There were plenty of awful things about being a teenage Mormon girl,
Like those cooties the RMs brought back from places like Honduras, Madagascar, Mexico, and South Central Los Angeles.
I not the least of which were licked cupcake lessons,
I don't know, I knew some LDS girls who wanted their cupcakes licked, but me, being the chivalrous young man that I was, turned them down (to the obvious disgust of at least one) (OK, OK, I finally hit a real low with this one, but Kimberly
set herself up for it and and I couldn't resist).
modest clothing fashion shows,
What's wrong with modesty?
craft making activities
What's wrong with this?
My dances always started with me being picked up by the Stake President's son. I lived in a small country town and Blake* (name changed to protect the not-so-innocent)
And you?
lived there, too. Blake and I were the only two Mormons teenagers. The Stake center was at least forty-five minutes away and my mom didn't want to drive me, so Blake would pick me up. He was two years older than me and I thought it was big stuff to be picked up by a boy who could drive. Well, after a few trips together, Blake imposed his own sort of fee for taking me - and it wasn't monetary.
Uhh...did this have something to do with cupcakes (I can just see those two smart mouth robots from
Mystery Science Theater reading this post and typing comments...)?
He pulled over on the way to the dance one day and just laid one on me. A big, sloppy French kiss, which initially grossed me out because he had spent a goodly amount of time earlier showing me how he could turn his tongue completely upside down inside his mouth.
You know, there are tons of websites online where you can go to read stories such as this. Some of them actually make you pay by the month for the privilege.
But I soon got over the gross-out factor and our pre-dance kissing became a regular activity, though we never dated or even danced with each other once we were inside the building. It was weird. But hey, he didn't ask for gas money!
Hmmm, in this kind of situation the
guy usually pats the girl for the stolen thrill.
At any rate, once the dance started, the same thing always happened. The girls went out and danced in a group in the middle of the floor and the boys stood lurking around the refreshment table, watching us. My momma taught me not to hang out in the bunch of girls too often, because it intimidated boys to ask girls to dance in front of a bunch of other people. She also taught me never to say no to a dance.
Hmm. my mom never taught me any of that. She was right about the girls though. I always went straight for the wall flowers.
It was ego crushing for boys to be turned down once they had gotten up the nerve to ask for a spin out on the dance floor. So, I listened to momma and she was right. I got asked to dance. A lot. I think it was because the guys figured out right away that I never said no.
It seems the SP's son had figured that out already...
The nerds figured it out really fast. The most clever of the nerds, Dallas, devised a plan to use my good will to his advantage.
Dallas was a chubby boy who, like most of the boys, hung out around the refreshment table. But Dallas was different. He not only ate the cookies, he wore them. He had a perpetual dusting of cookie crumbs on his shirt and his mouth seemed permanently stained at the corners by red punch. And Dallas liked dancing with me. The minute I'd reapplied my lipstick in the bathroom and made it into the dance, Dallas was there, waiting for me. He'd make a beeline for me and ask me to dance immediately. I learned there was no escaping him. What he lacked in coolness he made up for with persistence.
Dallas would lead me onto the dance floor and proceed to pull me as close as possible. I distinctly remember him caressing my back with his plump, sometimes sticky hand, and breathing his cookie breath in my face. His polyester pants made a swishing sound when his thighs rubbed together. The minute our dance was over is when the real fun began. Playing keep-away from him was wildly entertaining. If I wasn't on my toes, I'd end up dancing all night with Dallas, so I used every girl trick imaginable to get the other boys to dance with me so I didn't have to accept another dance proposal from Dallas. And heaven forbid I ask a boy to dance! Nuh-uh. That was a big no-no. So it was like a game for me, getting the boys to dance. And I loved it.
This is pretty good stuff. Kimberly should start writing screenplays for
Hannah Montana.Our DJ was the Young Men's president of my home ward. He owned a music recording studio and was very open to the kind of music he'd play. We'd beg him to play "Mony Mony" and he always did, even though we chanted the naughty words when we weren't supposed to.
Ohhhhhh...they were sooo naughty. Kind of like Alice Cooper screaming in
Public Animal Number 9 "We got some dirty words in our desk".
I didn't do it, but I got a thrill that the other kids did.
I'm glad you didn't' inhale.
The Stake dance fun was almost ruined by Bishop Slip Nazi. He was the Bishop to whom I eventually confessed the pre-dance French kissing. He determined the reason I was such a harlot was because I didn't wear a slip under my jean skirt, so he denied me a recommend to do baptisms for the dead and implemented the Slip Policy. The Slip Policy stated that all the girls had to wear slips under all their dresses and skirts, whether they were see-through or not. Extra slips were kept in the closet in case someone forgot theirs.
And it was just a matter of time before the camps were up and running.
We were asked at every dance if we had slips and if we didn't, we either put one from the closet on or went home. Our clothes were inspected closely to see if they met dance standards. Even tight skirts were forbidden and once I had to change mine. I was given a big, ugly, flowery granny skirt to wear. I was understandably mortified but there was no way Blake was taking me home early, so I had to deal with it.
Like, a total downer man.
Does anyone else have church dance memories they'd be willing to share? I'd love to read them.
Like the time I took the DJ hostage at gunpoint because he wouldn't play the theme song to
H.R. Puff N' Stuff?
Naw.
