Teenage Dirtbag Outfit 소설 & 이야기

Indeed a pathetic sight of a little wannabe gangster gang with males over 40 thinking they were still the cool gang. Dirty jeans with a washed-out look and some holes. T-shirts and or an old, well-used leather jacket. They would have represented all teenagers’ worst nightmare, the « dads that think their cool» gang from the early 80s. But they walked with confidence; they knew no one would ever touch them; they owned this place; they held these people. Something here was not right.

"Why? Because then you won't have any students to suck you off?" "No. Because I care about you." He emphasized. "Whatever." "Please, tell me you're not wearing anything underneath." Brian literally pleaded and I smirked mischievously. "I am, but I am certain you'll like it." He watched excitedly as I slowly brought my hand to my coat. I paused. "What grade will you give me if you're impressed?" "Whatever the fuck you want. Go on." I smiled and finally removed the black coat, revealing my Halloween outfit. I was in a red kitten outfit, which meant I was basically wearing lingerie with a tail and a choker.

The young man standing on the rusted iron valve did not look like a savior. He looked like a street hustler who had taken a wrong turn into a nightmare. He wore an oversized, faded denim jacket patched with duct tape, heavy rubber wading boots that came up to his knees, and a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses—an absurd accessory for the pitch-black, subterranean cisterns of Arusha. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the glowing cherry illuminating a wide, golden-toothed smile.

I needed a job as soon as possible. The outfit I was wearing—a combination of an old T-shirt of Caleb’s and some random clothes from girls they had slept with—was washed, but still disgusting. I tugged at the hem of the oversized T-shirt, which barely covered my thighs, and sighed. It was a step up from my usual wear, but it wasn’t enough. I ran a hand through my fried hair, still damp from my rushed attempt at washing out the dirt and sweat from training. My chestnut hair fell in better waves now, but it still needed a lot of care.

The world outside was crumbling, and even simple dignity felt like a victory. My fingers landed on a pair of old black sweatpants—baggy, way too big on me. I’d kept them all these years even though I never wore them. Some hand-me-down or forgotten gift, probably from Aunt Millie. They’d fit Dominus perfectly. He was all sharp angles and long limbs, a stark contrast to the gaunt, desperate figure he'd become. I pulled them out, then searched again, landing on a soft gray shirt—clean, warm, with a slightly stretched neckline that he probably wouldn’t mind. Comfort was the priority now.

Especially naughty things. His tattered jeans were baggy enough below the knees to be cool, and tight enough over his thighs to make my mouth water. He had on clunky black work boots, scuffed and worn on the toes. A metal wallet chain hung from his battered leather belt and disappeared into his pocket.

Today, it's like I've been given a crash course. It's obvious he's been out in the rain. The dark hat he wears over his hair is turned backwards, exposing damp ends that drip onto his collar. I'm not sure what they were doing today, maybe something with the MTF? He's wearing a bulletproof vest that reads MTF across the chest, and the white shirt underneath is molded to what I can see of his biceps. My perusal doesn't stop when I get to the cargo pants that the moisture has caused to stick to him like a second skin. Dirt streaks his face and one of his forearms. He looks like a little kid who had fun in the mud. The look does things for me, but I will never tell him that. "What happened to yo

Do I really dress like an ancient teenager from the 90s? Whatever. It's too late, I'm already here. Plus, I'm donning this pair of white sneakers to emit this kinda sporty teenager vibe. Thisss definitely makes me look like a 19 year old, right? I even set my hair into a high ponytail with a side fringe framing my face, a style I've always worn during my teen years. Lastly, I carry Abby's 19.99 bucks (before discount) sling bag that makes me put a mental note to buy a cheap bag later on so she won't have another excuse to take my handbag again. Ever again. No more bag exchange.

I dressed like someone on autopilot. Navy scrub pants that had seen better days, plain white tee underneath, the same faded grey hoodie from yesterday pulled over everything. Hair in a low, messy ponytail that didn't even pretend to be neat. No makeup. No jewelry. Just sneakers and the small crossbody bag slung across my chest like armor.

My cheeks burned, but I tried to pay no mind. “Here.” Tyra jogged over to one of the trashcans and began digging behind it. She handed me a book bag with a wide grin on her face. “The five of us used to ditch middle school and come out here to shift.” Tyra told me, “We kept a bag of clothes out here for when we came back.” I pulled the clothes from the book bag, my nose wrinkling as I registered the smell of trash lingering on them. “They’re not the best.” Tyra frowned, “And they're at least three sizes too small, but it’s better than running around naked.”