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The Pink Satin Shift
At sixty-five, I had long since stopped pretending that my wardrobe was entirely conventional.
I was a chunky, mature man with a generous beer belly, broad middle and the sort of five-o'clock-shadow beard that seemed to appear before lunchtime. Crossdressing wasn't something I had suddenly discovered in later life. It was simply something I enjoyed, and over the years I had become quite comfortable wearing feminine clothes whenever the mood took me.
That morning, however, I hadn't intended to dress up at all.
I was volunteering at the charity shop.
After making myself a cup of tea, I started sorting through the mountain of donation bags that had accumulated in the back room. Clothes were everywhere: coats, jumpers, trousers, dresses and blouses, all waiting to be inspected, priced and put onto the rails.
Then I found it.
Pink satin.
I pulled the garment from the bag and watched the fabric catch the light.
It was magnificent.
The blouse had enormous sleeves, gathered cuffs and an almost comically large collar. Buttons ran down the front. Beneath it was a matching long skirt, cut generously enough to accommodate a substantial middle.
I held the pieces against myself.
The pink satin looked particularly striking against my greyish five-o'clock shadow.
I grinned.
"Oh, that's going to be difficult to put on the rail."
I knew myself too well.
A few minutes later I was standing in front of the changing-room mirror.
The outfit fitted surprisingly well.
The satin blouse stretched comfortably across my ample belly, while the long skirt fell almost to my ankles. The enormous collar sat around my neck, making my face and beard look even more conspicuously masculine by contrast.
I turned sideways.
There was absolutely no disguising my shape.
My belly was still there.
My stocky shoulders were still there.
My beard was still there.
I was unmistakably a sixty-five-year-old man.
But I was also wearing an extravagant pink satin outfit.
And I rather liked the sight.
I smoothed the satin over my stomach and laughed quietly.
"Well, you're certainly not going to blend into the background today."
I decided to wear it for my shift.
When I walked out onto the shop floor, one of the other volunteers looked up from arranging a display.
She paused.
Then she smiled.
"That's rather fabulous."
"I found it in the donations."
"You didn't put it on the rail?"
"I thought I'd test it first."
We both laughed.
And that was that.
The shop opened.
Customers began arriving.
I stood behind the till with my beard, chunky frame and very obvious beer belly wrapped in shimmering pink satin, and somehow it felt completely natural.
The outfit swished around my ankles whenever I moved.
The sleeves puffed dramatically whenever I reached for the scanner.
And every time I leaned across the counter, the satin caught the overhead lights and produced a bright, unmistakable sheen.
I noticed people looking.
Nobody seemed particularly bothered.
One woman smiled and said, "I love your blouse."
"Thank you," I replied. "It's a charity-shop discovery."
She laughed.
"Of course it is."
I carried on serving her.
There was something wonderfully ordinary about the whole situation. The till beeped. Customers queued. Donations arrived. Someone asked where the handbags were. Someone else wanted Gift Aid information.
And there I was, doing exactly what I normally did, except that I was doing it in head-to-toe pink satin.
My reflection occasionally appeared in the glass beside the till.
Every time I saw it, I smiled.
The pink satin exaggerated everything about me rather than hiding it. My round belly gave the blouse a wonderfully full shape. My beard remained plainly visible beneath that enormous collar. My mature face looked completely at odds with the sugary pink fabric.
And somehow that was precisely what I enjoyed.
I wasn't trying to look twenty-five.
I wasn't trying to pretend to be someone else.
I was simply a sixty-five-year-old man who enjoyed crossdressing and happened to have discovered an absolutely glorious vintage-looking satin outfit in a donation bag.
By the afternoon, I'd completely settled into it.
A regular customer came to the till with several books.
"You're looking very cheerful today."
"I've discovered pink satin," I told him.
He looked me up and down.
"Clearly."
We both laughed.
When closing time finally arrived, I stood behind the till while the last customer left.
The shop became quiet.
I looked down at myself.
Pink satin.
Huge collar.
Long skirt.
Chunky mature body.
Beer belly.
Five-o'clock shadow.
Sixty-five years old.
I shook my head and smiled.
I couldn't put it out on the racks for sale.
I rang up the price and put the money in the till.
What had started as a donation waiting to be sorted had become the outfit I'd worn for an entire shift.
And as I carefully folded the satin that evening, I found myself wondering what other treasures might be hiding in tomorrow's donation bags.
At sixty-five, I had long since stopped pretending that my wardrobe was entirely conventional.
I was a chunky, mature man with a generous beer belly, broad middle and the sort of five-o'clock-shadow beard that seemed to appear before lunchtime. Crossdressing wasn't something I had suddenly discovered in later life. It was simply something I enjoyed, and over the years I had become quite comfortable wearing feminine clothes whenever the mood took me.
That morning, however, I hadn't intended to dress up at all.
I was volunteering at the charity shop.
After making myself a cup of tea, I started sorting through the mountain of donation bags that had accumulated in the back room. Clothes were everywhere: coats, jumpers, trousers, dresses and blouses, all waiting to be inspected, priced and put onto the rails.
Then I found it.
Pink satin.
I pulled the garment from the bag and watched the fabric catch the light.
It was magnificent.
The blouse had enormous sleeves, gathered cuffs and an almost comically large collar. Buttons ran down the front. Beneath it was a matching long skirt, cut generously enough to accommodate a substantial middle.
I held the pieces against myself.
The pink satin looked particularly striking against my greyish five-o'clock shadow.
I grinned.
"Oh, that's going to be difficult to put on the rail."
I knew myself too well.
A few minutes later I was standing in front of the changing-room mirror.
The outfit fitted surprisingly well.
The satin blouse stretched comfortably across my ample belly, while the long skirt fell almost to my ankles. The enormous collar sat around my neck, making my face and beard look even more conspicuously masculine by contrast.
I turned sideways.
There was absolutely no disguising my shape.
My belly was still there.
My stocky shoulders were still there.
My beard was still there.
I was unmistakably a sixty-five-year-old man.
But I was also wearing an extravagant pink satin outfit.
And I rather liked the sight.
I smoothed the satin over my stomach and laughed quietly.
"Well, you're certainly not going to blend into the background today."
I decided to wear it for my shift.
When I walked out onto the shop floor, one of the other volunteers looked up from arranging a display.
She paused.
Then she smiled.
"That's rather fabulous."
"I found it in the donations."
"You didn't put it on the rail?"
"I thought I'd test it first."
We both laughed.
And that was that.
The shop opened.
Customers began arriving.
I stood behind the till with my beard, chunky frame and very obvious beer belly wrapped in shimmering pink satin, and somehow it felt completely natural.
The outfit swished around my ankles whenever I moved.
The sleeves puffed dramatically whenever I reached for the scanner.
And every time I leaned across the counter, the satin caught the overhead lights and produced a bright, unmistakable sheen.
I noticed people looking.
Nobody seemed particularly bothered.
One woman smiled and said, "I love your blouse."
"Thank you," I replied. "It's a charity-shop discovery."
She laughed.
"Of course it is."
I carried on serving her.
There was something wonderfully ordinary about the whole situation. The till beeped. Customers queued. Donations arrived. Someone asked where the handbags were. Someone else wanted Gift Aid information.
And there I was, doing exactly what I normally did, except that I was doing it in head-to-toe pink satin.
My reflection occasionally appeared in the glass beside the till.
Every time I saw it, I smiled.
The pink satin exaggerated everything about me rather than hiding it. My round belly gave the blouse a wonderfully full shape. My beard remained plainly visible beneath that enormous collar. My mature face looked completely at odds with the sugary pink fabric.
And somehow that was precisely what I enjoyed.
I wasn't trying to look twenty-five.
I wasn't trying to pretend to be someone else.
I was simply a sixty-five-year-old man who enjoyed crossdressing and happened to have discovered an absolutely glorious vintage-looking satin outfit in a donation bag.
By the afternoon, I'd completely settled into it.
A regular customer came to the till with several books.
"You're looking very cheerful today."
"I've discovered pink satin," I told him.
He looked me up and down.
"Clearly."
We both laughed.
When closing time finally arrived, I stood behind the till while the last customer left.
The shop became quiet.
I looked down at myself.
Pink satin.
Huge collar.
Long skirt.
Chunky mature body.
Beer belly.
Five-o'clock shadow.
Sixty-five years old.
I shook my head and smiled.
I couldn't put it out on the racks for sale.
I rang up the price and put the money in the till.
What had started as a donation waiting to be sorted had become the outfit I'd worn for an entire shift.
And as I carefully folded the satin that evening, I found myself wondering what other treasures might be hiding in tomorrow's donation bags.
The Pink Satin Shift
At sixty-five, I had long since stopped pretending that my wardrobe was entirely conventional.
I was a chunky, mature man with a generous beer belly, broad middle and the sort of five-o'clock-shadow beard that seemed to appear before lunchtime. Crossdressing wasn't something I had suddenly discovered in later life. It was simply something I enjoyed, and over the years I had become quite comfortable wearing feminine clothes whenever the mood took me.
That morning, however, I hadn't intended to dress up at all.
I was volunteering at the charity shop.
After making myself a cup of tea, I started sorting through the mountain of donation bags that had accumulated in the back room. Clothes were everywhere: coats, jumpers, trousers, dresses and blouses, all waiting to be inspected, priced and put onto the rails.
Then I found it.
Pink satin.
I pulled the garment from the bag and watched the fabric catch the light.
It was magnificent.
The blouse had enormous sleeves, gathered cuffs and an almost comically large collar. Buttons ran down the front. Beneath it was a matching long skirt, cut generously enough to accommodate a substantial middle.
I held the pieces against myself.
The pink satin looked particularly striking against my greyish five-o'clock shadow.
I grinned.
"Oh, that's going to be difficult to put on the rail."
I knew myself too well.
A few minutes later I was standing in front of the changing-room mirror.
The outfit fitted surprisingly well.
The satin blouse stretched comfortably across my ample belly, while the long skirt fell almost to my ankles. The enormous collar sat around my neck, making my face and beard look even more conspicuously masculine by contrast.
I turned sideways.
There was absolutely no disguising my shape.
My belly was still there.
My stocky shoulders were still there.
My beard was still there.
I was unmistakably a sixty-five-year-old man.
But I was also wearing an extravagant pink satin outfit.
And I rather liked the sight.
I smoothed the satin over my stomach and laughed quietly.
"Well, you're certainly not going to blend into the background today."
I decided to wear it for my shift.
When I walked out onto the shop floor, one of the other volunteers looked up from arranging a display.
She paused.
Then she smiled.
"That's rather fabulous."
"I found it in the donations."
"You didn't put it on the rail?"
"I thought I'd test it first."
We both laughed.
And that was that.
The shop opened.
Customers began arriving.
I stood behind the till with my beard, chunky frame and very obvious beer belly wrapped in shimmering pink satin, and somehow it felt completely natural.
The outfit swished around my ankles whenever I moved.
The sleeves puffed dramatically whenever I reached for the scanner.
And every time I leaned across the counter, the satin caught the overhead lights and produced a bright, unmistakable sheen.
I noticed people looking.
Nobody seemed particularly bothered.
One woman smiled and said, "I love your blouse."
"Thank you," I replied. "It's a charity-shop discovery."
She laughed.
"Of course it is."
I carried on serving her.
There was something wonderfully ordinary about the whole situation. The till beeped. Customers queued. Donations arrived. Someone asked where the handbags were. Someone else wanted Gift Aid information.
And there I was, doing exactly what I normally did, except that I was doing it in head-to-toe pink satin.
My reflection occasionally appeared in the glass beside the till.
Every time I saw it, I smiled.
The pink satin exaggerated everything about me rather than hiding it. My round belly gave the blouse a wonderfully full shape. My beard remained plainly visible beneath that enormous collar. My mature face looked completely at odds with the sugary pink fabric.
And somehow that was precisely what I enjoyed.
I wasn't trying to look twenty-five.
I wasn't trying to pretend to be someone else.
I was simply a sixty-five-year-old man who enjoyed crossdressing and happened to have discovered an absolutely glorious vintage-looking satin outfit in a donation bag.
By the afternoon, I'd completely settled into it.
A regular customer came to the till with several books.
"You're looking very cheerful today."
"I've discovered pink satin," I told him.
He looked me up and down.
"Clearly."
We both laughed.
When closing time finally arrived, I stood behind the till while the last customer left.
The shop became quiet.
I looked down at myself.
Pink satin.
Huge collar.
Long skirt.
Chunky mature body.
Beer belly.
Five-o'clock shadow.
Sixty-five years old.
I shook my head and smiled.
I couldn't put it out on the racks for sale.
I rang up the price and put the money in the till.
What had started as a donation waiting to be sorted had become the outfit I'd worn for an entire shift.
And as I carefully folded the satin that evening, I found myself wondering what other treasures might be hiding in tomorrow's donation bags.
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