Greetings, brothers and sisters! Thanks so much for agreeing to take a short pause in tonight’s orgy to hear what I have to say. I promise it won’t take long. Your lube will barely have a chance to dry, it’ll be so fast! Pretty much the only time finishing early in a sex cult will be a good thing, am I right ladies? Haha. I see Moonbeam straddling that hay bale over there gets it.
Anyway, when I joined the Legion of Wandering Celestial Amoebas a few months back, I was in a pretty bad place. My boyfriend dumped me so he’d have more time to play Fortnite, I was only wearing yoga pants because of my Chardonnay gut, and my cat and constant companion, Mr. Buttercup, died after a long battle with whisker cancer. I was, as it says in the cult handbook, “ripe for the pickin’.” So, when the hollow-eyed man selling breast milk popsicles at the farmer’s market asked if I was interested in eternal life, I immediately said, “Duh.” Next thing I knew, I’d been kept awake for 96 hours, I’m living on a desolate farm, and a feral child was shaving my head with a rusty razor. Talk about not being scared of commitment. You disciples went from 0 to brainwashing in no time flat!
Overall, I’ve been pretty happy with regular cult life. The chanting, the hallucinogenic mushrooms, and the restrictive 500-calorie a day diet make me feel like I’m back in a sorority again. I like that our only two clothing options are a white robe or a different white robe. And, of course, what modern woman isn’t skilled at plastering a rapt smile on her face while a mediocre white man with a raging case of narcissistic personality disorder blathers on and on about how he’s The Chosen One? Oh, stop frowning, Orion the Savior. I’m kidding. You know I cut all ties to my family and gave away my earthly possessions just for you. Nobody manipulates me quite like you can, Master!
Which brings me to the reason I’ve asked you all to stop spiritual humping for a few minutes: I just can’t deal with the non-stop cult sex. I know, I know, what a problem to have, right? It’s like complaining there’s too much pizza or bacon on your plate. But honestly, ten, eleven, twelve times a day? With multiple partners and configurations? Not to mention all of the “special nights of communion” we’re required to have with Master so our extraterrestrial guardians don’t burn us with their space laser beams. Every single adult interaction on this compound is sweaty. I mean, haven’t you assholes ever heard of holding hands?
Don’t get me wrong, I like sex just as much as the next woman who’ll need years of deprogramming by a licensed therapist does, but I. Am. Exhausted. Any spare moment not spent in the Sex Hut is taken up by either Silkwood-like showering or putting CBD hemp oil on my inner thigh rashes. It’s like, I know I’m in a sex cult, but do I really have to “be” in a sex cult? I have zero free time. Who knows how many Netflix Originals I’ve missed because I’m having yet another three-way with a couple of man buns who smell like patchouli and goat yogurt. Know what the title of my memoir will be? Fifty Shades of Stop Touching Me with Your Hippie Stick, Brother Wolf.
Listen, I know you don’t usually let people leave this place of their own accord. I get that. It’s part of your cult-like charm. It’s like what the FBI’s official report says: “Once the Legion of Wandering Celestial Amoebas gets their hands on you, they won’t let you go without a fiery government standoff.” But as someone who’s had sex with every cult member enough times that I can probably pick your private parts out of a police line-up, I beg of you to let me leave the sex cult. Just blindfold me, throw me in the back of a van and then dump me on the lawn of my ex-boyfriend’s house. God knows, nobody there will ask me to have sex.