Here I am, poised and ready, my holy buttocks firmly applied to the porcelain throne. My rectal sphincter is in the finest physical shape of its career. My body is running very fluid, like a well-oiled machine. It's as if, the single purpose of my body is for this act alone.

I see myself in the mirror, my face red and stricken with the intense lines of struggle, my teeth grinding, my skin glistening with perspiration, my fists clenched upon my thighs, my eyeballs on the verge of popping their very sockets, my heart thundering in anticipation of the task at hand.

I hear the soft crackling sound of its passage like newly afloat Rice Krispies when milk is first applied.

I imagine my anal cleft opening like the doors of a missile silo in slow motion, light gleaming for the first time on the leader of a caravan of water-bound, gravity stricken nuggets of joy.

The aroma is instant and familiar, like no other, I take it in by the nosefull.

I've been repulsed by the odor of feces from all walks of life, from the dangling string-like structures of goldfish that take days on end to finish production, to the steamy meaty piles of alfalfa cylinders given off by horses. Yet the only fecal matter which is to my liking, time and time again, is that of my own. Nevertheless, I'm not biased towards other excrement; I'm always willing to give them a chance.

It loosens its tenacious grip on my rectum and releases, and I picture it plummeting to its doom, like the cheap cinematography of an early seventies disaster film.

Once it hits its watery demise, a geyser sprouts up and moistens my anal cleft. My anus and I breathe a sigh of triumph.

This is the only tangible product my body gives forth to the world. Thus, it's the only living proof of my existence. And for me, this is as sensual as life should be.