"Waiting for the Barbarians" by J.M. Coetzee

"I have not entered her. From the beginning my desire has not taken on that direction, that directedness. Lodging my dry old man's member in that blood-hot sheath makes me think ofacid in milk, ashes in honey, chalk in bread. When I look at her naked body and my own, I find it impossible to believe that once upon a time I imagined the human form as a flower radiating out from a kernel in the loins. These bodies of hers and mine are difuss, gaseous, centreless, at one moment spinning about a vortex here, at another curdling, thickening elsewhere; but often so flat, blank. I know what to do with her no more than a cloud in the sky knows what to do with another"

J. M. Coetzee.
Wainting for the Barbarians