I'm so tired.

Had to work overtime at work so tired.

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.

My TS/CD/TV Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

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

With love,
Chrissy

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

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

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

The Erebus Veil has always been more mausoleum than starship, but tonight she feels like a confessional. I press my forehead to the viewport again, the cold glass a thin barrier between me and the churning nebulae that swirl like spilled ink and blood. My breath fogs it in ragged bursts each one a small rebellion against the vacuum waiting outside. Sixty four years, I rasp to the empty deck, voice thick with the kind of ache that settles in bones and doesn't leave. Sixty four years of rewriting myself sentence by sentence, and the universe still hasn't bothered to notice. Or maybe it has. Maybe that's why it left me here to watch the stars burn without apology. My gloved fingers curl against the pane, kid leather creaking. The gown of satin so dark it drinks light, chiffon whispering like secrets I used to be afraid to keep shifts with the faint tremor of the hull. The high-waist satin panty girdle beneath bites just enough to ground me, to say: You are here. You chose this shape. You paid in blood and time and nights spent crying into star charts. I laugh once, sharp and wet. It echoes off the pitted bulkheads. You know what the cruelest part is? I ask the ship, or the nebulae, or the ghost of the girl I used to bury every morning. I finally like the sound of my name in my own mouth. Hanımefendi. It used to taste like ash. Now it tastes like victory and no one’s left to hear me say it. A distant fusion coil whines in sympathy, or maybe that's just my pulse in my ears. I dreamed of this, you know. Not the derelict part. The space part. Vast and indifferent and beautiful. I thought if I could just get out here away from gravity wells and small minded gravity bound people I’d finally breathe easy. Instead I learned the void doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t applaud your courage. It just… waits. My reflection stares back: sharp jaw softened by decades of estrogen and stubborn hope, eyes lined in kohl that’s run from earlier tears, raven cameo pinned like a medal over my heart. The chiaroscuro light paints me half angel, half wraith crowned in bruise purple nebulae fire. I swallow hard. But I’m still here, I whisper, fierce enough that it hurts my throat. Still standing in this ridiculous, glorious dress I sewed myself on a ship that’s falling apart. Still breathing air you recycled for me when no one else would. Still choosing every damn day to be this trans, tired, terrified, and incandescently alive. The flare comes again brighter this time, gold and merciless. It floods the deck, turns every jet bead to molten starlight, every fold of chiffon into rippling shadow and flame. My silhouette burns against the glass like a brand. I don’t flinch. Look at me, I snarl at the cosmos, at the empty chairs where crew once sat, at the woman in the reflection who finally stopped flinching. Look at what survives when everything else leaves. A trans woman in a Gothic mourning gown, orbiting a nebula that doesn’t give a damn. And I’m not done yet. Tears cut fresh tracks through the kohl. I let them fall. I loved once, I confess, softer now, the words cracking open like overripe fruit. Her name was Mara. She called me ‘starlight’ when no one else dared call me anything at all. We used to stand right here, hands linked, watching these same nebulae. She said we’d outlive the stars. I believed her. My voice breaks completely. She’s gone. Everyone’s gone. But I’m still wearing the earrings she gave me the ones shaped like tiny crescent moons. I’m still carrying her in every stitch of this gown, every bead I sewed while crying over star maps. And if that’s all the legacy I get a solitary trans woman adrift in opera-scale darkness, dressed for the funeral of a life I refused to let kill me then let it be enough. I straighten. Shoulders back. Chin up. The girdle holds me like armor. So keep turning, you beautiful, heartless nebulae, I say, voice steady at last. Keep your silence. I’ve got enough words for both of us. I’ve got enough me for whatever comes next. The light fades. Shadow returns, satin soft. But this time, when I meet my own eyes in the glass, they’re blazing. No more apologies. No more smallness. Just Hanımefendi trans woman, space wanderer, survivor in satin and lace standing defiant against the dark opera of the stars. And for the first time in years, the silence doesn’t swallow me. It listens.

something totally unrelated.... A man sees a sign in front of a house: "Talking Dog for Sale: $10".
He rings the doorbell, and the owner tells him the dog is in the backyard. The man goes into the backyard and sees a nice-looking Labrador Retriever sitting there.
"You talk?" the man asks.
"Yep," the Lab replies.
The man is amazed. "So, what's your story?"
The dog claims to have had a career as a spy for the CIA for eight years, traveling the world and gathering intelligence because no one suspected a dog. After getting tired of traveling, the dog says he worked undercover security at the airport, uncovering significant plots and earning medals.
Completely astonished, the man returns to the owner and asks why such an incredible dog is being sold for only ten dollars. The owner explains, "Because he's a liar. He never did any of that".

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've been busy as hell and my sleeping schedule is all over the place right now.. I'm pretty tired, it's 4:21 am here, and i just wanted to show you guys... my current mani.. 💅🏻 pretty damn awesome..
#nails #nailart

Here's a old picture of me ready for bed after a night out cruising. I forgot to take off lipstick that night. Sorry if it looks off, i was tired

Note: While this drive was real, the story is fictional. This is my fantasy. Will it become true one day? I hope so. And maybe I'll run into you at a truck stop? Kisses!
-Chrissy

My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road

I’m not out. Not really.

Not to my family. Not to the world. Maybe not even fully to myself.

By daylight I pass as what people expect: a tall, thin man in his forties, dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, unremarkable. But underneath—always underneath—I carry Chrissy. Smooth skin hidden under denim. Lace and silk where no one is supposed to look. A secret pressed close to my body, warm and constant.

I don’t know yet if Chrissy is a role, a mask, or my truest self. I just know I’m not ready to live her openly.

The drive from San Diego to Prescott was long and lonely, the kind of drive where your thoughts stretch out across the desert like the road itself. I left late—too late, really—and by the time I pulled into the truck stop it was just after four in the morning. Christmas was only days away. The air was cold. The place was nearly silent.

Except for the trucks.

Rows and rows of them, idling and dark, their drivers asleep inside. A whole hidden world resting while the rest of America slept.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed. I bought coffee I didn’t really want and a hot dog I didn’t really taste. That’s when I felt it—that familiar sensation on the back of my neck. Being seen.

He was older. Weathered. The kind of man whose life is measured in miles and nights like this. His eyes lingered too long. Not crude—curious. Knowing.

When I stepped back outside, he followed—but not aggressively. He spoke softly, close enough that his voice stayed between us.

“Chrissy,” he said, like it was a question and an answer at the same time.

My heart kicked hard in my chest. Fear and thrill braided together.

We talked. Quietly. Honestly. About boundaries. About money. About what I was—and wasn’t—willing to do. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. When I followed him to his truck, it was because I chose to.

Inside, the cab was dim, warm, insulated from the world. I shed my outer layers slowly, deliberately, revealing what I’d hidden all night. His attention wasn’t violent—it was reverent. Hungry, yes, but controlled. I felt myself settle into Chrissy fully, like slipping into a familiar skin.

What happened between us stayed there, contained within the cab and the dark and the hum of the engine. Time stretched and blurred. I was present in my body in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

When it ended, I didn’t feel used.

I felt… seen.

He paid me without haggling. Then something unexpected happened: he didn’t boast, didn’t leer. He simply told a few others—men like him, tired men, lonely men—who understood discretion.

I made my own choices again. And again.

Not a dozen. Not chaos. Just a handful of quiet encounters, spaced out across the early hours of the morning. Each one brief. Each one negotiated. Each one leaving me with cash folded neatly into my purse and a strange, steady calm settling in my chest.

By sunrise, I was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally. Chrissy had been fully awake all night. And she was tired.

Under the Dashboard Lights

The cab door closed behind me, sealing us into a private world of low light and humming machinery. The dashboard cast everything in a muted red glow, like we were suspended inside a heartbeat. I could feel it then—how small the space was, how large he felt in it, how nowhere I could go made everything sharper.

He reached for his phone almost casually.

“Stand right there,” he said.

I obeyed.

My hands shook just slightly as I slipped off my jacket, then my shirt. I could feel his eyes tracking every inch of me, lingering, memorizing. When I was left in my bra and panties—the ones I’d chosen carefully before the trip, just in case—I felt a rush of heat flood my chest and face.

The phone came up.

A soft click.

Then another.

He moved slowly, circling me, telling me to turn, to arch my back, to lift my chin. Each instruction felt like a pull downward, stripping away the version of myself that hides. I wasn’t performing anymore. I was presenting myself. Offering. More to cum....

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

Hello all i got tired of people sending me dick pics so i disappeared for a bit but im back now

I'm getting sick and tired of these fake accounts and mistr3ss accounts who constantly harass myself and many others. I joined thinking this would be an escape to make new friends and support people. Now I'm second guessing even joining this site. I may delete my account in the near future and move elsewhere if the admins and owner don't clean this site up!!!

I'm sure many others on this platform feel the same way I do. I'm sure many wanna leave because of the filth that's allowed on here!!

Good afternoon my lovelies. Having a good weekend so far? I'm preparing for a night in with something warming. Gonna put my tired nylon covers toes up and get comfy in front of the box. Of course if anyone fancies disturbing me from my laziness and wants a chat I'll be most obliging

Ran out of time last night, too tired.
Here are a few of my blue outfit while lounging about on my bed before work gets in the way.

Since there are several imature and rude people here and I would add homophobic I removed my personal photos leaving just the backgrounds so at least for those who judge even before knowing I will not leave the pleasure of seeing who I am I am tired every day to find my profile full of rude people who come and block me for no serious reason

Good morning, Well I got home late and needed to chill out so put this dress on, sorry, I didn't have time to do my makeup so cropped out the bad hair and tired face. I'm exhausted, been a busy day/night, a long shift. but home now with a couple of drinks before bed

Orange Lipstick ...

I'll leave forever
Mon Ami
Just
Travel dress
And orange lipstick
Forget forget
It s not caprise
I am tired...
So empty kiss...

Good morning everyone. You know sometimes it's the simplest things that make me smile. Like this morning opening a fresh pair of pop sox. I'll never get tired of sheer nylon xxx

evening all, just a chill n netflix on my own tonight tired today! So my cozy n stretchy dress with some comfy slip ons, that match of course and my favourite 20d pantyhoes, just had to add abit of a sexy ankle bracelet in what anyone upto?

Good evening girls how are you all feeling today I’m really tired been doing the housework all day now it’s time to relax with a few glasses of wine for me

Good evening my lovelies. Hope Monday has been good to you. Feeling a little low today, think it's just the weather. So.. So tired, but would love a chat between yawns lol xxx

Woke up this morning like this with my better half!! After a fun filled evening, we both were so hot and tired, neither of us got undressed and fell asleep like this!!! Even have the padlocks on my heels still #dirtywhores

Todays visit was to Chippenham and Corsham & Corsham Court.
Randomly picked tbh just because of the distance (wanted to go further away from home than i have been. Walked around Chippenham High Street, Shopping centres, and riverside park.
Corsham Court was very nice and i spoke to most of the people working there (there were guides in each room) and everyone was very polite and non- reactive. (Though in fairness its public on the street who react not staff) And i didnt even attempt to make my voice softer and higher as i normally do ( too tired today). Drive back knackered me out good day out.

Quiet day today - wanted to go out this afternoon but weather not great and fell asleep after shopping (Tesco nowhere exciting) - very tired after yesterdays adventure i think (its an age thing).
Got these bras in their sale though. And also bought several face creams on sale too. Saved as much as i spent so not bad result.

Weathers a bit poopy. Got gardening to do. Thought i had money then realised what things i hadnt accounted for, and only got paid yesterday )
But apart from that its Bank Holiday weekend and it must be taken advantage of.
So hopefully adventure time later today or tomorrow.
(Feeling tired already though - my fault - early morning conversations )

Tired of being kooped up, i wanna ho out tonight. Any suggestions?

so if they're going to date me now it's the time to do it make me the lover whatever they're going to do Now's the Timyou can talk to me whatever you can be my girlfriend be my lover be my wife marry me whatever you want to do if not then I'll be here and everyone I'm tired of this nobody wanting to have nothing to do with me nobody wants to date me nobody won't be my girlfriend or love her to me e to jump in and tell me

Well its looks like nobody go to have nothing todo with me or anybody who translate girls who use to be a man and has become a girl wants to date me or make sweet love with me are them any older translate or transgender who will date me since i can't get no body to date me or is a lesbian or transgender man that become a woman that has kind form into a woman from the United States in America from Ohio who will really date me start a true relationship for me and is a real person and not a thought or a fake person on here or at or a catfish person that's on here and is a real person that used to be a man and become a woman or had a female's body that is still a man that is a turning into a woman or has transformed into a woman and has a female's body Emerald date me and start a true relationship with me and I have something to do with me if not I'm leaving for good and I'm not coming back if no one is going to have anything to do with me and I'm getting tired of it because I'm here trying to find someone to start a relationship with and and replying and I'm tired of no one wanting nothing to do with me are they going out there who is older than me that will date me and have something to do with me any older women that is a lesbian or a trans girl or a sister girl that will have anything to do with me and be part of my life and let me be part of their life or or any 27-year-old do a 49-year-old out there that will date me or older than that I'm on the field date meal here and want me today then

Im so tired of people trying to tell me what to do and being a b**** to me about I'm just trying to find friends to talk to you on here that is not crossdressers transgender stuff like that don't mind if they don't mind I wish they would back off a little bit and let me make friends on here and also for the ones that's new on here and they're looking for friends and stuff I'm single I'm looking for a friend and willing to talk to somebody and date somebody from here that's if anybody is in it and dating me that there's a transgender or a crossdresser and that looks like a girl and is a girl that is a train or a man who is a crossdresser and has switched over and beat it half and half and looks like a woman and act like a woman and dresses like a woman or a woman crossword

I’m sooo tired. Bad nights. Think an early night is on the cards.

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

I am getting tired of no one wanting to date me or be with me I'm trying to find someone to love me be with me and date me for who I am yes I love email to female or a boy to girl who has been made into it girl from being a boy I want someone to date me from the United States that is very very close to Kentucky Ohio or West Virginia that will come and start a new life with me and help me into a girl or will release date me and start a new life with me

Apologies for terrible picture. Look tired

Feeling very tired this week early starts at work so I’m looking forward to Saturday my day off

Well it’s early but I’m so tired… getting into nightie and warm bed. Goodnight darlings xxx

I'm tired this morning

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Cockslut #Nativesissy #Pantyboy

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Cockslut #Femboy #Nativesissy #Pantyboy

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Exposedslut #Cockslut #Femboy #Nativesissy #Pantyboy

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposure #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Exposedslut #Cockslut #Femboy #Nativesissy #Pantyboy

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposure #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Exposedslut #Cockslut #Femboy #Nativesissy #Pantyboy #Cockwhore #ExposeMe

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposure #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Sissyslut #Exposedsissy #Exposedslut #Cockslut #Femboy #Nativesissy #Pantyboy #Cockwhore #ExposeMe

I Can't Wait for Summer, I'm Pretty Tired of Not being Able to Take Naked Pics Outside. #sissy #sissyexposed #exposure #exposed #femboy #trap #feminization #Sissyslut #Exposedsissy #Exposedslut #Exposed #Cockslut #Femboy #Nativesissy #Pantyboy #Cockwhore #ExposeMe

Hope youre not tired of this dress

Morning everyone, I'm tired

Ladies.. this site is becoming a great place for us for sure, lovely to see your pics, share mine and chat about whatever.
BUT! I'm a straight CD, as many of us are, and I'm tired of seeing men posting on here, with content that is in no way related to CD'ing. So I want to ask the question, and I'd really like you to respond so the admins (and me) get a better view of how we feel about this.

Am I the only one here who wants CD-only content in here? This isn't a gay site, and personally I feel this isn't a place for 'admirers' to post naked pics that do not relate to crossdressing. This is OUR space, our community.

Finally home and having a soak. To tired to light the candles. Hope you all have had a nice day and are now having a chilled evening