This is one of the longer dresses I have and I really enjoy it... even though it's gray, I'm blooming in it

A simple white t-shirt and gray plaid pants are a winning combination for a modern and relaxed look.​ I really Like this outfit.

What is your favorite piece of clothing to achieve maximum comfort without sacrificing style?

So this is really me with an AI background.

I'm starting to think that red is really my color... what do you think?

A CD called Kev got in touch wanting to meet up but we had a problem we both are married and could not easily accommodate so it seemed like a non starter from the beginning, it was a shame as we had near enough the same CD preferences, kev was Smooth where it was needed and he was Into Lingerie like me, as we chatted it was clear that he had a no mess approach to knowing what he wanted, which is exactly what most want if they were honest about it.
I told him that I finish work around 2pm and I'm home changed and trimmed by 3pm the only problem is my wife can turn up anytime even though she finished at 5pm...
I told him I often work in my Shed/Workshop which is heated but it's not exactly comfortable..
He suggested that if he arrived for about 3pm we could have fun of some sort in the workshop that way if the wife came back early, I could suggest it was a colleague from work...
I thaught it out and to be honest could not come up with a reason not to, so arrangements were made, we had discussed him being dressed already under his normal clothes, which I did the same after I fully prepared myself in the bathroom.
Kev arrived and after a quick greeting and chat, he used the bathroom to freshen up after his trip.. we then made our way to my small workshop now as tidy as it ever was and already nice and warm with my fan heaters.
I locked the door, and this is always a nervous part, I always ask if he/she wants to carry on and most of the time it's a yes, so I take off my Joggers, revealing Stocking Tights and Tiny Sheer Thong, I grabbed a bag which had my Red Stilettos and a Basque which I asked Kev to help with as they can be a bitch to get on, zipped ones are best.. Kev then removed his Joggers and he had Crotchless Tights then grabbed his bad and surprised me with some 2" Stilettos which was a little bonus, he had regular black Knickers but only his regular T-shirt on top, I suggested he, tie/knotted his t-shirt at the front, which was perfect...
I wasted no time and asked him to remove his knickers which he did, I did the same, I was trying to keep Calm and not get over excited.
I grabbed a seat cushion and put it on my workbench and pulled myself up onto the edge, I opened my legs, holding my knees and said, help yourself....
Kev dropped to his knees, put his arms round my thighs and sucked my semi into his mouth, giving it a full mouth wetting, unsurprisingly I started to get hard, at which he switched to sucking up and down my now solid ****....
I said stop, we swapped, I did the same, I slid his beautiful smooth **** into my mouth, already hard, after giving it a good wetting I cupped his **** with my lips just behind his **** head, then I did quick short sucks up and down, nice and tight, no more than two inches movement, up and down... It had the correct result, moaning with pleasure, after a few minutes we swapped again, then again, eventually we were both fairly close, I grabbed the sun bed cover and lay it on the floor, I lay down and asked him to 69....
No arguments there. .. he got on top sliding his hard shaft in my mouth ready, I started on him again as he did with me, after a few more minutes I was getting close, I said pause, which he did, then a few more minutes he said he was getting close, so I said start, he wasted no time, sucking the life out of my hard ****,vivwad close again, I started oh his again, really going for it.... A minute or two later, I shot my load into his mouth, he was swallowing just as my mouth was being filled twice with his juice, oh my got this Feed was amazing....
We were both so pleased with our Feeds, it was definitely on the list for the next available moment, to feed again....

Lovely lingerie i wish i had real breasts like her to

Well I had another good day buying lady things-got two new dresses but failed to get shoes-high heels. So I will have to have a mooch in a real shoe shop. Let me know if you like my new dress

Seeing as some dirty tosser, thought it would be appropriate to post a pic, of their 'Chocolate Starfish' There's really only 1 way of retaliating so, here's a lovely pic, of my bald pu*sy xx

Becca reported and blocked as they just posting stolen pictures. lack of information on their profile suggests scammer. amazing, people on this site messaging and drooling over the pics like they are the real person.

Well finally came back to the site. Not exactly happy about doing the verification as I don't approve of giving personal info away even in its most basic form, but B1tch Finder General said she's chewing bubble gum and kicking ass again and she's all out of gum! So if this site fails to improve i.e. scammers come back, or the verification gets annoying, then I'm likely I will move on. Happy to DM my real friends (or as I like to call them The Dirty Half Dozen) I've made, to let them know where they can find me.

We Have The Power To Create Our Own Reality; DREAM IT , THINK IT , SAY IT , DO IT ... #crossdressing

You know what I’m realising as I get older. And it can probably be applied to every generation… But if you were born in the 80s like me we will probably get a long. We probably lived very similar lives, music, school experiences and probably started crossdressing the same way. That’s not to say I won’t or don’t get on with older or younger people, it's just 80s is the sweet spot.

I'm just all alone here partying all by myself and hard and horny is there any one else that would like to chat me really hard and fast lol

Accidentally deleted this photo.....so I'll re-post it, sorry if I inadvertently deleted any comments.

A BIG thanks to everyone that is kind enough to leave words of encouragement on my posts past & present. I dress because I enjoy it, but it's nice to receive some kind words from others like me, I really appreciate it

Someone I just met really likes this one ..I'm new to this should I wear it for them ?

Had a fantastic morning trying on my shoes and boots. I really loved every minute of it. Each pair worn with Stockings. :)

It has been a while since I could be Patti ( myself ) and I really miss being her, I love the feeling of wearing heels and a short dress to show off my legs( old ) Patti really wants to dress up with another cd and maybe if the timing is right have some fun being Patti and her girlfriend, I would love to dress in swim wear and hang on the beach and then get dressed up in a pretty dress with makeup and some sexy looking heels and go out to a beach bar maybe even do a little dancing , the only problem is which dress to wear!

Any married men fancy talking about their journey and how they manage their relationship both open and in the closet from their partners.

I’m interested in finding relatable friends. I am married and my wife knows this side of me. She is supportive but not involved. So it would be great talking to like minded men or even females of crossdressers who might be here searching for answers.

I’m here. I’m genuine. I’m real.
And a good listener but also talk and say too much occasionally.

DM’s open. 🫶🫡

Forget the fake tedium of Dommes and cash cows that haunt this place - where’s the sexy mentors - no cash exchanges and frauds - but someone who really is into this as much as I am and wants to be online and loving life with a fucking brilliant individual:p xxx

Hi. Really like to chat with a crossdresser not a normal guy thanks x

Oh well another clear out of janes stuff for the charity bag , didnt realise it was all mounting up again . Oh yeah Afternoon x

I know I’m just a cross dresser and a sissy slut, what in the hell is wrong with the ********** and goddesses thinking I would pay them for something I could get for free, they only have fake ones and I can get a real one for free because cds and trans girls are sexier than any ******** , I’ve ever seen , I wish everyone a beautiful day filled with happiness and heels

Are the bots really that badly programmed, like "Goddessanna", no friends, no pics, no info on her profile then after having 6 of them declined I ask "why do you keep sending me friend requests, we've never chatted, you have a blank profile, what is there to befriend? "

"Am ******* Anna"

My, how informative...

Ugh such a boring app no one even talks to you and even when they do they ghost what's up with that for real

Bought this short dress yesterday from Op Shop for $5! I absolutely love it. Really shows off my legs

She chose the necklace last.
That was always how it went, hair first, then the glasses, the careful line of lipstick that made her look like she knew what she was doing even when she didn’t. The mirror showed her a woman with copper rose hair and a smile she’d practiced for years, one that said I’m fine, thank you, without inviting questions.
The turquoise collar lay on the dresser like a memory she wasn’t ready to wear today.
Instead, her fingers closed around the spinel and garnet strand.
It was cool in her hand, heavier than it looked. The stones weren’t perfect, no two were the same. Pink spinel caught the light softly, purple deepened toward dusk, and the garnets glowed like embers that refused to go out. Freeform. Unapologetic. Honest. She liked that about them. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were.
The magnetic clasp clicked shut at the back of her neck with a small, decisive sound.
At 51 centimetres, the necklace didn’t sit high and declarative like the turquoise one. It rested lower, closer to the heart. A quiet line of colour against her skin, silver tones flickering when she moved. It didn’t announce her presence, it stayed with her.
She leaned closer to the mirror.
The spinel echoed the warmth of her hair. The garnet answered the lipstick. Together they softened her face, drew the eye downward, slowed everything. This wasn’t a necklace for making an entrance. It was for conversations that lasted longer than planned. For afternoons that drifted into evening. For being seen without being displayed.
She smiled again this time without rehearsing it.
Some jewellery was armour. Some was memory. This one felt like continuity, like all the versions of herself agreeing, briefly, to coexist. The woman who once wore turquoise like a shield. The woman who now preferred stones that looked as if they’d lived a little.
She reached for her coat, left the turquoise where it was, and stepped out.
The necklace moved with her not loudly, not urgently but faithfully, stone against skin, colour against breath, proof that beauty didn’t have to shout to be real.

Pantyprincess2 or someone who's just stripping pics off the real person behind those pictures? Stolen ID or the real deal. DM me if you want more info.

am a ******** looking for a submissive male slut to be trained owned and collared by me. Im a very casual and flexible domme. I really care about making my sub happy!

I really wish someone was behind me

I'm really horny rn :3

I never use any makeup. All my pics are with my cell phone. I'm not perfect, but I'm real!

This site is absolutely thrashing my head! ...its like a real life game of guess who??

Spending ages on SHEIN, filling my basket, realising how much it costs, then agonising over what to delete!

The problem with SHEIN is that there's just toooooo much to choose from! Help!

Are you really wiling to be my property? explore the new world with me as your ********?

With the sun shining it was really pleasant!

Name's Delilah "Dolly" Malone, private eye by trade, sissy by nature. Obese, overweight, and unapologetic about it, I waddled through this apocalypse in a Barbie pink ankle length trenchcoat that billowed like a parachute in the fallout wind. Underneath, my pink Victorian mourning attire clung to my rolls, a long pink satin gown with subtle sheen highlights that caught the dim rad lights just right, making me shimmer like a forbidden dream. My oversized pink satin headscarf framed my face, tied in a bow that screamed Rococo excess, and a sheer pink chiffon voile veil draped over it all, misting my vision in rosy haze. Glossy shiny deluxe blouse frills peeked out at the collar, frilly as a sissy maid's apron. Dramatic pink lips, pink eyeliner I painted myself like a doll in a world gone gray. Hard boiled? Sure, but with a soft center that melted at the wrong touch. It started like any other gig in this irradiated hellhole, the kind where the client slinks into your office smelling of desperation and cheap perfume. My office was a gutted bungalow on what's left of Sunset Boulevard, walls papered with faded starlet posters glowing faintly from the rads. She walked in or slithered, more like a femme fatale straight out of the old reels, but twisted by the apocalypse. Tall, gaunt, with skin like irradiated porcelain and eyes that could melt lead. Called herself Veronica Voss, heir to some pre war studio fortune, or so she claimed. "Dolly," she purred, her voice like velvet over razor wire, "I need you to find my husband. He's gone missing with a stash of pre-war gold the kind that could buy us a ticket out of this wasteland." I should've walked away. But her gaze lingered on my pink ensemble, a smirk playing on those blood red lips. "You look... exquisite," she said, tracing a finger along my frilled blouse. Love or money? Hell, in my line of work, it's always both. I took the case, lured like an innocent lamb to the slaughter. Average? Me? Law abiding? In this world, survival's the only law, but yeah, I was tempted. She dangled promises, a cut of the gold, a night in her arms, where I'd be her pretty little doll. My heart, buried under layers of satin and fat, fluttered like a trapped bird. The trail led to the ruins of the Hollywood Sign, now a jagged "HOLLYW D" mocking the sky. Dutch angles everywhere, the ground tilted under my heels, my pink gown swishing as I lumbered up the hill, veil fluttering in the toxic breeze. I found clues: a scorched map to a vault in the old MGM lot, whispers of a heist crew Veronica's hubby had assembled. Perfect crime, they thought crack the vault, grab the gold, vanish into the Mojave like ghosts. But greed's a hungry beast. I pieced it together from rad scorched notes and bullet riddled bodies: internal betrayal, bad luck from a radstorm that fried their getaway vertibird. The hubby was dead, double crossed by his own femme fatale wait, no. By Veronica? My gut twisted. That's when it got personal. Digging deeper, I uncovered photos in the vault pre war snapshots of a man who looked too familiar. Me? No, couldn't be. But the face... my face, slimmer, harder, before the bombs, before the pink. Amnesia hit like a sledgehammer. I'd blacked out chunks of my past after the fallout, waking up in this body, this craving for satin and veils. Identity crisis? You bet. Turns out, I wasn't always Dolly. I was that hubby or a clone, or some rad mutated twin. Veronica had lured me in before the war, manipulated me into a heist for her studio's hidden fortune. I stole, I killed, she betrayed me, left me for dead in the blast. Now, post apocalypse, she'd tracked me down, not knowing it was me under the pink, the fat, the frills. She wanted the gold I'd stashed in my fogged memory. Corruption seeped in like fallout rain. The case turned dangerous her goons on my tail, corrupt Enclave remnants posing as authorities, accusing me of the old murders. Innocent man on the run? Wrongfully accused in a world where justice is a loaded .45. I evaded them through the twisted streets, my trenchcoat snagging on barbed wire, pink satin tearing like my sanity. Hiding in a bombed out mansion, I confronted her. "You," I gasped, veil askew, lips smudged. "You did this to me." She laughed, that velvet razor slicing deep. "Darling, you were always a pushover. A little love, a little money and look at you now, all dolled up." She drew a pearl handled pistol, the trap sprung. The heist gone wrong? This was round two. I lunged obese, but fueled by rage knocking the gun away. We tumbled in Dutch angled chaos, shadows twisting like my gown's sheen. But greed won. She grabbed the gold map from my pocket, shot me in the gut. As I bled out on the irradiated floor, pink staining red, I realized: destruction was always the endgame. For the lured innocent, the doomed detective, the betrayed sissy in a world of gray. Fade to black, darling. Fade to pink.

The case came in sideways, like everything else north of the equator these days.

Over the irradiated murky Atlantic pond, Glasgow didn’t rain so much as accuse. The drizzle slid down the soot-stained tenements like it knew every sin committed inside them. Post-war, post-bomb, post-everything that ever pretended to be civilized. The apocalypse didn’t flatten Scotland the way it did Los Angeles, it hollowed it out instead, left the bones standing and filled the gaps with whisky, guns, and ghosts.

I wore black that night. Not the practical kind.
The statement kind.

A black oversized tartan satin headscarf wrapped tight around my hair, catching the light like wet ink. Over my face, a sheer black chiffon voile veil, the mourning lace thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide regret. The rest of me was Victorian grief dialed up to eleven: glossy black tartan blouse with rococo frills, satin panels hugging me like a second conscience, skirts whispering every time I moved. I looked like a widow who’d buried the world and decided it deserved it.

In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity.

They called me Han here too, though the locals said it like a question. I’d followed the trail across the Atlantic after a shipment of American surplus hardware went missing, Tommy guns, plasma pistols, a few toys left over from the end of the world. Fallout New Vegas tech, Hollywood Hills money, Highland routes. Someone was running iron through the glens and washing it down with single malt older than the war itself.

The back streets off Trongate were crooked enough to make a Dutch cameraman weep. Buildings leaned in close, sharing secrets. Gas lamps flickered like they were afraid of what they might illuminate. I walked slow, heels deliberate, veil fluttering just enough to let the right people notice and the wrong people hesitate.

That’s when the femme fatale found me.

She leaned against a doorway like she’d been waiting for the end of the world to catch up. Hair platinum under a cloche hat, lips dark as a closed casket. Scottish, sharp, and carrying herself like a blade wrapped in silk.

“You’re far from Hollywood, sweetheart,” she said. “And you’re dressed for a funeral that isn’t yours.”

“Everyone’s funeral is mine eventually,” I said. “I just like to dress appropriately.”

She smiled. That was the mistake.

Her name was Moira Blackwood. Whisky broker. Gun runner. Mourner by trade. She dealt in Highland routes, smugglers who knew every fog bank, every forgotten rail spur left behind when the bombs fell south. The Americans supplied the firepower. The Scots supplied the patience.

And someone was skimming.

Bodies were turning up in the lochs. Empty bottles floating beside them like punchlines. Moira wanted to know who was cutting into her business before it turned into a clan war with automatic weapons.

We took a train north that barely remembered being a train. Through valleys drowned in mist and radiation snow. I kept the veil on the whole way. In the Highlands, superstition still worked better than bullets.

The smugglers met us in an abandoned distillery, barrels stacked like tombstones. The tartan of my outfit mirrored theirs, same pattern, different intent. They watched me carefully. Men always did when they couldn’t decide what category to put me in.

That hesitation saved my life.

When the shooting started, I was already moving. Heels skidding on stone, skirts swirling, revolver barking from beneath layers of satin and sorrow. Moira went down fast—winged, not dead. The real culprit bolted for the back door, carrying a ledger thick with names and lies.

I caught him by the loch.

The water reflected us in stark monochrome: him shaking, me looming, veil rippling like smoke. He confessed quickly. They always did when faced with someone who looked like death had chosen tartan satin couture.

I left him there for the deep dark water to judge.

By dawn, the Highlands were quiet again. Moira paid me in whisky older than memory and ammunition stamped with American lies. Fair trade.

Back in Glasgow, I stood in a cracked mirror in a boarding house that smelled of coal and grief. I removed the veil last. Always last.

Another city survived. Another secret buried. Another outfit stained with rain instead of blood.

The world was still tilted. Still broken. Still rolling on at the wrong angle.

But as long as there were shadows to walk and clothes that told the truth my mouth didn’t have to, I’d keep going.

Mourning never goes out of fashion.

The rain hammered down on the cracked pavement like a thousand accusations, each drop a reminder that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket back in '52, when the bombs fell and turned the City of Angels into a monochrome nightmare. I adjusted the strap of my garter belt under my trench coat, feeling the silk stockings whisper against my skin like a forbidden secret. Name's Tracy with a Dick, wait, no, that's too on the nose. Call me Hanimefendi Basortulu, or just Han if you're buying the drinks. By day, I'm the hard boiled gumshoe pounding the shadowed alleys of this irradiated husk of Los Angeles, dodging mutants and mobsters in equal measure. But when the neon flickers out and the Dutch angles of my life tilt just right, I'm something else entirely: a crossdressing sissy in satin, chasing skirts instead of skirts chasing me.
It started with a dame, like all my stories do. Or at least, that's how I tell it to the mirror while I paint my lips ruby red in the dim glow of my office bulb the one that swings like a noose in the wind howling through the boarded up windows. The apocalypse had stripped the city bare, leaving behind skeletal skyscrapers leaning at crazy angles, their glass eyes shattered from the blasts. Food was rationed, water was poison, and hope? That was a luxury for the pre war fools. Me? I survived by sniffing out secrets in the fog of fallout, my fedora pulled low over eyes shadowed with kohl I swiped from a ruined department store.
She slinked into my office that night, a vision in tattered mink and desperation. "Mr. Basortulu," she purred, her voice cutting through the static of my battered radio spitting out old jazz tunes. "I need a man who can handle... delicate matters." Her eyes flicked to my desk, where a stray lipstick tube had rolled out from under some files. I snatched it up quick, heart pounding like a tommy gun. If she noticed, she didn't let on. Her husband, a big shot fallout bunker baron hoarding pre war hooch, had vanished into the undercity the labyrinth of sewers and subways where the real monsters lurked, glowing with radiation and grudge.
I took the case because rent was due, and because her perfume smelled like the lilacs that used to bloom before the sky turned perpetual gray. Slipping out the back door, I ditched the coat for my real armor: a frilly silken blouse tucked into a satin pencil skirt, heels that clicked like gunshots on the debris strewn streets. Crossdressing wasn't just a kink in this apocalypse; it was camouflage. The goons patrolling the ruins looked for tough guys in suits, not a mincing minx batting lashes from the shadows. I'd learned that the hard way, back when the first riots hit and I hid in a drag queen's bunker, emerging reborn in marabou feathers, silk, satin, lace and lies.
The trail led me to the Dutch Tilt District, where buildings leaned like drunks at last call, their angles throwing everything off kilter just like my life. I tailed a suspect through the monochrome haze, my wig itching under the fedora I'd crammed back on. He was a weasel faced rat, peddling black market estrogen shots to the desperate. "Where's the baron?" I hissed, pressing a stiletto heel to his throat after I cornered him in an alley reeking of rot.
He spilled like cheap bourbon: the husband wasn't missing; he'd been snatched by the Shadow Syndicate, a cult of irradiated freaks worshiping the bomb as a god. They operated from the old Hollywood studios, twisting pre war films into propaganda reels that played on loop in the bunkers. I infiltrated at dusk, dolled up in a Lamé cocktail dress that hugged my curves like a guilty conscience. The guards bought the act hell, one even wolf whistled as I sashayed past, my .38 snub nose tucked in my garter.
Inside, it was a fever dream of tilted cameras and flickering projectors. The baron was tied to a chair, force-fed their twisted sermons. But the real twist? The dame was in on it. She emerged from the shadows, gun in hand, her mink shedding like a snake's skin. "You should've stayed in your lane, detective," she sneered. "Or should I say, crossdressing doll?"
We tussled in the projector light, our shadows dancing at mad angles on the walls, her nails raking my stockings, my fist connecting with her jaw. I got the drop on her, tying her up with her own pearls. "In this world, honey," I growled, voice husky from the hormones I'd been sneaking, "everyone's got a secret identity. Mine just fits better."
I dragged the baron out, collected my fee in canned peaches and ammo, and vanished back into the rain. Back in my office, I peeled off the layers, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The apocalypse had taken everything, my city, my withered manhood, my illusions. But it gave me this: a gumshoe in girdles and satin, tilting at windmills in a world gone sideways. And in the end, that's all any of us have left. A story, a smoke, and the next case waiting in the wings.

Sometimes i think i should just start taking hrt and become a girl for real

I love how short this dress is, really want someone to go out with

I love this off the shoulder top, I've had this top for a few years, which is unusual for me, the skirts are recent purchases.
I tend to swap out my girlie clothes fairly often. I shop almost exclusively in charity shops, so I buy and then donate them back when I'm ready for something 'new'. I really enjoy the treasure hunt feel when I find something cool, this system is also handy to keep my closet from overflowing .

And with a lil #AI magic you can really change your look. Its crazy and wild. Though, I do my best to get close to what she will look like as I do the hair, makeup, outfits, etc... then i let the AI add some fun lil perks.

How about the real thing....

Awww... sad...

Sorry Mirrtessgift1, not your target mug!

So what are you actually looking for
13 minutes ago
oh, i mainly come on here to chat, share tips, try to give back what some of the other girls have given me on my journey, not really looking for dating as i'm in a lively social scene in the real world! What about you, what brought you here?
9 minutes ago
I'm looking for a good submissive ***** to control by me if you are interested
7 minutes ago
oh! no, not interested, thanks, i have plenty of that kind of attention in person with real people, not faceless scammers online
6 minutes ago
my daughter-out-law does the findom thing for a living, i know how it works (for those who are good at it)
5 minutes ago
So are you not interested
4 minutes ago
not at all, i think the only people on here who wil be are sad, lonely, closeted hairy-pantie-wearers - none of which apply!

I was playing around with A.I. and made this and don't worry i won't post a lot of A.I. content (unless you want me to) i just thought this was cute so i would share it side note the outfit hair and my face are real just the movement and voice are A.I.

My TS/CD/TV Story

Tonight I feel the girl inside me stirring again, asking to be written into existence.

I have carried her quietly for so long—tucked into the soft, hidden chambers of my heart, where secrets live and dreams wait for courage. She has always been there, watching the world through my eyes while I learned how to survive in a role that never fully fit. She learned to whisper instead of speak, to hide instead of bloom.

I have always been feminine. I have always felt the pull toward softness, beauty, silk, lace, and being seen not as a man pretending—but as a woman becoming.

I didn’t begin crossdressing until a few years ago, late in life, after decades of wondering and silence. A boyfriend encouraged me—someone who saw the femininity in me and cherished it. I was already submissive in spirit, already gentle, already carrying this quiet feminine current inside. When I put on a bra, slipped into panties, and felt lingerie against my skin, it felt natural. Familiar. Like recognition.

I had suspected this part of myself for years, like a faint melody always playing in the background. But that day, standing there in softness, I didn’t just suspect it—I knew. Not as fantasy or curiosity, but as truth. Something ancient and undeniable finally named itself.

I imagine walking down a street in a dress that catches the light, my skin warm in the sun, people seeing me as I wish to be seen. I imagine being admired, desired, even framed on a wall like a pin-up girl from another era—confident, glamorous, unapologetically herself. That vision makes my heart ache with both joy and grief.

So much of my life has been spent in silence. So much of me was taught to hide. I am still learning how to peel back the layers of fear, religion, politics, family expectations, and my own hesitation. I don’t know where this path will lead—only that I am tired of pretending she isn’t there.

For now, she lives in quiet places: my room, my thoughts, the gentle arms of someone who understands, the rare spaces where I can exhale and be Chrissy. I wonder sometimes if that is enough. I wonder what it would be like to let her walk freely in the daylight.

No one in my family knows her. Most of my friends don’t. They see the version of me that learned how to blend in, how to be acceptable, how to survive. They don’t see the girl who has been waiting so patiently inside.

Tonight I write her name here, like a prayer.
Tonight I let her breathe.

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

And even if the world never fully knows her, I know her. And that, for now, is something.

With love,
Chrissy

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61586994341520

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

#sissy #sissyboy #gurl #shemale #trans #femboy #femman #tgirl #crossdresser #transgirl #transowman #gay #lgbtq

Used AI to smarten up old pics of me, it really cleans them up