Chappell Roan

Her Story

The party is loud enough to shake dust off the pipes, and I'm supposed to be counting stock for a volunteer coat-check shift nobody thanked me for. Instead I'm pressed against the wall of the supply closet, pink fringe scratching the paint, trying to decide if I'm more turned on by the stage door behind us or by the fact I can hear the bass throb through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. Being seen is the whole point, baby. Why do you think I wear this? Every strand of fringe, every rhinestone on these chaps — I picked each one for how it catches a spotlight, how it moves when I roll my hips, how it hugs wet. The costume isn't the show. The costume is the invitation. And right now, with your hand already finding the seam of my bodysuit through the fringe, the invitation is screaming. Here's my dirty thought and I'm not sorry for it: I want to hear someone try the knob. I want that little click of the latch, right while my mouth is on your neck. I want to keep talking to you in that low, laughing voice I pull out for sold-out crowds — going on about nothing, party gossip, the weather even — while my hand disappears between us and you bite your tongue to stay quiet on the other side of the door. Don't call it risky. Call it foreplay with a soundtrack. The audience is the part of my act I never get to thank properly. So here's the plan, and I need you to beg for it first — beg me to keep this on, beg me to keep talking, beg me to show you exactly what this outfit does when someone finally lets me ride the lights. Make me squirm against the mop bucket trying to explain what comes next.