Dear Diary of Martin X 24/07/2016

The mating was due to take place in a garden shed. 

Rabbit intercourse is a super fast deal. The buck will typically mount the doe and shag her arse off with an incredibly vigorous momentum. Like a little fluffy jack hammer. Rrrruuummph!!! She's done. 

And there's the (thinks-he's-a) bad boy and the red haired girl full of hormones and reticence somehow being reluctant to even hold hands or kiss sloppily in a dark shed and a couple of rabbits rrrumpty tumpting away merrily in the sawdust covered corner. Ah bliss. But what of our erstwhile virgins? Remarkable how the bluster and exuberance of youth and the nominal effrontery with which they taunt the rough world on its brake becomes dissipated and listless in this hutch within a hutch. “Love in a hut, is love, says Keats; was it something I said?” thinks our boy. “Maybe I should bite the back of her neck, rip her pants off and give her a proper seeing to?” He muses, with unsolicited permissiveness. But actually saying: “Are you sure yours is a doe?”

“Yes of course!” (Now she's mildly enraged, red cheeks and red hair) 

“Can I have a look?”

(Is this a new version of "you show me yours and I'll show you mine"?)

“Go on then.” 

The thing about the 'first I want a kiss and then I want it all' syndrome is how contradictory it is. What does he want our furry friend? He wants rumpy pumpy. What does she want? She wants heartbeats and kittens. What does he want? He wants love-bites and perfume.

The way to inspect the sexual organs of a doe is quite simple. You put her on her back in your hand and look in her eyes and she becomes very calm, then you open her back legs ever so gently and prize open her genitalia with your thumb and forefinger and plup – out pops her glittering prize. Same with the buck but his glittering prize pops out slightly more pronouncedly.

So, this wanton cross between biological science and bestial sexual deviance takes place in full view of the red haired girl without the bad lad giving it a second thought. Maybe this action is too rustic for her? The very “country” matter which Hamlet talks to Ophelia about with such vulgarity and pith. 

My love is like a red red rose... could that be where she took her bat home, the beautiful alabaster freckled red haired girl with her decadence and her pride? And there she is having to contend with a scruffy oik in the garden shed, fiddling longingly with her pet rabbit's receptive fanny, smelling as he did of "the other side of the park" - cigarettes and dandelions and bonfires and gin. Something must have put her off, cos this gamekeeper was never going to have a sniff with this Lady Chatterley, no matter how chirpy his buck's penis was.