In young Evie’s mind some unholy chemistry occurred at a crucial developmental stage which fused an admiration of the 18th century enlightenment, as well as a small crush on Thomas Jefferson, with a teenage obsessions with neo-Romantic styles of androgynous 1980’s rock stars.
The result is that to this day a man wearing a silk coat and lace cuffs makes my knees go weak. I come back to this particular image again and again… because I’m obsessed by the flirty way his beribboned queue is flying as he fucks her.
He’s a land pirate!
I also love that he’s tall and strong, strong enough to throw her up on the sideboard or whatever the hell that is, hold her legs in the air, and have at it— and yet at the same time his stance is so elegant, his stockinged calves so shapely. He smells of cologne. He takes snuff. He knows Voltaire. He’s a definitely wicked, and he’s not the man she’s supposed to be fucking.