The Tropical Island Coitus Survey

(My interior monologue goes many varied places.)

Let’s suppose we’re stranded on a tropical island with no way to contact the outside world. Maybe our ship crashed there and our radio stopped working. It’s not a single palm tree surrounded by sand, but a decent sized island. You could walk from one end to the other and back in a day, but no larger than that. There’s no natural predators. There’s an abundance of fruits, but mostly papaya. In the center is a freshwater lake which lets out into the ocean when it rains. The beach surrounding the island is beautiful sand. The ocean itself looks blue.

It’s been long enough that we know we’re not going to be rescued. (A month, a year, however impatient we get.) We weren’t necessarily romantic before, but we were friends. I’d been joking about it for a while, as you’re the only one to talk to, but I finally bother asking,

“Hey, will you have my babies?”

On a tropical paradise, I’d probably procreate with most female companions. Kind of one of those “..We’re the last humans left on earth. Let’s fuck.” I thought of my theory that the rise of oral sex coincided with running water and soap. I also thought of how effective doggie style is at getting your bits away from the dirt ground. There’s no other humans, so there’s no chance of disease. There’s no natural predators, though there may be some stray cats, by some bizarre twist of fate. Meow. There’s only a shitload of papaya, so you’ll never starve.

Wouldn’t it be something to live like that, naked, primal, yet satisfied? (And doggie style.) I’m going to go make my chili now with the power of modern fire.