Hello and welcome to Not So Molly Mormon podcast mini-sodes. Today I have a letter, or rather it's more of an essay. It was sent into us by listener Jackie, and I really enjoyed it and I wanted to share it with you. It's titled

Mormonisms for the strength of youth actually hurts its youth. I think this is the week that I finally do it.

My therapist nods with a comforting smile as I tell her my plan. I had sex with three different people. I had sex for my

first time on Thursday, April 15th, with a guy named Justin, who I had just met that day. By Sunday,

April 25th, my body count was up to three, with two one-night stands under my belt, no pun intended. It is by no means monumental for a girl to go through what I call a, quote-unquote, ho phase in college. You're surrounded by other horny teenagers constantly, and no one's checking your location over and over again to make sure you're not in your

boyfriend's room for more than 15 minutes at a time.

This may or may not be based on real events since you live away from your parents.

What made it monumental for me to have sex with three different boys in two weeks, however,

was the fact that I was Mormon until January, and that the reason a romantic

relationship of mine ended six months prior was because I was waiting until marriage to have sex.

I actually spent about three years from ages 15 to 18, filled with guilt and fear that no

righteous man would want to marry me because I had

given my first boyfriend a handjob. And this was after I had confessed alone in a room with the

doors closed to a 50-year-old man that I had, quote-unquote, pleasured my boyfriend. Those were his

words, not mine. Ugh. Anyways, my plan was to

finally talk to my mom about sex. Correction, to finally talk to my mom about sex now that I don't

have to follow Mormonism's rules to stop kissing or whatever else you were doing once I have

any sexual arousal at all.

My mother and I had the sex talk when I was 15, but it was accompanied by the threat that if I made out with my boyfriend while lying down or anything past that,

I would have to confess to our bishop, the aforementioned 50-year-old man, alone in a room who would then ask me specific questions about what

exactly I had done. My therapy call ended, and sometime later my mom called me to check in,

which she typically does every other day or so. We chatted about my siblings, of which I have seven.

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