A Big Cock

All animals, it seems, come into season, do their stuff, and then spend the rest of the year burying their nuts, or whatever. The only exception is man, who is at it 365/365. If you are a stoat or an aardvark or an echidna, there are signals that the ladies are up for a bit of hows-your-father, and you take the appropriate action. Once the signals cease, you go back to rooting. But if you are a human, what are the signals?
Well, according to Colin Wilson, because we don't come into season, because we don't (obviously) secrete pheremones, there AREN'T any signals: we depend on another stimulus to keep the old armadillo sniffing the air, and that is imagination.
Because we don't summon up the Old Nick chemically, we summon up the Old Nick with fantasies, and the wilder they are, the more likely we are to rise to the occasion.
I have no idea if Mr W is right or not, and at my stage of the game, I am more concerned with my Council Tax bill, but I like the anecdote he tells to support his hypothesis. He calls it the Coolidge Effect. By the way, if you are not getting any, you might like to stop reading at this point. I DO understand. Honestly.
President Coolidge and his wife were visiting a state-of-the-art chicken farm, so huge that they decided to make their way separately round the facility. Mrs Coolidge was fascinated by a handsome cockerel, and when told that this prize bird could "perform" at least thirty times a day, she smiled that smile that only women can muster and said "Tell the President!" Later it was the President's turn to make the acquaintance of this amazing cockerel. "Thirty times a day?!" he said. "With the same hen?" "No, Mr President, a different hen every time." "Tell Mrs Coolidge," said the President.