"Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms"

I was asked to compose "well-written and educated filth" to mark the second day of Parentalia. I replied that the lazy man would simply quote some Rochester; I thought I shouldn't disappoint.
But I'm afraid I've failed. Blame the time and type of my education: over-exposure to D H Lawrence by a canvas-suit-clad English master who worshipped at those altars whose fires were tended by F R Leavis, my adolescent belief that DHL constituted fine, sensitive and passionate writing, then some Henry Miller, etc etc...it leaves me predisposed to writing nothing but entries for the Bad Sex Awards.
So I took myself to the racecourse for the afternoon, which was not sensible, for I found myself in the thrall of pseudo-profound meditations on horses and sex (but they're mostly bloody geldings, for heaven's sake). And then I reflected in a thoroughly obvious way about the way in which a horse race resembles the act of love, and how I had tried to get L to come to the races with me and made a hash of it by saying that she should wear a hat, which was absurd and I think she took offence but of course she would never have consented to come with me anyway.
And there is another way in which turf and bed resemble one another: everyone believes that they alone participate in each activity sensitively, profoundly, with greater truth than οἱ πολλοὶ, who are driven only by avarice and a simian need to rub their genitals against somebody else's.
So when do we hear the results of Pallas Athene's competition? It has covered everything: disease, infidelity, deception, stalking, violent revenge and cruel jibes at poor sexual technique. (Nobody's tackled impotence, but see Rochester's the Imperfect Enjoyment)