There's a fleet of single purpose sexual missiles, briefly converting the 107.507 square inches of my laptop screen into something akin to both, a warship - crashing, landing, docking, - and also as a mating platform. In some time, a few of these sexual missiles will accomplish - in a process of quick and violent mating - the task that genetic code has entrusted them with. The prize of their victory will be death; the failures will die too - there's no escaping the law.
I made for the mountains at the right time of the season - the right time for several weather conditions to be coincidentally appropriate for the ants to initiate their mating process, colloquially called the Nuptial Flight. Thousands of winged ants lurk around in every corner in every detail from the day. Flying, and crawling in a new swagger imparted by their newly-acquired wings. They are eager to fuck, and die.
I would, for a change, like to see this in a human context.
How about the old folks growing wings a day short of their death? They could be flitting about before their final fall. Easy signal for a dying member of any species, this.
Or how about a simplification of the whole mating ritual by having two humans grow wings at the appropriate time of their mating cycles, enrolling themselves into a mating sanctuary, and those successfully mating having their wings fall off (and genitalia explode, ahem, but that is to be welcomed, personally - or not) to resume a normal life. With that, its my new dream to mate mid-air, in a graceful ritual that is beyond present imagination. No more love letters to write, or dates to tire oneself in.
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