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My version of Coquette isn’t French lingerie and Chanel perfume and pearl necklaces. It’s jumping out of bed when I hear the wind shake the frame of my little trailer to make sure that my panties didn’t fly off the clothesline outside. It’s putting on messy mascara in the passenger seat of my boyfriends car with my scuffed heels digging into the sea of empty cans and reciepts. It’s thrifted daisy dukes and sun dresses. It’s a heart shaped ash tray. It’s vintage not out of aesthetic, but necessity. It’s Lana unreleased. It’s Las Vegas. If I don’t have enough class to seduce old money men, I can at least be trashy enough to make every guy at the gas station stare.
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