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In the dim, tea coloured morning that passes for daylight in mid March, there sat not quite a man, and certainly not yet anything else entirely a person of careful middle years before an antique dressing table that had once belonged to his wife. The table itself had the air of something that knew far more than it was ever going to tell, its mirror clouded with the gentle patina of decades spent reflecting other people's private negotiations with gravity and grief.
Across his lap lay a black satin headscarf, arranged with the solemnity one might accord a papal bull or a very good slice of funeral cake. It spilled over his knees like ink that had decided, upon second thoughts, not to dry. Tucked inside its generous folds was the ghost of lavender, that most patient and reproachful of scents, the sort that waits years to remind you of drawers you have not opened often enough.
From the wardrobe door depended the veil layers of sheer black chiffon so fragile they appeared to be made of regrets that had been ironed flat. It trembled whenever the wind, that notorious sneak-thief of March, found the loose sash and slipped inside to have a look round. Outside, the town lay under a sky the precise colour of yesterday's dishwater, quietly convinced that nothing interesting was ever going to happen again.
He or possibly she, depending on which angle the light chose to take ran a lace gloved finger along the jet beading that marched across the bodice like a procession of tiny, well behaved mourners. The beads were cold at first, as beads will be when left to their own devices, but they warmed almost at once, as though the heat of long ago skin had been stored in them the way a teapot remembers tea.
Why this? The question rose inside him with the regularity of a heartbeat and about as much chance of being answered.
It was not, he reflected, merely crossdressing that brisk, modern word with its clipboard and its forms to fill in. No, this was something older, something chosen with the same deliberate care one might use when selecting the right sort of gravestone. To put on these heavy black satins was to grieve properly, not merely for the wife who had gone ahead into whatever lay beyond the last curtain call, but for the self that had spent decades locked in the attic of his own ribcage, tapping politely and being ignored.
Memory flickered like lantern slides: his grandmother's photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women staring out from behind veils and crepe as though sorrow were a particularly fetching hat. He had lingered over those pictures longer than any boy with a respectable future was supposed to, feeling something nameless turn over in his chest like a sleeper disturbed by moonlight.
Later much later, during the long, comfortable decades with his wife the secret had grown in perfect silence. Lengths of satin acquired at antique fairs with the furtive excitement of a man buying rare first editions; a chiffon veil ordered at three in the morning from a seller who asked no questions and probably knew all the answers anyway. His wife had never known. Or possibly she had known perfectly well and elected, with the generosity of those who love deeply and sensibly, to let the matter lie undisturbed.
She would smile when he returned with yet another silk scarf, tease him gently about his "fancy tastes," and he would laugh along, the laughter both balm and small, exquisite knife. Had he stolen something from her by never speaking the truth aloud? Or had the silence been kinder the careful preservation of Sunday dinners, hill walks above the fields, the kettle's comfortable whistle while the afternoon play murmured from the wireless?
The clothes themselves seemed to have an opinion on the matter.
The satin was cool against his skin when first it touched him, cool and slightly disapproving, like a maiden aunt meeting a disreputable nephew. Then it softened, warmed, accepted. It wrapped itself around the shape he had always carried inside the shape that had never quite fitted the available tailoring of masculinity, no matter how many times the measurements were taken.
When he wore it, properly, completely, he became not a man dressed as a widow, but simply the grieving widow he had, in some quiet corner of chronology, always been meant to be. The mirror regarded him without surprise. Mirrors, after all, have seen far stranger things than this between breakfast and bedtime.

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Rain had only just stopped when I stepped into it, the bricks to my left sweating out the day’s cold like they were ashamed of it. Red light bled down the wall from some unseen sign, staining the mortar like an old wound. The ground was slick, puddles trembling at the slightest whisper of wind, turning every flicker of neon into a broken mirror.
And there I was wrapped in black satin.
People imagine cloaks like this are heavy wool or ancient velvet, something dragged from a crypt or stitched by candlelight. Mine isn’t. It’s polyester with a satin silk touch finish. It gleams like midnight oil. It flows like water. It clings when the air grows damp. Practical, really. Fantasy aesthetics, modern materials.
Still, when it moves, it sounds like secrets.
The hood sits low over my face, not because I’m hiding, but because it feels right. The fabric drapes from my shoulders in deliberate folds, catching the dim light and holding it for a heartbeat before letting it slip away. The hem trails behind me, drinking from the wet pavement. Each step pulls a faint whisper from the ground, a soft shhh as though the alley itself is urging me onward.
I pause midway down.
There’s a particular stillness in places like this an out of season quiet, the kind that makes even distant traffic sound like it’s happening in another life. My reflection shivers in a puddle at my feet. The cloak makes me look taller there. Broader. Almost mythic.
That’s the trick of it, really.
You put on something like this and the world rearranges itself around you. The bricks become castle walls. The fire escape above turns into a wrought-iron battlement. The neon haze thickens into enchanted fog. And the ordinary act of walking home from a late shift becomes a pilgrimage through shadow.
But here’s the truth: I wear it because I like how it feels.
The satin lining is cool against my skin at first, then slowly warms, molding to me. The weight isn’t oppressive it’s reassuring. Like being wrapped in night itself. The gloves at my hands shine when I flex my fingers, catching the blue glow from the streetlight at the far end of the alley.
I hear footsteps behind me.
Not close. Not threatening. Just distant enough to remind me that I am not the only story moving through this city. I don’t turn around. The cloak does that work for me, rippling slightly as I shift my stance, letting whoever it is see only a silhouette.
Let them wonder.
There’s power in ambiguity. In becoming a shape rather than a person. In letting the wet pavement carry your reflection farther than your shadow.
A gust of wind slips down the alley and catches the cloak’s edge. For a moment, it billows out behind me like a dark sail. The fabric flashes with a slick, liquid sheen, then settles again, obedient and heavy.
I step forward.
The puddles part around my boots. The bricks watch without comment. The neon hum continues its low, electric chant.
I am not a sorcerer. Not a vigilante. Not a figure from some ancient order.
But in this alley, under this light, wrapped in satin black that drinks the world and gives nothing back, I am something close enough.
And sometimes, close enough is all you need.

I don’t promise comfort.
I promise truth… and the kind of pleasure that starts in your mind.

In the Hills after the Bomb they mostly call me The Late Detective. Late to justice, late to lunch, late to the end of the world. The sky was the colour of an old television left on after the station died, tilted at a Dutch angle like God had nudged the tripod and walked away. In this town, fabric tells the truth faster than people. I walked through it swaddled in turquoise satin, layered, intentional, defiant. My trenchcoated attire was heavy silk satin, the kind with a weight to it, a gravity. Satin doesn’t flutter; it arrives. It caught the light even in monochrome, turning every streetlamp into a confession. Underneath, the Victorian mourning attire did what it was designed to do: announce loss while indulging excess. Glossy deluxe blouse frills, cut wide and deep, each fold edged like it had a memory. They whispered when I moved. Satin remembers. It always does. The hijab headscarf was oversized turquoise satin, wrapped high and proud, smooth as a bribe sliding across a table. Over that, a chiffon voile veil, sheer, unforgiving, honest. Chiffon doesn’t hide anything; it only softens the blow. It floated just off my face, catching the radioactive breeze, turning my grief into motion. Taffeta anchored the gown beneath it all, crisp and slightly petulant, holding its shape like a stubborn alibi. Taffeta never forgets it’s there. I knew the case was serious the moment I saw the mannequins. The Garment District had been stripped naked. Not torn apart, undressed. Racks stood empty, arms out like they were asking questions nobody wanted to answer. The air smelled wrong. Usually it was starch, dye, steam, ambition. Now it was dust and panic. Silk was missing. All of it. Not just silk as a category, but silk as an idea. Satin-faced charmeuse. Heavy duchess satin meant for gowns that expected to be remembered. Raw silk with its tiny imperfections, honest as a tired smile. Silk twill that knew how to hold a line. Gone. Satin too, proper satin, not that plastic nonsense. The good stuff that slides between your fingers like it’s trying to escape. Satin that makes even cheap tailoring look like it has a lawyer. Vanished. Taffeta bolts were missing next. Crisp, noisy taffeta that rustles when you walk, announcing your presence whether you like it or not. The kind of fabric that refuses subtlety. Someone had wanted drama. And chiffon. God help us, chiffon. Weightless, floaty, translucent. Chiffon that catches on breath, on light, on the idea of movement. The chiffon racks looked like a graveyard of empty hangers. Voile too, cotton voile, silk voile, the gentle middle child that designers rely on when they want softness without surrender. Gone like a promise after the bombs. This wasn’t theft. This was curation. The femme fatale found me tracing the grain of a wooden cutting table, my gloved fingers remembering where silk had once lain. “They took only the best,” she said, lighting a cigarette like it was an accessory. “Nothing synthetic. Nothing that couldn’t mourn properly.” That told me everything. In the apocalypse, fabric becomes currency. Silk means water, means safety, means time to think. Satin means power. Taffeta means spectacle. Chiffon means hope. Voile means tenderness, the most dangerous commodity of all. I followed the trail through tailor shops and bombed out ateliers, past pattern paper fluttering like white flags. A single thread of turquoise voile snagged on a rusted nail led me uphill, toward the old soundstages where dreams used to be pressed, steamed, and sent out into the world with a smile. Inside, the thieves had laid it all out. Bolts of silk arranged by weight and weave. Satin draped over chairs, catching the light like liquid. Taffeta stacked with military precision, crisp edges aligned, ready to explode into skirts and coats. Chiffon suspended from rigging, floating in layers, a cloud of almost nothing. Voile stretched and tested, light passing through it like mercy. They weren’t stealing to sell. They were building. A final show. A post apocalyptic couture reveal. If the world was ending and it always was then it deserved a proper wardrobe. They surrounded me, guns low, eyes hungry. I adjusted my veil, let the chiffon breathe. “You can’t hoard fabric,” I told them. “It has to be worn. Silk dies in the dark.” The Choir hesitated. Madame Bias frowned, fingers brushing a length of satin like she was checking its pulse. The Cutter looked at my gown, at the way satin, taffeta, and chiffon argued and reconciled on my body. Fashion did the rest. In the end, the fabrics went back out into the streets. Seamstresses worked by candlelight. Mourning gowns bloomed. Trenchcoats shimmered. Veils floated through fallout like prayers that hadn’t given up yet. I walked home heavy with more layers than I arrived wearing, turquoise against the end of the world, every material doing what it was born to do.

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.

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

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In the dim afternoon light of my bedroom, I sit before the antique dressing table that once belonged to my Wife. The black satin headscarf rests across my lap like spilled ink, its oversized folds still carrying the faint lavender I keep tucked inside the drawer. The veil those fragile layers of sheer black chiffon voile hangs from the wardrobe door, trembling slightly whenever the January wind finds its way through the sash window. Outside, the town lies quiet under the grey sky of the 16th of January 2026.
I run a lace gloved finger along the jet beading on the bodice, the little beads cold at first, then warming as though they remember my body heat. Why this? The question rises again, steady as my own heartbeat. It isn’t only the crossdressing; that word feels too narrow, too modern for what moves through me. This is mourning chosen, worn deliberately, as though putting on these heavy black satins lets me grieve properly, not just for my Wife, but for the version of myself I kept locked away all those years.
I see flashes of the past: my Grandmother’s photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women in crepe and veils, faces made beautiful by sorrow. I used to stare at them longer than any boy was supposed to, feeling something stir that had no name. Later, during the decades with my Wife, the secret grew in silence satin bought at antique fairs, a chiffon veil ordered late at night from sellers who asked no questions. My Wife never knew, or if she guessed, she let it lie. She would smile when I came home with yet another silk or satin scarf, teasing me about my “fancy tastes,” and I would laugh along, the words both a comfort and a small, private wound. Did I steal something from her by never speaking the truth? Or was the silence kinder, preserving the life we built of Sunday dinners, walks up on the hill across the fields, the kettle whistling in the kitchen while we listened to the afternoon play on Radio 4? The clothes themselves seem to answer me. The satin is cool against my skin at first, then softens, accepts me. It wraps around the shape I carry inside, the one that never quite fitted the name Tony. When I wear it, I become Tonya the widow I sometimes feel I have always been. The mourning isn’t only for my Wife’s death two months ago, it is for all the years I lived half hidden, for the conversations never had, for the evenings I stood alone in front of the mirror trying on fragments of this other life. Out in the town, beneath the veil, the world blurs into gentle greys. People nod with quiet respect, the way they would to any Victorian widow stepping out of time. In those moments the doubt falls away and I feel something close to power, loss made visible, made dramatic, made mine. Yet when I come home and sit here, the questions return. At Sixty Four, is this foolishness or finally honesty? The mirror shows silver hair escaping the satin folds, lines carved by time across my face. Is it too late to become who I have always been inside? Then I remember my Wife’s hand in mine during those last weeks, her voice thin but certain: “Be happy, love. Whatever that looks like.” Perhaps this is what it looks like layers of black satin and chiffon, the headscarf framing my face like a dark halo, the veil softening everything until even my doubts feel bearable. I rise slowly, fold the headscarf with the same care I once used to fold my handkerchiefs after ironing. The reflections will come back tomorrow, and the day after. They are complicated, tangled, sometimes painful. But they are mine, and for the first time I am not afraid to hold them. The wardrobe waits, patient and open. So do I.

My name is Wem Martyn. I’m a UK-based musician, producer, and writer.

My music explores identity, conflict, and the state of the world we live in — music shaped by urban nights, hidden truths, and emotional tension.

The journey begins with “She Has a GUN”, an opening statement and the first release in a wider vision. I will be releasing a new song at the start of every month for the whole of 2026.

My music is for those who believe the world can be better.

Please like and subscribe to my Facebook, Instagram and YouTube channel.

https://youtube.com/@wemmartyn

#twinklelittlestar

Why Do We Like Butts?

This question stuck with me after seeing a dumb Facebook meme. A guy tells a woman she has a great ass. She replies sarcastically: “Thank you! I keep poop in it.”

Crude—but true.

We defecate through our butts. And yet, across cultures, centuries, genders, and sexual orientations, humans are deeply attracted to them. Straight, gay, bi, queer. Cis, trans, gender-nonconforming. People admire them, desire them, sculpt them, and eroticize them relentlessly.

So why?

The answer isn’t about function. Attraction doesn’t work that way. It’s about signal, shape, and meaning.

From a biological and evolutionary standpoint, there is broad scientific consensus that humans are drawn to certain body shapes because they act as visual cues of health and fertility. Research in evolutionary psychology shows that hip width, fat distribution, and lumbar curvature correlate with reproductive health. A pronounced lower-back curve visually emphasizes the buttocks, and a favorable waist-to-hip ratio is widely perceived as attractive across cultures.

The brain isn’t thinking about anatomy or waste. Just as people don’t look at mouths and think about digestion, attraction filters out function and locks onto form.

That resonates with me. I’m attracted to butts—the curve, the fullness, the way the lower back opens into flesh. It’s immediate and bodily. I’m especially drawn to very feminine women and their hips and butts. Their embodiment feels like a distilled expression of femininity—grounded, confident, complete. There’s desire there, but also admiration and longing.

At the same time, I’m keenly aware that men are attracted to my ass.

I feel it in their gaze, in how attention lingers. That awareness shapes how I inhabit my body. As Michel Foucault argues, bodies are never neutral—they are read, eroticized, and positioned within systems of power (Foucault, The History of Sexuality). When my body is desired for a part culturally coded as feminine, I’m not just being wanted—I’m being located as receptive.

This is where gender theory becomes personal.

I’m a sissy crossdresser. I don’t yet know if I’m trans, and I’ve stopped treating that uncertainty as a problem. What I do know is that my gender has taken shape through repetition, recognition, and power. Judith Butler argues that gender is constituted through repeated acts that solidify into identity over time (Butler, Gender Trouble). When I soften my posture, present femininely, and allow myself to be read in certain ways, I’m not pretending. I’m performing gender into being.

My attraction to men is structured around masculinity, dominance, and control. I’m drawn to men grounded in their power. Submission, for me, isn’t weakness—it’s orientation. Yielding clarifies my femininity rather than erasing it.

This connects to why attraction to butts often overlaps with interest in anal sexuality. For some, anal sex symbolizes dominance, possession, or control—access to a guarded, vulnerable space. For others, it represents intimacy, trust, and bonding. For many, it’s a mix of both. In heterosexual contexts, it allows penetration without pregnancy; in male-male contexts, it is the primary site through which penetration and possession are symbolically enacted. In every case, the butt becomes a site of power, vulnerability, and meaning.

From an embodiment perspective, this makes sense. Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that the body is not an object we possess but the medium through which we experience the world (Phenomenology of Perception). My body learns who it is by responding—by yielding, being read, and being desired.

So yes—we poop through our butts. That’s true.

But humans have always been capable of holding multiple truths at once. The same body part can be mundane and symbolic, functional and erotic. What matters isn’t what the body does, but what it means when another human desires it—and how that desire shapes who we become.


What are your thoughts??
-Chrissy

https://chrissyinsd.blogspot.com/

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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.

Rainbow candle...

My adopted granddaughter made cake with candles for me and one of them she insisted should be rainbow arch...
It was one of those moment when kid suddenly feels truth not ever knowing neither details nor meanings...
Or does she feels my hidden life as Kate.
I am so amased
How do they feel it?

Hey sweets,
I wanted to open up and share something real with you—something raw, honest, and close to the bone. If any of this resonates with you, if you’ve ever felt the same hunger, the same questions, the same ache—I’d love to hear from you. You're not alone. Leave a comment, share your truth.

With all my heart (and a few kisses),

I’ve hated my dick for as long as I can remember—not just for how it looks or what it symbolizes, but for how it keeps me tethered to a version of myself that never felt real. It’s not that I want to erase my body—I just want it to feel like mine. I want softness. Curves. A place to be entered, to be held, to be loved in a way that matches how I feel inside. I want to be her. And in many ways, I already am.

I haven’t transitioned. Maybe I never will. But I live in the space between genders like it’s home. Most people have no idea. They see what I let them see. But under my clothes, I’m wrapped in the truth of who I am—lace panties, a matching bra, delicate straps across my chest, sometimes a garter if I need to feel extra pretty that day. It’s not just for arousal. It’s for survival.

And always, always, I wear my prosthetic. My fake *****. My secret salvation.

It’s made of silicone—soft, skinlike, shaped just right. The slit is subtle but perfect. There's a hole you can enter, if you know how to treat me. When I slip it on and feel my **** tucked away, my heart slows. My body goes quiet. I look down and see smoothness, femininity, me. Not a fantasy—reality. My reality.

I wear it all the time. Not just for sex, not just when I’m alone. It’s part of my daily ritual, part of how I make peace with a body that’s caught between what it is and what I wish it could be. It keeps me close to her—the woman I am when no one’s looking, and sometimes even when they are.

Most lovers don’t know how to handle that part of me. They want either a woman or a man, and I’m both and neither. But some—some—see me. They touch me with reverence. They kiss my neck like it’s sacred. They press against the silicone, kiss me through it, call me beautiful. And when they slide inside that prosthetic slit, I feel... loved. Not just fucked. Chosen.

Other times, they want what I hide. They pull down my panties and take me as I am. My ass becomes my *****. They call my **** a girl ****, and I let them, because in those moments it belongs to the version of me who still needs to be worshipped, still deserves to be adored. There's no shame in it. I’m done apologizing for the way I live in my body.

But the most powerful moments are the quiet ones—alone, silk between my thighs, hips swaying as I move through the world with my little secret pressed tight against me. The prosthetic warms to my skin. I forget it’s there, and yet I’m constantly aware of it. It doesn’t just hide what I hate. It shows me who I am. Every soft curve, every subtle line—it’s mine.

I’ve had men fall in love with me through it. Not just because of how I look, but how I let them in. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. When I let a man undress me slowly, kiss down my stomach, slip his fingers over that smooth slit... he doesn’t just touch silicone. He touches me. He touches the part of me that’s always been waiting to be seen.

And when he enters me there, when he moves inside me through that perfect opening, I close my eyes and feel a kind of peace I’ve never known. A feeling that says, This is what it means to be wanted. This is what it means to be a woman. This is what it means to be loved in the body you’ve built for yourself, on your terms.

It’s not a costume. It’s not pretend. It’s truth, wrapped in silicone and lingerie and longing. And it’s beautiful. More: 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

A poem hoping many of you will relate,tell me if you relate. Mirror to my soul,don’t flinch- Show her:the girl the glass denies. Lashes like dusk on velvet skin, Cheeks brushed with dawns first rose surprise. Beneath the lie of broad,hard lines she arches-swan neck,lilac throat, breasts soft as secrets,hips that shine in satin light no stranger wrote. The world sees stone;a few hearts know the mirrors truth:her feminine glow.

Unraveling the Thread: How Clothing Has Been Used to Subjugate Women—and Why That’s Changing (continued)
By Chrissy

Clothing as Power—and Resistance

Throughout history, clothing has helped define who was allowed to hold power. Male garments—uniforms, suits, boots—were made for authority. Female garments were not.

This is why women were long excluded from spaces of governance and decision-making. Until just a few decades ago, women couldn’t wear pants in courtrooms or on the floor of the U.S. Senate. Power had a dress code—and that dress code was male.

Today, those lines are blurring. The rise of androgynous and gender-neutral fashion challenges the old binaries. More people are rejecting the idea that clothes must conform to “male” or “female.” Icons like Harry Styles, Elliot Page, and Indya Moore are showing that fashion can be fluid, expressive, and liberating.

Yet, as someone living with a transgender identity, I still feel the weight of those norms. When I wear a bra or slip on a dress, I’m not just “playing dress-up.” I’m aligning myself with my truth. I’m saying to the world—even if they can’t see it yet—that I know who I am.

The Future: Beyond Gendered Fabric

We are in the midst of a slow but powerful revolution. The #FreeTheNipple movement, the rise of unisex clothing lines, and the increased visibility of trans and nonbinary voices all point to one truth: gender expression cannot—and should not—be policed by fabric.

But the work isn’t done. We still live in a world where a child in a skirt is bullied, where a trans woman is judged by her ability to “pass,” and where freedom of clothing is still a privilege, not a right.

So yes, I dream of a world where clothes mean only what we want them to mean—where they’re tools of expression, not oppression. But until then, I will continue to express my identity, my truth, my womanhood—even if it’s still beneath the surface, hidden under layers. Because to wear what makes you feel like you is an act of quiet rebellion. And sometimes, rebellion begins in a closet.

What are your thoughts?

Love,
Chrissy

#crossdresser #crossdressing #CD #gurl #sissy #sissyboy #trans #tgirl #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #ladyboy #femboy #shemale

Unraveling the Thread: How Clothing Has Been Used to Subjugate Women—and Why That’s Changing
By Chrissy

Why do women have to cover their chests while men can go shirtless in public? It’s a question that may seem simple—but carries profound implications about gender, power, and control. What we wear has never been neutral. Clothing is one of the most immediate ways society tells us who we are, or who we’re allowed to be. And when it comes to gender, clothing has been weaponized—especially against women—for centuries.

But this isn’t just about history. It’s about lived experience. It’s personal.

My Own Journey Through the Fabric of Gender

As someone still exploring my own gender identity, this topic isn’t abstract. I was always a little more feminine than masculine, even as a child. For years, I repressed it—hiding behind "boy clothes" and what society expected of me. But in time, especially through the support of loving partners and close relationships, I came to embrace not only my homosexuality but something even deeper: the truth of my transgender identity. I am a woman—a female self long trapped in a male body.

Though I firmly believe clothing shouldn't define gender—because gender identity is internal, not sartorial—clothing still does carry that symbolic weight in our world today. And so, until I find the strength to publicly transition, I express my femininity in the ways that are available to me now: I wear bras and female underwear every day in secret beneath my outwardly masculine clothing. In private, I allow myself to wear skirts, dresses, lingerie, and the soft, beautiful fabrics that make me feel aligned with my true self.

It’s not about performance. It’s about presence. It’s about reclaiming what was always mine.

The History of Clothing as a Tool of Gender Control

To understand how we got here, we must look back.

Clothing began as a means of protection. But from early civilization onward, it evolved into a tool of social stratification—and eventually, a means of gender control. Ancient societies created strict visual codes for women, emphasizing modesty, submission, and containment. While men wore tunics or armor suited for movement, battle, and public life, women were wrapped, tied, bound, and veiled.

The message was clear: men moved freely through the world. Women did not.

In medieval and early modern Europe, this dichotomy hardened. Men's clothing was practical. Women’s clothing was restrictive, ornate, and often uncomfortably symbolic. Corsets, crinolines, and hoop skirts made running, fighting, or even breathing difficult. These garments weren’t just fashion—they were cages.

If you were wearing a dress, you weren’t riding into battle. You weren’t speaking in court. You weren’t commanding an army or a kingdom. You were ornamental. You were controlled.

Modesty, the Female Chest, and the Double Standard

These patterns persist today—nowhere more clearly than in the sexualization of the female chest. The fact that a man can walk down the street shirtless without a second glance, while a woman can be arrested for doing the same, speaks volumes. This isn’t about modesty. It’s about power and shame.

The female chest has been hyper-sexualized while simultaneously shrouded in taboo. This serves to objectify women and punish them at the same time. Even breastfeeding in public is controversial in many places—seen not as natural or maternal, but as obscene.

This double standard is part of a larger system that says women must be desirable but modest, visible but not too loud, strong but not threatening. And clothing is the vehicle through which these contradictory demands are enforced.

Clothing as Power—and Resistance

Throughout history, clothing has helped define who was allowed to hold power. Male garments—uniforms, suits, boots—were made for authority. Female garments were not.

This is why women were long excluded from spaces of governance and decision-making. Until just a few decades ago, women couldn’t wear pants in courtrooms or on the floor of the U.S. Senate. Power had a dress code—and that dress code was male. To be continued in next post...

Love,
Chrissy
#crossdresser #crossdressing #CD #gurl #sissy #sissyboy #trans #tgirl #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #ladyboy #femboy #shemale

Between Silk and Skin: Understanding the Line Between Crossdressing and Being Transgender
By Chrissy

“Maybe I’m not one or the other. Maybe I’m something in between—and that’s okay.”

What’s the Difference?

When people hear “crossdresser” and “transgender,” they often picture the same thing—or get the definitions confused. But these words speak to different experiences, identities, and emotional landscapes.

In simple terms:

Crossdresser: A person (usually male-assigned at birth) who enjoys dressing in clothing typically associated with another gender, usually for self-expression, fun, comfort, identity exploration, or even erotic reasons. This doesn’t necessarily mean they want to live as that gender full-time.

Transgender: Someone whose gender identity is different from the sex they were assigned at birth. A transgender woman was assigned male at birth but identifies as a woman—and may or may not take steps to socially, medically, or legally transition.


🩷 My Journey (So Far)

I’m still figuring it all out.

For most of my life, I lived as a man—because that’s what the world expected. But in quiet moments, in safe spaces, I allowed my femininity to surface. At first, I called it crossdressing. I liked how I felt in soft clothes, in cute outfits, in long hair and smooth skin. It was sensual… empowering… liberating. But it wasn’t just the clothes—it was me, underneath them.

I still don’t know where I fall on the spectrum. Maybe I’m a crossdresser. Maybe I’m genderfluid. Maybe I’m a transgender woman still waiting to be born. What I do know is this:

I feel most alive when I’m Chrissy.
I feel most whole when I’m seen.
I feel most me when I stop trying to choose sides.

🫶 A Spectrum, Not a Binary

Gender is not black and white—it’s fluid, rich, and deeply personal. Some crossdressers live full, happy lives identifying as men who occasionally (or frequently) express femininity. Some transgender women started out crossdressing because it was safer than admitting the truth.

Others—like me—are still discovering who they are.

You might ask:

Am I a crossdresser or something more?

What does it mean if I like being called “she” sometimes?

Do I want to be a woman or just look like one?

The answer might be “yes,” “no,” “sometimes,” or “I’m not sure yet.” And all of those are valid.

A Note on Shame and Freedom

Growing up, I repressed my feminine side. I feared being laughed at, rejected, or labeled. I used filters to feminize my face online—not to trick anyone, but because I liked how I looked. It made me feel beautiful. For now, it’s my way of being seen.

One day, I’ll do the makeup. The hair. The outfit.
One day, I’ll walk outside and own her.
For now, I’m just beginning.

If you feel the same—if you’re navigating the space between crossdressing and being trans—you are not alone.

Final Thoughts
You don’t need to rush toward a label. You don’t need to transition or explain yourself to anyone. You don’t need to choose “male” or “female” like you’re checking a box.

You just need to be—whatever that means, however that looks, however long it takes.

You’re not broken.
You’re not confused.
You’re becoming.

And I’m becoming right there with you.

What are your thoughts?

With love,
— Chrissy

About “Shemale Chrissy”

Hello everyone, I want to introduce myself and share a little bit of my story with you. This is a space where I can express who I am—openly, honestly, and without shame. I’m still exploring parts of my identity, learning more about myself every day, and I hope to find friends, support, and maybe even a sense of belonging along the way.

I want to clarify that I mean no offense to biological women. I deeply respect the struggles and experiences they have faced and continue to face. I acknowledge that I will never fully understand what it feels like to be a woman from birth, nor can I claim to have experienced that journey firsthand.

That said, I’ve always felt more feminine than masculine and genuinely enjoy being perceived as a woman. Given my age, I don’t believe I can—or want to—fully transition or live as a woman full time. In truth, I may simply be a crossdresser who expresses their femininity in ways that make them feel whole. What matters to me is being able to embrace and live that side of myself authentically, even if it isn’t “traditional.”

I also want to be honest about the terms I use to describe myself. I sometimes refer to myself as a “sissy” or a “shemale,” among other words. I mean no offense by these labels—they’re simply part of how I’m exploring my identity and finding language that fits me. Sometimes I use filters or soft edits in photos—not to trick anyone—but to help me live out a personal dream or fantasy, even just digitally. It’s for me, a way to see myself as I’ve always imagined.

I like showing off and receiving compliments on my body. Growing up, I never really got that kind of positive attention, and expressing this side of me now is both empowering and healing. Recently, I’ve also realized that I want to showcase this part of myself more openly—perhaps even as a model. For me, this isn’t just performance; it’s a way to claim my identity and celebrate my femininity with confidence.

Yes, some of the content I create and share is adult or pornographic in nature. I understand that’s not for everyone, and I respect that. But for me, it’s an expression of pride, sensuality, and self-love.

More than anything, I’m here to find friends, support, and community—to connect, share experiences, and network with people who understand or want to learn.

Thank you for your understanding and support. #crossdresser #shemale #sissy #lgbtq #nsfw #crossdressing #gay #trans #gurl #bio #transgirl #tgirl #transwoman #transgender

The power of feeling feminine is so much more powerful and I can’t resist but to tell the truth I really love dressing and feeling feminine

It's interesting how supportive yall are on here,but day to day in my life this would be taboo to everyone lol,truth be told for awhile I've been plugging my ass wearing panties buying more panties dressing in lingerie and going to town with a machine,at times I feel like dog crap but the orgasm from impaling myself is just other worldly had I found this site earlier id be calling someone daddy and being someone's trans wife,I've thought about it days on end how it could have been but we make choices and have to live by them,so im definitely closeted bi sexual no doubt about it

Myth: Crossdressing is always about sexuality.
Truth: For many, it’s about identity, comfort, or self-expression.

Every time someone chooses truth over fear, something beautiful happens

It takes more courage to wear the truth than to hide behind expectations.

I will always try and give advice to others on here, I'm not an expert, and I'll always be honest, but some of you find it hard to accept the truth, when you post a pic of yourselves dressed like a prozzie, to go to your local Tesco's, in your ***** Pelmet (short skirt), your black stockings, and your red heels, you get 'funny' looks from people or derogatory comments, then you moan about it, we get enough hate on social media from the transphobes as it is, stop feeding them the reasons why they do it, you can look sexy and not look like a prostitute

True beauty has no gender - only truth, expressed freely

Listen up, world, catch this brand new verse,
'Bout love that has no limits, no curse.
Doesn't matter who you are, boy to boy, girl to girl,
If a spark ignites, throw prejudice out of your world.
The heart doesn't choose by old rules they wrote,
It just beats on, giving its special light, note by note.
And if your world is colored not like the rest,
It means you're unique, truly blessed.

Let the haters hate, let them whisper behind,
Your truth is the power, always with you, you'll find.
Raise the flag of your soul high, don't be shy,
'Cause in this diversity, real life does lie!

The rainbow beat pounds in the chest, can't be stopped,
Love is love, it can't be forbidden, can't be dropped!
Two hearts in unison, whatever their gender's call,
It's pure magic, the greatest thrill of all!
So live and love, breathe deeply, be bold,
The world gets brighter from the truth you hold!

Someone will find their happiness where others didn't expect,
Build their own world, where only good laws connect.
Two hands will intertwine, two gazes find their reply,
And in this union, no doubt or sorrow will lie.
This is the path to yourself, through thorns to your stars bright,
Being honest with yourself – that's our main instinct and light.
And everyone deserves to be understood, accepted right here,
'Cause in each of us, a special song is clear.

Let the haters hate, let them whisper behind,
Your truth is the power, always with you, you'll find.
Raise the flag of your soul high, don't be shy,
'Cause in this diversity, real life does lie!

The rainbow beat pounds in the chest, can't be stopped,
Love is love, it can't be forbidden, can't be dropped!
Two hearts in unison, whatever their gender's call,
It's pure magic, the greatest thrill of all!
So live and love, breathe deeply, be bold,
The world gets brighter from the truth you hold!

'Cause we're all under one sky, by the same moon's light,
And everyone seeks warmth, understanding, love's true height.
Not walls to build, but bridges across hearts,
So the music of life plays without end, without starts.
Acceptance – that's the key that opens all doors around,
My friend, this is the truth, on solid ground.

The rainbow beat...
for everyone...
without limits...
Roxana said it - so it is...
Peace and love.

All or my gorg fav pics are of me no joke no lie mean this not hear play gmes i hear o tell the truth and nothing but the truh ok

Truths

Wellicanseenobodyheretakemeserious about wanting to date someone who's gay and has already become a girl from being a man and I'm telling the truth I want someone that's already been turned from being a man into a woman that will date me marry me and start a life with me and a family with me if no one on here believe me or takes me seriously they can leave me alone and pass me on by because I'm serious I'm tired of being alone and single all my life has reason I'm here trying to find someone to be with and settle down and start a life with and a family with

So i found out my step brother has been taking the mickey out of me behind my back, he found it highly hilarious to say to my younger in a pub full of people "is Amy coming tonight " now I'm not trans, i enjoy crossdressing and when i told my family it was in complete confidence and trust and he just flaunts it around like a joke letting people I've never even met about this side of my life! Im so angry because its not HIS secret, not HIS truth to tell its mine!!!!

Have you taken the 2025 Crossdresser Survey? I would LOVE to hear your thoughts, feelings, fantasies and experiences. It's live on www.JennyRaven.com or in the link in bio x #crossdresser #truth

after having made certain things clear here now I continually find people who come to the profile twice each time now I wonder if they will come out of simple curiosity or will they come to report en masse because no one accepts the truth that I have said and will never accept it and this it made them burn inside no one in these months that I have been here has managed to prove to me that everyone here is as friendly as they say they are because I have only received hostility simply for having been labeled even before knowing me if there is anyone capable of proving me that I am wrong and that such intelligent people exist, not of those who only throw digs, I would be happy to have a constructive dialogue, the question is: do they exist? and above all, is this trend that everyone suddenly comes to look at my profile randomly after in my previous post I explained to a couple of users how this app really became?

Gotta live my truth, not keep it bottled in, so I don't lose my mind.

Hi there girls and boys I'm new to this app and well truth is I really like being a girl and dressing up and I'm looking for friends to help me out of the closet.

Hello , Thanks for accepting me. I'm ******** Deborahwilson by name, 29 years old, I'm looking for a good, honest, truthful, obedient and understanding ***** to own and collar 24/7 in the Bdsmlifestyle again

Do I look fat ? Tell an old girl the truth

Telling the truth I think it’s time for me to leave this site haven’t time now as I’m still battling depression and anxiety. Need to sort my head out x take care all

When I looked in the mirror, I almost couldn't believe what I saw. It was like I was selling the truth for the first time. I felt a joy I had never experienced before.