When I left the corruption of the city for the blue skies and cornfields of central Illinois, little did I know that I had just stepped through Stargate Carnality.

Imagine this:  You’re attending a wake.  The room is hushed, a battered Kleenex box is passed around and the grieving family stands in a somber receiving line.   A woman of indeterminate age enters and gravely pays her respects, shaking hands with each family member until she suddenly turns heel and leaves the room.  Her friend, a long-time confidante and member of the family, follows.  Knowing her aversion to occasions of this sort, he fully expects a sheepish excuse.  Instead she tells him that the handsome temptation in the receiving line was too much for her and wished to spare him the embarrassment of a funereal proposition.  Thinking himself the object of desire, he demurs and graciously offers to escort her out.  She accepts and once safely on his arm, expounds at length on the nature of her interest.  It seems that it was not he, but his son that inspired her ardor.

Of course, I didn’t believe his story.  Nobody gets picked up, or jilted, at a funeral.  It just isn’t done.

Unless you are a member of the secret underground of Illinoisan swingers who meet online on swapping sites and convene in large hotels along the interstates.

Again, I refused to believe it.  That’s the kind of behavior attributed to jaded city-dwellers and fictional characters in Letters to Penthouse.  Nobody has the kind of illicit, toe-curling rendezvous that makes good copy and everyone jealous.

Unless you are an active participant in said Midwestern sex underground.

I casually mentioned it to a young co-worker.  “This place is full of freaks,” said I, without a shred of judgment.  “And I thought Chicago was bad.

She just shrugged.  “Yeah, it is.” 

I tried to conceal my shock.  Not even twenty-one and she was completely indifferent.  It made me wonder if I had crossed the threshold into Old Fartdom.

“Not much to do during the long winter.”

She had a point.  Cabin fever can make people do the craziest things.


3 Responses to “LAND OF KINK AND HONEY”

  1. Old fartdom…Love it! One is only as old as they let themselves be. (this said by the eternal 22 year old with the 57 year old knee)!

    • I guess it’s a relative term. When does one actually qualify? Nobody describes themselves as such, but we do use it to describe others. 😀

  2. Yay for long winters!

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