In my city there are a group of young people who are referred to as the ‘Dirt Kids.’ This isn’t meant as an insult, but more it’s used to declare a social standing. The Dirt Kids are the train-hopping, tattooed, feather/fur adorned, hard drinking, new cool kids. They are not to be confused with gutter punks or trust-ifarians. Dirt Kids work hard and play hard. They ride tall-bikes and play instruments and read really good books. On top of all of that, they are pretty fucking sexy. They are Abercrombie models in Carhartt’s, smelling of whiskey, with dirty hands. They are loyal and dangerous, two of the things I appreciate most in other people. And they are fun to fuck.
I’m not one of the Dirt Kids. I don’t even come close. My clothes smell of Gain, my OCD keeps me from carefree untidiness, I can barely ride a regular bike, and my dogs always have to walked on leashes. I have always admired them from afar and my boyfriend is popular amongst both the men and women. I’ve used his popularity within various social circles to my advantage. What can I say, if it works….
The first time I kissed a Dirt Boy, I was hooked. I had gone to a bar near my house, alone, looking to pass the time. There happened to be a young Dirt Boy hanging out, whom I had met a few times. We gave each other the eye and I headed upstairs to start drinking. I was a few cocktails into the evening when he rounded the stairwell corner. As our eyes met again, I tried with all my might to convey my desire to have his hands on my body. This bar serves food and the kitchen door is located near the stairwell. A friend of mine was working in the kitchen that night and had created a new ice cream. I used this opportunity to walk to the kitchen and ask for a taste. Dirt Boy #1, looked at me as I was receiving my ice cream and asked, ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I replied, ‘Well I’m going to finish this ice cream, then I’m going to make out with you, then I’m going to go home and masturbate thinking of one or the other.’
I sat my empty cup down, grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him into the empty bathroom. He pushed me against the wall with more force than I was expecting. I wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, feeling the weight of his dreadlocks against my arm, while I pulled him closer to me with the other hand. We started kissing hard and fast, and he deftly pulled up my shirt and began squeezing my breasts through my flimsy bra. I reached for his pants, but he pulled my arms away pinning them against the wall for a second before reaching to unbutton my pants. He pulled his mouth away from mine for a moment, and shoved two fingers into it, before I could protest. His hands were rough and warm and his fingers tasted like cigarettes and bike grease. I sucked on them, savoring the filth, while he stared at me approvingly. He then removed his fingers from my mouth and slid his hand down my unbuttoned pants finding my very moist slot. He inserted his two fingers while he probed for my clit with his thumb. All the while kissing my neck and my chest. I was moaning with pleasure, fully in the moment, and then the bathroom door swung open. In my haste, I had forgotten to lock it. The barback who walked in on us just mumbled, ‘One at a time, kids.’
The next day my boyfriend asked about my evening. I told him it was fairly uneventful. ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘a friend of mine told me you were busted riding dirty.’
The terminology stuck, and friends will often say, ‘Are you planning on riding dirty tonight?’ I don’t plan on it, but sometimes it happens, and I haven’t been busted again.
Thank you for your partcipation
