Graphic by Mary-Amma Blankson
I, McKenna Boone, no longer will be “taking off my blue jeans” for my husband Benson. Boon-Boon and I met when we were sweet, naive children, homeschooled in the Mormon faith by our aunt McKenna. To us, the world was no bigger than our quaint Washington town. We married late for our Latter-Day Saints community, at a geriatric fifteen years old. Mother would have called me an old maid if we waited any longer.
When our coupling began, we lived blissfully in each other’s company. We soaked often and merrily. Things were beautiful. But, then, instead of becoming a missionary like we always talked about, Benson pivoted to music. He began to dress scantily in baby blue and use his high-pitched bedroom voice on stage. Oh, I loved when that voice was reserved just for me, its honey vibrato echoing under the sheets of our California King. While I was allowed on his tours at first, Benny soon blocked me from entering his tour bus and left me behind with our eight children. I begged him, “PLEASE! STAY! I want you, I need you right now!” But he did not stay. He did not want me. He needed me then, but not now.
As Benson rose in popularity, he accumulated more and more wives. He left behind the modesty and spirituality of the Latter Day Saints, but kept the advantages of having multiple wives. Listen, I always wanted sister-wives. I loved the idea of sharing my Boon-Boon with other ladies. In fact, I yearned for one, two, even three women to warm my bed. But thirty? That was too many. Dozens of plain, modestly-dressed women popped up in our house like rosebuds in a garden. Even my younger sisters, McKenna, McKenna, and McKena (the black sheep), joined the ranks. Never could I imagine my real-life sisters would become my sister-wives. Sisters sharing a bed! Can you believe it? Ancient, out-of-date practices. Us Mormons stopped doing that in the mid-2000s!
In 2022, Benson released my favorite song of his, Room for 2. Back then, that’s all there was in our bedroom. Two. Now, two hundred fangirls— ostensibly called “Booners”— thirst after him and delusionally believe themselves to be his wives. Long gone are the days of being doted on by my loving husband. He forgets his inspiration, his muse. I am the one who told him to grow a mustache. I taught him how to backflip, but now he heartlessly backflips into the beds of other women. Benson has left me no choice but to divorce him, forcing our eight children to grow up in a broken household. Benny has chosen music, his Booners, and his other wives over me, so now I will choose other men over him. Notable Mormon musicians Dan Reynolds and Wayne Sermon of Imagine Dragons have gladly volunteered to be my husbands. Now, these boys’ body of work truly espouses what it means to be a believer of the Church of Latter-Day Saints. This whole situation may be radioactive, but I feel it in my bones that, without me, Benson will no longer feel like moonbeam ice cream.
