I do, he said, slipping the greased ring onto her equally-well-lubed finger. The weight was immense and sudden. He suddenly felt trapped in his body, unable to flee from forces gathering against him. His burgeoning manhood took her by storm as equally her poetry forced itself inside of his very will...but the desire for a well-cooked breakfast forced him to finish fast. She was bitter and spat in his eggs.
Then her split of wine spilled onto his gleaming rod of morning coffee, thusly, everyone was satisfied by a quickie in the bathroom. They presented themselves to the task at hand and all was well. They lived happily ever after for twelve minutes, thirty-seven seconds. A freak accident, the falling stars and hope dead at last made them realize the error of their ways. He looked at her, she at him; nothing more than casual sex and causal motion.
Nine months later he was in a factory bemoaning his stupidity for having failed to use proper protection, father of a bastard and recipient of genital herpes; she in a commune up in Canada with a hippy alternately named Jake and Moonstar pushing out another failed attempt at perfection.