I remember meeting with my bishop at 14. He had me describe the sexual acts I’d shared with my boyfriend. I didn’t even have the words for some of the things we had done, so I awkwardly tried to describe the acts. It didn’t even occur to me that an adult man should not be asking me whether I’d been naked with my boyfriend, whether he’d touched my breasts over or under my shirt, whether I’d touched his penis, whether or not he’d penetrated me.
At the end of the interview, my bishop told me that my beauty was both a curse and a blessing. He explained that because I was attractive, men would want to touch me and it was my job to stop them. I suddenly wished I’d been born ugly.