“It’s Not About the Sex” My Ass by Joanne Hanks, Steve Cuno Page A
Authors: Joanne Hanks, Steve Cuno
Ads: Link
wife?
Nor did it help matters that Harmston now harbored a grudge
against Jeff’s one remaining wife. You’ll recall that as the reincarnated
Joseph Smith, Harmston felt that all of Smith’s reincarnated wives needed to
join his harem. You’ll also recall that I was one of Smith’s reincarnated
wives. But at the suggestion that I leave Jeff and become a Harmston wife, not
only did I dismiss the proposal, I dismissed it out of hand, without even
taking time to prayerfully consider, and quite possibly with a
you’ve-got-to-be-kidding laugh. Hell hath no fury like a prophet scorned.
Something else about Harmston’s trying to recruit me
troubled us. It wasn’t lost on us that it wasn’t lost on Harmston that Jeff was
now down to just one helpmeet. Since a man needed helpmeets, lots of them, to
prepare to meet God, recruiting me would have left Jeff up a creek when Jesus
came. Was Harmston trying to sabotage Jeff’s eternal salvation?
It was unmistakable. Harmston had begun to disdain us in
general. In fact, he was acting like a leader who had just found out that one
of his trusted lieutenants had been speaking ill of him behind his back.
Which reminds me of something that I may have neglected to
tell you. Jeff and I had been speaking ill of Harmston behind his back.
Harmston was pushing 60. Still in our late 30s, Jeff and I
were popular with the younger, hipper Manti set. (Go with me on that
one—that there could be such a thing.) People looked up to Jeff, and I
could cook. We threw frequent dinner parties for the younger set, which usually
meant not inviting Harmston or any of his wives. The grapevine informed us that
Harmston was a little jealous and just insecure enough to imagine that sometimes
we were talking about him. How pathetic. It was the kind of thing I would have
expected junior high school kids to obsess over, not a grown adult—even
though he was right. Not all the time, but on occasion, the opportunity to poke
fun at the old guy was simply too good to pass up. Sometimes Harmston is cranky, one of us might have said. He is hogging all of the “good wives” to
himself, another might have added. He
treats his second wife better than all the others, someone else, namely me,
might have said.
These and other jabs eventually found their way back to
Harmston. It wasn’t his style to confront us. Rather, he simply let it get back
to us that he felt this was no way to talk about the Lord’s anointed.
Still, the whole poking-fun-at-Harmston thing might have
blown over had it not been for a particular pair of breasts.
TLC members tithed. That is, we handed over 10 percent of
our gross earnings to Harmston. Some of the tithing dollars went toward
purchasing and maintaining meeting places. Some went to help out fellow TLC
members in need. And much went to Harmston’s support. Being a full-time prophet
leaves little time to earn a legitimate living, after all, and all of those
wives don’t eat for free. But that was understood, and we were fine with it.
Besides, we knew that Harmston was frugal. He often preached against spending
on worldly things.
So perhaps you can understand our bafflement when Harmston’s
second wife—the one I’d said he treated best—returned from visiting
an ailing relative in Salt Lake City. Unless visiting an ailing relative
naturally causes a woman in her early 50s to sprout D cups and magically
acquire a new, tight, show-’em-off wardrobe, she and Harmston had lied about
the purpose of her trip. And—at the risk of sounding snarky—this
struck us as an example of spending on worldly things.
The woman wasn’t even attractive. Far from it. It was a
waste of a perfectly good boob job. I could have used those implants.
I wasn’t terribly subtle in my criticism of the new pair
that had come to dwell in Manti. These remarks, too, found their way back to
Harmston. He did not find them pleasing. (The remarks, not the breasts.)
Not long after, a seemingly small change at
Nor did it help matters that Harmston now harbored a grudge
against Jeff’s one remaining wife. You’ll recall that as the reincarnated
Joseph Smith, Harmston felt that all of Smith’s reincarnated wives needed to
join his harem. You’ll also recall that I was one of Smith’s reincarnated
wives. But at the suggestion that I leave Jeff and become a Harmston wife, not
only did I dismiss the proposal, I dismissed it out of hand, without even
taking time to prayerfully consider, and quite possibly with a
you’ve-got-to-be-kidding laugh. Hell hath no fury like a prophet scorned.
Something else about Harmston’s trying to recruit me
troubled us. It wasn’t lost on us that it wasn’t lost on Harmston that Jeff was
now down to just one helpmeet. Since a man needed helpmeets, lots of them, to
prepare to meet God, recruiting me would have left Jeff up a creek when Jesus
came. Was Harmston trying to sabotage Jeff’s eternal salvation?
It was unmistakable. Harmston had begun to disdain us in
general. In fact, he was acting like a leader who had just found out that one
of his trusted lieutenants had been speaking ill of him behind his back.
Which reminds me of something that I may have neglected to
tell you. Jeff and I had been speaking ill of Harmston behind his back.
Harmston was pushing 60. Still in our late 30s, Jeff and I
were popular with the younger, hipper Manti set. (Go with me on that
one—that there could be such a thing.) People looked up to Jeff, and I
could cook. We threw frequent dinner parties for the younger set, which usually
meant not inviting Harmston or any of his wives. The grapevine informed us that
Harmston was a little jealous and just insecure enough to imagine that sometimes
we were talking about him. How pathetic. It was the kind of thing I would have
expected junior high school kids to obsess over, not a grown adult—even
though he was right. Not all the time, but on occasion, the opportunity to poke
fun at the old guy was simply too good to pass up. Sometimes Harmston is cranky, one of us might have said. He is hogging all of the “good wives” to
himself, another might have added. He
treats his second wife better than all the others, someone else, namely me,
might have said.
These and other jabs eventually found their way back to
Harmston. It wasn’t his style to confront us. Rather, he simply let it get back
to us that he felt this was no way to talk about the Lord’s anointed.
Still, the whole poking-fun-at-Harmston thing might have
blown over had it not been for a particular pair of breasts.
TLC members tithed. That is, we handed over 10 percent of
our gross earnings to Harmston. Some of the tithing dollars went toward
purchasing and maintaining meeting places. Some went to help out fellow TLC
members in need. And much went to Harmston’s support. Being a full-time prophet
leaves little time to earn a legitimate living, after all, and all of those
wives don’t eat for free. But that was understood, and we were fine with it.
Besides, we knew that Harmston was frugal. He often preached against spending
on worldly things.
So perhaps you can understand our bafflement when Harmston’s
second wife—the one I’d said he treated best—returned from visiting
an ailing relative in Salt Lake City. Unless visiting an ailing relative
naturally causes a woman in her early 50s to sprout D cups and magically
acquire a new, tight, show-’em-off wardrobe, she and Harmston had lied about
the purpose of her trip. And—at the risk of sounding snarky—this
struck us as an example of spending on worldly things.
The woman wasn’t even attractive. Far from it. It was a
waste of a perfectly good boob job. I could have used those implants.
I wasn’t terribly subtle in my criticism of the new pair
that had come to dwell in Manti. These remarks, too, found their way back to
Harmston. He did not find them pleasing. (The remarks, not the breasts.)
Not long after, a seemingly small change at
Similar Books
