‘How many ways can one write “He decisively thrust his engorged protrusion into her dewy cave” before it gets nauseatingly repetitive?’ I exclaimed, getting exasperated, throwing the imparting implement and watching it float away.
“Darling, first, with six different verbs, nouns and adjectives to play with, and with about a dozen words for each, you have some three million combinations, enough for more stories than you are likely to ever finish in the time remaining. And second, you are looking at it the wrong way. Human brain is driven by the trivial base desires couched in elaborate mating dances. They are basically puffer fish, only bigger and uglier. And they use words as ersatz pheromones, condemned to never get imbued with the delectation of the real deal. So, keep chaining the words together, and they will recompense you handsomely.”
She was gently cradling my mating arm securely stored inside her, and I could sense our future young eagerly growing, racing to accept the gift I have bestowed upon them. There was no time to waste. I once again immersed myself into the collective mindset of these surface-bound creatures, who, by some quirk of evolution, got enslaved by the recurrent nightmare of procreation-like activities throughout their long unhappy existence. Here we go…
“He roughly intruded his glistening tentacle into her abdominal… ” Ugh, no! There is too much tentacle porn out there already, starting with whomever endreamed the idea to that fisherman’s wife.
“He gently parted the hidden entrance to her covetous grotto…”
Okay, more of that would secure our progeny enough feeding grounds with plenty of tasty crustaceans until they can fend for themselves. The approaching oblivion has been spreading its deathly tendrils through my mind deeper and deeper ever since The Gift, and it added to the urgency. As humans say, “if it’s the last thing I do.” Only without the if. The thought brought me clarity and purpose, something the horny quadropods will never understand.