Homosexuality

I've just finished reading JM Coetzee's Youth. Here's the character's take on homosexuality:

One evening he allows himself to be picked up in the street, by a man. The man is older than he - in fact, of another generation. They go by taxi to Sloane Square, where the man lives - it would seem alone - in a flat full of tasselled cushions and dim table-lamps.

They barely talk. He allows the man to touch him through his clothes; he offers nothing in return. If the man has an orgasm, he manages it discreetly. Afterwards he lets himself out and goes home.

Is that homosexuality? Is that the sum of it? Even if there is more to it than that, it seems a puny activity compared with sex with a woman: quick, absent-minded, devoid of dread but also devoid of allure. There seems to be nothing at stake: nothing to lose but nothing to win either. A game for people afraid of the big league; a game for losers.

Can writing become any more spare than this?