“I recall being approached at a cocktail party by a biologist who clapped me on the back and shouted, ‘Congratulations. You were the one that made it!’

“‘Made what?’ I replied.

“‘You were the sperm that won the race.’

“‘Get away from me with this locker-room jock talk,’ I replied. The selection of ovum and sperm is not an athletics contest. However wounding this may be to the male-scientist-ego, this most important step in the evolution of species is not a blind muscle-feat. As it happens I remember exactly that moment when I surged out of my father’s penis. I recall the pell-mell stampede of the macho-jocks pushing each other aside to rush up the fallopian tube. But I didn’t join the race. My sperm-navigation manual told me that this was an aesthetics-intelligence test. So I was in no hurry. I floated along and discovered to my delight that Mum’s recreational system was the most wondrous exciting environment! Cushy, velvet, pulsing with cellular information, surging with perfumed signals and chemical instructions. Tissue-temples and ovarian-architecture. And the incredible presence of a humming super-intelligence located at the end of the fallopian highway…”


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