Consider Phlebas by Iain M. Banks Page B

tricks, you know? All sorts of special adaptations and fancy body chemistry. She do anything special you heard of?’
    Horza shook his head, wondering where all this was leading. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said. Fancy body chemistry, Kraiklyn had said. Was the Man starting to guess? Did he think Horza was a Culture agent, or even a Changer? Kraiklyn was still looking at his drug flask. He nodded and said:
    ‘About the only sort of woman I’d have anything to do with, one of these Culture ones. They say they really do have all these . . . alterations, you know?’ Kraiklyn looked at Horza and winked as he inhaled the drug. ‘Between the legs; the men have these souped-up balls, right? Sort of recirculating . . . And the women have something similar, too; supposed to be able to come for fucking hours . . . Well, minutes, anyway . . . ‘ Kraiklyn’s eyes looked slightly glazed as his voice trailed off. Horza tried not to appear as scornful as he felt. Here we go again, he thought. He tried to count the number of times he’d had to listen to people - usually from third- or low fourth-level societies, usually fairly human-basic, and more often than not male talking in hushed, enviously admiring tones about how It’s More Fun in the Culture. Perversely coy for once, the Culture played down the extent to which those born into it inherited such altered genitalia.
    Naturally, such modesty only increased everybody else’s interest, and Horza occasionally became angry with humans who exhibited the sort of fawning respect the Culture’s quasi-technological sexuality so often engendered. Coming from Kraiklyn, it didn’t surprise him a bit. He wondered if the Man had had some cheap, Culture-imitative surgery himself. It wasn’t uncommon. It wasn’t safe, either. Too often such alterations were simply plumbing jobs, especially on males, and made no attempt to uprate the heart and the rest of the circulatory system - at least - to cope with the increased strain. (In the Culture, of course, that high performance was genofixed in.) Such mimicking of this symptom of the Culture’s decadence had, quite literally, caused a lot of broken hearts. I suppose we’ll hear about those wonderful drug glands next, Horza thought.
    ‘ . . . Yeah, and they have those drug glands,’ Kraiklyn went on, eyes still unfocused, nodding to himself. ‘Supposed to be able to take a hit of almost anything, any time they want. Just by thinking about it. Secrete stuff that makes them high.’ Kraiklyn stroked the flask he held. ‘You know, they say you can’t rape a Culture woman?’ He didn’t seem to expect an answer. Horza stayed silent. Kraiklyn nodded again. ‘Yeah, they’ve got class, those women. Not like some of the shit on this ship.’ He shrugged and took another snort from the flask. ‘Still . . . ‘
    Horza cleared his throat and leant forward in his seat, not looking at Kraiklyn. ‘She’s dead now, anyway,’ Horza said, looking up.
    ‘Hmm?’ Kraiklyn said absently, looking at the Changer.
    ‘The Culture woman,’ Horza said. ‘She’s dead.’
    ‘Oh yes.’ Kraiklyn nodded, then cleared his throat and said, ‘So what do you want to do now? I’m sort of expecting you to come along on this temple caper. I think you owe us that, for the ride.’
    ‘Oh yeah, don’t worry,’ Horza said.
    ‘Good. After that, we’ll see. If you shape up you can stay; otherwise we’ll drop you off somewhere you want, within reason, like they say. This operation should be no problem: easy in, easy out.’ Kraiklyn made a dipping, flying motion with his flattened hand, as though it was the model of the CAT which hung somewhere over Horza’s head. ‘Then we go to Vavatch.’ He took another gulp from the fumes in the snifflask. ‘Don’t suppose you play Damage, hmm?’ He brought the flask down, and Horza looked into the predatory eyes through the thin mist rising from the flask’s neck. He shook his head.
    ‘Not one of my vices. Never