The Missionaries can see my monkey…

I have always loved me some missionaries.  Even at two years old I loved them.  I think it must be written into my genetic code somehow, especially when you consider that my mother was converted by them when I was nine months old and ultimately left my father for the promise of becoming re-virginized through baptism and a plethora of handsome young men in suits and white shirts who just can’t wait to get married and have lots of kids.   I think my exposure to missionaries at a young age set the stage for the type of men I would ultimately grow up and copulate with.   Especially when you consider my unwavering attraction to clean cut, well spoken, neatly dressed and, quite often, gay men.  Oh, the heartache of my mid-teens and early twenties!   Back then I didn’t realize that when a boy with a Spandau Ballet hairdo and light coating of lip gloss gives you a Yaz tape it’s not because he likes you that way.

So, yeah.

I left the church right after high school so I never really got the chance to date many RM’s, but I sure got myself placed on the “Do Not Interact With” list, or whatever the hell it is they call the list of girls in a ward that missionaries shouldn’t talk to.  I was up to no good and they knew it.  But seriously, the missionaries were the only thing that got me to church from the ages of 14-18.  I did date an RM my senior year of high school, but I’d already been doing “it” with boys for a while and I quickly grew bored  with dry humping through so many tedious layers of clothing.  Such a bore!  But even after, and even still to an extent, I have a soft spot in my heart and dirty thoughts in my mind for those sweet young missionaries.

One of my earliest memories of missionaries is also my first memory of shame.   When I was three or so I would put on “shows” for anyone who came to the apartment or really anyone who would pay attention to me for more than a minute.  My big act was comprised of me and my favorite stuffed animal, a monkey that I loved to dress up.  And by dress up I just mean that I would put my little girl panties on it.  That’s it.  Just my panties.  And I would dance and jump around, flinging my pantied monkey all around with me as my tortured, hostage audience watched.  Not much to it really, but I thought  my show was glorious.  My favorite performances were always for the missionaries when they would come over,  and it was in the middle of one of these wildly fun for me/torturous for my audience performances that it hit me like a ton of bricks: MY PANTIES ARE ON MY MONKEY and THE MISSIONARIES CAN SEE MY MONKEY.  Snap.  Cue the burning hot shame.  End of memory.

I hope those panties were clean.

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This entry was posted on Monday, September 6th, 2010 at 4:47 am and is filed under Random Musings.

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  1. September 8th, 2010 | Diana says:

    Ohhh there was such a cute missionary in our stake during my last year of high school. Elder Aguirre with your big dark eyes and Brazilian accent. Oh yes.

    Unfortunately, despite slogging through two years of college young single adult ward, I never got to date any RMs either. I was scarily overeducated and had very short hair.

  2. September 10th, 2010 | Cognitive Dissenter says:

    Oh. Mah. God. This post cracked me up. You should not feel a drop of shame for this most awesome memory.

  3. September 20th, 2010 | Em says:

    Very funny! An no need to feel shame…little kids love to perform. The monkey and the underpants just make the performance more awesome.

  4. September 22nd, 2010 | Becky says:

    Haha. Love it. My favorite missionary memory was when I was about 18ish and there was a missionary who came in and spoke to the RS and used the word “crap.” Oh, the scandal!!!