Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
"Allow me to offer you," said Kostya, "something to palliate the offense."
He pulled from under his backside a square pneumatic cushion, its rubber covered in speckled satin: he always had it under him during his flat, hard, hemorrhoidal trips.
"And what about yourself?" she inquired.
"We'll manage, we'll manage. I must ask you to rise a little. Excuse me. Now sit down. Soft, isn't it? That part is especially sensitive on the road."
"Thank you," she said. "Not all men are so considerate. I've lost quite a bit of flesh