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1
No. Swipe left. No. Swipe left.
What the— I squint at my phone screen. This guy is wearing a speedo, straddling his motorcycle and quite proudly displaying his—ew—goods, while smoking a pipe and giving me the middle finger. No! Swipe left.
I exhale sharply, angry that there are no interesting men on Shiver, but even angrier over why I am searching for a date in the first place.
In my soon-to-be-former kitchen, I’m seated at the bar, a granite slab resting on a custom-made island. The kitchen, like the rest of the place, is impeccably clean, and the house would be considered a castle to some. Or most, actually. To me, however, it’s a symbol of control and a reminder that serving my family day in and day out is all I should ever aspire to do, never desiring anything other than to be a homemaker, a mother, and a helpmate to my husband. The cupboards are white, the floor white marble with gray veins, and church pictures and quotes of scriptures hang everywhere.
My husband, or soon-to-be ex, loves white. It symbolizes purity and cleanliness, what every worthy, God-fearing woman should strive to be in her heart and mind in all things and in all places, in word, deed, and thought. I hate white.
Swipe left. Swipe left. Ugh! Swipe left. If I’m completely honest with myself, I don’t want to find anyone to have a relationship with. I just want to get laid, which is rather quite a pathetically immature thing of me, especially considering I just served my soon-to-be ex with divorce papers at twenty-eight, and after ten years of marriage. Marriage, ha! More like prison sentence.
The bitter thought sends a pang through my heart. I exhale slowly as my eyes fill with tears, a knot of guilt festering in my stomach. I hate how angry I have become and how my dream of marriage turned out to be nothing like the hell of reality I have endured. All for nothing.
Dammit. Dammit! I was always the good girl, the forgiving one, the softhearted, soft-spoken angel, and the obedient, subservient wife who never dreamed of asking for anything. I thought if I just tried harder and loved deeper, forgave one more time, things would turn out all right in the end. That’s what my bishop promised me. That’s what he said God had in store for me. Happiness. Unspeakable joy. Eternal life with my family. My very own planet in heaven with my loving husband. Forever and ever.
Screw eternity.
I can’t even figure out the present.
I clutch my phone and pinch my lips like a sealed clam. Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left. Left. Left. Left! I can’t see the screen. My vision is too blurry. I let my phone fall to my lap, the tears spotting my dark blue jeans. What did I do to deserve this? I did everything my church elders asked of me. I was a virgin when I married in the sacred Temple of God at eighteen. I didn’t want to be a chewed-up piece of gum, which was what my youth leaders commonly labeled young women who didn’t remain chaste until their wedding nights. So to be completely safe, I refused to kiss anyone until we knelt across the altar in the temple on my wedding day. I wanted to make sure I received all the blessings in store for me, so I figured if I remained extra chaste, I’d be extra blessed and my children would be blessed, too.
But God didn’t seem to notice my sacrifices or my obedience. We tried to have children, but unfortunately, it wasn’t in the cards for us. Not a one. I stayed up countless nights sobbing over this. A woman who can’t bear children, there’s nothing more pitiable than that. I lowered my eyes many a time at church, knowing exactly what the saints were thinking, that somewhere along the line, I must have sinned to not be granted the greatest blessing of all. And with each passing year, as my friends had child after child, my eternally-ever-after seemed more like a torturous descent toward hell.
I glance down at my wedding ring, a two-carat mixed gold diamond piece of jewelry and a symbol of a covenant I made years ago. I haven’t dared to take it off yet, though my decision makes absolutely no sense. Three winters ago, I discovered that my husband Ken was sleeping with the Relief Society President and that they had been having an affair for almost two years. The day I found out, I moved in with my parents for a month, vowing I would divorce the traitor, but he pleaded with me to return. He promised on his mother’s grave he would never cheat on me again. Naïve as I was, I full-heartedly forgave him and stood by him as the bishopric put him through disciplinary meetings. Through repentance and weekly counseling sessions with our church leaders, Ken was soon welcomed back into the congregation as a worthy member.
But even after all that, the truth still hadn’t been fully disclosed. Last year I discovered that he had had affair after affair throughout our entire marriage. And my bishop knew about everything and covered for the pervert. When I told my soon-to-be ex I wanted a divorce, Ken blamed me, saying I didn’t give him everything he wanted in the bedroom, but how could I have? A woman is supposed to be virtuous above all. Be chaste, Liz, I told myself over and over. Stay pure and desirable. At all times I needed to remember that God is always watching and that one day, I would be held accountable for my thoughts and actions. So I stayed as chaste as I could, even in the bedroom.
Especially in the bedroom.
My heart squeezes as I slide the heavy ring off my finger. I place it on the cold granite next to my laptop, acutely aware of my mixed feelings at this moment. That ring hasn’t been off my finger since the day it was placed there. A light panicky sensation rises in my chest. But there’s more. It also feels like a load has been taken off my shoulders, as if the ring not only kept me bound to my husband, but also to a faith that had become my identity.
I was raised in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or Mormons as they have been dubbed by the general public, which was a loving Christian religion to me, but a borderline cult to many of my non-religious friends, and quite possibly, the rest of the world. I started doubting last year and the more I dug up about early church history, the more I just couldn’t stand by it.
So a few months ago, I stopped going to church altogether, and here I am, trying to pick up the pieces, trying to rebuild a new reality where the old one was nothing but a sky-high lie. I wipe a tear off my cheek and continue to swipe with even more fervor. Left. Left. Left. Left! Gah! Are there no normal men out there? I don’t need a Greek god or a movie star caliber guy. Just a kind man who knows what he is doing and isn’t so high on himself he won’t even care or fail to notice whether or not I had an orgasm.
In my frustration, I almost give up on Shiver, but after the next swipe, I pause. Huh. My breath grows shallow. God, there’s just something about this man that makes me want to meet him. What is it? I squint. He has impossibly curly hair, a short beard, and he carries a rather innocent expression. But his eyes, oh, his eyes are brimming with raw sensuality, the black irises, the hooded lids, the intense stare I simply wouldn’t be able to say no to. I have a difficult time reconciling the two opposing impressions and it’s enough to make me want to know more. No, more like need to know more.
I scroll down far enough to read his profile, but not so far that I can’t still see his spellbinding eyes. His name is Daniel, he’s thirty-two years old, and he’s Danish. I was born in Norway, but my parents moved to Utah to join the Mormon saints shortly after I came to the world. We spoke Norwegian at home while I was growing up and even visited my aunts and uncles in Norway nearly every summer, all summer. Norwegian and Danish are almost the same language, though their articulation is quite different. Should I right swipe him so I can practice speaking Norwegian? That’s a good excuse, right? Not that I’d need one. He’s hotter than hell and being Danish, I bet he knows how to please a woman.
Wait.
Did I really just think that? Before, I believed God would smite me dead on the spot for having such lustful thoughts. I am still not quite sure there isn’t a God looking down on me, taking notes on everything I say, think, and do. But if He, She, or It is really up there, or out there, I have concluded that an omnipotent being must love all people, not just the zero-point-two percent of humanity who abide by the laws of Mormonism. I
check to see where this Dane is currently located. Salt Lake City. But his profile is written in Danish. Is he here on business? On vacation? Perhaps he just recently moved here? I stare at his face for a while, drinking in the fire that seems to brim from his impossibly deep, smoldering eyes. Shivers run up my spine and across my shoulders. Dare I swipe right?
Immediately, my stomach roils in revolt. Shoot. I’ve never done this before. Even before I married, I dated very few. I wouldn’t even know what to say to him if we matched! He is a handsome, accomplished thirty-two-year-old. He wouldn’t want a soon-to-be-divorcee like me. The voice of guilt screams, You’re still married! And for a split second, I feel an immense amount of shame barreling down on me. My insides flood with anger, reminding me that being married didn’t stop my husband from sleeping around. But I am not him. I want to do the right thing, be legally divorced before I date. I look at the Dane’s eyes again. It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him anytime soon, or even ever. So I don’t have to make that decision right now. I’ll just focus on getting to know him, and if nothing else, it would be fun to connect with a damn sexy fellow Scandinavian.
I pull my shoulders back, press my sweaty finger to the screen on my phone, and hold my breath as I swipe right. Straight away, the screen goes black. Did I lose him? Oh, no! Now what? But then, all of a sudden, the screen encircles our profile pictures in tornado-like motion, and the words You Have a Match pop up.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/56t78j/chapter_1_of_erotica_novel_bound_for_freedom_mf