"Clothes have always been philosophical. The selling of, the wearing of. People read you from your hat to your boots and from that decide who you are. How that applies to these..." He surveys the mannequin once more, and shakes his head before going to look at some of the packages of underwear nearby. He shrugs. "Maybe it's like you say. I haven't been here long enough to take a read on the general level of societal shame versus its desire for a good fuck."
There'd certainly been a good measure of that back home. Far less shame in Nassau, and that had made it a more comfortable place. People acted more to their natures there. For the most part, motivations were easier to understand. That is one of the things that he values most about Anne, that he had valued about Charles. He likes the certainty of believing someone when they say what they want.
He huffs a bewildered laugh. "It would be equally disturbing if the mannequin had a cock, so I don't think I mind the shame entirely."
"My problem is that this," he gestures down to his own clothes, "has become archaic speech. Same language," He looks down at one plastic wrapped collection of underwear and tries to discern what the benefits of one versus the other might be. "but to you? I am the style equivalent of The Canterbury Tales."
"And this?" He gestures to the underwear. "I can read the labels, but..." He trails off, running out of steam, then looks back at Eliot. "God, does it matter which one I pick? What do you wear?"
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There'd certainly been a good measure of that back home. Far less shame in Nassau, and that had made it a more comfortable place. People acted more to their natures there. For the most part, motivations were easier to understand. That is one of the things that he values most about Anne, that he had valued about Charles. He likes the certainty of believing someone when they say what they want.
He huffs a bewildered laugh. "It would be equally disturbing if the mannequin had a cock, so I don't think I mind the shame entirely."
"My problem is that this," he gestures down to his own clothes, "has become archaic speech. Same language," He looks down at one plastic wrapped collection of underwear and tries to discern what the benefits of one versus the other might be. "but to you? I am the style equivalent of The Canterbury Tales."
"And this?" He gestures to the underwear. "I can read the labels, but..." He trails off, running out of steam, then looks back at Eliot. "God, does it matter which one I pick? What do you wear?"