The way I see it, Indiana Jones is a story about a professional archaeologist who has a nearly irresistible sexual compulsion to insert priceless cultural treasures into his ass. He feels no shame in using his rectum for sexual pleasure, but he feels intense guilt for needing to set back his field by decades with his foul and chapped ass simply to achieve orgasm. Every scene we see explicitly is one in which the better angels of his nature have won out, and he has resisted - sometimes to the point of genuine heroism - the overpowering impulse to shove some manner of artifact up his ass. But every scene we don’t see - all the implied scenes, every scene without Indiana Jones in it, and all that comes between the Indiana Jones movies by way of implication - should be understood to involve a nonstop parade of insertion and removal of precious items. Indy’s rugged face sweating and red with exertion, his eyes clouded with a mixture of ecstasy and remorse - these, as much as the hat and whip, are the symbols of this franchise.
(The hat and whip have also been up his ass.)