Every bee remembers his first wet dream. He fantasizes about the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. They dance a delicate soft-shoe. They make love. And just as they reach climax, she tears off his abdomen, ensuring insemination, and his sudden resultant death wakes him. Laying in bed, exhausted, covered in sticky honey, the young bee realizes that boyhood is now behind him.
From this point on, every young bee starts noticing the woman in his life, the queen bee. He admires her busty, bloated thorax and her sultry, swollen abdomen, bursting with hundreds of stupid, squirming larva. Royal jelly is smeared across her gaping lips, and her great weight moves on magically shifting hips. In the eyes of all the boys in the hive, she’s the epitome of womanly form, the only woman he’s every known, a nurturing sister, a loving mother, a soul mate.
Every bee longs to fulfill his destiny and compete in the carnage of his queen’s nuptial romps. He waxes his wings religiously and follows a strict diet of honey, knowing that her majesty leaves the hive for mating, on average, every six hours. He covets the fate of his brothers who litter the ground beneath the hive. Each spent their dying moments in peaceful ecstasy, drifting softly to their final resting place, having successfully ejaculated with such force into his queen that his entire body has been torn, roughly, into a billion pieces.
Every bee in the colony competes for his mother’s touch, all pining for the sweet finality of her embrace. And, thus, a cycle of most passionate, altruistic sacrifice is continued. In mating with his mother a father dies so that his children might father his mother’s children and continue the race of bees.