A society that depends upon years of rigid sexual abstinence for population control is consistent with my new theory. (1.417)
Father Duré's abstinence theory is only partially correct: the Bikura don't have sex. Ever. Chastity has never looked creepier.
I awaited the embrace of the Shrike with the imperceptible tremble of a virgin bride. (1.562)
Even certain death by being impaled by spikes has sexual undertones in this book. (Well, if being impaled by spikes ever doesn't have sexual undertones. Since apparently everything does.)
Kassad [...] had been in love once and had enjoyed sex many times. He thought he knew the way and the why of it. [...] He was wrong. He could never adequately share the sense of the next few minutes with anyone else. (2.226)
Since Kassad is having sex next to numerous dead bodies, we're glad he's not sharing that experience with us. But here's our question: is he sharing it with the mystery lady? Are well always alone after sex?
Kassad felt the bloodlust build in him with turgid strength. (2.445)
Kassad's word choice during battle feels less like something out of a war novel, and more like something out of a Harlequin romance novel.
Kassad's sense of honor and sanity called out for him to stop the slaughter but his almost sexual bloodlust overpowered any objections. (2.471)
There's no "almost" here, buddy. He's used the term "bloodlust" about three times in as many pages, which we're pretty sure puts the "lust" into "bloodlust."
Farcaster portals opening to admit the cold lengths of attack carriers. The warmth of plasma explosions. (2.485)
Even Kassad's sexual metaphors are militaristic in nature. This boy always has war on the brain. Or whatever body part he's thinking with.
I learned what "priapic" and "satyriasis" really mean. (3.300)
We did too... after consulting dictionary.com. (Priapic and satyriasis.) But we're thinking that Silenus means "learned" in a different way
He's a machine, I though. Human, but a machine behind that. […] We made love three times that night, each time responding to the slow, sweet imperatives of touch and warmth and closeness. (5.806)
Johnny's not just a machine, he's a love machine. This is a little weird to us. If sex isn't human, then what is?
Everything Johnny Keats ever was or would be exploded into me; almost, almost it was like his orgasm inside me two nights earlier, the surge and throb and sudden warmth and stillness after, with the echo of sensation there. (5.1206)