I live within a sanctuary of reflection, a shimmering Satin Wonderland of towering, gilded mirrors that capture every fold of my existence. I am a creature of history, a mature queen of a certain vintage, and my world is defined by the rustle of fabric. Here, I am swaddled in an endless supply of sissy satin dresses, gowns that trail like silken rivers, and gloves that reach toward my shoulders, smoothing the passage of time.
"Oh my," I whisper to my reflection, my voice a raspy cello. "Today is the day for the hallowed turf."
But one does not simply walk onto the pitch at Wembley Stadium to play British football without the proper armor. This is not a match for jerseys and cleats; this is a clash of POMPÖÖS Couture.
I began my transformation with the foundation of my "entity." First, I stepped into the ivory white modest high neck satin evening dress. It is a plus size masterpiece of elegance, the long balloon sleeves puffing out like clouds of cream, the flowing tulle skirt whispering secrets against my ankles. But as the London air turned crisp and the fog began to roll off the Thames, I felt the call for more.
I reached for the wedding gown, its chiffon veil a ghostly mist. I wrapped a heavy ivory satin headscarf tightly around my skull, securing my wisdom and my wig beneath its weight. Then, I layered. I pulled on the Victorian style black ankle length dress a triumph of high necklines, puffed bell sleeves, ruffles, and intricate lace trim.
As I pulled the black gown over the white, the layers merged. I was no longer wearing two dresses; I was wearing a singular, monumental entity composed of Satin, Taffeta, Georgette, Chiffon, and Organza. To finish the silhouette, I added the poofy, extravagant, ultra femme large ladies’ flamboyant satin skirt over the hips, creating a volume so vast I could barely fit through the mahogany doors of my dressing room.
I looked at my vanity. Seven large headscarves black and white laid out for the week. I chose a heavy black Georgette to wrap over the white satin, pinning it with a rhinestone crown. I slid on my newly found long opera gloves, the silk pulling tight against my skin, and stepped into my elegant shoes.
Wembley was a sea of POMPÖÖS madness. Twenty two drag queens, each a monument to Glööckler’s baroque vision, stood upon the emerald grass. Rhinestones caught the stadium lights like a thousand stars fallen to earth. There was Trixie in a gold leafed bodice and Bella in a crimson velvet train that required two ball boys to carry.
"Right then, girls!" I shouted, the wind catching my chiffon veil. "Let’s show them how a lady tackles!"
The whistle blew. I didn't run; I glided. The multiple layers of my dress the Georgette over the Taffeta, the Organza beneath the Satin created a rhythmic shush shush sound that drowned out the roar of the crowd. When the ball came toward me, I didn't kick it with the grace of a sportsman; I met it with the immovable force of three hundred yards of couture.
The ball hit my flamboyant satin skirt and simply died, swallowed by the sheer volume of my ruffles. I pivoted, my bell sleeves catching the wind like sails. I saw an opening. With a flick of my opera-gloved hand to steady my headscarf, I sent the ball flying toward the goal with a delicate tap of my elegant heel.
As the net bulged, the stadium erupted. I didn't celebrate with a slide on the grass heaven forbid, the grass stains on the ivory tulle would be a tragedy. Instead, I stood at the center of the pitch, surrounded by my sisters in their crowns and silks, and looked into the imaginary mirrors of the sky.
In my Satin Wonderland, I am a queen. At Wembley, in my POMPÖÖS layers of black and white, I was a princess of the game. Oh my, indeed.

Just a little dress up in my skirt and flower petticoat x
#skirt #flowerpetticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels

I remember the exact moment I decided the night belonged to me alone. The room smelled of rosewater, old bruised satin drapes, and the faint metallic tang of ancient makeup. Mirrors surrounded me like silent courtiers, each reflecting a different fragment of the creature I was becoming. Tonight I wasn't just performing, I was ascending. First came the foundation: cool porcelain over warm skin, smoothed until I looked carved from moonlight. Then the eyes. Oh, the eyes. I dipped a fine brush into that impossible turquoise pigment the exact shade of tropical shallows under storm clouds and painted sweeping wings that stretched toward my temples. Eyelashes like black lace fans. Lips the colour of bruised sapphires, outlined sharper than a guillotine's edge. Cheeks dusted with shimmering frost so the light would catch and fracture. The hijab went on next. Heavy turquoise satin, cool against my scalp. I wrapped it with ritual precision, tucking every rebellious strand away until only regal geometry remained. Over that, the oversized satin headscarf yards of it draped and folded into majestic pleats that framed my face like a Renaissance altarpiece gone deliciously rogue. Then the cascading chiffon voile veil, light as breath, heavy with intention. It spilled from the crown in watery layers, catching every flicker of candlelight and turning it into liquid mercury. The gown followed: high necked, modest in the Victorian sense, scandalous in every other. Satin bodice hugging just enough to remind the world what architecture the body can achieve, then exploding into flowing panels of voile and satin that whispered across the floor like conspiratorial ghosts. Ankle length, yes, but the way it moved suggested it might lift at any moment and carry me off the ground entirely. I stepped into the main chamber. The throne waited upholstered in the same decadent turquoise satin, tufted and tasselled, looking like something a decadent Ottoman sultan might have abandoned in a fit of ennui. I arranged myself upon it slowly, deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, spine straight as cathedral architecture, chin tilted just so. Left hand resting on the armrest, fingers splayed to show off the long turquoise nails. Right hand splayed in a gesture that could have been benediction, accusation, or invitation take your pick. Then came the lighting. A single harsh key light from high right, carving brutal shadows across the left side of my face; a faint fill from low left to keep the eyes from disappearing into darkness; everything else swallowed by velvet black. Chiaroscuro taken to theatrical extremes. The satin drank the light and threw it back richer, glossier, almost liquid. My skin glowed like moonlit marble. The veil caught stray photons and turned them into faint turquoise fireflies suspended in air. I struck the pose. Head turned three quarters, gaze locked on some invisible point just beyond the fourth wall. Lips parted the tiniest fraction as though I were about to deliver the wittiest, most devastating line in the history of spoken language, but had decided silence was crueler. One eyebrow infinitesimally raised. The veil drifted slightly with my breath, a slow, hypnotic undulation. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard a stifled giggle. Good. Let them laugh. Let them gasp. Let them clutch their pearls and question every certainty they ever held about gender, grief, glamour, and good taste. Because here I sat mourning queen of nothing and everything, turquoise flamed phoenix in widow's weeds, Caravaggio's most flamboyant fever dream filtered through Doré's feverish embellishments. The shadows deepened around me, thick as ink. The satin throne gleamed like wet paint. My makeup shimmered, defiant and absurd and utterly regal. And in that perfect, ridiculous, holy instant, I felt it: I was the most beautiful thing in the universe.

I never chose this life so much as it chose me, one silken whisper at a time, across sixty four slow turning years. It began in the hush of boyhood, fingers trembling as they brushed the cool satin of my Mother’s Sunday slip, the fabric sighing against my skin like a secret finally given voice. Midnight experiments followed stolen dresses in dim bedrooms, heartbeats loud against lace, the mirror a conspirator that never judged. Then came the decades of careful folding away marriage, children, the steady performance of an ordinary man while upstairs, behind false panels in the attic, a private gallery of satins and chiffons dreamed in silence. Now the children have flown, my Turkish wife of forty five winters slipped away on the softest November breath two months past, and the last tether has loosened. At sixty four I have stepped fully into the role I have always carried inside. No audience remains to disappoint. Only the mirrors, patient and kind. I have become Hanimefendi,(Turkish for Lady) the sissy Victorian housemistress of this quiet manor of memory and candlelight. I have worn Black Satin Widow's Weeds for the previous two months, now I am working through my own colour spectrum. I dallied with Pink and enjoyed the experience but as a Cityzen, Turquoise, Marine Blue and shades of Sky Blue, has always called to me as a long time supporter of Manchester City. The ritual begins at dusk. First, the high waisted, long leg panty girdle in deepest turquoise satin firm yet forgiving, a decadent embrace that smooths time’s gentle rounding into elegant lines. It clasps me with theatrical intimacy, promising glamour in every restrained breath. Then the gown descends: floor sweeping turquoise satin, reborn from widow’s weeds into defiant opulence. The bodice clings like liquid moonlight through the torso before cascading into extravagant gypsy ruffles that bloom at the hips. Sleeves impossibly long, sissy long billow from shoulder to deep, rose trimmed cuff, swaying with each gesture like languid waves. The fabric catches every flicker, its subtle sheen tracing molten highlights along every fold, turning motion into shimmering poetry. Over shoulders and throat drifts the sheer turquoise chiffon voile veil, gossamer as exhaled breath, floating a hand’s span from my face. It softens the lines age has etched without concealing them grief veiled, yet radiant. Last, the oversized turquoise satin hijab headscarf, wrapped and pinned with reverent precision. Its rich, glossy folds frame my features like a reliquary of lapis and sea glass, the colour chosen deliberately: mourning need not be monochrome. Sorrow, too, can blaze jewel bright. I move through the rooms by candlelight alone. Tall silver holders spill pools of gold, dramatic chiaroscuro carves deep satin shadows into ruffles and pleats while the satin itself ignites vibrant, unearthly turquoise glowing against the gloom like bioluminescent tide. Each step sends a soft hiss of fabric across oak boards, the veil drifts behind me like sea mist following a ship of ghosts. I dust phantom mantelpieces, rearrange crystal that asks nothing of me, murmur instructions to maids who exist only in the echo of my voice. Sometimes I pause before the tall pier glass in the upper hall and simply regard the figure there. In its depths I see the frightened boy who once quaked at satin’s rustle. I see the husband who learned to fold himself small. And I see her, me Hanimefendi sixty four, unapologetic, swathed in extravagant turquoise like a proclamation stitched in light. The world beyond these walls may still insist on its muted uniforms, but here, in these shadowed chambers, I have rewritten the grammar of grief. It is not devolved from mourning black to ash-grey. It is this fierce, swimming blue green that drinks candle flame and gives it back brighter. It is theatrical, shameless, mine. Tonight, as ever, I lower myself into the worn leather armchair beside the tall window. Ruffles settle around me like spilled ink, veils float, then still. The silence enfolds me, tender as old satin. No one watches. Except the mirror. And in my mind's eye it has always approved.

My own outfit tonight is the usual liturgy of satin devotion: full length satin slip beneath a long, bias-cut satin kaftan in the same deep cocoa family, sleeves falling past my knuckles in heavy, liquid folds. Satin gloves to the elbow. Satin socks sliding inside satin lined house slippers. Even the thin belt I tied at the waist is doubled satin cord. I have not worn anything else cotton, wool, denim, polyester in years. Skin has forgotten every texture but this one. There, resting on a perfectly smooth, shimmering brown satin pillow, sits the mannequin headform. Draped across it is the headscarf fresh from its tissue paper cradle only an hour ago. The silk satin is so densely woven, so exquisitely finished, that it looks poured rather than cut and stitched. I approach the mannequin headform with deliberate slowness, my satin gloved fingers trembling just enough to send faint shivers through the fabric. The spotlight above casts a warm, golden halo, making the brown satin headscarf and hijab gleam like polished mahogany. The pillow beneath them is plush, yielding slightly as I lift the scarf first careful, so careful not to crease its pristine folds. It unfolds in my hands like a living thing, cool and heavy, the weave so tight it feels like liquid silk against my palms. I pause, holding it up to the light. The edges are hemmed with invisible stitches, the kind only a master tailor would bother with. No fray, no flaw. Just endless, unbroken sheen. My breath catches as I imagine the transformation ahead the ritual that turns ordinary skin into something exalted, wrapped in satin sanctity. First, the preparation. I glide to the satin draped vanity nearby, where my tools wait: a small satin pouch of pins, each head coated in matching brown mother of pearl, a fine misting bottle of distilled water scented with a hint of vanilla to enhance the fabric's natural luster; and a full length mirror framed in burnished brass, its surface polished to reflect every nuance. I sit on the satin stool, my kaftan pooling around me in soft waves, and begin with my face. A light dusting of translucent powder to mattify the skin no shine but satin's own allowed. Then, the undercap: a simple brown satin skullcap I slip on, smoothing it flat against my scalp until it's seamless, invisible. Now, the headscarf. I fold it diagonally, creating a perfect triangle, the hypotenuse edge aligned with mathematical precision. I drape it over my head, the point falling down my back like a veil of night. The front edge rests just above my eyebrows, cool against my forehead, and I cross the ends under my chin, pulling them taut but not tight enough to hug, to cradle. The hiss of satin on satin is intoxicating, a whisper that echoes in the quiet room. I tie a loose knot at the nape, then tuck and pin the excess fabric into soft pleats, fanning them out like wings. Each pin slides in with a satisfying click, securing the shape without piercing the illusion of fluidity. I stand and turn to the mirror. Already, the transformation stirs: my features soften under the frame, eyes sharper in contrast to the rich brown. But it's incomplete. The hijab waits on the mannequin, its longer lengths beckoning. I retrieve it next, unfolding the rectangular expanse yards of satin, bias cut for drape. This is the heart of the ritual, the layer that envelops and defines. I position it over the headscarf, centering the wide edge along my hairline, letting the bulk cascade down my shoulders and back. The weight is luxurious, grounding, like being swaddled in opulence. I wrap one end across my chest, over the opposite shoulder, then bring the other around to meet it, creating a crossover that hints at modesty but screams indulgence. Pins again strategic, hidden hold the folds in place: one at the temple, another under the chin, a third securing the tail at my back. Adjustments come in waves. I smooth with gloved hands, coaxing out ripples until the surface is flawless, a continuous flow of brown that catches the spotlight in undulating highlights. A spritz from the bottle, just enough to set the sheen without dampening. I step back, then forward, turning side to side. The mirror shows perfection: head to toe in satin, the new pieces blending seamlessly with my kaftan, as if I were carved from a single bolt of fabric. The ritual peaks in movement. I walk the room's perimeter, feeling the hijab sway with each step, the subtle friction of layers building a symphony of sound rustle, slide, sigh. It's meditative, this pacing, a communion with the texture that owns me. No exposed skin, no interruption; just satin encasing, protecting, obsessing. Finally, satisfaction settles. I return to the spotlight's center, the mannequin now bare beside me, its pillow dimpled from absence. The darkness beyond swallows everything else, leaving only this: me, ritually reborn in brown satin, ready for whatever devotion the night demands.

The dress had lived in my saved folder for weeks: an elegant plus size kaftan, long and sweeping, described in loving detail online as a “maxi robe style” masterpiece. Bold geometric shapes danced across it, interrupted by playful polka dots, all in the richest shades of brown, deep coffee, and warm beige. No stretch, just pure, structured non stretch fabric that would drape and flow with quiet authority. Off the shoulder design that could be worn modestly high or slipped gently down for a more relaxed silhouette, and those perfect short sleeves. And then the detail that had sealed it for me a matching set of satin accessories: a hijab, a headscarf, and an oversized satin scarf, all in the same lush coffee beige family.
I’d imagined myself in it so many times. Not just wearing it, but being in it moving through a room and feeling the hem brush my ankles like a whispered promise.
The sales assistant smiled when she saw me lingering near the display. “That one’s new in,” she said, lifting the hanger with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. “It’s even more striking up close.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Up close, the patterns were alive. The geometrics felt almost architectural, like tiny tiled courtyards from some ancient medina, while the polka dots added a mischievous modern wink. The colours were deeper than the photos had captured less flat beige, more toasted almond and espresso swirling together. I ran my fingertips over the fabric. Crisp, cool, luxuriously matte except where the satin accents caught the light and turned molten.
I asked to try it on.
In the fitting room, the kaftan slipped over my head like cool water. The weight of the non stretch fabric gave it presence; it didn’t cling, it enveloped. I adjusted the off shoulder neckline until it sat just where I wanted respectful yet softly open, framing my collarbones without apology. The short sleeves ended exactly where they should, leaving my forearms free. I turned slowly in front of the mirror and watched the skirt flare and settle, the patterns shifting like a living mosaic.
Then came the satin pieces.
I draped the hijab first, letting the silky coffee coloured length glide over my hair and shoulders. The texture was heaven smooth against my skin, cool and weightless. Next the headscarf, wrapped and tucked with practiced care (I’d watched enough tutorials to fake confidence). Finally, the oversized satin scarf, which I looped loosely around my neck and let trail down my back like a royal train in miniature.
When I stepped out of the cubicle, the assistant actually gasped quietly, politely, but it was there.
I felt… regal. Not in a loud, glittering way, but in the way old Islamic manuscript illuminations are regal: intricate, deliberate, quietly commanding attention through beauty rather than volume. The kaftan moved with me like an extension of breath. Every step sent gentle waves through the fabric, the geometric lines bending and realigning, the polka dots catching tiny sparks of that golden-hour light pouring through the shop windows.
I bought it. No hesitation.
Now, when I wear it at home in the evenings, I light a few low lamps to recreate that same warm glow. I walk slowly across the hardwood floor just to feel the hem sweep behind me. I arrange the satin scarf different ways draped over one shoulder, wrapped as a belt, left to float free and each time the mirror shows me someone new, yet completely myself.
It isn’t just a dress.
It’s the version of elegance I’d been quietly sketching in my mind for years, finally given shape in brown, coffee, and beige.
And every time I put it on, I remember that afternoon in the boutique when the light hit just right, and I finally recognised the person looking back at me.

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 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.

I never thought a simple late-night scroll on Temu would change how I saw myself in the mirror.

My hands were shaking a little when I clicked "Buy Now" on that dress. The listing was a chaotic poem of keywords: Black Satin Fairy Vintage Sweet Dress Mesh Long Lace... Hollow Out Puff Sleeve Floral... Off Shoulder Fairy Princess Long Satin Mesh Gothic Lady Ruffle. It was everything at once — sweet, dark, romantic, dramatic — and somehow it felt like it had been waiting for me.

I'm sixty-four. Short. Heavy. The kind of body the world politely looks past. For most of my life I kept the part of me that loved beautiful, flowing things locked away in a mental attic. But the older I get, the less patience I have for hiding.

The package arrived on a grey Tuesday afternoon. I signed for it quickly, heart thumping like a teenager sneaking something forbidden. I carried the brown box upstairs like it contained state secrets, locked the bedroom door, and tore into it.

Inside lay folds of deep black satin that caught the lamplight like liquid night. Delicate mesh panels shimmered with tiny floral embroidery. The puff sleeves were ridiculously romantic — exaggerated, dreamy, almost cartoonishly glamorous. Lace spilled from every edge. The off-shoulder neckline promised to bare collarbones I usually keep hidden under sensible jumpers.

I stripped down, stood in front of the full-length mirror in just my underwear, and stepped into the dress.

The satin whispered against my legs as I pulled it up. It was surprisingly forgiving — stretchy in the right places, structured in others. I wriggled my arms through those massive puff sleeves; they ballooned around my upper arms like dark fairy wings. I tugged the bodice into place, smoothed the ruffled layers over my stomach, and finally reached back to zip it (with some creative contortions and a coat hanger as backup).

Then I looked up.

And I stopped breathing for a second.

The woman — no, the creature — staring back wasn't sixty-four. She wasn't short and soft and ordinary. She was a midnight fairy queen who had wandered out of some gothic storybook and decided to be indulgent today. The black satin hugged and draped in ways that turned every curve into intention. The hollow-out lace panels teased just enough skin to feel dangerous. Those enormous puff sleeves framed me like I belonged on a velvet throne instead of a suburban bedroom carpet.

I turned sideways. The long skirt flared dramatically, the mesh overlay catching light like spiderwebs covered in frost. I twirled — actually twirled — and watched the layers float outward in perfect slow motion, the ruffles whispering secrets to each other.

For once, the mirror wasn't my enemy. It was showing me something true.

I hadn't planned to go anywhere. But suddenly I needed to feel this outside these four walls.

I threw on a long black coat (practicality dies hard), slipped my feet into the only pair of low heels I own that almost match, draped a soft scarf over my wig to hide the fact I hadn't styled it yet, and stepped out into the January dusk.

The cold air hit my bare shoulders like a slap and a caress at the same time. I walked to the end of the street and back — only fifteen minutes — but every step felt like gliding. The satin moved against my thighs. The sleeves swayed. A neighbour's security light caught me as I passed; for a heartbeat I was illuminated, black lace and floral shadows glowing against the night.

No one stopped me. No one shouted. A dog walker nodded politely like I was simply another eccentric on an evening stroll.

When I got home, I locked the door, dropped the coat on the floor, and stood in front of the mirror again — this time under brighter light, no scarf, no hiding.

Here’s the thing about that dress: it doesn’t care that I’m sixty-four, or that I carry extra weight, or that my hands are rough from decades of practical work. It simply drapes itself over me and says, You are allowed to be this glamorous. You are allowed to be this much.

I smiled at my reflection — a real smile, not the careful half-one I usually wear.

Then I whispered to the woman in the mirror, the one who finally looked like she belonged in a fairy tale:

"Thank you for coming out to play, love. We’re keeping the dress."

I'm scrolling while strolling down memory lanes in my deep dark lightening path I've chosen. I am visiting and viewing all your profiles. I am in awe. Humbled and almost weeping the fact I lost so many years to myself. Because of fear addictions I did NOT ask for. It's like @Adele sings....I was just a child. Didn't get the chance to choose. I've known since i was born i was different. Always the wise ass the funny one. Performer of claps that grew and grow to this day. If i told you who i was in my days and nights you would either laugh cry or just stare in amazement. I have wrestled and fought this reslity since i was was 4. I never knew the acceptance, love and satisfying self worth i alwsys held to close, to quiet, to damn fuckin quiet. I Am Me. You are you. I am grateful, humbled, amazed. Blown awsy. Pun intended. If ive mad you smile laugh identify or weep im #GLAD I AM SO OVERWHELMED AND EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU NADE MY FUCKIN YEAR. 2026 IM UNSTOPPABLE. THANK YOU ALL. to every beginner novice medium and #******** i tip my #MichaelJackson Velvet hat. I grab my crotch and i saw. It dont matter if yojr #BlackOrWhite it just does NOT matter. Not then. Not now and not tomorrow. #Sisterhood #Light #Flow #Freedom and #EvenNow #BarryManilow even now. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo sincerely yours SisterSinDy

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

Flower Pot

I asked the girl
To get a pot
And cut my penis stright
I told that
I do not want
To be with it
Nor ever longer might...

It is not mine
I whisperd her
It is for you
To love
Please cut and set
It in the pot
And wee it
Hold in glove...
It would be grateful to you
Enjoying stay in pot
And if you kiss it with all love
It blossoms big and strong
And juice of lust
You will collect
For early morning drink
My friend please take my honest gift.
Enjoy it
Make Kate lives
...

She did not want
I get just free...
She could not see
Me girl...
I cried
I begged
She just left me
With horror
And that s all.
I found older
Doctor
Friend
She listened,
Understood...
She gave me
Pill of estrogen
And asked to wait in mood...
And even earlier
My breast
Was calling
With all might,
Was getting shape
And asked for kiss
That girls did also mind

I will be girl
The breasts will form
no penis in the pot...
So strange
She feared to help
To free my pain
A lot
I feel so sad
I never got
Why she declined to help
I wished she had itin her pot
Forget
Forget
Forget Me not...
...

She cried
I am afraid
The blood would never
Stop
If I just cut..

Please be a girl
Hide under dress
What ever have
Leave me to rest..

Good evening girls, nice to be dressed in stockings after a horrendous day fighting my way around Sainsbury's! Only went in for some smoked salmon and dressed crab, Oh, it will be a five minute job, I thought! 25 minutes driving round the carpark to find a space, then que to get in the bloody door! Thankfully I couldn't get a trolly, so grabbed a basket. It was like a snail race around each isle, dodging all the overflowing trolleys ladden with 6 months supplies! Anyway, thankfully I had the basket, the self checkout for baskets proved to be the fastest. Few! I had to have a moment of meditation when I returned home. Now bathed, shaved, and stocking clad, with a cold beer and dinner in the oven

Ma Eternal Murnin' at Christmas in the Gorbals Tenement
I've aye felt a queer pull tae this place—number 142 Balgrayhill Road, a weary auld sandstone tenement up in the Gorbals, wi' its shared stairheid an' that cauld tiled close that smells o' damp washin' an' yesterday's chip fat. The blizzard's ragin' the nicht, Christmas 2025, December 25th turnin' intae Boxin' Day proper—snaw drivin' sideways doon the wynd, howlin' roon the lum pots like a banshee, an' the whole estate blanketed in white, streetlights glowin' fuzzy orange through the flurry.
For years, in the quiet o' ma sissy crossdressin' dreams—blethered in late-night internet chats an' hidden fantasies, I've yearned tae cast aff the ordinary an' embrace a wummanly self that's lush, commandin', an' pure voluptuous. The nicht, in this freezin' Scottish winter storm, wi' the wind greetin' doon the close an' snaw pilin' up against the door, that yearnin' finally becomes ma truth.
I staun afore the cracked mirror in the back room, the wind rattlin' the single-glazin' windae, transformin' intae Evelina McTavish, the eternal widow o' the tenement. Ma body—mature, morbidly obese, overflowin' wi' soft curves an' generous fullness—is nae langer somethin' tae hide unner baggy joabies; it's tae be celebrated in this private ritual o' surrender, the cauld air bitin' at ma skin as I dress.
The goon is aw I dreamed: a strikin' black Victorian murnin' A-line, ordered online an' altered masel', made frae shiny satin that catches the dim bulb light like wet tar. Multiple tiers cascade tae ma ankles, brushin' the lino; lang puffed sleeves hug ma airms, an' the high collar frames ma face wi' stern elegance. Ma satin opera gloves slide up smooth tae ma elbows, matchin' the satin heidscarf that covers ma hair in modest severity. Ower it aw drapes a delicate chiffon veil, flutterin' in the draught frae the ill-fittin' door, soaftenin' ma features intae a haze o' melancholy.
As I smooth the folds, feelin' the heavy satin cling tae every abundant inch—the tiers flarin' ower ma wide hips, the bodice cradlin' ma ample bosom, the fabric cauld at first but warmin' frae ma body heat—a wave o' liberation washes ower me, mixin' wi' the smell o' coal smoke frae some neighbour's fire. Nae langer the secret sissy; I'm Evelina, a gothic matron o' sorrow an' quiet power, murnin' loves lost, yet revelin' in ma femininity.
Wi' slow steps the goon rustlin' like whispers doon the narrow close stair I descend the creakin' concrete steps, cauld unner ma feet even through slippers, the snaw driftin' in unner the outer door.
Ma faithful companion, a big black corbie I cry Poe (he's been comin' tae the back court for scraps for donkeys), flaps in through the open windae an' perches on ma gloved shoulder, his feathers iced an' cauld against ma neck.
I step oot intae the estate's street, the blizzard whippin' snaw intae ma veil, stingin' ma cheeks, the ground crunchin' unnerfoot, distant bagpipes wailin' frae some hoose party, mixin' wi' the wind's roar. The abandoned swing park's chains creak in the gale; fairy lights frae a few windaes blink through the snaw. Here, unner the howlin' storm, I walk slow atween the bins an' parked motors, ma veil dancin' wild. Poe lifts aff, circlin' like a dark guardian afore settlin' back. In this cauld, sacred nicht—ma ain vigil—I whisper vows tae masel', hummin' a bit o' "Missletoe n' whine" unner ma breath, promisin' nae mair hidin'.
Deeper intae the estate I drift, past identical closes an' satellite dishes buried in snaw, the satin shimmerin' faint unner streetlights, tiers heavy wi' meltin' flakes. I feel powerful, sensual, complete—ma morbidly obese form a throne o' gothic beauty in this freezin' Scottish nicht.
As the bells approach midnight, faint through the storm, I return tae the tenement. Poe caws saft, like a private toast. Evelina McTavish'll bide here forever, in the heart o' this blizzard an' hidden desire. An' deep in ma soul, the sissy dreams'll whisper on, eternal as the corbie's cry.
Never mair wull I hide, hen. No' even in this ragin' winter. Happy Christmas tae me.

Will post more of my FL photos soon, but have this wonderful photo to share. A dream of mine - in a field of flowers- breathing the fresh air and showing off my feminine body - yes this really is me.

When I do x dress I actually forget who I am & to be honest I find it quite rewarding I love the comforting feel & satisfaction & the warm sexual energy flowing through me

I absolutely love this silhouette flower design bra from honey love has a little bit of weight to it when hold but once you put it on its so comfortable it feels like nothing is there super stretchy and soft and it leaves no marks on your skin which is the best part of it

Getting ready for my next trip to Florida. Putting on a special dress in Lavander. My favorite color. AI flower background. Hope for warmth and beautiful flowers as i head down South

M pose. Its a shame about the flower...

The wife threw these soiled knickers out today & I was quick to salvage them! I must admit I prefer the colourful flowery frilly knickers than the plain ones! But hey each to their own. you can imagine the amount of sniffing I’ve been doing he he ! I’m getting high! lol

Joanne's kinky night on the golf course.
Joanne (48, a librarian by day, a siren of the twilight by night) adjusted the black lace bra & panties set and stockings, its delicate fabric a stark contrast to the rough texture of the damp grass beneath her bare feet & slipped on her black heels. The golf course, usually a scene of quiet precision, was her personal stage tonight. A setting sun cast long, skeletal shadows, transforming the manicured greens into an ethereal landscape. Tonight’s performance featured a selection of rather… large props nestled in her oversized handbag: a collection of vibrant, sculpted silicone anal toys, each promising a different kind of ecstatic violation of her arse. Her camera & tripod, a trusty Canon EOS, hung from her shoulder, ready to capture the all the moments of her self-expression, her daring exhibitionism & dizzy hights of pleasure under the watchful gaze of the setting sun. She hoped, with a thrill that sent a shiver down her spine, that someone, some stranger, would stumble upon her, witness her transgressive ritual.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the periphery – a woman, stood silently among the shifting light and shadows, motionless all but a slight movement under her top, was she caressing her breast, Joanne couldn’t quite see through the lengthening shadows cast by the warm light now fading sun, she walked silently towards her, her eyes transfixed upon Joannes hand, now clutching a black 18 inch silicone dildo, dripping with lube, with an unnerving glance and a very slight but nervous smile, she said nothing, her hand was on her breast squeezing it quite intensely. Joanne, momentarily startled, didn't scream or run. Instead, a perverse curiosity overcame her fear. This was unexpected, far beyond her usual nocturnal escapades, but something she had fantasised about for many years.
The woman approached, gazing at her discarded panties laying on the grass, then curiously picked them up & inspecting them, “nice” she softly said, “ don’t mind me, I’m happy to see what you intend doing with your toys” Joanne tried to talk, but her mouth was dry with fear and she trembled with anticipation of what this evening may become, one of the anal toys she had not long before putt in her arse was slipping, she could feel the lube running down her leg, then it did, it dropped from her & their it laid out on the dew-kissed grass! OMG, I’m so embarrassed Joanne squeaked like a fool, the woman smiled as she gazed upon the size of the slippery escapee, the woman took a few more steps towards Joanne, she was just inches from her trembling body, she could smell her musk perfume hanging in the air, she wasn’t young, perhaps in her early fifties with dark but dies hair, pale skin and piercing blue eyes “turn around” she spoke in soft Irish accent that was calming and sweet. Joanne obliged and turned her back to her, she felt the woman’s hand upon hers slowly taking the long black snakelike toy from Joanne’s hand, with a gentleness Joanne hadn’t felt since being in the company of her mother she felt a hand gently caress her back and ever so gently pushed her into a bent over position, in that moment she felt she was in the most amazing place had ever known, to her amaze the woman slowly pushed the toy into her arse, not working it in and out but with one long slow determine push, it slid all the way into her arse. With the lady now leaning into Joannes back, her perfume intense in Joanne’s nose it was almost like a drug, sending her into a heavenly blissful trance. The woman took her other hand reached around to grasp Joannes ****, it was so cool, soft and gentil, almost childlike, slowly teasing her fingers over the tip, playing with a small drop of precum that she found dripping from the head, this seemed to go on for a eternity, slowly increasing the rhythm and grip, Joanne could feel her pleasure building as her shaft grew harder and harder, she slipped one hand behind her and found the top of the woman’s shorts and panty line, slowly she slid her hand down to the woman’s neatly shaved vulva, but just at that brief moment of contact Joanne burst bout a great grown and stood shaking all over from head to foot, her hot moist seamen flowed from her the woman’s grasp, falling to the floor and landing on Joannes discarded panties.
Feeling a little faint, Joanne fell to her stocking clan knees, then to her hands, panting like a hot hound and quivering like a leaf on a tree she couldn’t believe what had just happened, composing herself she turned to face the mystery woman, she had gone, as silently as she had appeared, the sing that she had ever been present was a small white flower laying next to Joanne’s now spoilt panties.

As the day begins here thinking about a field of flowers. I hope everyone has a wonderful week.

Beware of Flower-sin, fake as, and full of BS!!

TO SKIRT, or NOT TO SKIRT...

To skirt , or not to skirt - that is the question:
Whether 'tis miss is in her mind to suffer
The tune and turns of outrageous fashion,

Or to hide secret flower,
Hide it against a sea of troubles
Or by exposing end'm in admire
To lie? —to skirt ? No more; and why?
For what?

Just noticed the makeup i think Aimee decided to have a day at work today

Keep noticing a flowery smell and realised its me - even gone with EDP today not just womens body spray.

Looking forward to the evening. Got after work drinks. Already got my sussies and stockings on, plus girls underwear as usual. Going to wear a wear blouse with flower decoration so girly but I think it's unisex (yeah right). Girls jeans and midi heels too. So not outright feminine (dress etc) but I'll know and it'll be interesting to see if anyone notices

Evening everyone, hope you've all had a great weekend. It seems to have flown by once again. I'm feeling great and as of the end of May I've lost 5 stone in weight this year..... now just need my date for my GRS.... very soon hopefully

Just had to get out one of my favorite dresses today. I did not dare to put it on again until I was under 155 pounds. Hoping to get back to 138 in next three months. Never have worn this in public but this would be a dress I would love to dance in. Makes me feel like a flower. Took this photo today makeup and all. My own hair and my own breasts. What a change from how I looked five years ago. I have now lost 12 pounds in the last three months. Free and feminine I feel. ---- Hoping all my girlfriends are doing great today.

Flowery white dress because the sun is shining and im off work today happy Thursday! hope everyone is having a great week x

I am very tempted...

But suspect the Silicone Twins would overflow...

Patti hopes everyone is having a love filled day, she gives all you beautiful girls a flower of love

New pink flowery summer dress not quite the weather for it but was fun to try on for now

the sound of flowing water is peace of mind

Fantasising today...

I consider myself straight, like many or most CD's. I have no interest in men, don't watch gay porn etc.

That said... I got divorced three years ago, and have been using this new freedom I find myself with, to explore my CD side, increase my wardrobe, spend more time dressed.. (at home more often dressed than not).
Having adhd, similar to autism in that I adore textures.. satin, silk, nylon, lace.. the feel one flow of them over the skin sends shivers all over me... and I love it.

Started making friends, but have never cammed let alone met irl. Not sure about irl.. I know how good my toys feel.. and despite getting what feels like incredibly close, I can't seem to get over the finish line with an sissygasm, or hands free.

Perhaps the real thing can tip me over the edge?

I'm starting to think a 'fellow' gurl would be ideal, I am increasingly feeling the need to have a real, hot, thick **** pushed into me.. and to suck on one, and to taste cum..

But this puts me in limbo.. I nearly cammed with someone yesterday, who's wife changed plans and ended up postponing (she is unaware of her partners proclivities!).

I've considered an escort, but have always been unsure of paying for sex, I don't think the awkwardness for me would be overridden by the sexuality..

Ideally? I guess I'd like to dress, and have an online friend who I've got to know.. turn up, and with me blindfolded.. proceed to **** me, suck me, get sucked.. get fucked..
I think I'd like a panda "eats, shoots and leaves"

So a personal bit of backstory.. if you are a girl/cd/trans (and with the greatest respect not hairy/manly) drop me a DM, and help me work towards this next step in my evolution/exploration.

Perhaps I'll write this up as a story scenario, as Smoothandjuicy seems to be the only contributor for the most part!

Also up for swapping sexy pics, sexy chat.. introduce yourself! Xxx.

(Training Offer - Part 2)

He held his shaft and slid it straight forward until it reached the back of my throat and I made a little noise, he pulled out and did it again, same thing, a little choke and out again, This went on for several minutes when he said how are you doing, I said I guess I'm not that good so far as we are not getting far, he said actually I'm over half way already, wow really I thaught you had not moved further, he laughed and said from now on breathing will be difficult untill I'm out again, ok I said...
He rested his shaft in my mouth again and gently held my head and slightly pulled it back a little more, then he slid his shaft a little further momenterrily stopping me breathing, out then in again, a little further, I felt it very deep this time, but the gag no worse than normal, out he came so I could breathe then in again, ten minutes went and then all of a sudden in he went and I felt his sacks hit my face, FFS I did it, amazing, out it came..
He said well done, you have just swallowed a 11.5" C ock... I'm so happy i said, cannot believe it, he said would you like to progress to Throat Fucking, oh yes please I said... He then asked, do I C um in or out, oh definitely IN please, all the way please, He said ok great but remember when I cum it will be the longest pause, probably two pumps so a few seconds but it will feel much longer, ok I said...
He slid his massive shaft back in, this time the in and out was a little faster so I had to learn when to breath, in one thrust out the next and so on, it was an incredible feeling, mega tight down your throat, gag feeling all the time, just trying to ignore it, in and out, he went on for ages, probably only ten minutes but felt longer, I noticed his speed changed a little, and the shaft got slightly harder, I new he was close, then all of a sudden a fast thrust and held me deep, I felt the throb all the way through my neck, I could feel the pumping of his shaft, then the second pump then a quick pause, then he pulled out, still a little drop coming out...OMFG I said that was amazing, he said you did really well and hopefully if you want we can go again, oh god yes please I said...
I said I could feel the pump but not the juice, he said it's too deep to feel the juice but it's nice you can feel the throbbing..
We went off for a drink and a rest...
Paul got up and went to the bathroom, after a few minutes he came out and asked if I was ready, I said yes and followed him back to the Bench, he said I'm going to lower the bench almost to flat, a more natural position to get used to, I said yes that makes sense, I lay back down on the foam and placed my head over the end again, he said I'm just putting a little lube on, I will do exactly the same as before but skip the short step, ok I said and placed his massive Rod on my tongue again, you ready, he said, a little nod, yes from me..
He slid the Rod straight in, not too fast but constant, he did not stop till I gagged or chocked, which always seems worse at the throat entry point, beyond that made little difference, He pulled out then in again all the way this time, I felt his sacks hit my mouth, amazing feeling, getting used to the gagging feeling take alot of time but it did seem less awkward after a while, my Throat F uck was going amazingly and after 10 to 15 minutes, like the first time I could sense the change, he sped up a little and now started moaning and just then he pushed right in and held my head still, I felt his Rod Pulsate and Pump, as the Juice flowed straight down, a brief pause and another Pump of juice, filling me up, he pulled out and a little drop was left, he said that was really good for a first training session, thank you I said, it was amazing for me too....
He said I may get in touch for more Training if your interested at some point, yes definitely I said..........

( More great Encounters and Stories in the CD Stories Group)

So here’s my latest project,
You’ve heard of “Precilla queen of the desert”.. meet Winnie queen of the valley’s”
She’s a 2016 2.2litre peugeot boxer L3H2 ex carpet fitters van that I bought 6 months ago.
She now has:
Full size double memory foam bed
75cm Square mixer shower
Pull out thetford cassette toilet
Sprung sofa
19 inch TV
2 ring gas hob
Sink with mixer tap
400 watts of solar
Dc-dc converter
Electric hook up
Digital ac-dc charger
100 litre fresh water tank
60 litre waste water tank
9 liter carver cascade water heater
Diesel heater
Shurflow water pump
6kg gas bottle
External shower
LED USB bedside lights
LED ceiling light
LED under counter lights
Full height wardrobe
240v domestic fridge

Still some work to do on the mechanicals and bodywork but indside she’s looking amazing,
Can’t wait to take her out on her maiden voyage,

If anyone else has something similar and is up for a bit of a road trip let me know

Love Summer “and Winnie”

As mumma says. As she passed black eyed peas for Sunday lunch... my Kim has love and she picks flowers to give her love xx

The "mysterious little girl" style is intriguing and can be a lot of fun to explore! Here are some ideas to get you inspired:
Clothes:
* Loose and fluid pieces: long, flowing dresses, lace blouses, midi skirts.
* Dark colors and neutral tones: black, gray, navy blue, brown.
* Layers: layering different pieces to create a more complex look.

I crave a delicate. Chemise that flows dowm just to my. Ass Bottoms and allows me to feel the low breeze of the fan from the. Back room while the vapors and sents co mingle together from my. Naked. Body an I lounge with my fresh. Squeezed. Glass of friut juices , soon the morning song birds will harmonize the story of the day awakening and coming alive fenominal majestic feelings quietly allow me to rest before I can need to do anything

Couldn’t decide today, candy pink heels to match the pink in the flowers of the dress or good old black suede heels with floral print dress. Xx

Another in Black

--Ask to remove the flower--