Dating Chronicles: The Black Mormon

I wrote a book y’all. I told my sister about it and she said, “Girl, you NEED to write a book about your dating experiences!” All I could do is shake my head and say, “Girllllllll, I can’t even.”

“Why?” you ask. Well, because my dating life is pretty typical of that of a young woman in America… pretty fucking depressing. There is nothing unique happening here but all the same, it is painful. These days, young people go through the dating world thinking, “Is this real life? This can’t be real life!” Oh, but it is.

I’ve been in two long term relationships in my life. I call that accumulation of seven years the years of blissful ignorance. I was protected by my respected boo thangs; I had no idea of the dating horrors, the horrors, I tell you!

So, because I’m strong enough to laugh at myself (or at least strong enough to front like this shit is funny) I’m somewhat answering my sister’s call and not writing a book about my dating experiences but posting some blogs about the madness instead. Let the Dating Chronicles commence!

First Up: The Black Mormon

The title alone should cause pause. What the hell is a Black Mormon? Yep, they exist. Did you know Black people weren’t even ALLOWED to be Mormons until the 70s????? Pretty sure that’s a thing…like, a fact. Anyway, not the point. Just adds to the weirdness.

So, I’m in college…maybe a sophomore, yeah a sophomore. I’m in between the two big relationships in my life and I’m living it up! I’m dating for the first time in my life (the first relationship was just sorta instant and we were super young. There was no "dating") and I’m loving it! I meet a Black guy that’s kinda quirky. He’s into old movies that I thought only I alone on the planet have seen, he plays guitar and he’s got big, curly hair! He’s different; he sticks out; he’s not annoyingly macho like all the football players; he’s great!

He asks me to “hang out” which is as official as dating gets in college. We walk around the main streets of our little college town. We stop for ice cream. From the conversation I start to pick up on his weirdness. He tells me he can’t eat strawberry ice cream because it terrifies him. I laugh, thinking I’m just joining in on his laughter because that MUST be a joke. It’s not, apparently. He’s not laughing. I brush it off and keep on keeping on because his muscles bulge through a his t-shirt soooooo, forgiven.

We come across a book store and he jumps, yes, jumps, in glee and asks if we can go inside. I say, “Hell yeah!" I like books.

Thirty minutes later, we’re still in the bookstore… he hasn’t spoken one word to me. His nose is stuck in a book on guitar chords…a book that I would assume isn’t that interesting or helpful without a guitar in your hands. Boy, was I wrong. His face looks serious. Then he smiles, he laughs, I swear to God at one point he looks like he’s about to cry, all due to this riveting book on chords. No narrative, just chords. Thirty minutes of me staring at him staring at chords. 

This is when I realize, okay, the cute weirdo might be a legit weirdo.

Finally, he speaks to me! He picks up a book of poetry, spontaneously losing interest in his chords and swiftly moving on to a brick-sized book of poems.

He turns to me and says, “I’m going to read you a poem.”

The first words he’s spoken to me the entire time we’ve been in the bookstore.

I offer up a hesitant, “Alright.”

The poem is long, like, really fucking long. He takes about ten minutes to complete the thing. That’s a long time in recitation!

Finally, he’s done! He looks up at me, searching my face for my reaction to the piece (that I 100% didn’t follow). I give him nothing because well, I have no idea what he just said and have nothing to give. Then he asks, “Would you like to read one?”

I’m a bit appalled but most of all just suuuuper uncomfortable. I politely decline.

I’m thinking he’s picking up on my discomfort and he offers to take me home. Wahoo!!!!

We get back to my place and "watch a movie". The typical term used before Netflix was invented.

Ok, I know. I know. How am I about to have sex with the weirdo? I’m in college, single, not doing shit…I really don’t know what else to say. Plus, he wore the super tight white t-shirt and I felt like a pink lady about to get it on with Danny. How does a girl say no to that?

We watch the movie, I snuggle up under his arm and inhale the cologne that fills the room with every rise and fall of his chest. I tilt my head and look up at him, making my move.

He pauses the film and I think, “Oh, hell yeah.

He pauses the film to turn to me, look deep into my eyes and explain to me that he’s a good Mormon, will do anything to please his God.

My soul thinks, “Ugh, I should be like you.”

My vagina screams, “#&*^#*#&**@”

He continues with his religious diatribe. I look deep into his eyes, listen intently and nod periodically, letting him know I completely understand. We are on the same page. 100%

Our religious guilt shortened our sexcapade to a mere thirty minutes of boning as opposed to the all night workout I was hoping for. But I was alright with it. The muscles were big, the who-ha was thick, I was satisfied. My weirdo, Black Mormon had done a body good!

The next morning, I wake up with a Black Mormon sitting at the edge of my bed, reading my bible. I shuffle and he realizes I’m awake.

With spirit he grabs my hand and exclaims, “Thank God you’re awake! Come, pray with me. I can’t handle the guilt!”

And then came the tears.