Happy Honeymoon

How-To: A human sex doll

What do you get when you mix doomsday and marriage?

During my twenty-six years in the cult, I only knew of one couple who didn’t do any physical base touching pre “I do’s.”  If you’ve read my blogs, (if you haven’t, please do) you’ll know that that one couple does not include me. My ex-father-in-law called me a whore. I embrace it!  As the young people say, “I love that for me.” 

I have had a weighty amount of trauma surrounding sexual pleasure. The purpose of sex was not that of enjoyment; for a woman, it was our subservient duty for procreation. A marriage union unable to do so is an abomination. Hearing those words spoken during your marriage ceremony is quite a joyous moment. You are not an abomination. You found a man of God, and your life’s peak is near. Oh yay… Motherhood.

 Our wedding ceremony rehearsal commenced after the Wednesday evening cult service before our wedding. No food is served, and I guarantee it is not a party. It is a run-through of aisle walking and marriage warnings, and there is no lip-locking in front of the altar… yet. It was also the same night wherein the cult leader handed my fiance and Elder Eric the handbook titled ‘Happy Honeymoon,’ which he had written. Elder Eric held onto the handbook and did not give it to me until the evening of my wedding. 

Bachelor and Bachelorette parties are not events that we participated in. On the eve of my wedding, my two bridesmaids came for a sleepover, and we watched something equivalent to Little House On The Prairie… only after I was subjected to sexual mortification. 

The nightly lectures I endured for 365 days did not cease even though it was the night before my ‘Bride of Christ’ moment. 

Elder Eric called out from his La-Z-Boy in the sunken living room. “Breanna, come in here!” He handed me the ‘Happy Honeymoon’ manual and told me to sit on the couch directly before him to read it after he had read it. I sat in utter shame as I read quotes of, “Sex isn’t what Hollywood portrays it to be,” “He owns her,” and “For the man, as you slide your penis into her vagina, continually ask her if she is ok,” and “ Certain body parts are for certain holes,” along with, “The position of choice is missionary, eyes must connect at all times.” After reading through it once, Elder Eric told me to slow it down and reread it. My bridesmaids were downstairs in my bedroom waiting for me to prep our hair, but I was trapped under the hand of perversion, guided by Godly leadership. Twice wasn’t the charm; it would take me a third read-through to tickle his fancy. I never mentioned it again. 

Identical are cult weddings. They begin Saturday at noon and end at 12:30 p.m. The reception starts at 5:00 p.m. and ends around 9:00 p.m. Then, the couple is sent off, alone, together, for the first time. No amount of modest dress, conservative child rearing, or ‘Happy Honeymoon’ reading can prepare any young person for this moment. 

While the wedding night would not be the first time my ex-husband and I engaged in sexual penetration, it was the first time we would be alone for an entire night, the first time sexual intercourse could and would happen without fear of repercussions. A premarital dick inside of a pre-marital vagina mixed with the words “I love you” is a one-way ticket to marriage. As talked about in Sixteen, Secrets & Sex , my future was in the hands of an eighteen-year-old boy who I would be married to today had he not said he wasn’t in love with me. Well, he could have kept his fucking mouth shut instead of ratting me out like he promised. Now, on this night, March 5, 2011, the time arrived when a naive nineteen-year-old me with the only knowledge of my bodily functions coming from a one-hour lecture from a cult member on the Serena Method of Family Planning, two months before I wed, was now the prey to a horny, porn and construction site educated teenager husband. 

With our luggage packed, I sat in the passenger seat of Elder Eric's navy blue Acura MDX. My bridesmaids strategically packed my wedding dress around me as my husband and I made our way to The Union Bank Inn in downtown Edmonton, Alberta. 

If you placed me in an operating room with a gun to my head, citing I had to perform brain surgery, sure, I could ‘operate,’ but the patient wouldn’t be coming off the table alive. That is how it felt when I was introduced as Mr. and Mrs. (insert his first and last name here). It is how I felt when I sat in the passenger seat, smothered by my wedding dress; as we parked in the hotel parkade, we walked into the hotel and rode the elevator. If I didn’t do this, I would live a cult life riddled with judgment and humiliation. Twenty-one was around the corner, old spinster status. My heavenly eternity was dependent upon this. As I waited for the door to our room to be opened, I was defeated by the pernicious ideologies of purity culture and the inability to deny the sexual desires of my husband. Quickies in a car without orgasm and a fucked up religious“ What To Expect” pamphlet weren’t the best exposure study guides

For a few years, close women to the soon-to-be bride would host a ‘Lingerie Party.’ Comprised of the bride, bridesmaids, mother-in-law, and family members. They barely broke an attendance of over ten. In the privacy of the host’s home, we would gather with snacks and non-alcoholic beverages as the bride opened up boxes of lingerie picked out for her by those surrounding her. The topic of sex was prohibited at the best of times, but all of a sudden, it was a blinking open sign with a long list of dil-do’s and dil-don’ts. Cult rules also made their way into the bedroom, including the lingerie one could wear—no leather, corsets or toys. Never mind kinks; the concept of a vibrator was foreign to me. A woman is forbidden to wear pyjama shorts and pants. Negligees were the nighttime apparel of choice, and while the cult leader requested knee length, it wasn’t always easy to find, so above the knee in the bedroom was accepted for a while. 

I was given gift cards, lingerie of an 85-year-old Amish grandma. Deliciously fucking sexy! Some girls had been trying on their gifted lingerie before I suffered through my “celebration,” but once the leadership found out, those try-ons halted quickly. You can conclude that there was no try-on for me. 

Along with my suitcase, I had packed an entire overnight bag with my lingerie for my honeymoon. I told my husband that I would be changing out of my wedding dress in the bathroom of our room before he could touch me. Masked as wanting to surprise him, I was scared shitless while wanting to create the perfect night for him. I was now his property, and I wanted him to want me. I opened my bag only for my face to drop, and my anxiety skyrocketed. It wasn’t my bag. It was that of my ….. Matron of Honor. 

Now what?!

I was not going to get naked. Nope. I had the perfect, modest white bridal set I needed to wear. So, my husband called his groomsmen. It was going to be an hour's wait. There was one queen-sized bed, and he was lying on it in jeans and a white t-shirt. I sat on the bed beside him in my heavy tulle wedding dress. And as every rebel cult member does, what did we do next? We turned on the TV and watched ‘1000 Ways To Die.’ The deaths I witnessed that night haunt me to this day.

My husband went down to them when the groomsmen arrived while I remained on the bed. As he made his way, reaching the groomsmen took him a while. Leaving his cell phone in the room, I answered it as the best man called. 

“He’s coming,” I said.

“Ewwwww,” replied the best man. 

I didn’t understand the reference at the time, but what did you expect when the best man was also a horny teenager?

With my lingerie bag finally in my hands, I locked myself in the bathroom. 

I hated who I saw in the mirror and my hair. I planned to pull it back gently, tying it with a bow, but it did not give me what I needed. After a few door knocks from my husband, wondering if I was okay, I had to step out. 

Whether he adored what he saw or it was the opportunity of unlimited sex that presented itself, for the next seven days, unless we were driving, we did not leave the hotel rooms that we occupied. He was not fond of the cult-approved lingerie I would wear, but hell, it didn’t stay on for long anyway, but here comes the pressure of my vow I didn’t write. 

“The needs of your partner are not to be denied.” 

I never said no without consequence. A consequence of self-doubt, low self-esteem, turning to porn, sexual abuse and fear of my husband leaving me. As I have written about in the series, after years of marriage, he found another woman “pretty” and asked her for sex, solidifying my fear from day one. 

I struggled with going beyond missionary, but I did it for him to keep myself safe. He learned a lot of sexual toxicity from construction sites and porn, filling his head with sexual fantasies that he could not shake. I was in the eye of the perfect storm, which placed me in the position of victim of spousal sexual abuse. 

Out of the cult, his sexual desires intensified. Now, with the freedom to explore the world of sex, he was relentless and restless in bringing toys (among other things) into the bedroom. Struggling with the indoctrinated rules surrounding sex, the thought of toys = infidelity in my mind. I couldn’t make sense of it. I had, up to this point, never even touched myself. 

As we sat on the couch, he ordered a vibrator and a Fleshlight from Amazon, and with PRIME, they arrived in two days. 

All it took was a few uses for me to connect the dots. I began to use the toys to my advantage, as tools to give my body a breather from the sexual abuse I was enduring.

But they wouldn’t be enough to end it. 

*Names have been changed