shows a famous painting by Titian, yet he pronounces it, swear to God, Tit–ee–an. He then snickers and points directly to the subject’s nipple and asks if the audience knows what it is. It’s all summed up by saying, “Tit—ee—an. He painted a good lookin’ picture of a broad on a couch.”

I started laughing loudly at this point, and look over for my cousin. He’s suddenly not there. I look throughout my house and find him in the living room with his scriptures out, and praying fervently. He was so upset that he had had lustful feelings towards a classic painting of a woman; he was praying for God to give him the strength to cleanse his sinful, dirty thoughts. We were 16. He was 16 and disgusted that he had been thinking of BEWBs. I predicted a lot of praying in his future.

I moved to Utah after high school and attended a college that was predominately Mormon. Where I had been taught the “birds and bees” by my parents when I turned 12, a lot of the girls—not an outlier or two, but the majority of girls in my college dormitory didn’t know even the rudimentary mechanics of sex, let alone had experienced as much as a good night kiss or had their hand held. College. This is college.

A lot of people in Utah save their first kiss for the altar at their wedding. Most parents had held off on the “sex talks” out of fear that “if they know how, they will do it.” I know how to do Calculus, but I’m not secretly and furtively solving derivatives, come on. There was one girl in particular who continually blew me away with how utterly naïve she was. We’ll call her Emmaline. She was a tall, blonde girl with ruddy cheeks and a sweet smile and knew nothing of the world. There was a class at our college that was notorious for being an “easy A” called “Family Life.” Think Home Ec. Emmaline and my dormitory roommate were in this class together, and I’m fairly certain she signed up because she wanted to reinforce her baby-tending skills, hoping that would be the focus. The teacher discussed things such as birth order, family management, and yes,

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(That was a high attendance week.)

There were handouts during the sex-talk week such as “STDs in a monogamous relationship,” “Oral Sex: Is it Right or Wrong?” (btw, the church says WRONG even though Joseph Smith was all for anything and everything sexual with your wives… CONSTANT AND UNCHANGING.) More handouts in this class were like, “How to Allow Yourself Pleasure Without Sacrificing Your Partner’s.” A sort of grown-past-sixth-grade “Your Changing Body and You” curriculum. Remember… this is college.

The first time the teacher used the word cunnilingus, Emmaline dropped her red face down onto her desk, hiding behind her crossed arms. As the topic progressed into talks about the G-spot, she climbed under the desk and began sobbing. This is a true story.

The professor became very concerned and tried to draw her out by asking what made her upset, not realizing that this young, sheltered and devout girl of 19 would never be able to publicly answer questions about sex, let alone listen to others discuss it. She finally grabbed her things and fled, and never returned.

Here’s where it gets… well. About a month after that incident, she began dating a nice guy. He was a sweet boy who grew up on a farm in a small Utah town, I think it was Santaquin or Spanish Fork. Small place. He was studying agricultural business management. He had recently returned from his two year mission and was still glowing from having completed his service for the Lord. Good kid. They were engaged two weeks after their first date, and married three weeks after that. This is totally normal in Utah, btw. The girls in the dorm threw her an impromptu bridal shower. The other girls bought her cleaning supplies and cooking utensils. Not a single silky nightgown or anything of the like was given by them.  Of course, I was the immoral jerk from out of state who got her a knee-length chemise from Walmart, like I thought she was some kind of godless hooker.  No one there even thought of that as a gift. For a bridal shower.

The day of her wedding arrived, and she left school for a week to go on a honeymoon. Their plans were to move to the married couple dormitory afterwards. My roommate met up with her shortly after and heard the sordid details of a marriage bed gone horribly, horribly wrong. After the temple ceremony and their first kiss, they left for their honeymoon suite. When the groom attempted to consummate the marriage, she became horrified and called him filthy and disgusting. She then called her mother, asking her to come get her, saying that her new husband was filled with Satan. She also asked for her father to come so he could “lay hands on him” and give him a blessing so he could be the righteous man she thought she was marrying.

She truly had no idea about sex and her own body’s sexual abilities, let alone what happened to a man when aroused. Her mother evidently told her that yes, men wanted to do sick things to women, but it was to be endured for the sake of having children and one day being exalted in the Lord’s Kingdom.

See what not watching Rated R movies has gotten them? If only she had seen Carrie, she would have known that they weren’t Dirty Pillows, but “breasts, Mama.” Lord, I love me some Sissy Spacek.

While I lived in Utah, I heard about parents who consulted with their children before having unprotected

[Music clip: Berlin’s SEX (I’m a)]

so everyone could agree on whether or not to bring a new child into the family. After all, that affected them all as a family unit, right? This also exists in the musical, Saturday’s Warrior, a hyperbolic pastel-fest that features a jazzy number about how evil birth control is, and no, I’m not making that up. And raise your hand if you want to be clued in on your parents doing the horizontal tango.  I hope you didn’t raise your hand.  If you did, go sit in the corner, you’re in time out.

My Mormon friends were mostly “hard core” true blue Mormons, and the older I got, the more I learned how sex was dealt with. In that… it wasn’t. I get wanting to strive for perfection in everything, in thoughts, words, and deeds. I was raised Mormon, too. But let’s face it: your body wants you to bone. A lot. With these people, controlling your very biology is considered godly – and is expected of you. They believe that perfection is expected, no less is acceptable.  Do, or do not.  There is no try.

A 1970s handout for young men, written by Mark E. Peterson, a member of the 12 Apostles of the LDS church, instructs boys and in particular missionaries who cannot help but “stimulate” themselves while sleeping should consider tying their hands to the bedpost with their belts to ensure their purity. Aaaaaaand welcome to crazy town, next stop: never. There’s a video someone caught of a Mission President in Africa berating the elders for their sick sins of self-abuse. Even better Is the AMAZINGLY high-quality video produced by BYU-Idaho that compares masturbators to WOUNDED SOLDIERS in the great battle of souls.

No, really. I HIGHLY recommend it. It’s like Saving Ryan’s Privates, The Battle of the Throbbing Bulge, The Thin Red Vein, Full Latex Jacket. The Hurt Locker. (Look, they’re not being taught how to avoid chaffing. It’s important, medically speaking.)

I literally mean this short film about not fapping is shot like a WAR MOVIE. Wounded soldiers gasping in pain as they try to hold it in as shots fire all around them. Ahahaha. It’s…. [kiss fingers]

Okay, so they had that pamphlet from Mark Peterson, “For Young Men Only.” [whistle YMCA intro] It’s all presented like you need to be cured of wanting to stroke the monkey. You need a CURE. From the pamphlet:

  A Guide to Self-Control:

1. Never touch the intimate parts of your body except during normal toilet processes.

2. Avoid being alone as much as possible. Find good company and stay in this good company.

3. If you are associated with other persons having this same problem, YOU MUST BREAK OFF THEIR FRIENDSHIP. Never associate with other people having the same weakness. Don’t suppose that two of you will quit together, you never will.

[oh my dear lord, do they even HEAR how this sounds??]

4. When you bathe, do not admire yourself in a mirror. Never stay in the bath more than five or six minutes — just long enough to bathe and dry and dress AND THEN GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM—this is in capitals—and into a room where you will have some member of your family present.

You know. With your boner.

5. When in bed, if that is where you have your problem for the most part, dress yourself for the night so securely that you cannot easily touch your vital parts, and so that it would be difficult and time consuming for you to remove those clothes. By the time you started to remove protective clothing you would have sufficiently controlled your thinking that the temptation would leave you.

6. If the temptation seems overpowering while you are in bed, GET OUT OF BED AND GO INTO THE KITCHEN AND FIX YOURSELF A SNACK, even if it is in the middle of the night, and even if you are not hungry, and despite your fears of gaining weight. The purpose behind this suggestion is that you GET  YOUR MIND ON SOMETHING ELSE. You are the subject of your thoughts, so to speak.

So, if I may. If you have a medical condition like, say, diabetes, the church’s stance is tough. EAT THE DONUT WITH THE MAPLE GLAZE and leave the cream-filled Long John ALONE. I’m a terrible, terrible person, and I don’t know why you’re listening to me.

It goes on to say to avoid pornography, think wholesome thoughts, read church materials and of course. PRAY THE STIFFY AWAY.

And last, but not least, DON’T EVEN TALK ABOUT IT! I quote: KEEP THE PROBLEM OUT OF YOUR MIND BY NOT MENTIONING IT EVER–NOT IN CONVERSATION WITH OTHERS, NOT IN YOUR PRAYERS. KEEP IT OUT of your mind!

But… you literally just said to pray for help?

Further instructions are, and I’m not making this up, to yell STOP to your penis when it becomes erect. Then go read something like “How To Win Friends And Influence People” by Dale Carnegie, a use I’m sure Carnegie didn’t anticipate when he published that juggernaut. And now they’re just creating guys with a self-help fetish, and the pun was intended there. You’re welcome.

Oh my heck, I had NO idea that a guy’s penis was such a demanding, ticking time bomb! Don’t touch it! Don’t look at it, good lord, don’t even think about it while you’re cleaning it! It’s like a hissing, spitting cobra down there.

And, yeah, sure, let’s put this in perspective of other religions. You’ll go blind, you’ll grow hair on your palms, etc. But did those churches have mass mailers for the male youth, numbering in the hundreds of thousands? Or as a part of religious study? On Sunday? Do they tell missionaries to affix their hands to their bed with the belts (oooh, kinky!) to keep from accidentally touching themselves while they SLEPT?

The take away is that if you polish your knob, you could bring down God’s entire plan! Boys are to be missionaries. They have to be pure to find converts. If you’re not pure, then you can’t convert anyone and you’re a failure. And you failed God and your spirit brothers and sisters, leaving them to rot in hell. You just had to flog the dolphin, didn’t you? Couldn’t just get to know yourself without getting to know yourself, huh? And don’t forget that a host of angels are watching you, recording your every step, Bucko. Think about your angel, sitting on a cloud, having to endure you “coming to grips with yourself” night after night, writing it down in exquisite, purple prose. Possibly turning the story of your nefarious deeds into a best-seller in heaven. (Side note: Would there be anything but a best seller in heaven? …I digress.)

I’ve always assumed that if God is real, and if He made everything, then biology is a part of God’s plan. He made us and our world (if you buy into that theory), and so the natural urges of our bodies are from Him as well.

I understand the hidden message of teaching abstinence or at least in teaching caution with regards to sexual relations. There are health issues involved. But fundamentally, it’s about controlling the birth rate with a religious twist. But to teach that sex is bad, m’kay, and a teenage boy’s natural desire to look at a partially-naked body is of the devil and he personally will cause utter failure in God’s Ultimate Plan For Mankind, well, that just causes total breakdown, particularly when it comes to when they get married, like in Emmaline’s case.

And think of it like this. How does a piece of paper suddenly change the message inside your head you’ve had hammered in for your whole life?? How do you make the transition from “it’s bad, it’s bad, quit looking, it’s bad” to chimes and bells and rice being thrown and later, a sexy bass line and lights out? You need to know this stuff. You need to know it’s normal and natural and, when done right, pretty dang awesome to participate in.

In fact, I made a point in my upcoming novel, AND IT CAME TO PASS, out on May 18th, to specifically address how this controlling and unhealthy obsession with

[Music clip: Berlin’s SEX (I’m a)]

causes real psychological damage in young men and women who are Mormon. And I left in—not truly explicit phrases and words, but it’s clear that sexual relations are happening in my novel because what the heck are LGBTQ kids supposed to do? How the heck are they going to learn how their bodies behave and more importantly, what’s possible in their romantic lives? Representation freaking amtters.

I’m from the time of Judy Blume, and we passed those books around the 6th grade like government secrets. Well, pre-45 administrative government secrets. It’s how I learned where the noses go when you kissed and that once upon a time maxipads came in giant boxes with safety pins and… other things. LGBTQ Mormon kids have BUPKIS, and on top of this whole shame spiral of “sexual thought is a sin”, they’re taught that they THEMSELVES are sin incarnate. I just had an argument with a Mormon dad online this very week who fell into the stupid mindset of gay means sex and not a person. And that a person who was gay WAS. A. SIN.

And that’s disgusting and unacceptable to me. I reject that as utter hatefulness. You are not a licked damn cupcake. Period. Unless you’re into that. And then go on with your bad self, Miss Sprinkles. You do you.

Look. It isn’t naughty to be attracted to someone and wonder what they look like under their clothes. That’s pretty dang normal. Nor is it an abomination if they turn out to be the same sex. It isn’t sinful to be curious about that person’s body. And God most definitely will not smite you down for relieving tension when thinking about said person and his or her sexuality. It’s normal and okay. And healthy! Keep the pipes clean for optimum health, says I and most medical professionals! As far as I’ve been able to find in my extensive masturbation research, not one human being has been struck down with lightning while doing the Hand Jive (yes, that’s what that song was about.)

However, there was a Thaddeaus Jeargae in Norway, 1482, who was found dead under a pile of stones, his “Lingonberry” in hand, but that was because he was leaning against a crumbling wall while thinking of a particular milk maid. This was the time before quality masonry but during the time of male masturbation.

Fortunately, women just have to keep an aspirin between our denim-skirt covered knees. And if we don’t, we’re only hurting ourselves by being slutty sluts who slut it up. According to the church, if a guy puts a deposit in the spank bank, he could literally destroy a life AND God’s plan. Wow. I guess penises are pretty powerful after all.

Gosh. Thank goodness women don’t masturbate.

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Thanks again for tuning in. I’d love to hear from you! Go to laura-stone.com to leave comments or to follow my social media accounts, and be sure to add AND IT CAME TO PASS to your pre-orders on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or anywhere books are sold. Every time you reblog or leave a review, an angel gets its wings and a puppy gets a nose boop, so don’t be a monster. Until next time!

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