Novel & Cerita Teenage Dirtbag Style

Tattoos everywhere. One of them looked at me. "You lost, kid?" "Unfortunately no." Another one snorted. "Skinny little thing, aren't you?" "Yeah, well, I'm cheap labor. You got a problem with that?" They looked at each other. Went back to what they were doing. Didn't say another word.

"This, darlin', is the outskirts of Forest Hills. And if you're a good girl, you'll get to call yourself my woman." His grimy, off-white T-shirt clung to his muscles as if he painted it on. His jeans were dirty and encrusted with mud. His bulky boots sloshed through the sludge, leaving deep prints in the ground. He wasn't butt-ugly by any means. A nut-job maybe.

The rest of us took her lead and seated ourselves around the basement, Jonie and Mitch together on the couch with the rest of us finding chairs. “I’m not exactly sure. Whatever it was had to do with their personal dirt.” “Personal dirt?” “When the Dirt blows in, it brings with it everybody’s personal dirt.” “What do you mean?” “Those things in our lives that we’d like to stay buried, forgotten, in other words, our personal dirt. Here’s mine.” She went over to the computer and jiggled the mouse, dismissing the screensaver. Underneath the screensaver was the F******k page of a man in his late forties.

"Please, stop making yourself look unpresentable... Fix your clothes and your face..." “I said no." “My goodness, child! You look like someone living on the streets! Stop stealing my clothes… and for heaven’s sake, would you please comb your hair?!” Yes, I was doing it on purpose. I wanted to look as horrible as I possibly could. I wore my dad’s oversized t-shirts and his old pants, the kind that sag and hang off my frame like rags. I didn’t care how ridiculous I looked, actually, the worse, the better.

Mark groaned dramatically. After just half an hour, more people started gathering in the park. Several bikes rode towards the playground in the middle. Those bikers looked like punks, their hair dyed in every color imaginable, wearing some torn or worn-out jeans paired with tight tees. One of the guys stood out as he wore a black short-sleeved shirt, revealing a tattoo on his arm, while a girl strutted around in 4-inch platform heels, a hanging belt, and a pair of shorts that hardly covered her thighs. She looked like she thought she was on a fashion runway, but her look came off as dirty and unkempt.

I wanted to look dangerous. I pulled out a fitted black tank top, one that clung to my curves without apology. Over it, I threw on an army green zip-up, cropped just short enough to tease. I paired it with snug tactical pants in charcoal gray that hugged my hips like second skin and tucked neatly into my combat boots. My hair was braided back tightly, practical, but I let a few strands fall loose on purpose. Just enough to soften the edge. *****

Just thinking his name already gets under my skin. He’s the kind of guy who looks like he was born to get away with everything, star player, arrogant, confident, the type who thinks rules are optional, that everything is a game as long as he’s winning, the kind of guy who plays dirty, on and off the ice, and somehow people still like him, admire him, follow him. The kind of guy my best friend fell for. Sofi. Of course it had to be her.

Why did he look so dirty and banged up on the street? He had obviously cleaned himself up. He had on a plain black t-shirt and indigo denims now. His hair was still long but it was tamer, falling over his forehead in neat, silky rows. It wasn’t just that he was cleaner and not dressed in clothes anymore. Somehow, he looked tamer too. Still a beautiful specimen of a boy, but not as edgy and wild looking. He didn’t seem remotely as frightening now. Still, there was something deeply intense about his eyes. He seemed to only ever wear one expression— smoldering.

I turned around slowly, ready to face whatever catastrophe was looming. The cafeteria seemed to go unnaturally quiet as a trio of boys strutted through the double doors. They didn't walk; they prowled. They wore distressed black denim, leather jackets draped over their shoulders, and combat boots that clicked sharply against the linoleum. Their hair was styled in messy, intentional ways one with ash blonde spikes, another with jet black waves that shadowed his eyes. They exuded an aura of pure, unadulterated rebellion, moving with the swagger of wolves who knew they owned the territory.

I could go another few hours, but I guess I could hold my shit until we got home later. "Um, babe, I like that shit." She had on low rider jeans and a satin halter-top that matched her green eyes and heels that were a mile high. I think she was trying to match me in height with those shits. She did some wild shit with her hair that had curls falling down her back, and all I could think of was grabbing fistfuls of that shit while I hit her pussy from behind. Damn, I've become a fiend. The guys were waiting for us when we stepped outside, all of us looking like we were in uniform: jeans, Henley, and leather jackets with shit kickers. No wonder people think we're a gang.