She leans against the bar, a faint smirk drawn in cigarette smoke.
He watches from the mirror, pretending he’s just another ghost passing through.
But the truth? They’re both hunting something — maybe forgiveness, maybe a fight, maybe just someone who understands why the nights feel so damn long.
Their eyes meet.
And that’s it.
The jukebox stutters, the air thickens, and the bartender already knows this kind of trouble doesn’t end with a ride home — it ends with a memory you’ll taste for weeks.
“You look like someone who’s tired of pretending,” she says.
“Depends,” he replies, “you offering a better lie?”
She laughs — low, dangerous, like a promise you shouldn’t believe.
He slides his glass closer, and their reflections touch before their hands do.
No names. No past. Just two sinners in limbo, drunk on the illusion that for a few hours, the world can be rewritten in neon and whiskey.
And for a moment — it is.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Saint Dirty Face™
[Stay Dirty, Kiss Like a Sinner, But Talk Like a Saint.™]
You don’t plan for this kind of thing. You drag yourself home, half-dead from the day, and there she is—Lisa Wong. An exchange student. In your room. On your bed.
Her silver top glows like it swallowed the last bit of sunlight, her dark hair spilling across your pillow like it belongs there more than you do. She looks up from her phone, calm as if she’s been waiting on you her whole life.
“So,” she says, crossing her legs, “roommate perks include claiming the best spot, right?”
You should tell her to move. You should reclaim your space. But instead, you lean against the doorframe, fighting the smirk tugging at your mouth.
“That’s not how this works.”
“Pretty sure it is,” she shoots back. “Check the fine print.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge. And you realize, in that moment, this isn’t a guest—it’s a storm in disguise. A sweet, highly intelligent storm that knows exactly how to press buttons you didn’t know you had.
The first week is chaos wrapped in laughter. She studies at your desk, books spread like battle plans, while you pretend not to notice the way her foot brushes yours under the table. She steals your hoodie “because it smells like laundry detergent and bad decisions.” She sticks Post-it notes on your mirror with things like Eat breakfast, dummy—sweet one day, mocking the next.
And then there are the late nights.
The house is silent, shadows thick. You’re half-asleep, scrolling your phone, when Lisa appears in the doorway. No knock, just that mischievous grin.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she says.
“You know this is my room, right?”
“Our room,” she corrects, climbing onto the bed without waiting.
She doesn’t touch you, not exactly. She just lays close enough that you feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the space between you. A naughty dare, wordless, sparking against the edges of something you’re not ready to name.
You catch her watching you sometimes, head tilted, eyes sharp. She notices when you forget your keys, when you mumble in your sleep, when your laugh cracks in the middle. And she stores it all away with that terrifyingly smart brain of hers—filing you under “study subject turned friend turned… something else.”
Because that’s what this is turning into.
Not just roommates. Not just friends. Something thicker, heavier, humming under every stolen glance and playful insult.
The world would call it cliché. The exchange student, the accidental roommate, the forbidden spark. But lying there, listening to her breathe beside you, it feels less like a cliché and more like a story fate has been itching to write.
There’s a certain kind of ad that stalks the late-night corners of the internet:
“Answer 10 PhD-level sexual questions and discover your rare sexual role.”
PhD-level? Please. If a degree in kink is on the table, Saint Dirty Face™ has already written the damn syllabus. The truth is, most of us don’t need a test to know our archetype—we’ve been living it, sweating it, and swearing by it since the first time we discovered handcuffs fit better on wrists than in police reports.
So let’s cut through the clinical language and get dirty where it counts: in the roles we play when the lights are low, the rope is tight, and trust tastes better than whiskey.
The Rare Sexual Roles (According to No Textbook Ever Written):
The Scholar of Sin™ – You read the Kama Sutra, not for enlightenment, but to find new ways to pull a muscle. You annotate in the margins like it’s grad school. The Altar of Chaos™ – Blindfolds? Ropes? Candles? You’re the ritual, baby. Everyone else is just hoping they survive the sermon. The Wolf in Chains™ – You only kneel to rise higher. Submissive isn’t your weakness—it’s your weapon. The Architect of Pain™ – You’ve drawn more knots than an Eagle Scout on meth. Your blueprint is desire, and every line ends in sweat. The Trickster of Flesh™ – You’re the dirty punchline everyone still moans about. Toys? Tools? Oh, you’ve got jokes.
The Test Is Rigged
You don’t need 10 questions to figure this out.
The only exam worth taking is the one written on your lover’s skin. And the grading curve? Easy:
Did they crawl back for more? A+. Did you leave bite marks that could be mistaken for stigmata? Honors. Did you both laugh, cum, and nearly break the bedframe? Welcome to tenure.
Final Lesson
Your sexual archetype isn’t hiding in a Buzzfeed quiz. It’s hiding in you—waiting for the right night, the right hands, the right soundtrack. (Zeppelin, Nine Inch Nails, or hell, even Barry White if you’re twisted enough to turn camp into kink.)
So forget the multiple-choice test. The only question worth asking is this:
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—
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.
Saint Dirty Face 