Don't play the vestal virgin, dear boy, we're both men of the world and have both skippered our boats around the cape horn too many times in stormy seas to play coy.
You know the situation; the lights are low, dangerously low, the temperature rising, sophie ellis-bexter on repeat on the stereogram beating out a primal, hypnotic sexual rhythm, naked flesh writhing against naked flesh, a well worn Eames rocking against double worsted axminster. Condensation at the windows, car keys in a bowl. Pheromones and Yardley Lace, playing havoc with a man's senses.
You feel the sudden spray of liquid arc across your visage, stinging your eyes. "Has someone just knocked over my flute of Dom Perignon 1988 or is it something more sinister?". You're in half a mind to finish what you're doing, but your make your excuses and retire to the downstairs WC/utility/boot room and look in the mirror. Your neighbour Bob, has left the mark of Zoro on your face with his essence. You shrug. Sometimes in the heat of battle, there is friendly fire.