"Bruce Wayne is the mask, Batman is the real person" orrrrr, we do a fun and way more complicated thing where Bruce Wayne and Batman are masks but so are Bruce and B, and you never quite know which one you're talking to when you first walk into the Cave so all the Batkids preface their requests with "I need Batman on this" or "I need to talk to Bruce" and it gets to the point where those masks are only discrete, only become truly separate, via the needs of his children, what they need him to be in the moment, and how they need all those different parts of him, not just what he considers the mask, Not Just Batman. all of them.
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Identity story: Writing a "non-traditional" Colombian girl without offensive implications
WWC Follower Asks:
Hi! Im currently writing a story about an upper class Colombian girl (who lives in Colombia) who’s autistic and queer, and spends plenty of time online on fandom spaces. Due to the fact she spends most of her time on us-centric spaces, she has assimilated on aspects of US culture strongly, to the point her own thoughts are in English at the moment, as US-centric (or English speaking) communities of people with her same interests/neurodivergencies/sexual orientations are bigger than Latin American ones. This will causes her to have an identity crisis over where does she truly belong, as she doesn't feel that she fits traditional Colombian expectations (which is noted by people close to her) and she knows she will never fully “get” the people of her online spaces. I also must add she doesn't have a “traditionally” Colombian personality, as she’s quiet and nerdy.
The issue comes with her character development, as i want her to come to terms with herself and find what she’s comfortable with culturally, but im scared this may end up on two routes: either the resolution implies she is not “Colombian enough” and she must correct herself for it and reject any aspect that's not Colombian (which is bad, as it implies there’s a right way to be Colombian) if she decides to embrace Colombian culture more, or the opposite but with us culture (which is even worse, as it can imply us culture is “better”, which is awfully colonialist). do you have any feedback regarding this? thank you.
(clarifications out of submission: Im autistic and queer myself so i have no issue with that part, and I have consulted a colombian friend of mine for the story (which has been helpful, but they really emphasize the different cultures found on colombia and how departments sometimes seem like entirely different worlds, which makes me nervous. Aside from the fact culture regarding class differences works somewhat differently), but again, Colombian culture is very unfamiliar to me, so yeah)
Write your character's "specific" authentic self
I’m an Argentinian-American Latina, not Colombian, but I think I can help here! You seem to be asking about how to avoid stating there is a “right” way to be Colombian when you’re not from the culture, and don’t want to make all-encompassing generalizations?
You’ll be able to fix this simply by getting more specific and stop talking in generalizations. Let me explain (and please bear with me a bit):
Trigger Warning: Shakespeare slander ahead
Specificity is universal. Let's look at two stories about vengeance:
Shakespeare's Coriolanus, and Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus. Coriolanus is a very dry story about two war generals who want to f*ck, and the titular character wants to take revenge on “the people” of Rome. I care more about the plotline with the generals f*cking because I’ve seen them together. I know they’re rivals. There’s stakes there - they challenge each other. Who are these “people” of Rome that Coriolanus wants vengeance on for disrespecting him? IDK and I don’t care because these people are a nebulous abstract concept, compared to this general.
Meanwhile, Titus Andronicus is like a real housewives show. It’s messy and dramatic, and everyone is petty, and over-the-top, and we pay attention. It's a spectacle. But it’s also really specific: Titus kills Tamora’s eldest son after the war, at the start of the play. That’s why she holds the grudge the whole time. She wants revenge for her son, and has her other two sons assault Titus’ daughter Lavinia in response. This is tit-for-tat and escalates the whole play through. This is specific enough that nobody thinks these characters represent Rome or the Goths – they represent themselves.
That’s where we’re at with your story – “colombian culture” is a nebulous abstract concept, and characters who don’t represent themselves yet.
Once you specify what you think it is, it will no longer be abstract. Once you have the hyper specific circumstance that your main character is in, you can edit from there. Let’s say, your MC’s mom is super religious, and the MC is a teen Colombian girl in a rock back and wears black lipstick. Not “traditional” Colombian in the eyes of her mother. She cannot measure up to the expectations of her mother, over the type of religious and quiet Colombian girls she “should” be. And that’s difficult for your MC to accept. Now, when she turns to her American or online friends who do accept her, it’s not so much that "‘"America=good" but rather that these friends reflect her punk rock alt style, and offer solidarity.
This specific scenario is not a story of generalizations and hyping up US culture. It’s a story of a girl in conflict with her mother over what type of young woman she should be.
You can mix and match traits, but the concept works the same:
Patriotic mother, who suppressed her indigeneity to speak on Spanish + indigenous daughter MC who practices her indigenous language with dad = MC is not "Colombian" i.e., not patriotic enough for the mother.
Party goer Colombian high schoolers + shy bookworm MC = not Colombian i.e. outgoing enough for the schoolmates.
Hyper religious family + punk rock MC = not Colombian i.e., "religious" enough for the family.
We can see here - through story - how “Colombian” is being used as a purity test to exclude whichever trait the MC has. And now we can see how a young woman might chase peer approval or a mothers love. This is no longer about who’s Colombian or not, but more about specific expectations and desires. We know exactly what the abstract concept is here.
Yes, we’ve all heard about how Latinos are perceived as loud and fun, and social, and maybe your character is a bookworm. But there’s always people going against the grain in society - when I did my exchange year in Japan - most kids were in cram school all day long. But, there were still those edgy kids– the girls hanging out in co-ed groups with messy uniforms, hiked up skirts, and *gasp* make-up. Like, I KNOW someone somewhere was like ‘those girls aren’t real Japanese.’ But they were just being themselves. So when you talk about this, it’s not that she’s not “Colombian enough” – it must be that she’s not up to someone else’s expectation of what she should be, compared to who she happens to be. When the MC therefore, finally finds solidarity with her online friends it's a safe space, not some ego-measuring cultural competition between the US and Colombia.
Good luck and happy writing.
-Melanie 🌻
P.S. listen to Colette’s suggestions about the research process.
Tread carefully and research thorougly
Identity stories are TOUGH to write from outside of the identity, particularly if you're not coming from one with cultural similarities.
While you do have some aspects of their identity down from personal experience (Autism and queer) that you can write from, if you are not Colombian yourself and have little/no personal connection here, you'll need to tread carefully, particularly if the being Colombian part is a large aspect of your character's identity struggle, as it seems to be.
So ask yourself:
Why do you want to write this type of story?
What connection do you have to the communities not your own?
How are you narrowing down the identities to more properly research? For example, is the family Afro-Colombian, white and Colombian, etc.
What may people get out of the story, if it were summed up by its key messages and takeaways?
I like Melanie's advice about writing about your specific character. She does not need to represent all of The People, and should be allowed to shine as her individual self.
Still, research, research, research and consult, consult, consult. Possibly even collaborate. That, i'd highly recommend.
Just as you have with your friend, which is good, hear from people you're writing about and see if this is a story that is welcome from these communities. It's a good idea to hear from multiple perspectives and cite them in your references!
(Those voices may include our followers! Colombian folks, is this a story you want to hear, particularly from a non-Colombian? What makes it something you want to hear or do not want to hear? Share your advice!)
More reading:
White Authors and Topics to Avoid/Tread Carefully (You’ll note that identity stories is in our topics to avoid/tread carefully list)
Writing about Poc trials and tribulations
Interviewing BIPOC for research
Note: I am not Colombian. My perspective on this is coming from a general BIPOC voice and other asks Mods have answered regarding identity stories and writing about the struggles within.
It didn't take Stan long to realize he was different. Different from his mom. His dad. His teachers and peers.
From his brother.
Although, looking back on it, it was shocking he ever thought he was the same at all. No one else in his family was quite like him, and he never saw anyone in their beach side town that looked or acted like he did.
It was an awareness that crept over him like moss, then slammed into him like a tidal wave.
First, the whispers. Always constant, always there. Small voices that muttered with the voices of everyone around him. He would hear his mother talk to a client, then at the same time hear the little whisper of her voice in his mind mutter and chuckle as they soaked in her lies and clung to them like pearls of truth.
His Pa would sit silently at the table for every meal, barely talking as Ma chittered and chatted, and Shermie went on and on about his day. To anyone else he appeared a gruff, uncaring father, but the little voice in Stan's head muttered and grumbled about finances and luxuries, suckers and bills. A constant worry, a ever hanging stress.
How he cared, in his own way.
Shermie was the worst though. While Ma would drop lies like breathing and Pa only seemed to breath, Shermie would smile down at Stan, hold his hands tightly, and tell him how everything was going to be OK. That the kids of their neighborhood were just jealous. That one day they'd grow out of their childish insults.
But all his whispering voice ever muttered was how he couldn't blame them. Not when Stan was such a freak.
And Stan was. Even without the whispers that plagued him every hour of every day. No one else had six fingers on two hands. No one else saw the world the same way he did. Felt it the way he did. Experienced the world doubled and split, with four hands, four legs, four eyes and ears and two minds that flowed back and forth into and out of each other.
No one else was born with two bodies.
One of them, the one with six fingers, his ma had named Stanford. The other one, the 'normal' one, was named Stanley. It took him ages to realize that when Shermie or Ma called for Stanford they only wanted his sixer mouth to say words, and when they said Stanley they wanted the other, and if he got it wrong he'd get scolded for playing tricks.
(Only his Pa called him Stan, but even he seemed to expect one mouth to talk, and he hated it when Stan tried talking with both at the same time, or guessed wrong on which body he wanted Stan to talk with.
In some ways it was nice, having someone call him by the name that meant all of him.
In most ways he wished Pa would just call him by one of his bodies full names like everyone else)
By the time he was seven he insisted his bodies be called Lee and Ford. It was much easier to respond that way, even if he still stumbled and said 'My Ford' or 'My Lee' instead of 'My Brother' like everyone insisted he should.
It felt weird calling himself his own brother.
There was only one of him after all, even if he had two of himself.
When he was ten Pa signed him up for boxing lessons. It was there that he learned how to split his attention, so that his Ford could still study for school, even as his Lee was getting his teeth knocked out. From there he split his chores and homework with himself. He could get all his homework done with his Ford, while his Lee could help around the shop or cleaned up his room. Whenever he signed up or was put into competitions, he could shove all his nerves and exited energy into his Lee while his Ford focused on standing in front of crowds and showing off his smarts to the world.
Plus doing homework twice was torture, and bulking up two bodies exhausting.
Better to copy it over once, and have the other take all the heat from the bullies that roamed the school yard.
Stan didn't have friends, but that was fine too. Having someone else around meant explaining why he would stop a task with Lee and have Ford takeover, or why he would talk out loud to himself in two bodies, mouths bouncing sentences back and forth to help make sense of things.
(The only person he ever tried to explain the whispers and his bodies to was his brother, who smiled warmly at him and whispered about how he couldn't wait to get as far away from him as possible.
Shermie left the day he turned eighteen, and Stan didn't see him again for almost ten years.)
When Stan was twelve he found the most beautiful wreckage in the world, and made plans to fix it up and set sail. When he was fourteen he started high school, and slowly realized he couldn't sail away from his problems.
When he was sixteen he put all dreams of childish adventures aside, focusing purely on his studies.
(If his Lee kept wandering to the beach and standing on the prow of a half-finished boat, well.
His Ford was getting his homework done, and that was all that really mattered.)
When Stan was seventeen he realized doing all his schoolwork with one body meant the rest of the world saw his other one as a useless dead weight. Everyone around him kept telling him how he was hanging onto his coat tails and riding on his success, and there was no way to tell them that Lee was Ford and they were Stan, and he was only himself, split into two.
He wasn't sure he could leave a part of himself behind.
He'd never tried.
(He didn't want to).
So while WCT was the chance of a lifetime, it was also the risk of one. He knew if anyone ever found out he was two people they wouldn't understand, and one or both of him would get thrown into a loony bin faster than Shermie ran off into the night.
Better to go somewhere no one would notice how he would know things only 'Ford' should.
It was easy to have his Lee sneak in and break his own project. Easier still to sadly drag himself home and tell Pa with his Ford how WCT hadn't been impressed.
Harder to control himself when Pa threw his Ford out about.
Easy to have his Lee follow.
When he found Gravity Falls, Stan was sure this was the place he'd finally belong. No more pretending to be one whole person staying in the library for long hours. No more struggling to feed two mouths and keeping on top of a course load meant for two but manageable if one person could be in two places at once. No more shoving one body into the backseat of a car while the other got a nice warm bed. No more migraines from trying to block out the whispers pressing in around him.
No more pretending he was anything less than he was.
Stan Filbrick Pines was one mind, born across two bodies. One Ford, one Lee, one Stan.
It was like breathing fresh air for the first time. There weren't any more eyes on him, he could finally relax and do things the way he wanted to, when he wanted to. Ford could start a task, and Lee could finish it without saying a word, because he didn't need to say a thing. Ford could stay in the cabin and write about everything Lee saw in the woods, Lee could clean up the house while Ford trekked into the mountains and did field notes. One of him could go into town and get groceries, while the other slowly walked around the kitchen to see what he needed.
There was no one around to give him odd looks.
Or if they did, they knew better than to say anything.
It was perfect.
"Well Well Well," Bill said, as Stan blinked into a starry night sky full of seagulls and glittering like the beaches of his childhood, "What do we have here?"
"I'm-" Stan coughed, then blinked down at his two hands. His right hand had six, his left five.
He couldn't find his other body. Couldn't feel it at all.
Like he'd only ever been one whole person.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
"I'm-What is this?" Stan looked up at the smiling triangle floating around him, then moved to stare in awe at the swirling ocean of stars around him. Glistening starlit fish swam in dizzying patterns, books flapped and called out with the voices of gulls.
Equations floated past him, along with gold coins.
"This," The triangle said, drawing his attention, "Is the start of a great friendship. The names Bill Cipher, and you Stan, you've caught my eye."
Its eye curled up, almost like it was smiling. A snap of its black fingers brought forth a pair of cushioned chairs and a chess set. The triangle sat down on one, then gestured for Stan to take the other. He did, still gaping at the twilight world around him.
"Tell me you what Stan," Bill said, propping its side up with a hand and lazily waving a glass into the other, "I'm amused! You're whole-" It gestured to him with the hand holding the glass, "-That!"
"That?" Stan asked. His mind was still struggling to come to terms with his limited mobility, and he kept trying to poke at floating books with an extra set of hands he didn't have.
Sometimes he poked it anyway, much to his delight.
"Your mind!" Bill threw his hands wide, his eyes definitely smiling, "This things a gold mind! You've caught my interest, which means I'll lend you a hand. What d'you say,"
Bill leaned forward, his singular eye intense.
"Want some help with your research?"
"Wouldn't it be easier if you didn't have to sleep? Imagine the work you could get done!"
"I already get a lot of work done Bill."
"Yeah, but your meat sacks still shut down at the same time. Think about it, just let me in, then I can get the portal up and running even faster."
"I don't know..."
"C'mon Stansy, don't you trust me?"
"I do! I do, I just... two bodies is a lot to handle, even for me. And with Fiddleford-"
"Ugh. Just say you don't want me working on our project already. I'll just leave you two to figure it out and-"
"No! No- I do- I trust you! Please don't go, I really appreciate all the help, I.."
"Hmm? What was that?"
"How about just one. Would that suffice?"
"One what Stan?"
"One body."
It was all falling apart, slipping through his twenty two fingers faster than he could blink. First Fiddleford, now this.
It had been a lie, all of it.
And now the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and there was no one left to turn to. No one he could trust.
Four shoulders, and they still weren't enough to bear the weight of his foolishness.
Thankfully he hadn't been so taken with Bill that he'd surrendered himself completely.
"Come on Stan!" Bill groaned, flopping his head back and forth, "Whats a little dimensional conquest between buds!"
"We aren't buds." Stan slurred back. The two of them were in the living room, Stan laying face down on the couch in his Lee while Bill was tied to a chair in his Ford, where he'd been every night since Stan learned of his betrayal.
Where both of them had been, since Bill had done something to his connection to his Ford the second night. He could still control his Ford when his Ford was 'awake' but so long as Bill was puppeting it, his Lee was as awake as the demon was.
He had never been awake in one body before, and he had quickly learned to hate the feeling. His mind felt sluggish and slow, exhaustion heavy on his everything. He could feel the fog of his connection to his Ford on the edges of his mind, and the spiky tendrils of Bill's control.
Laying on the couch talking into the cushions was the best he could do like this.
The worst was that having his Ford wake up wouldn't make it better. The once easy control he had over his body was starting to stutter and strain, and neither body felt well rested. He'd be twice as exhausted, twice as foggy, and still tied to a chair.
How long had it been? How long since his Lee lost the energy to drag him into the kitchen? His Ford could sleep all it wanted, but if his Lee closed its eyes then he'd fall asleep and if Lee slept then Ford slept because Stan was sleeping but then Bill would be there and Ford would wake up and that would wake up Stan because he was Ford and he was Lee and he'd be back on the couch.
He was so tired.
A sharp stab to the back of his mind jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Stan blinked his eyes back into focus, then turned to squint at the demon.
Bill was grinning back, looking far too pleased with himself.
Not a great sign.
"Well look at that!" Bill crowed, smile so wide Stan could see every one of his own teeth, "That's were that is! I should of guessed the two of you had it buried pretty deep, but wow was I surprised to find it all the way down there!"
"What are you talking about." Stan sighed, closing his eyes, "Two of... where."
"This!"
The jolt went through him again, and he snapped his eyes open with a gasp. Energy was starting to buzz under his skin, buzzing and painful. He sucked in another gasp when it shot through him a third time, then hissed and rolled over at the fourth.
Bill was staring straight at him, smile as stiff and corpse like as it always was.
"Let me tell you, this wasn't easy to find!" Bill said cheerily, and Stan would have snapped something back if it didn't feel like electricity was running up and down his spine, "I mean, wow! You really did think you were one person, didn't you!"
"I-" Stan gasped, cold sweat breaking out over his skin and fingertips slowly numbing, "I am- I'm just- I'm Stan!"
"No."
There was a knot forming at the base of his skull. A pressure that had always been there, wrapped around and through his brain. Roots he didn't realize had grown with him sharply made him aware of their paths in his mind, tugging at feelings and memories, tearing at the very foundation of himself.
Stan would have screamed if he had the energy for it. All he could do was gasp and clutch his head, try to press himself back down.
"You're not."
There was a flash of light, then dark.
Before he knew what was happening, he was gone. Far away and deep inside himself, staring at and one with the a giant, twisting tree. Its roots were twisted deeply into sandy soil, its branches tangled with the stars.
As he stood there, crystal blue water lapping at his feet, he could feel it splintering. Dark tendrils were wrapped around the center, tearing at the bark. Small hands that swung down from-
Up from-
They were-
HE was-
He was standing on stars, roots tangled with galaxies, and above him the branches were tangled in an inverted sea, holding it up. Black hands were twisting from the midnight earth, up to the trunk and tearing into it and-
But he was looking-
The hands were hcalnigmibning-
The roots were-
branches tangled with the starswaves, rooted in place by sandsky
Stan looked up and saw-
Himself.
He was staring updown at a endless nightbeachsky, the tree bridging them together. Thicker than anything, holding doors and windows and memories and weight.
That's me, Stan thought, and Knew, and it was, that's Stan
Not just a tree. Not just the roots and the branch's. Its went down and connected every part of himself to himself. It was him, everything he was, had been, would be.
The thing Bill was tearing to pieces.
"Stop!" Stan shouted, lunging forward to try and tear the arms away from the tree. He didn't understand why or what it was, but every torn piece that was flung aside sent a jolt of agony through him. The demon was tearing him to pieces, and if he didn't stop him-
He didn't know.
He'd never been anyone other than himself.
"Get off" Stan jumpedgrabbed at the-
had the arms in his and they were-
too far away to reach he couldn't-
strong but this was his mind and he-
could feel himself tearing apart losing parts that-
was losing focus. It was getting hard to-
concentrate. he had to concentrate and-
There were so many. too many to count, endless as more shot out and he was-
So
Tired
Stan looked downup at himself, fear clear in his own face as something
Cracked
And
The
Tree
Snapped
In
TWO
It was fuzzy.
Everything was fuzzy. Soft.
Buzzing.
Buzz buzz buzzing
Grey. Gray.
Dull.
Then.
Hurt. Every part of every was hurting. Dull and throbbing.
And also.
A sound.
That hurt too.
He didn't want to be hurting. He wanted to sink back into the not feeling, where he didn't feel anything.
That was nice.
But the sounds kept sounding, and maybe if he made them stop, he could go back away.
Away away.
Back to the nothing.
It took a minute to remember he had to do things to make his body do things. Suck in air. Push it out. Suck it in. Let out a groan.
Or maybe a wheeze.
A sound.
One eyelid struggled to open. It hurt, and was heavy, and really, nothing was worth this amount of effort.
Best to go away.
Away away away.
He was so tired.
He was...
he was....
Who was he?
Memories, hazy and quiet, were pushed towards him.
Pushed, pushed at-
And it hurt. It hurthurthurt
but.
He was Stan.
Stan. That was... his name.
He was pretty sure.
Stan took in a steadying breath. Then another. And one more, before he found it in him to drag an eyelid open and squint out into the world.
He was already staring back at himself.
Weird.
Less weird, and more concerning, was the way the relief that had been clear on his face vanished, replaced by horror.
He felt the face he was attached to twist, but he couldn't-
He couldn't see out of his-
Something was wrong with his body.
His other body too. It was whispering to itself, head shaking and tears pouring down the sides.
"Stop that," he told it, making it flinch, "Why are you.."
Stan's brows furrowed, but the words he wanted were already sinking back down into the mist that was his brain.
Something was wrong.
He couldn't feel the rope digging into his Ford, couldn't see out of his Fords eyes, or taste his awful Ford breath.
He only felt like this when-
Right Bill.
Bill was here so he needed...
Sleep. He needed to sleep.
He was so tired.
Next to him his Ford shouted and raged, but it was fine.
it was fine.
He'd figure it out in the morning.
(Hey what if Stan and Ford had psychic twin powers and were so wrapped around each other they thought they were one person? And then Bill came around and chopped that connection to the ground?
Yes that is Ford screaming 'at himself' and freaking out because while 'his lee' was used to not feeling half of himself, his Ford was not. Neither are Stan or Ford in the traditional sense, as their memories and knowledge are split between them, but its not an even split (Bill made sure to nab all the parts he thought were important and keep them on the 'Ford' side of the divide) and so Fords still got most of their schooling in his mind)
i think the reason i relate to arthur so much has less to do with him as a king and more to do with how he was raised, especially with his dad.
growing up with a parent like that—someone who sets the standard for everything, who decides what’s right and wrong so absolutely—you don’t really get the space to figure yourself out. you just learn how to meet expectations. or at least how to try. and when you fall short, it doesn’t feel like you made a mistake, it feels like you are the mistake.
arthur was basically taught that love is conditional. that approval comes from being strong, being controlled, being “right.” there’s no room for doubt, or softness, or questioning anything. so of course he grows up rigid, defensive, sometimes harsh—because that’s what was modeled for him.
and i get that. like, when you’re used to being judged or corrected all the time, you start doing it to yourself. you second guess everything. you overcompensate. you either shut down or get defensive because it feels like you’re always one step away from being told you’re not good enough.
and then there’s the part where you still want their approval anyway. even when you know they’re wrong, even when they’ve hurt you, there’s still that instinct to prove yourself to them. to make them proud. and it’s frustrating because it keeps you tied to them in a way you don’t always want to be.
arthur carries that constantly. you can see how much of what he does is shaped by trying to live up to his father, even when he starts to realize his father’s worldview is flawed. and that kind of shift—when you realize the person who raised you isn’t always right, or maybe even caused harm—that messes with your sense of everything. because if they were wrong about that, what else were they wrong about? what does that make you, when you were raised on it?
i think that’s why he struggles so much with change. not because he’s incapable of it, but because changing means admitting that the foundation you were built on isn’t solid.
and i relate to that a lot. the unlearning. the guilt that comes with it. the feeling that you’re betraying something, even if that something hurt you. the way it takes time to separate who you actually are from who you were told to be.
arthur’s growth feels real to me because it’s not instant. he messes up. he clings to old beliefs. he has to be shown things more than once. but he does change, slowly, and it comes from questioning what he was taught and choosing something different, even when it’s hard.
and i think that’s the part that sticks with me: the idea that you can come from something rigid, something damaging even, and still choose to be better.
I feel like the reason I hate Jax and Rocky so much is that they are everything that I hate about myself.
Jax’s desperate attempts to hide his true identity through being as masculine as possible because he’s scared of it hits too close to home. I tried so hard to be a girl, I yearned to be like the ones in my class, I wanted to be one so bad but I just wasn’t, and realising that was one of the hardest things in my life.
With Rocky, I’m not going to go into detail for my sake but basically mommy issues. Thats it. Thats all I’m going to say.
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