Imagine

Lana Rhoades, fresh-faced in one of her very first scenes, kicks the door open on why everyone suddenly can’t shut up about her. She has the kind of limbs you’d expect on a billboard and an appetite that turns the thermostat up the second she answers her phone. Her guy rings in from some endless trip, saying he’s stuck. The line crackles, then so does everything else. She slides back on the couch, closes her eyes, and they start inventing each other—his tongue tracing the top of her foot, tasting the calf, the inside of her thigh, until the pretend touches set them both on fire. Before long she’s gasping directions he can’t follow and they’re rolling together the only way two people on separate coasts know how, urgent, wet, and entirely out of control.