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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"You know what I meant." "Do I?" "You're not stupid." "Am I?" "For fuck's sake..."
I pushed her onto her back and she gasped softly. "Xan–" I kissed her hard and felt her tense for a moment before she relaxed and her hands slid up my arms to my neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
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one time a professor asked me if i’d ever wanted to write anything “more important” than romance. and i said no. i was put on this earth to write about sad people kissing. and if another writer ever came up to me and said they wanted to write 400 pages containing nothing but a character baking a single loaf of bread each day, then i would tell them to do that. people don't write something because it's important. they write about something and that is what makes it important
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words never hurt anyone."
You've probably heard that more than once growing up. I have no idea who came up with such a fool saying, because words most definitely hurt.
I've always been a "sensitive child." "Jokes" affected me more than they did my sisters. And by the age of nine I'd gainned the nickname "town's crier" from my family. Mom. Dad. Sisters. Everyone called me that whenever I got upset. Of course they did. Because, rather than ask Kelly what's wrong, let's call her names. As if a ten year old child being upset about something wasn't normal. Wasn't human.
I quickly learned to not express negative emotions around my family. Not quickly enough, unfortunately.
I suppose I got my sensitivity from my Dad. Neither he, nor my Mom had good childhoods. But my Mom handles her trauma better.
My Dad has anger issues. They're not as bad now as they were when I was young. One thing going wrong could send him into a toddler–like tantrum. Only, he wasn’t a toddler, he was a 5'9, 160+ pound man with a big, loud voice.
I still sometimes pause when he gets loud to make sure he's just excited and not angry.
My Mom always says she doesn't make excuses for him. But she does. I mean, can I really blame her? That's her husband.
He's allowed to throw tantrums, slam doors, yell. I'm not.
When I yell, it's a problem. When I slam doors, it's a problem. When I get loud to defend myself, it's a problem.
When I ask for something for myself, I'm a brat.
My two youngest sisters love to call me that. I don’t ask for stuff often. I hate asking for things I want or even need.
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