Sex in the cellar.
There is a point every August where there is a premonition of autumn and the coming of winter. It happened the other night with an unsummerly nocturnal coolness. A not-yet-icy but incipiently harsh breeze poked its nose at my door. It was seeking entry to find and mate with my basement furnace in lascivious abandon. It was saying, "We are going to make real heat together, kiddo. I'll have you flaming in lust!" There is a consequence to every act of intercourse, but this is a copulation passionately to be feared.