¡Maguerite Yourcénar and Mary Renault do fucking NOT write good (or even passably acceptable) male homosexual pornography!

We really need to keep these sweaty, hot-breathing bulldykes, with their sickening propensity for 'romantic' relationships, out of (and away from) the world of gay male sexuality, which they so obviously and revoltingly yearn after, and which they so appallingly misconstrue and misrepresent. I feel, when I have read the Memoirs of Hadrian, or The Persian Boy, like someone in need of an emetic, or an enema. Or both at once.