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Our “Boogie Chillen’” nights repeated on an endless dreamy loop those first few months.
When our lips got worn out, he’d tell me mine were so swollen I could pass for Steven Tyler or some other insulting dig that would get me mad enough to hit him or wrestle him to the floor — which is what he really wanted more than anything. The first time my boyfriend tried to lift my shirt, asking me if he could just touch the places my modest one-piece bathing suit concealed, I shut him down and explained the rules governing my morality and chastity.
He promised to try to understand Mormonism if I would learn to run.
So began my relationship with running, and my boyfriend’s with organized religion.
We swam in Lake Ontario every chance we got because it was the one permissible activity that allowed us to gaze at and lie next to each other with the least amount of clothing on our bodies as possible. I had to explain that, as a true believer and follower of the faith, I was 100 percent committed to: no drinking, no smoking, no coffee, no tea, church for three hours every Sunday, and, of course, no premarital sex. ” I blushed, and admitted I didn’t even know what those words meant; at that point in my life I hadn’t even watched an R-rated movie. The only rules about sex his hippie parents had taught him to live by were to always give a girl more pleasure confine his competitive streak to running — he wanted to win my body over so bad.
The insta-crush I had on my neighbor was mutual, and we quickly became obsessed with each other.