More of me, Anatole, asking myself if having a sublime philosophy of sex makes sex hot, or whether it's the unguessable, random Divine Accidence of sex--

Thus musing, I began reading a recent contribution to the Nifty Erotic Stories website, a story about a middle-aged man who is a friend-with-benefits of another middle-aged man, both of whom have college-age sons who also have sex together--and the question is with them also ¿Are they lovers, or merely friends-with-benefits.  And I am thinking, as I read, what a lot of interesting questions this story has already raised;  maybe a whole new Province of Male Love mapped out in our Gay Humanist's Carte du Tendre...And then,

"I'd worked out that they (the sons) operated a loose rota of which of them would get to mount the other....I sniffed at the air, hoping to to be able to identify from the palpable anal odor that was wafting in from the corridor, which of their bums was being penetrated...."

The narrative does continue, I think, as coprophiles are wont (like the dogs they nearest resemble, rushing with ever more fervid delight [for shit excites them] from turd to turd) always to go on, asked or unasked...but I, horror-stricken and appalled, of course,  had long since stopped reading. 

It appears that there really is some necessity of separating coprophiles, shit-eaters and fart-smellers from the rest of us.  Else, like bishops in the Church of England, or girls  in gay male pornography, or dogs in cemeteries, they will (if only for mere despite at being excluded) but the more determinedly wriggle, creep, climb and intrude in among us, and loudly and insistently claim unthinkable and entirely inadmissible equality with us who despise and reject them.  Yea, I have known one coprophage  (since dead of AIDS--and no loss) who, though sensible of my hatred for him, seated himself across from me at table in an upscale restaurant in San Francisco, and who proceeded in an over-familiar way to spear forkfuls of my salad from my salad plate--till I stabbed him in the back of the hand with my salad fork, causing him to scream piteously, and making rather a scene, such as are seldom indeed beheld in upscale restaurants in San Francisco.

I allow that there is a certain tacit tension between my life-long, happy and not infrequent indulgence in anal sex--(or that there was such tension, back in the day when I did have sex) both passive and active, and even analingus--and my utter horror at the very idea, much the less the smell, of so much as the former presence of shit.  But not once in the three or four hundred times that I had sex with men did I ever detect so much as a whiff of it, nor so much as think to avoid it--although I did many, many times administer to myself thorough, precautionary enemas, precisely in order not to have to think about it.  The tension exists in the first place, I believe, because the rectum/cloaca ever was, evolutionarily, the first organ of generation, and, with the placement of the prostate gland in the rectum, has retained this function in normal male/male sexual relations of homo sapiens sapiens (as it may, for all I know, in male/male sexual relations of Pan paniscus).  The point is that, as a sex-organ, the cloaca is surprisingly efficient, to a degree self-cleansing (unlike, say, vaginas)--whose prudent use much less often results in the dispersion of sperm in feces than might, at first blush, have been supposed. Et pour vérifier cela vous n'avez que demander à Sieur Chanticleer et à sa Dame Pertelote.