A/N: This developed from a throwaway comment I'd made to Teobi about my inability to write love scenes. I am truly incapable of it. I mean I cringe at kissing ("Both lips? At the same time?!"). All that potential bacterial transfer... *shudder*
I've also changed the name from 'Pillow Talk' after stupidly failing to remember the title of the brilliant story by the supremely talented and celebrated MAG shipper, ForeverLulu, who has written a far better story, also called Pillow Talk, and to avoid any confusion relating to it. After all, her story is awesome and this... well, it's just silly.
Also, my internal narrative sounds remarkably like John Cleese, which makes any hint of romance near on impossible - just ask Connie Booth. During a moment of Gilligan's Island induced sleep deprivation, a scenario suddenly formed in my head that was a sort of cross between a TV-show style Pinger fic and the Sex Education scene from Monty Python's Meaning of Life. It made me laugh and so I thought I'd write it down. It is not in the least bit titillating or lascivious. It's just ridiculous.
Dedicated to my Gorgeous Gilligan Girls, Teobi and JWood201 - to whom I am eternally grateful for not giving up on my Gilligan education.
Disclaimer: Gilligan's Island belongs to Sherwood Schwartz. Gilligan belongs to Mary Ann. Professor belongs to Ginger. That's how it works, see? I own nothing of material value, I'm just borrowing a couple of characters until someone takes them off me...
It had finally happened. Years of pent-up sexual tension between Roy Hinkley and Ginger Grant had finally taken its toll. They had argued at the dining table over something so petty neither of them even knew what they were arguing about, and then eventually Ginger had said something to the Professor about being stubborn and obtuse, he had thrown his hands in the air in high dudgeon and let out a grunt of consternation, then stormed off to his hut. Ginger had followed him and the ensuing argument ended abruptly in an unexpected, vigorous, one may almost say 'animalistic' session of unbridled, passionate and rather noisy lovemaking. Everyone - possibly aside from the Professor and Ginger, of course - knew that eventually something like this was bound to happen. They just wished it could have waited until after dinner.
The rest of the castaways were still sat at the table and exchanged embarrassed, uncomfortable glances. At first Skipper decided to attempt to talk over it, but quickly gave up when he realised nobody was listening. As the only married man on the island, Mr Howell felt it his duty to do the only appropriate thing under the circumstances - and so he covered Teddy's ears and eyes just in case his little furry friend became corrupted. Mrs Howell gazed off distractedly and sighed at various memories she thought were lost forever of those halcyon bygone days when Mr Howell wasn't called the Wolf of Wall Street for nothing. Gilligan and Mary Ann sat next to each other and cringed, too afraid to look at each other without bursting out laughing.
Eventually, Gilligan couldn't stand it any more. He didn't know how he'd ever look either Ginger or the Professor in the eye again after this. He could already feel nightmares brewing that involved far-off cries of, "OH! ProfESSor! Don't stop! OH!"
"Mary Ann, you know what I saw yesterday?" he suddenly asked, not even really sure what he'd seen yesterday and hoping some vaguely credible excuse to get away from the dining table would come to him.
"Yes, Gilligan?" she answered, hoping that he was about to come up with an ingenious excuse to get away from the dining table.
"I saw a pebble at the lagoon exactly the same shape as the Skipper's head!" he told her, before his internal voice chastised him for his lack of imagination. "Do you want to come see it?"
Mary Ann had never been so thankful for such a lame excuse to get away from the rest of the castaways in her whole life.
"I'd love to!" she declared, grabbing his hand and practically dragging him off to the lagoon. As soon as they were out of earshot, Gilligan stopped running and pulled Mary Ann close to him in a great big bear hug. "Oh, Gilligan!" she declared, unable to stop giggling. She could feel his body convulsing in laughter next to her which made her cling to him even more tightly, getting giddy from their shared hysteria.
"I didn't think you'd be so shy about that, Mary Ann! You grew up on a farm, it must have happened all the time in spring!" Gilligan pointed out when they'd both stopped laughing.
"It did, but at least they weren't quite so dramatic about it!" she told him, giggling helplessly. "Come to think of it, Gilligan, you don't seem shy about it at all!"
Gilligan's eyes gleamed at her and a slow, impish smile took over his face.
"I was in the Navy!" he reminded her. Mary Ann's cheeks flushed bright pink under his gaze. She'd never given the fact a great deal of thought until that moment.
"Oh!" she answered, unsure what else to say but suddenly feeling terribly weak at the knees. Gilligan's lips twitched into a coy smile and he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before mumbling something incoherent about finding that Skipper-shaped pebble.
Back in the hut, the Professor had located his very secret stash of cigarettes and had lit two of them, one for him and one for Ginger.
"I don't usually do this, Professor!" Ginger began, taking a long drag of cigarette and blowing a smoke ring as she exhaled. The Professor shook his head.
"I must say I'm not addicted to tobacco products myself, but there's something about the post-coital cigarette that has an extremely calming and positive psychological effect upon the smoker," he agreed. Ginger's eyes widened.
"I was actually talking about what happened before the cigarette," she pointed out. He blushed.
"Oh," he answered, looking down at the bedclothes and shifting uncomfortably. "Well. I admit that it isn't something I make a habit of doing either," he told her.
No indeed, the Professor hadn't made much of a habit out of casual encounters of the sexual kind since his days at UCLA when his heart had been broken by the beautiful red-haired temptress of the campus - Lucille Duggan. She had kept him up night after night, mostly under the pretence of getting him to help her with her doctors thesis, but more often than not getting him to help her with her research on the more practical biological side of things. Then, weeks before she handed her thesis in, she ditched him for his best friend - Robert McKendrick. The cad. In his anger he swore that he would never fall in love again, and especially not with a red-haired temptress like Lucille.
Until, of course, he met Ginger. Ginger did a very good job of pretending that she was all hair, make-up, pretty dresses and Hollywood movie studios, but she was intelligent and kind and had settled down to life on the Island far more quickly than the Professor himself had done. And she was beautiful. Hopelessly, unnervingly beautiful. There were many occasions he'd completely forgotten what he was thinking when he spoke to her and accidentally managed to get lost in her eyes for a moment. He wasn't exactly sure when he fell quite so helplessly in love with Ginger, but he knew that there was some very jovial whooping from his internal voice when they finally stopped arguing and started kissing.
"Professor?" she began, trailing her fingertips gently down his chest and kissing his shoulder softly.
"Yes?" he asked, trembling involuntarily under her touch.
"I must say I'm surprised we, uh... that, uhm... that we just, uhm..." she began, trying to think of a succinct enough euphemism without using the word "wow". "What I mean to say is. Well. Wow."
"I'm not in the least bit surprised that this happened, Ginger," he told her, truthfully. Her face lit up.
"You aren't?" she asked, hopefully. He shook his head.
"Not at all. It was just a routine chemical urge to reproduce," he answered, matter-of-factly. She almost choked on her cigarette.
"It was merely a result of my masculine heterosexual genetic programming which stimulated me to inseminate you," he explained. Ginger blinked several times and swallowed hard.
"It was what?"
"It isn't really so difficult to understand. The survival instinct in us, probably in no small way spurred on by our fight, simply sent a mixed message from the limbic system in the right side of our brains, which controls emotion and feelings, to the motor cortex in the left side of our brains, and by the time it had reached the other side, we confused our anger for lust and the result was some extremely intense and, if you don't mind my saying so, highly enjoyable sexual intercourse," he said. Ginger blinked again and shook her head.
"You... you make it sound so romantic," she finally answered, not too sure what else to say, but unable to hide the look of dismay flooding her face. The Professor let out a gentle chuckle.
"I don't know if romance is anything to do with it, Ginger. I would suspect that we both reacted to certain pheremones we were emitting. You're probably unwittingly ovulating at the moment and so this fills you with a stronger desire to be impregnated and there must be something about me that makes me a more biologically pleasing sexual partner than, for example, the Skipper," he told her, matter of factly. Ginger nodded.
"Yes, there must be something that makes me more sexually attracted to you than the Skipper. I can't imagine what that might be," she agreed, not entirely convinced she was actually awake.
"Well I suppose I am younger than the Skipper and so that would probably make me seem stronger, more virile and therefore more capable of impregnating you," he reasoned. Ginger nodded.
"I suppose you do seem a little more virile than the Skipper," she answered, vaguely.
"We do spend quite a lot of time together. It's only natural that at some juncture we would form a non-platonic attachment to each other," he added. "After all, you're now reaching the peak of your sexual maturity, which usually occurs in women around the age of thirty-"
"PROFESSOR!" Ginger protested.
"What?" he asked.
"Do we really need to bring my age into it?" she sighed in despair.
"It's a scientific fact. In another ten years or so you'll be past child-bearing age and so it's quite normal for you to seek out a mate with certain physical features that you subconsciously would think beneficial for your children to inherit - hair type and eye colour, for example," he explained. "Sexual chemistry really is a fascinating subject."
Ginger had by now had enough.
"Professor. I understand that this must be a monumental scientific moment for you, but can you please take five minutes out from dissecting what just happened like it was written in some textbook?" she pleaded, almost on the verge of tears. The Professor looked surprised at her outburst, he really hadn't intended to upset her at all. In fact, he thought she had found the whole discussion as interesting as he had. On reflection, he supposed that perhaps it wouldn't hurt to tell her how pretty she looked when her hair was all mussed up.
"I'm sorry, Ginger, I suppose I did get carried away with myself," he agreed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer to him. "There are, of course, other, less scientific reasons that this happened."
"Really?" she asked, cautiously. She thought she'd heard more than enough about insemination and impregnation to last her a lifetime.
"Really," he answered with a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Sometimes it's difficult for me to remember that occasionally you need to be told how beautiful you are. After all, I get to see you all the time, you only get glimpses in the mirror," he told her. "You must forget." She beamed at him.
"Oh, Professor!" she began, almost at a loss for words. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly. "I think that's probably one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to me!" she told him. He smiled softly at her. "It wasn't all scientific theory after all!" she realised. He shook his head.
"There's only one thing I like more than scientific theory," he told her, his blue eyes gleaming wickedly. She bit her lip and tried to stop the grin that was quickly spreading across her face.
"What could that be?" she whispered.
"Practice," he answered, kissing her deeply.