Saint Dirty Face

Robert

Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.

Visit my domain to dive face-first into the wild ride of my brain — a mashup of raw truths, dirty jokes, mental fistfights, and midnight rambles you didn’t know you needed. Saint Dirty Face. Imperfect on purpose. Faithful with fangs. Here to spill it all, laugh at the absurd, and maybe light a match under your too-comfortable chair.

  • Taboo Summer Lust: Part 3 – The Storm Breaks

    Robert

    The sky cracked open before the night did.

    Thunder rolled low, rattling the pool chairs, lightning flashing like the heavens were trying to expose us. The rain came sudden, heavy, the kind of summer storm that makes the air itself feel electric.

    Amy didn’t flinch.

    She stood under the patio light, black swimsuit clinging, drink still in hand, smiling like the storm was hers to command.

    I froze in the doorway, barefoot on wet concrete, watching the world blur into water and fire.

    “You gonna stand there all night?” she called over the rain, voice louder than the thunder, softer than the truth.

    I stepped closer. Shirtless, shorts plastered to me, the storm painting my skin cold while her presence burned hot.

    We were close—too close. The air between us hummed with everything we hadn’t said, every look too long, every laugh that lasted past its innocence.

    Her eyes locked on mine. Lightning lit her face. And for a second, the storm outside felt quieter than what was happening inside me.

    No words. Just the truth of it—

    This was wrong.

    But lust doesn’t care.

    Lust doesn’t take notes.

    Lust doesn’t respect family trees.

    It only knows how to burn.

    And in that moment, with rain pouring, thunder tearing, and the wall behind us glowing with graffiti—

    Stay Dirty. Stay Wicked.

    —we didn’t need fire.

    The storm was already here.

    âœŠđŸ» Stay Dirty, Stay Wicked.

    — Saint Dirty Face

  • Taboo Summer Lust: Part 2 – The Poolside Pact

    Robert

    The pool looked electric under the night sky, glowing blue like it was holding secrets for ransom.

    The air was warm, thick, and heavy with chlorine and jasmine. The kind of summer night that doesn’t just linger—it leans on you.

    Amy was already there.

    Lounged out, one leg draped over the side of the chair, black swimsuit catching the glow.

    Her wine glass balanced easy in one hand, the other idly rolling a bottle of suntan lotion like it was part of some game only she knew the rules to.

    “College boy,” she called, voice soft but sharp enough to slice through the hum of the cicadas.

    “You drink?”

    I walked across the warm concrete barefoot, trying not to look at the way her skin caught the moonlight. She passed me a glass, the condensation running down my fingers as if the drink already knew I was sweating.

    We sat there—her stretched back, me stiff at first. Music floated out of the speaker, low and slow, something that made the night feel longer than it was.

    “You burn easy?” she asked, shaking the lotion bottle once, casual like she was asking about the weather.

    “Sometimes,” I said.

    “Then c’mere.”

    She poured the lotion into her palm, cool and glistening, and pressed it against my shoulder.

    Her fingers spread it over my skin—smooth, slow, deliberate.

    Too long to be just helpful. Too short to be innocent.

    Her laugh bubbled up when she caught me holding my breath.

    “Relax, college boy,” she teased. “It’s just lotion.”

    But nothing about that night felt like just anything.

    The backyard was quiet, the pool rippling like it was listening in.

    By the time she leaned back into her chair, hand shiny from the last streak of lotion, the drink in my glass was gone.

    The silence between us wasn’t silence at all—it was heat waiting to be named.

    And summer nights don’t need fire.

    They make their own heat.

    âœŠđŸ» Stay Dirty, Stay Wicked.

    — Saint Dirty Face

  • When the Kitchen Got Too Small

    Robert

    Saint Dirty Face After Dark

    The front door shut behind me like it was sealing some deal I hadn’t signed.

    Basil in the air, Fleetwood Mac humming low, and the sound of a spoon clinking against a pan like it had all been staged.

    I found her there. Amy.

    My dad’s new wife. My “stepmom.”

    Only four months in, and somehow she already looked like she belonged more than he did.

    Black swimsuit, messy bun, barefoot on tile.

    Wine glass sweating in the sun.

    She turned and smiled at me—open, warm, like she was glad I showed up, like she’d been waiting.

    “Hey,” she said. “You must be the college kid.”

    Yeah. The college kid.

    Nineteen years old, still shaking the dust from the bus ride, suddenly standing in a kitchen that felt about three sizes too small.

    Her voice filled it. Her smile filled it. And every nerve in me started yelling the same thing: wrong, wrong, wrong.

    But wrong has a smell, and it smelled like butter and basil and wine.

    Wrong has a soundtrack, and it sounded like Stevie Nicks singing about second chances.

    Wrong has a shape, and it was standing barefoot right in front of me.

    I told myself it was just the shock of meeting her for the first time.

    I told myself it was just the summer heat pressing down.

    I told myself it was nothing.

    But the truth?

    The truth was that the kitchen already felt like confession. And I wasn’t ready to tell her what I’d been thinking. 💩

    âœŠđŸ» Stay Dirty, Stay Wicked.

    — Saint Dirty Face

  • GIVE THEM NOTHING, TAKE EVERYTHING

    Robert

    Somewhere along the way, we were told to play nice. To give pieces of ourselves—time, energy, loyalty—to systems that bleed us dry. Jobs that chew us up. Governments that promise salvation but tax our bones. Relationships where you do all the heavy lifting and get scraps back.

    But here’s the dirty truth: the world only respects what you take.

    The Spartans didn’t show up to Thermopylae asking for fair terms. They didn’t negotiate. They didn’t split the pie. They stood in the mud, looked a thousand Persians in the eyes, and said:

    “You want something from me? Come and rip it from my dead hands.”

    That’s the posture. That’s the blood oath.

    GIVE THEM NOTHING

    Don’t give your soul to a job that sees you as a cog. Don’t give your silence to a system built on lies. Don’t give your heart to those who wouldn’t bleed for you. Don’t give your loyalty to anyone who’s already selling you cheap behind closed doors.

    You owe them nothing. Nothing but the refusal to bend.

    TAKE EVERYTHING

    Take back your time.

    Take back your voice.

    Take back your fire.

    Take back the dignity they tried to strip from you when they said, “This is just how it is.”

    Every “no” you spit back in their face is a victory. Every refusal to kneel is a crown. Every time you stand unbroken, you’ve already stolen something they can’t buy back.

    This isn’t about violence. It’s about posture. A war stance for the soul. Because in a world built to drain you dry, survival is an act of rebellion.

    So, stand up. Cloak on. Sword drawn. Eyes locked.

    And when they come for you—when they demand you give them what they don’t deserve—answer with the only war-cry worth remembering:

    “I’ll give you nothing. But I’ll take everything.”

    âœŠđŸ» Stay Dirty, Stay Dangerous.

    – Saint Dirty Face

  • When Fuck It Became My Law

    Robert

    Saint Dirty Face

    The alley was always waiting.

    Dark walls. Old ghosts.

    Me and the wolf
 we knew the way.

    I gave a fuck once.

    Too many times.

    Every time—it cost me.

    Took me for granted.

    Chewed me up.

    Spit me out.

    They loved me when I bled for them.

    They cursed me when I stopped.

    That’s the trick, kid.

    The moment you say fuck it—

    you stop being their savior


    and start being their villain.

    They don’t want wolves.

    They want sheepdogs.

    Polite. Controlled.

    Snarling only on command.

    I was never a sheepdog.

    I was born with fangs.

    So I let the world talk.

    Cold.

    Selfish.

    The bad guy.

    Fine.

    Let ‘em whisper.

    Let ‘em choke on their halos.

    The wolf walks free when the chains break.

    That’s the only law that matters.

    My law.

    Fuck it.

    Closer

    Fool me once, shame on me.

    Fool me twice? Fuck you.

    âœŠđŸ» Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious.

    – Saint Dirty Face

  • 🎾 The Ballad of the Broken Family: A Rock Opera in Generations

    Robert

    Music isn’t just notes and noise—it’s a family. And like every dysfunctional clan, it’s messy, glorious, and doomed by its own drama.

    👮 Grandpa Punk

    The original rebel. Anti-authority, DIY to the bone, and allergic to polish. He spat in society’s face and laid the foundation for everything that came after—raw sound, raw emotion, raw attitude.

    đŸ‘” Grandma Blues

    The matriarch of soul and suffering. She sang truths long before Punk picked up a guitar. Her voice carried pain, resilience, and rebellion—and even when the family denies it, her influence bleeds through every riff and lyric.

    đŸ» The Affair

    In a whiskey-soaked haze, Punk had a one-night fling with 70s Country. It left a twang in the bloodline, a scar that nobody mentions at Thanksgiving.

    đŸ‘šâ€đŸŽ€ Glam Rock + 💃 80s Pop (The Glittery Power Couple)

    They turned rebellion into spectacle. Sequins, eyeliner, synths, and stadium anthems. Together, they raised three kids—each destined to rebel in their own way:

    🩇 Goth: Romantic, brooding, obsessed with beauty and death. Quoted Edgar Allan Poe at brunch. 💔 Emo: Sensitive, confessional, lowercase lyrics and bathroom breakdowns. đŸȘ“ Grunge: Raised by Grandpa Punk in Seattle’s basement. Showed up in flannel, kicked the door down, and muttered, “I’ve had enough of your depressing shit.”

    đŸ€Ź Uncle Nu Metal (Pop’s Chaotic Younger Brother)

    He was late to the party but loud as hell. He mixed hip-hop, metal, and teenage rage into a Molotov cocktail. He blasted Slipknot at family reunions, wore baggy jeans, and ranted about betrayal until everyone left the room.

    His aggression drowned out nuance. His fusion of styles confused the bloodline. His volatility fractured the family.

    ⚰ The Fallout

    The kids—Goth, Emo, and Grunge—refused to have children. They’d seen what Uncle Nu Metal had done to the family name. They feared dilution, distortion, irrelevance.

    And so the family tree withered.

    Now we live in an age with no standout heirs. No true torchbearers. Just echoes of a once-mighty dynasty.

    đŸŽ€ The Moral of the Opera

    Rock didn’t die—it got stuck in therapy.

    The family feuded, the kids checked out, and nobody wanted to raise the next generation.

    But maybe—just maybe—that silence is a dare.

    Maybe someone’s out there, guitar in hand, ready to crash the reunion.

    Because families never stay broken forever.

    âœŠđŸ» Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious.

    – Saint Dirty Face

  • The Great Big Health or Die Lie

    Robert

    They sold us the cure, then snatched it away when the cameras weren’t rolling. They called it “public health,” but it was really just politics in a lab coat. And the measles outbreak? That wasn’t just a virus—it was a mirror showing us how broken the system really is.

    🧠 The Measles Outbreak & Policy Breakdown

    1. Discrepancy in Reported Numbers

    Texas DSHS (Texas numbers only*): 762 infections, 2 deaths. CBS News: Over 4,500 infections and 16 deaths across states and Mexico. Who’s right? Doesn’t matter—the gap itself is the crime. That’s the sound of data being kneecapped by politics.

    2. Federal Interference & Communication Breakdown

    The Federal Administration tied the CDC’s hands. Scientists gagged, local health officials left blind. Delayed response meant the virus wasn’t just spreading—it was sprinting.

    3. Misguided Public Health Messaging

    Health Secretary Kennedy’s genius plan? Vitamin A. Sure, vitamin A helps if you’re malnourished. But it won’t stop measles. That’s like tossing a lollipop at someone who’s bleeding out and calling it “first aid.”

    4. Survival of the Strongest Mentality

    Vaccines sidelined, optics prioritized. “Survival of the fittest” became policy, and the poor were told to tough it out. In reality, it was survival of the privileged.

    5. Betrayal of Vulnerable Communities

    The hardest hit? The ones who believed the lie. Indigent families, underserved communities—they trusted the government. Trust became a death sentence. Their hope was weaponized against them.

    6. Moral & Institutional Failure

    This wasn’t a medical failure. It was a moral collapse. Science was silenced, optics replaced action, and preventable deaths were chalked up as acceptable losses. They didn’t just fail public health—they failed humanity.

    đŸŽ€ Saint Dirty Face Says:

    “You want to know what betrayal looks like? It looks like a vitamin A capsule handed out in place of a vaccine. It looks like a government silencing its own scientists while children choke on preventable disease. It looks like underserved families clinging to hope—believing the system will save them—only to be handed a lollipop and a prayer.

    This wasn’t a failure of medicine. It was a failure of morality. A policy built on survival of the strongest, where the poor, the trusting, the vulnerable were left to die quietly while officials peddled optics over action.

    They didn’t just abandon public health. They abandoned humanity.”

    ⚡ Closing Line

    The lie wasn’t in the numbers. The lie was in the promise that health was for all. Turns out, it was only for the chosen few.

    Stay dirty. Stay dangerous. – Saint Dirty Face

    *Texas DSHS reported these figures as within state borders only, not nationwide totals.

  • The Neighbor Next Door (After Hours, Part IV – The Aftermath)

    Robert

    18+ Only – Saint Dirty Face After Dark

    Morning crept through the blinds, slicing the room into bars of gold and shadow. Clothes were scattered like confessions across the floor—whiskey glasses tipped on their sides, smoke curling lazy trails from the ashtray on the nightstand.

    Sarah lay sprawled across the bed, red hair tangled into fire, emerald eyes half-hidden but still burning. A cigarette in one hand, my crumpled bills in the other. And when she spoke, it wasn’t the tease, or the dare, or the pool shark anymore. It was something else.

    Her voice carried a softness wrapped in steel:

    “I never planned on this. Thought it was just another Friday night—another whiskey, another game, another neighbor too slow to catch the hint. But then you
 you made me laugh. You made me forget the clock, forget the hustle, forget myself.

    I fooled around
 and damn it, I fell in love.”

    She smirked then, brushing hair from her face, her tone snapping back to wicked.

    “Don’t get cocky, Saint. I still beat you. But maybe you won something after all.”

    I just watched her in the morning light, realizing every game we’d played—the hallway smiles, the pool shots, the breadcrumb bills—was just leading here. And for once, I didn’t care if I’d won or lost.

    Saint Dirty Face Closer

    Funny thing about games—they end. But sometimes the night doesn’t. Sometimes it just changes who’s holding the chalk.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Wicked. – Saint Dirty Face

  • The Neighbor Next Door (After Hours, Part III – The Walk Back)

    Robert

    18+ Only – Saint Dirty Face After Dark

    The neon glow of O’Malley’s bled into the night behind us, traded for the quiet streets and the echo of Sarah’s laughter. She walked a step ahead, hips swaying like the rhythm of a song I couldn’t get out of my head.

    Every so often she tossed a glance over her shoulder—just enough to remind me I was following, not leading.

    That’s when I noticed it.

    Dollar bills slipping from her back pocket, fluttering down onto the sidewalk one by one. Like breadcrumbs. Like a dare.

    I bent to scoop them up, each one more ridiculous than the last. She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back. Just let them fall and kept walking, her grin growing wider with every step.

    By the time we reached her apartment building, I had a fistful of bills and a head full of questions I already knew the answers to.

    She turned at the door, green eyes glinting under the hallway light. “Careful, Saint,” she teased, her voice low, velvet wrapped around a knife. “Some debts can’t be paid back with cash.”

    The door opened. The air between us cracked.

    Inside was another world.

    Saint Dirty Face Closer

    Some games aren’t about money. Some games start on the sidewalk and end heartbeat against heartbeat. And by then? Winning doesn’t matter.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Wicked. – Saint Dirty Face

  • The Neighbor Next Door (After Hours, Part II – O’Malley’s Bar)

    Robert

    18+ Only – Saint Dirty Face After Dark

    The night air buzzed as we walked, neon signs bleeding color into the pavement. Sarah moved fast, like she had a destination burned into her blood, while I tried to play it cool. But every glance she threw me over her shoulder carried that spark—the kind that makes you forget your own damn name.

    “Think you can handle me at pool?” she teased, brushing her hair back, emerald eyes glinting.

    “Handle you?” I smirked. “I’m more worried about handling the whiskey.”

    She laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut through the street noise, and before long O’Malley’s swallowed us whole.

    Inside, the place throbbed with jukebox classics and the low hum of half-drunk conversations. The scent of spilled beer and cigarette ghosts lingered in the air. I grabbed us two whiskeys; she grabbed a cue.

    “Ladies first,” I offered.

    She leaned low over the table, red hair falling forward, eyes locked on me as much as the ball. “Oh, I know,” she purred, sinking the break clean like she’d rehearsed it in her sleep.

    I tried to focus, but whiskey burned my throat and the sway of her hips burned something deeper. Every shot she made wasn’t just a ball into a pocket—it was a nail into my coffin.

    By the time the eight ball rolled home, I was down cash, pride, and most of my ability to breathe.

    Sarah grinned wickedly, scooping up the bills. “Told you I was a shark.”

    But instead of pocketing them, she slid the money back across the table, fingers brushing mine, her voice dropping low enough to drown the jukebox.

    “Relax
 let’s go home. I’ll give you a chance to win it back.”

    Saint Dirty Face Closer

    Relax? Not a chance. I say stay dirty, stay wicked. The night was just getting started.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Wicked. – Saint Dirty Face