In a city called Bloomington, a gathering of gays and lesbians gathered together in a meeting house.
Paired one lesbian to one gay, they entered in pair. To outside eyes, no one would suspect, much less even guess they were of the gay community. But a community they were in full force, a sizable congregation of 50 +. Sat in silence, as one shared: shared often, too.
On return to their cul-de-sac, just for them, lesbians paired up with lesbians, retreated into their abode. The gays went into the community rec center.
Within their homes, neatly arranged, arrayed in a quaint grid, lesbians in a mass of sinews and finely tuned muscles groped in the dark among each other. Their soft kisses an exploratory journey up and down the study, fine forms of their companions.
By next Sunday, the group returned. Each pair, a lesbian and a gay, traversed the door of their meeting hall. On long benches and chairs, they sat together. Usually, in silence. By all appearance, this was an ordinary group, from a cozy neighboring cul-de-sac.
On return, each of them, either lesbian or gay found another again. Away from prying eyes, lived in a consummate relationship, a symbiosis as it were. On the mantle place, a picture of Edgar Hoover himself. A suspected gay with a marriage of convenience, to live within the passions of their private rooms and halls.
This cult of lesbians had all ties to civilization: mantra was, whatever happened in the bedroom, stayed in the bedroom. This was most certainly true, for each lesbians to return and throw themselves again and again into the breast of their most suppine, consumate companion. To reach the utter heights of unimaginable ectasy, to burst and melt in passion. To awake, under the security of like-minded souls: it was bliss, rare sense of comfort surrounded by love.
Edward red-eyed and fatiged: admitted one day, he couldn’t endure it. His community in the hall gazed on him in sympathy. Every week by the week, one discussed his fortunes, or his story, sometimes enlightening, sometimes sad.
By this week, some of gays became homesick and left. A few lesbians dropped out. It was the nature of their lives. To live, to find passion, and to bounce. Those who remained found an order and rhythm. They were people, with hidden lives of intense passions. Eventually, but all a few would remain. The cult wasn’t to be: but then, not many survive.
Lesbians moved here and there, gays on the prowl, so many, too many to count. But on a whim, they met up again. And admitted. While they had it, they had a good thing. Sex was good, they found it often, and lived for it. But what they didn’t have, was sex followed by a community, the brief commute to a hall: there, a rhythm of life. Certainly, there was community: the other community, where life was abounding. No fault there.
Some struck out to Les Spirites, California, to start up or resume school there. Some took with them the cult, and in some parts of the world, gathered together. To have sex was good, divine even, and for nothing they would trade it or lose it. But rare they admit, was to have both sex and the camaderie of fellowships. Here then, they drunk a glass of wine to a Cult in Illinois.
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(Disclaimer: all ressemblances in this story to real people, places, and things are purely coincidental. All stories from this page and account are compiled from local open, non-licensed, non-copyrighted submissions for literature clubs, contests, and creative writing groups. They include Kelsi Brooks and various other LBQT writers. Feel free to copy, expand, derive future works. Include this disclaimer: this is the only condition for using or deriving works from this series.)