#waiting #door

Waiting for t- rain

Waiting for my rain
Waiting for my train
Waiting for my main

NOT the Monday i was anticipating, ran mum to the hospital for an appointment, at 9, got back about 6, she's in overnight for observation... Had a weak and watery low-BP incident in the waiting room, OK, best place for it, but...

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.

Shaving still to be done, and awaiting delivery of some really lovely clothes and shoes - expect more at the weekend

Shower time soon and toys, but first dress up, do some chores, and keep myself waiting. SHort skirt, small pink panties for now.

Hey do people want join me in a chat room! I'm waiting xx

Laying bed waiting for Jason!

Touch Girl like me ...

Touch Girl like me
With interest,
Dont hide it till the end
She might just fall in love with thee
And never understand
That you are also waiting touch
Touch Love
And kisses
Very much....

I walk in night ...
You never saw
Me true...
The one who
Waited
So so long...
You've passed
In darkness
Dressed
In blue...
Gray day
A bit or rain
And fog...

I sat alone
Under shaky light
The wind
Was terrible
And cold...
Another
Missed
Forever night...
Another
Coming
Day of girl...

I am not waiting
Anymore
Enough
Of stupid
Silly hopes

I walk through
Night
That also goes
To early
Morning
In its might...

You've passed
I never got it right...
What could have been
The other kind
The other hopless
Attempt.
Without any happy end...

"We all want a miracle (this is for one post, and about our life in general). But are we ready to pay the price?"

From the pier Apostle Andrew was casting his line, while the Savior walked over the sea.
Andrew pulled out the minnows from out of the brine, and the Savior saved souls from the deep.
And Andrew cried out: "I will leave this old pier, if you don't tell the secret to me!"
And the Savior replied: "Andrew, calm down your fear, there is no bloody secret, you see.

Do you see on that hill, where the crucifix stands?
A dozen of soldiers are waiting in line.
Go and hang from that cross by your feet and your hands,
And when you get bored of your time,
Come walk on the wave, walk on the wave, walk on the wave with me!"

P.S. I am not the Savior, not even close. But there is something to think about?

The Pink Satin Parcel

The parcel arrived on a rainy Saturday morning, wrapped in plain brown paper packaging with nothing to hint at what was inside. I carried it quietly upstairs before anyone else noticed. It wasn't an expensive purchase or some rare collector's item just a vintage satin nightdress from an eBay listing that I couldn't stop thinking about.
I carefully unfolded the tissue paper.
There it was.
A beautiful sissy pink satin nightie, soft and unmistakably vintage. The faded label still read UK 32–34, although the seller had suggested it was more comfortable for a 30–32. It measured a generous sixty inch bust and fifty inches long. Delicate lace trimmed the neckline, and a tiny satin bow sat in the centre, giving it an unmistakably feminine charm.
It looked as though it had stepped straight out of the late seventies or early eighties.
The listing had been wonderfully over the top. It described "special Saturday nights," satin that whispered over the skin, and invited the buyer to imagine slipping into it after a long, stressful week. Part of me laughed at the dramatic sales pitch.
Another part of me couldn't stop reading.
There was something oddly familiar about it.
When I was young, I always found myself fascinated by the contents of my mum's bedroom drawers. Tucked neatly away were satin nighties, lace trimmed slips, and other beautiful garments that seemed to belong to a mysterious grown up world. I never touched them, but I often wondered what they felt like. The colours, the fabrics and the elegance stayed in my memory long after childhood had passed.
Over the years that curiosity never completely disappeared.
Eventually I accepted that I simply enjoyed feminine clothing. Wearing it wasn't about pretending to be someone else. It was about exploring a softer side of myself that I'd hidden away for far too long.
That's why I clicked Buy It Now.
For the next couple of days I found myself checking the tracking number far more often than I cared to admit. Every update made me smile. It felt strangely exciting knowing that this little piece of vintage femininity was making its way towards me.
When it finally arrived, I slipped the satin nightie over my head.
The fabric settled around me with surprising grace, cool and silky against my skin. It flowed almost to my ankles, and the lace rested gently around my shoulders. As I looked in the mirror, I couldn't help smiling.
I wasn't trying to become anyone else.
I was simply allowing myself to enjoy something I'd been curious about for most of my life.
The satin shimmered softly whenever I moved, and for the first time I understood why garments like this had once been treasured. They weren't merely nightclothes. They were a quiet ritual a way of ending the day with comfort, elegance and a little touch of luxury.
I made myself a mug of tea, picked up the novel waiting on my bedside table, and climbed beneath the duvet.
The satin moved gently as I settled into the pillows.
Outside, the rain tapped softly against the window.
Inside, everything felt peaceful.
The vintage style listing had promised anticipation, dreams and imagination. It had exaggerated, of course but not entirely.
Sometimes all it takes is a simple vintage nightdress to reconnect with a forgotten part of yourself. As I switched off the bedside lamp, wrapped in soft pink satin and surrounded by silence, I realised I wasn't chasing a fantasy.
I was simply embracing a side of myself that had been waiting patiently for many years to be welcomed home.

Still waiting for my man...

I am waiting for my man...

Morning all up early, walk the dog then off to the gym, get the work done and relax this afternoon, waiting for a call about a certain car what does Wednesday have install for you?

Two owls

Two owls waiting
Under moon
The sleep and calm
Are starting soon...
Have sweet sweet dreams
My pretty child...
Just close eyes
And fly in mind
Just count owls
One
And Two
Sweet sleep My Baby
I sleep too...

Good night ...

Waiting in the street corner for you.

In bed waiting lol.

Awaiting an Amazon delivery,I really must get help for my lipstick obsession

Its friday off to an appointment about some boobs, hopefully get the news ive been waiting for then who knows maybe the beach today

Good morning girls, I'll be waiting for you for coffee when you wake up.

Vogue Temptation

My hair getting white
This pleasant Vogue
It Smells so light
of wish
Be yours
Whom I still could not
Find
All's hidden
In my mind...
In light of smoke
When My lips are hot
Enjoying minty Vogue...

Why
Do you mind?
I wait your kiss!
Revealing legs
But shy
To Show
How I miss...

Just waiting
And enjoying Vogue
Your lips are still
Not mine....
Not yet...
...
Please don't...
There is nothing set
...
Don't try
I'm not...
I am another
Girl...

Yes, I am trembling,
Fear,
Deep desire...
When Silver smoke,
Ash and
Lipstick mix...
Would you
Accept
Sharp breath
Of Vogue from lips
Would you?
Or are you shocked?
Why do you freeze?
It is just a kiss
The magic kiss...
When
Lipstick
Love and
Smoke
Bent in the knot...
...
Did you forget?
Forget me not...
Is not an easy girl
Not Daisy...
Nooo....
Not at all...
That
Silver shade
In smoke
Hides
My tears
Pains
My dreams...
of stroke
My dream when
Lipstick
Love
And Smoke
Mix into
Strange but Magic seam...
That Love will
Stay
And never leave...

Waiting 2...

Afternoon all, comfy boots, on waiting for the taxi a working lunch awaits find out the details of our next event

Very excited... done an order on SHEIN.. here is just a few of the bits I am waiting for... can't wait to share pictures with you x

I met him on January 26th at a trucker's bar and invited him home on the condition that we take some photos. He agreed, but I didn't want his face shown. Then he left, but he promised to come back. I miss him and I'm waiting. Happy weekend, sisters , and may you always have someone by your side.

Five & a half inch heels just waiting to be slipped on...

Serpent II

I wish you know
Who I am...
A tragic
Clowness.
I do kiss
Neither wishing men
Nor bored by life
Princesses

But you
You made me deeply
Think
That My make up
Was not...
Not strong
Not dark
Not ever grim
To be so loved
Too long...

I thought
What if
I change
My day
And try
All shadows
black
And silver hair
Is it nice?...
My lips still
Shall obey...
But I'm looking
Not for kissssss
I wish
Undress
For pretty miss.

Am I to strange
For you in that?....
I kiss you tenderly...
Please let...
Me kiss your Neck
And thighs...
And fingers, lips,
And tragic eyes
And lashes
Shaved eybrow lines...
You will relax
In paradise
I wish
You feel
Your self
Like me...
We are alone
Waiting
Flight
To dreams
That keep
Mind
Paralised...

I am sixty-five years old, and there are mornings when my bones creak like old floorboards, when the mirror offers me a face that has known too many winters. But there is also satin.

It begins there, always.

Not with the clothes people expect, not dresses or heels or anything loud, but with the quiet, shimmering certainty of a headscarf unfolded across my lap. Oversized. Generous. A full square of light, as if someone had captured a piece of dawn and stitched its edges.

I keep them in a pine ottoman chest at the foot of my bed. When I lift the lid, the faint scent of pine wood and time rises, mingling with the cool, whispering smoothness of fabric. They are stacked carefully: florals, paisleys, deep jewel tones, pale creams, even one the colour of storm clouds just before rain. Some are silk satin, impossibly soft, almost liquid. Others are polyester blends still glossy, still kind to the touch, but sturdier, as if meant for endurance.

I tell myself it began for practical reasons. Hair protection, I say. Friction reduction. At my age, what hair remains deserves gentleness. And it’s true the satin glides where cotton drags, it soothes where wool irritates. At night, when I wrap my head, I sleep more peacefully, my scalp free from the tug and dryness that used to wake me.

But that is only the surface of it.

The truth is, when I lift one of those oversized scarves sometimes a full 130 centimeters across it feels like lifting a veil between lives.

I was not always honest about who I was. For decades, I wore what was expected, spoke in the tones expected, moved through the world like a man following a script written long before I was born. There is a heaviness to that kind of living. It settles into your shoulders, your spine, your breath.

The first time I wrapped a satin headscarf around my head, I did it clumsily. I had watched videos, read guides. Fold into a triangle, they said. Bring the corners forward, tie at the nape or under the chin. Smooth the edges. Adjust.

I remember the colour deep burgundy, with a faint floral pattern that caught the light. When I tied it, the fabric slipped against itself with a soft hush, like a secret being kept.

And then I looked in the mirror.

I did not see a caricature. I did not see something absurd or theatrical. I saw softness. I saw a version of myself that had been waiting, patiently, beneath years of denial. The scarf framed my face, softened the lines, held me together in a way nothing else ever had.

Now, it is ritual.

In the mornings, I choose carefully. If I am staying in, I might select something large and enveloping a square so wide it can drape over my shoulders, falling like a shawl. Sometimes I wrap it turban style, tucking the ends neatly, letting the fabric build a quiet crown around my head. Other times, I let it hang loose, a triangle tied under my chin, like something out of an old photograph.

When I go out rarely, but more often than I used to, I choose patterns that feel like companions rather than disguises. A muted paisley. A soft, vintage floral. Nothing too bold, but never apologetic.

People look, of course. Some with curiosity, some with confusion. A few with kindness. I have learned to endure the rest. At sixty five, you realize that most people are too occupied with their own reflections to truly see yours.

At home, the scarves become more than adornment. They are utility, yes sleep caps, shoulder wraps, even something to tie around a bag handle for a touch of colour. But they are also comfort. When I feel the weight of years pressing too hard, I wrap one around my shoulders and sit by the window.

The satin catches the light differently at every hour. Morning makes it glow. Afternoon sharpens its sheen. Evening turns it into something softer, almost like memory.

Sometimes I run the fabric between my fingers, back and forth, feeling its smooth resistance, the way it refuses to snag or cling. It reminds me that gentleness can be strong. That something soft can endure.

I have more than I need. I know that. A drawer full, a chest full, a small collection that borders on obsession. There are handmade ones, with careful stitching at the edges. Reversible ones, satin on both sides, offering two moods in one piece. Silk feel ones that mimic luxury so well it hardly matters that they are not the real thing.

Each has a story, or at least a feeling attached to it. This one for sleepless nights. That one for quiet afternoons. Another for the rare courage of stepping outside as I am.

I do not pretend that a headscarf changes everything. The world is still the world. My body is still heavy, my steps still slow, my past still filled with compromises I cannot undo.

But when I tie that satin around my head, something aligns.

The fabric smooths not just my hair, but something deeper something that has always been frayed. It holds me, gently but firmly, in a shape that feels right.

And for a little while, that is enough.

New dresses and bra and nix just delivered. Just waiting on my heels which are coming tomorrow hopefully. Just have to wait a week to try them on

Lovely new bra and panties too, still waiting on other gorgeous lingerie

Its Friday afternoon and I’m waiting for something good to happen

I can't longer waiting!

I’d just like to say to everyone on here,if you’re gonna have a conversation then that’s fine have one,but don’t keep people waiting for ever and a day for a reply,it’s not just disrespectful it’s very very rude.If you want to have more than one chat at the same time that’s fine,but not with me it isn’t.!!!!

My new petticoat has arrived its sitting at home waiting for me to unbox it ! Shall i do a un boxing live ? X

Waiting for the Sunrise

Waiting for Sunrise feelin kinda Hot and Horny, after taking a Bath wearing a Pantyhose.. and then wear again after bath paired with Light Tone Stocking Pull-Ups...
(Ooppss some liquid is going outside of C_ck.. camt resist the horniness).

Waiting for Sunrise feelin kinda Hot and Horny, after taking a Bath wearing a Pantyhose.. and then wear again after bath paired with Light Tone Stocking Pull-Ups...
(Ooppss some liquid is going outside of C_ck.. camt resist the horniness).

Can anybody tell me why is it when you’re having a conversation on here with somebody,suddenly you’re left waiting and waiting til the cows come home for a response,and when they do eventually get back to you it’s as if there hasn’t been any gap,10 hrs was my last incident,and then I was told oh I didn’t know I was ordered to respond,what 10 hrs ,omfg!

Waiting for my bbc to come use my asshole #pantyhose #sissy #slut

A silver cut

I ve made
This silver shade
I ve made
This lesbi cut...
Am I attractive more?
You wish retreate
Not f...k?
Im lost
My breasts are small
That s good for lesbi girl
My voice is not to high
But not so manly wild
But body....
Is too soft
Too feminine
Too gentle
What could
I do with soul
My Girly soul
Trembles...
I ve made my lashes
Small
I shadowed pink my
Eyes.
My lips are waiting kiss
Of girl...
Girl in disgise...

My lips are waiting
For your kiss
I know trembling taste
I wish to meet you
Magic Miss
Who will seduce my lace...
Who knows where
Touch me right
Bring pleasure
Lust and fire
Who cuddles simply
Girl to Girl
And grows my admire...
I want forget
My hide as boy
I wish you understand
I wish orgasm
Orgasm of girl
And not for one night stand...
I want you open me
My dress will fall for you in night...
My Darling lead me to confess
With you in Paradise ...

Mmmm......, I'm waiting for you girls. I can't wait to meet you

Wearing my Flourescent Apple Green Pantyhose, while waiting to be Hook Up and have Sex with a Horny Whore to be busted and filled up with my Hot Cum....

Orange tights
Orange lipstick
Bereth
I am waiting
Still
Waiting
My Friend...

So rainy weather
For white skort...
But body needs
All warm comfort
Some touch of eyes
Some touch of lips
Some sudden meet
To be surprise...

I'm waiting waiting
In white skirt
Yes may be wedding
May be God
Though I do doubt
He would like
To see such Kate?
He does not mind?

I have no answer
No regret
I walk in skirt
I do my bet...

Amnesia...

I have erased
The trace
Of Past
My present
Is not true
The Fog
Of Future
Is a chance
To whisper
I Love You...

I dont remember
Who I am
My record was
once lost
I thought
They
Might
To try to check...
Results were
Void or False...
And then
I whispered
I am
I was
A girl
Girl Kate...
Kate Aashe?
Yes
There is a file...
We're waiting
To update...
To my surprise
All matched
And Weight
And Hеight
And lips
And eyes.
And fingerprints...
I got a date
For passport.
I was touched...
They let me ever read
My past...
Once married
Twice divorced
My future
Looks
Not very bright
But still
Quite light to go...
Kind Doctor
Checked my chromosomes
But found only one
The other was forever lost
But seems nobody minds...
I got my number
My ID
And made new hair cut...
Ms. Aashe just forgot her dreams
Long hidden in her past

My very Past
Has been erased
My present
Is not true
The Fog
Of Future
Is a chance
I never meet with You...

Morning all. Still waiting for someone to visit but nearly the weekend. Hope you're all having a good day. X