"I'm doing the sex." Jackson said, locked in the moist embrace of his sex friend(s).
"The sex is being done. By me. With them, my sex friend(s)." he grumbled, which was as close as Jackson could get to a pre-ejaculatory exclamation. The night (or day) continued as the two (or more) individuals went on performing their copulatory correspondence. It was an intricate ritual with many moving (sometimes joggling) parts, one might even call it a cavorticating carnalation, if either of those words were real (which, sadly, they are not).
It had been three days since Jackson had fallen in sexual love with another person, after which he'd spent most of his time inside this very chamber situated on the 69th room of a completely non-sexual, purely unerotic inn that just so happened to have the suitable number of lodgings to accommodate this author's juvenile sense of humour.
"The sex is proceeding" Jackson whispered. A tongue tickled the back of his throat.
Rose petals littered the floor and bed sheets, though their original amative aroma had gotten marred somewhat after three days of decay and dehydration. Stray beams of either moon or sun light shone through the termite-ridden window blinds.
A house of matchsticks lay discarded on the chandelier, though Jackson couldn't for the life of him recall how it had gotten there. Who had built it? When? Was it him? Was it someone else? Why was every matchstick head dyed a different colour? All those mysteries, it seemed, would remain beyond his reach forever. This irrevocable truth weighed heavily on Jackson's soul, as if the gravity of his limited, half-human understanding was squeezing the air out of his lungs. The overwhelming sensation terrified Jackson like nothing else in the world could, which was good since fear was, famously, his kink.
A half-empty bottle of some very expensive Merlot wine jiggled merrily atop the nightstand, threatening to teeter over the edge every 37 seconds. Jackson had been eyeing it for the past 78 hours and would scoot it back in place with his boot whenever it came dangerously close to spilling out.
Speaking of which...
Jackson let out a huff, a puff and then the house of matchsticks collapsed, much like a house of cards (only wooden and more narrow). Small pieces cascaded from above, showering him in flammable litter. Still, the man stubbornly persisted, though his resolve began to falter not long after.
"The sex is... concluding?" he asked, shocked that he could not endure another 12 hours without throwing in the proverbial towel. Clearly, he was getting old (and laid). Why, he could remember a time when his venereal vigour would not yield until at least a week had passed (a week of doing the sex, if that were not transparent).
The moment came, as did everybody else, and soon Jackson Healey found himself alone again, staring at the matchstick-less chandelier and wondering if perhaps he should go eat. The feelings of sexual love he'd underwent with such intensity mere minutes ago were now fully dampened, much like the tangled bed sheets round his legs. The man grumbled out a snore, turned on his side and promptly fell asleep. Food would be there tomorrow, or whenever he would finally wake up. For now, he was content, resting and with a roof over his head. In Jackson's book, that was pretty good.