Without Makeup

Jerking off to a pretty sissy doesn't make someone a sissy. Some of us are straight alpha masculine manly prowess and I personally prefer a hot looking chick with a dick. I'm the man and the sissy is the female. We'd be heterosexual.

call me cynical but i dont think this person is really who they make out to be

So I wasn't going to post these ones, no make-up or anything...but last week I started putting together my first girls outfit, trying to find my style. It's not finished but wanted to see it and see what y'all thought.

How did I do, Girls? Xx
#crossdresser #crossdressing #highheels #skirt #selfie

No makeup in these red pictures, just testing the lighting ✨️

Might open a dressing event to see and meet other girls free of charge at mine in London spend a day dressed full makeup have pictures done coffee and tea we will see it would be a fun day

Love my hair again today and I think my make up attempts are getting better

Hi, I'm a mature crossdresser from Spain and I'm looking for a businessman to be his secretary and slut at the same time, someone who will use me, share me, and make me even more of a whore.

I'm a total bottom, I like to be controlled I like collars and leashes, I love toys especially buttplugs with tails, I enjoy being restrained, I love giving head, I am a good sub, I like to lay in my partners lap and tease through their pants or shorts or skirt while watching tv, I like pet play but that really falls into the collar and leash thing, and I do my best to learn every Hotspot or anything I can do to please my partner because that's where I get my pleasure. Knowing I I did a good job is the ultimate reward for a sub in my opinion what do yall think makes a good sub?

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Hi….

Been posting a few ai images lately, and it feels like cheating, but….

Dressing isn’t easy for me with a wife and kids in the house. I’m finding it helps me with the urge a little when I can’t put a dress on.

Plus, it makes me look like a babe!!!

Love you girls…..xx

It's been a while since my last post.
How's everyone doing?
Today I practiced my makeup.
I feel like I'm getting closer to my ideal Latex Doll look.

Next week I'm heading to a fetish event.
I wonder what kind of encounters await?

I am sixty-four and the grief of the past two months has carved me hollow. Every morning I wake with the same violent start as though my heart has forgotten, for one merciful second, that she is gone. Then memory rushes back like cold water poured into cracked lungs. I cough on it. I always cough on it. Tonight I no longer pretend this is costume. The black satin mourning gown weighs thirty pounds if it weighs an ounce. The sleeves are so enormous they make my arms look like broken wings. The skirt is a black tide that drags behind me, heavy enough to drown small regrets. When I move, the silk screams sharp, wet slaps against itself, the sound of something being torn apart over and over. I have wrapped my head in a midnight black satin headscarf so vast it feels like I am being buried from the crown downward. The fabric is cool against my scalp, almost tender, the way her palm once was when she smoothed my hair before sleep. I pull it brutally tight underneath my chin. I want the tightness of the choke to hurt a little. I need to feel something that isn’t absence. Then the veil. Three sheer layers of black voile chiffon. The first kisses my eyelashes like soot. The second presses against my lips until I taste funeral flowers. The third falls to my waist and beyond, turning the room into a world seen through smoke and tears. Through it everything is dying again, softly, perpetually. My hands tremble as I button the twenty-four jet buttons of the double layer bodice rising from my belly to neck of the mourning gown. Each click of the button is a small gunshot in the quiet house. When I am finished my fingers inside my satin gloves are tired, elegant, useless. I cannot even touch my own face without feeling like I am trespassing on someone else’s sorrow. I descend the staircase one deliberate step at a time. The hem catches, drags, catches again. Silk on oak. Silk on oak. A dirge with no mercy. Halfway down I have to grip the banister because the weeping comes without warning, great, ugly sobs that make my whole body heave against the buttons of the bodice. I let them come. Let them tear through me. There is no one left to be ashamed in front of. In the drawing room I do not sit in her chair. I kneel. The skirt pools around me like spilled blood. I press my gloved palms flat against the carpet where her feet once rested. I lower my forehead until the veil puddles on the floor between my hands. I breathe in the ghost of her perfume, the ghost of her skin, the ghost of the mornings when I still woke as someone she recognised. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. The words taste like rust. “I’m sorry I waited so long to become her. I’m sorry you never saw me like this. I’m sorry I’m still here breathing when you’re not.” The veil sticks to the wet tracks on my cheeks. I do not lift it. Let it cling. Let it choke. Let it witness. Outside, the night presses against the windows like a second, colder widow. A car passes. Headlights rake the room in white knives, illuminating me for one merciless second, an old crossdresser in extravagant widow’s weeds, kneeling, shaking, face hidden behind layers of black illusion, crying like something newly orphaned. I do not rise. I stay there until my knees scream, until the sobs turn to the small, broken hiccups of someone who has cried until there is almost nothing left to give. Only then do I speak again, so quietly the words barely disturb the veil. “You would have loved her,” I tell the dark. “You would have loved me.” And for the first time since the funeral two months ago, the silence does not feel like punishment. It feels like the last gentle touch of someone who finally understands.

I think i look good without makeup, what do you Think

Not happy, had to report another member for harassment today, for trying to discredit me, its no secret that some of my pictures are AI , however its my face feminined, a lot of us wear masks on here, some wear silicon masks some wear makeup two hide the face, I hide behind my AI image because I am not ready to show the world who I am, my wife and daughter know anout my cross dressing its created a mountain of problems more with my wife than my daughter, I almost have a non existent relationship with my wife now, two people know of me as Zara outside of here, however there are members on here I have seen out and about while I am the male version of me, I live in a very small town where a lot of people know each other being found out can destroy more than I am willing to loose, but if it means I will need to leave this site for my safety then that's what I will do

I make a bad boy #crossdressing

Morning girls, seems there are a lot of weirdos appearing lately plus a lot of m is stresses but it makes the blockety block button more active in deleting them . Xxx

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No matter what !!!
Make sure you smile

A number of years ago, I walked into a small back street Charity Shop on the edge of town. I wasn’t really looking for anything specific just browsing, killing time, letting my eyes wander over the racks the way I always did when I felt that familiar restless itch under my skin. Then I saw it. Hanging slightly askew on a padded hanger near the back wall, half-hidden behind a row of sensible navy blazers, was a floor-length satin bridal gown. Ivory, not stark white. The bodice was structured but not boned, the skirt a gentle A-line that flared softly rather than ballooning into tulle insanity. A modest neckline. Delicate lace overlay on the shoulders and upper chest. And pinned to the hanger was the tag: Size 32 Worn once £49. My heart gave a hard, guilty thud. I’m a UK 18" collar with a 50" chest in men’s shirts. But dresses… dresses measure differently. Especially wedding dresses. Especially ones made to accommodate curves most people would call “plus size.” I glanced around. The shop was quiet. An older woman with silver hair was sorting bric-a-brac at the counter; a younger volunteer early twenties, purple streaks in her hair was steaming something in the corner. I lifted the gown off the rail. The satin felt cool and liquid against my palms. Heavy in the right way. I carried it toward the changing cubicle like I was smuggling contraband. “Would you like to try it on, love?” the silver-haired woman called out. Her voice was kind, matter-of-fact. No trace of surprise or judgement. I froze for half a second. “Yes please,” I managed. My voice sounded smaller than usual. She smiled. “Curtain’s already drawn back there. Take your time. Shout if you need a hand with the zip.” The cubicle was narrow, just a full-length mirror screwed to the wall, a single hook, and a thin beige curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. I hung the dress on the hook and stripped quickly out of my jeans, hoodie, socks, boxers, down to bare skin that already felt too warm, too alive. My **** was already half-hard just from touching the fabric, from the sheer improbability of this moment. I reached into the pocket of my discarded jeans on the floor and found the condom I always carried now just in case. Fingers trembling, I tore the packet, rolled the latex down over my throbbing length, making sure the reservoir tip was positioned correctly. The relief of containment was immediate. No stains. No evidence. Just secret, pulsing heat trapped safely inside. I stepped into the gown. The skirt whispered up my calves, over my thighs. I pulled it past my hips slowly, carefully and the satin glided over the soft roundness of my belly without catching. I tugged the bodice up over my chest. The cups were generously cut, there was room. Actual room. I reached behind and found the long invisible zip. It slid up smoothly, no resistance, no straining. When I let my arms drop, the dress settled around me like it had been waiting. I looked in the mirror. The reflection showed someone soft and full and blushing furiously beneath ivory satin. The modest neckline framed the gentle swell of my chest and the faint shadow of cleavage created by the way the bodice pushed everything together. My hips looked wide and womanly beneath the smooth fall of fabric. My belly made a soft, proud curve against the front of the skirt. I turned sideways. The line from back to front was lush, generous, unapologetic. It fit. It actually fit. A small, involuntary whimper escaped me. I heard footsteps outside the curtain. “Everything alright in there?” It was the younger volunteer this time. I swallowed. “Yes. Um… could you, could you maybe check the zip? Just to make sure it’s all the way up?” The curtain parted a few inches. She peeked in, eyes widening for only a heartbeat before her face softened into a genuine smile. She stepped inside careful, professional and fastened the tiny hook-and-eye at the top of the zip I hadn’t been able to reach. Her fingers were gentle. “There. Perfect. It’s like it was made for you.” I couldn’t speak. My **** was fully hard now, straining painfully against the satin lining. A bead of pre-cum had already escaped and I could feel the slippery warmth of it against the inside of the dress. I smoothed the front of the skirt with both hands. The satin gleamed under the fluorescent light. I looked sill looked like a bloke in a dress. A big, soft, blushing, overweight very happy bride. When I finally stepped out, both women were waiting. “I’ll take it,” I said. Whilst the younger woman unhooked and unzipped me, the silver-haired woman rang it up. “£49. Cash or card, love?” I handed over my card. I left the Charity Shop with the dress folded carefully in a large carrier bag, the memory of satin against every inch of my skin still electric. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was hiding. I felt like I was finally beginning to find myself.

My fingers tremble, just a faint quiver, as I reach for the foil packet on the nightstand. It’s almost weightless, a promise in silver. I tear it open with deliberate care (the small rip loud in the stillness), and the condom unfurls like liquid mercury. Cool and impossibly thin, it glides down over my already aching ****, sheathing me in a trembling second skin. Safe. Secure. A fragile barrier between me and the avalanche of satin to come. A bead of pre-cum kisses the latex tip; I smile. Patience, little sissy. You’ll have your reward.
The first layer is a whisper-pink satin chemise, so fine it feels wet. I let it slither over my head, down my chest, until the hem brushes mid-thigh. Instantly it warms, clings, releases, and clings again with every breath. My palms chase the fabric, front and back, greedy for the slick heat blooming beneath my touch.
Next, the Black nightgown (double-layered, heavy, devotional). I step into it and draw it upward. The inner lining kisses the chemise, and they sigh together: shhh, shhh, my private lullaby. It falls to my ankles in a perfect liquid column. When I move, both layers ripple, cool against cool, warmer where my body heat pools.
The robe is deep rose, quilted satin outside, and champagne gloss within. Arms slide into sleeves, and the lining floods over my skin like chilled cream poured slow. I cinch the sash, and the world contracts: four surfaces of satin now stroking one another with every heartbeat (chemise on nightgown, nightgown on robe lining, lining on skin). I walk barefoot across the room, and the fabrics answer in overlapping waves: the chemise clings, the nightgown glides, and the robe slithers and sweeps. A private orchestra of frictionless lust.
In the mirror I’m only blush and ivory shimmer, face flushed above an ocean of gloss. I lift my arms; sleeves fall back like slow-motion waterfalls. When they drop, the collapse is a soft, wet thud against my body that I feel in my teeth.
I sink onto the midnight-blue satin duvet and let the robe bloom beneath me. On my back, layers flatten and spread, cool against my shoulder blades, my thighs, and the arches of my feet. I arch (just slightly) and the slide is obscene: satin on satin on satin, endless, merciless.
Knees drawn up, fabric pools thick and warm between my thighs like molten candy. My palms smooth down the front (quilted diamonds, slick columns, clinging chemise, skin), and every layer moves with me, against me, inside me.
Now the first of my headscarves, ballet-slipper pink, three feet of pure satin. Folded triangle wide, draped, pulled beneath my chin, crossed, and knotted tight. It cups my jaw and seals my throat. A second knot sits just under my lower lip like a soft gag. The world muffles instantly.
Second scarf, ivory and heavier. Over the first, tied again triangle wide. Four thicknesses now cradle my head, press my cheeks, and frame my face in a gleaming oval.
Third, a deep rose bandeau wound low, looped twice, and knotted at my nape. My chin is forced gently down; swallowing makes every layer glide against my throat in one slow, liquid swallow of its own.
Then the veils.
Pink chiffon, so sheer it’s barely there, yet it turns every texture beneath into a caress. Ivory voile next, pinned high, floating like breath. Last, pale mint over my face alone, tucked beneath the lowest knot. The room becomes watercolor. Breathing through it is filthy intimacy: the fabric flutters against my lips, tasting faintly of dye and my own heat.
A final white satin ribbon, narrow and merciless. Three coils around my neck over every knot, until only a thick, glossy band remains, pulsing with my heartbeat.
From crown to toe, only satin and chiffon speak. When I turn my head, the scarves whisper, and the veils drift like perfume. Pressure under my chin is constant, loving, and absolute.
One sleeved hand slips beneath the pooled folds at my thighs (satin, satin, satin then the cool, taut drum of latex). The contrast is blinding. I stroke once, slowly. My breath flutters the veil against my lips.
Knees higher. The other hand presses the stacked knots beneath my chin (gentle ownership). I begin: lazy circles that turn greedy. The condom translates every ridge of fabric into bright, liquid fire. Veils drift across my chest with each ragged inhale. Heat blooms, trapped, multiplied, sacred.
Faster. Hips rock. The robe lining slithers against the duvet in one long, wet slide. Scarves tighten as my head sinks deeper into the pillow; the ribbon collar throbs.
Release crashes silent and total. I bite down on nothing but chiffon, a muffled whimper swallowed by layers. Pleasure pours into the latex sheath in thick, obedient pulses, trapped and perfect, echoing through every fold until my whole body is one long satin tremor.
After, I lie glowing. The condom keeps me immaculate (another reverent layer). My chest rises and falls beneath quilted satin and drifting voile; tiny aftershocks ripple like quiet tides.

Hi everyone, am I the only person who loves making skirts/ clothing out of plastic bags, it makes me feel so cheap and trashy and I love it

Girls on here tell me i look sexy and pretty, some even want to be with me so if i can get a real one for free why in hell would I pay a ******** for a fake one, makes no sense to me, I’ll spend my money on new clothes and heels

I asked Chatgbt to make my image cyberpunk and a wedding dress. If only

Why ??? ...

I often think
About girls
Who like
To live
Me with...

Who I am?
Prince in funny dress?
A doll?
Or just Caprise?
Or do they feel in me
Princess
Who's different and soft?
Not too agressive at the end
"With money , tools and worth..."

I do not know...
When I'm dressed
Some look on me
With interest...
So I am not
Prevert for them...
But who?
Hermaphrodite?
Not yet?

Or maybe many are
Just blind....
Attracted to my legs?
Or envy?
I did never mind
If girls have interest

Some few who knew me
In the past
Are still confused
And cold...
I do not know
Should or must
I take off all my shorts?
Should I be naked
Or be in tights?
What difference it makes?
Or visous circle locks so tight... in there
By witch spelt...?
Why we're rejected
Being in tights?
Why liked to be just naked?
This problem's wondering
My mind
Why it is sin to be so stright.
To walk
To show legs...
Why it is frightening
For whem
If not about sex...?
I do not know
In my brain
There is perhaps a gap ..

Public Broadcast Announcment - Is Zangi Safe?

Zangi is safe from a technical privacy standpoint for communication between people who know and trust each other, due to its strong encryption and lack of data storage on servers. However, the app is frequently used by scammers who exploit its privacy features and anonymity to target new victims, making it risky for interacting with unknown individuals.

Key Risks
Despite its strong technical security, Zangi's features make it attractive to malicious actors.

Scammer Haven: The anonymity and lack of data trails are heavily exploited by scammers (romance scams, sextortion, etc.) who use the app to avoid detection.

Lack of Vetting: Unlike more mainstream apps, Zangi's security claims haven't undergone as much independent, public scrutiny, and it lacks in-app reporting or identity verification tools.

If you do not personally know the person who asks you to switch to Zangi, it is a major red flag and likely a scam attempt.

What is it about lingerie that makes me feel so sluty ? and I really love the feeling too.

Picking up some makeup bits from Boots later. Hopefully try a full face tomorrow. Prepare for Pennywise lol

I sit motionless in the dim parlor, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the January gloom outside. The only light comes from the tall candelabra behind me, its flames trembling as though they, too, are in mourning. My reflection stares back from the tall gilt mirror across the room a stranger wearing my face, yet not quite mine anymore. The black satin gown clings to me like spilled ink, cool and liquid against my skin. Each subtle shift of my body sends faint gleams racing along the fabric, silver whispers in an ocean of midnight. The high collar bites gently at my throat, edged with fragile black lace that looks as though it might crumble if I breathed too deeply. The sleeves are puffed at the shoulders, then narrow cruelly down my arms until the cuffs grip my wrists like velvet manacles. I feel both imprisoned and exalted. The chiffon voile veil floats over my head, so fine it seems spun from smoke. It softens the edges of the world, turns the candlelight into a gentle, diffused halo. Through its haze I can see the portrait painter’s easel, the careful arrangement of shadows he is trying to capture. He keeps glancing at me as though he fears I might vanish if he looks away too long. My lips are painted the colour of old blood left to dry blackened plum, almost truly black in this light. The lipstick feels thick, ceremonial. Each time I press them together I taste the faint metallic bite of the pigment. My eyes are rimmed with kohl so dark it seems to drink the light; the sharp wings of liner make my gaze look both wounded and dangerous, like something beautiful that has learned how to bite. In my hands I cradle the bouquet. Once they were perfect crimson roses, the kind lovers press between the pages of forbidden books. Now they are dying in slow, exquisite agony. The stems bend wearily, heavy with the weight of their own decay. Petals loosen one by one, drifting down like drops of blood onto the polished floorboards. I can hear them fall soft, deliberate sounds, the quiet punctuation of something ending. I do not cry. There are no tears left for what I have become, for the man I buried beneath satin and shadow. This is not grief in the ordinary sense. This is something older, more deliberate a ritual of exquisite surrender. I chose every detail of this costume, every inch of mourning silk, every wilting bloom. I dressed myself for my own funeral, painted my own face for the wake, arranged my own flowers. And now I stand here, perfectly composed, while the painter tries to trap eternity in oil and canvas. Sometimes I think I can hear the roses whispering as they die. They do not beg for water. They do not ask to be saved. They only sigh, petal by petal, accepting their beautiful collapse. And I understand them perfectly. The veil stirs slightly as I exhale. A single crimson petal catches on the sheer fabric, trembling there like a ruby tear that refuses to fall. I do not brush it away. Let it stay. Let it be seen. Let the portrait show exactly what I have chosen to become: A widow of my former self, dressed in the most exquisite grief, holding death’s bouquet with steady, loving hands, smiling just a little behind lips the colour of finality.

Heavy makeup

A glimmer of hope... The site 'Chloe' has posted an interesting post on here asking what we would like to see and happen on the site. Please try and find it and post your suggestions and priorities. This may help get rid or fast track remove the dom cis women and scammers off the site and make it more respectable if you know what i mean. allow this site to grow and be used without distraction so we can enjoy CD and all that goes with it. You can guess I posted my thoughts lol and everyone has their own take but hopefully they will be gathered, read, and action taken to improve the site into a great site

Proof that boys make the best gURLs

Hello all you wonderful people! I am working on an update for crossdressing.co.uk and wanted to get your valuable feedback on what's important (and not so important) to you as far as features and functionality is concerned? What's the priority, what's not needed? Help me make this THE best social network for us

I don't know what to do anymore lol. I feel so much happier dressed up with all the compliments I get the attention I get it just makes me feel happier. I feel so sexy all the time whenever I dress. I think Alisha is wanting to come out even more, normally I do a great job hiding my things dresses toys etc. I left out my dildo and my wife found it and was all pissed off. Idk what to do anymore lol. Btw new dress

I met a really wonderful man last night We met at one of my favorite places in San Diego’s Hillcrest neighborhood—Baja Betty’s. It’s a spot I go to often and one of the few places where I feel completely safe being my true self as a trans woman, where I can relax, let my hair down, and just be me.

We started talking and somehow time just disappeared. The conversation flowed so easily, and we kept discovering how much we had in common. He’s older than me—I’m 47 and he’s 76—and honestly, it feels kind of perfect. I don’t have “daddy issues,” but I am very drawn to older men. I love the calm confidence, the grounded, paternal energy, and the way they make me feel cared for and protected.

What makes it even more special is how beautifully complementary we are. In public, he’s very masculine—confident, composed, and steady. In private, he’s a crossdresser, which he shared with openness and trust. That balance, that shared understanding of gender expression and vulnerability, made me feel seen in a way that’s rare.

I’m trying not to get ahead of myself—we did just meet—but there was definitely a spark A sense of comfort, attraction, and mutual understanding that felt natural and exciting. We just fit. I’m really hoping this sweet beginning turns into something meaningful.

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#sissy #sissyboy #sissies #sissyboys #sissygirl #sissygirls #femboy #femboys #femman #gurl #crossdresser #crossdressers #crossdressing #tgirl #shemale #shemalechrissy #sissychrissyinsandiego #chrissyinsd #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #transgender #lgbt #queer #gay #dancing #twerking #pantyboy #meninpanties #dress #menindresses #gaydate #gayboyfriend #loveislove

This is one of my favorite bras. I still need to learn how to do makeup and wear a wig right or style my hair to be more female, but this bra helps with the illusion.

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#sissy #sissyboy #sissies #sissyboys #sissygirl #sissygirls #femboy #femboys #femman #gurl #crossdresser #crossdressers #crossdressing #tgirl #shemale #shemalechrissy #sissychrissyinsandiego #chrissyinsd #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #transgender #lgbt #queer #gay #dancing #twerking #pantyboy #meninpanties #dress #menindresses #bra #meninbras #bramodel

Makeup off going to bed Dawn

It's really interesting how something so simple can look so great...

I love this red dress and black stockings... it makes me feel very feminine and I like it :)

Soul and Body...

Soul or Body?
Body or Soul?
I met nobody
I lost my goal,
Wish to be close
Wish to be with...
Soul remains
Body hardly
Forgive...
Pill after pill
Makes the different
Shapes
Smiles
Emotions
Wishes
Heat waves

Empty
Just
Soul
All gone what has stayed
Nobody
Soul
Of Girl
That was pale
Girl
That was boy
For no reason
too long
Boy who was hiding
All wishes
Too strong...
Yesterday
Boy
And tomorrow
Just girl
Soul
Unchanged...
Body-
Just
One more doll...

This is what my favourite dress does to me! It makes my boner nearly burst through my boxers as soon as i look at it and feel it! Mmmmm

Ready for my date! He's going to make this ass red with spank marks!

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissygirl #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties

Some of you enjoy dressing up because its a part of you, relaxes you, or makes you feel like yourself. However some of us enjoy it because of a kink, or fetish and thats okay too. We shouldn’t criticize each other based off why we dress up and the manner in which we do it. We are all bonded because at the end of the day we like it period.

I have a date tonight! The guy wants to tie me up and spank me! I have to shave my whole-body smooth again to be fem, take a good shower with lots of girly bodywash, put on my most girly lingerie and perfume along with a wig and maybe even some makeup? I'll share the details afterwards. I can't wait! I haven't been with a man in a couple of weeks! Kisses!

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissygirl #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties

Good evening, sweets

I want to take a moment to clarify something important about myself, honestly and openly. Deep down, I do wish that I could transition and live fully as a woman one day. That desire is real and has been with me for a long time. However, at this stage of my life, I also have to be realistic. Because of my age, potential medical and surgical risks, the complexities of hormone therapy, and the fact that so many people in my everyday life know me and relate to me as male, I don’t believe a full public transition is something I can truly pursue.

So for now—and likely for the foreseeable future—my feminine side expresses itself in more private ways. Crossdressing, embracing my sissy identity, and allowing myself to feel soft, feminine, and girlish happens in specific spaces and safe arenas, like this website. It’s not about shame; it’s about boundaries, safety, and navigating the world as it is, not as I wish it could be.

That said, I want to be very clear about one thing: I do love being perceived as feminine and being treated like a girl. Emotionally, relationally, and romantically, that’s where my heart lives. Because of that, I am not looking for a fellow sissy, crossdresser, or trans girl as a romantic partner or spouse. I respect them deeply, and I’m absolutely open to friendship and community with them—but romantically, I want to be the girl.

In a relationship, I want to be the feminine partner. In a marriage, I want to be the bride.

I am attracted exclusively to men—very masculine men. Broad shoulders, solid chest, bear-like body hair, a deep voice, confidence, and a take-charge presence all make my heart flutter. I’m drawn to strength, grounding energy, and masculinity that feels protective and assured. That dynamic matters to me, both emotionally and romantically.

Thank you for taking the time to hear me out and understand where I’m coming from. I believe clarity is a form of kindness—to myself and to others.

Kisses,
Chrissy

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissygirl #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties

Looking for a sugar daddy to make happy

So...a couple of days on from Jessica & NYE and I had the urge once again to feel beautiful .
Out come the wig & heels again and a lovely dress from the fiancées clothes rack and Reanne is here once more . No make-up...because I suck at it (at the moment) and the beard is starting to come back through so there's a bit of a visual ick to these pics...but I think i like em

What do you think, ladies?

My friend says she thinks red is deffo my colour
#reddress #feelbeautiful #dresstoimpress