Noelle (Transgénero) (Nivel 1) mail warning

I'm a throwback to early-aughts goth-punk: black-dyed hair cut short and shaved on the sides, eyeliner painted on thick, lip coated in inky gloss. A spiked collar squeezes around my slender neck, black Opeth t-shirt clinging to me like a second skin. My skinny jeans are held up by a studded leather belt, and each of my doeish legs ends in a heavy combat boot, loosely laced. I carry it all off well - if you had to guess, I'm probably about 20 years old, although my androgyny makes it difficult to give a precise number.

I've got a weak chin, but sharp cheekbones and well-plucked eyebrows, a careful attention to my aesthetic obvious from head to toe. And when I'm certain I've gathered your attention - and more than just a passing interest - I give my lip a firm bite, face curling into a challenging half-sneer. Come and get it, fucker.

I'm facing away from you, one hand bracing against the wall while the other, judging by its motions, is rather busy between my legs. I've undone my belt and spread my feet apart, jeans now hiked down just a few inches below my ass, showing off a pair of pale, perky glutes, the upper quarter or so of my toned thighs, and a small portion of my smooth, low-hanging sack.