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You can go home on the following conditions: 1) You will take Prozac, the high dose, and you won’t even think about getting off it for an entire year, and 2) You will make yourself run, every day, for at least 20 minutes.
Because your life depends on it.” I agreed, and stood behind the Plexiglass window by the nursing station, waiting for the bin that held all the belongings I had been required to hand over the day I checked in: my wallet, my keys, and the laces from my running shoes.
Though I’d tried, I still hadn’t found a sport at which I possessed even a moderate level of physical prowess.
The insta-crush I had on my neighbor was mutual, and we quickly became obsessed with each other.
” Our worlds, up to that point, had been too different. Running was his church, the dogma behind discipline, self-sacrifice and denial.
He promised to try to understand Mormonism if I would learn to run.
It wasn’t long before I wanted to lick his entire body, though it would take years of battling deeply entrenched sexual shame for that fantasy to come true.
I settled for his armpits — the only other place, besides his mouth, I could possibly justify as not being explicitly forbidden, and the one spot I could reach without undressing him.
The one I had made about a decade earlier with my high school boyfriend. I fell for my first boyfriend when I was 15, arriving home from church on one of those sticky, Upstate New York, summer afternoons.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.John Lee’s refrain:” populated the doodles I penned in the margins of my lecture notes. “And when I say no premarital sex, what I mean is…I think kissing is fine. Or below my collarbone.” Making sure he understood me, he asked, “So, wait. And are you saying like…even no…premarital fingering? He worked every angle, came up to the edge of every line I had designated as “off limits,” trying to turn me on as much as I would possibly let myself. I began to cross my own boundaries, and try things my church had never explicitly stated were wrong, but felt so good I knew they must be.Taking his shirt off felt too wrong, so I pulled and stretched the collar of his v-neck t-shirt down to access what I wanted, chafing his neck and strangling him a little in the process.Our “Boogie Chillen’” nights repeated on an endless dreamy loop those first few months.
I learned that, aside from running, my new boyfriend loved jazz and kissing.