It happened while we discussed bobbing chickens.
Sitting on the couch together, Pippin and I had somehow got on the subject of whether chickens could swim. It seemed that their bodies would be buoyant enough, but their lack of webbed feet would make movement difficult at best.
As we laughed at the idea of a group of chickens bobbing around in a pond, Pippen placed her hand on my thigh.
Soon we were entwined, and our long-simmering desires finally consummated.