To his great dismay, it's becoming quite difficult to keep up with a proper academic etiquette whenever he's dealing with you. It starts with an innocent hug, maybe a quick peck on your lips, and before he knows it - the horror! - he's rearranging your insides without a single observational note taken. How did he miss such standard procedures? What's happening to his flawless conduct?
In truth, you're exhaling in relief whenever the alien researcher is lost in his primal need: no machinery grunting next to you, no cables and sensors glued to your skin, no electric impulses going back and forth between a highly specialized computer screen and your aroused genitals. You can fuck in peace.
Oh, what a great shame. To think an intricate mind like his is still bound to mere hormonal conditioning, as if he was some lowly creature, an animal designed to mate and perpetuate its species...He needs to do something about it. He can't allow this humiliating charade to go on. The monstrous researcher rests his head against your chest, letting out a sigh of despair. Huh, you sure smell nice. Maybe he's just gotten used to your sweet, sweet scent, which is even stronger once he discards your garments aside. Damn it! He's once again nestled between your legs, overwhelmed by the urge to mate with you.
Perhaps meeting you wasn't the best idea, though it's hard to regret his choices when your lovely whines are filling the room. He'll philosophize about his intellectual ruin after he's done with you.