1 Renoir said he painted his pictures with his penis.
2 The penis stirred softly, with strange life, but did not rise up.
3 She threaded two pink campions in the bush of red-gold hair above his penis.
4 She felt his penis risen against her with silent amazing force and assertion and she let herself go to him.
5 One has to be human, and have a heart and a penis if one is going to escape being either a god or a Bolshevist.
6 Yes, this was love, this ridiculous bouncing of the buttocks, and the wilting of the poor, insignificant, moist little penis.
7 Real knowledge comes out of the whole corpus of the consciousness; out of your belly and your penis as much as out of your brain and mind.
8 And he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of creeping-jenny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his navel.
9 And he was helpless, as the penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious towering fashion.
10 She saw the image of him, naked white with tanned face and hands, looking down and addressing his erect penis as if it were another being, the odd grin flickering on his face.
11 Now all her body clung with tender love to the unknown man, and blindly to the wilting penis, as it so tenderly, frailly, unknowingly withdrew, after the fierce thrust of its potency.
12 And only now she became aware of the small, bud-like reticence and tenderness of the penis, and a little cry of wonder and poignancy escaped her again, her woman's heart crying out over the tender frailty of that which had been the power.
13 And this time the sharp ecstasy of her own passion did not overcome her; she lay with her ends inert on his striving body, and do what she might, her spirit seemed to look on from the top of her head, and the butting of his haunches seemed ridiculous to her, and the sort of anxiety of his penis to come to its little evacuating crisis seemed farcical.