When I was a teenager, I knew what sexy was. To me, sexy wasn’t the late ’90s, early ’00s mock-up of some Catholic school-girl with big boobs and pigtails who wore Victoria Secret lingerie. Sexy wasn’t Britney Spears or Mandy Moore writhing around in cotton-candy as millions of men prayed that their tiny pleated skirts rode up a little higher. I had an idea of sexy and it was dark. Black leather, tattoos and full lips – the Angelina Jolies of the world, who would take one look at that bubblegum circus show and promptly pop all the balloons with the stiletto heel of her thigh-high boots.
photo © Isadora Bellotti / words © Katy Jones
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