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It's 5:45, not 6:15 and I have to awaken.
Shower, moisturise, face cleanse,
It all takes time.
Then there's make-up. Primers, bronzer, a bit of blush. More time and more cost.
It's cold outside and my drab won't do, it's a Trisha day so a denim skirt, a scarlet jumper and a French updo.
Time to eat, nice and slow
Sit up straight and small bites,
plenty of time to chew.
Hairs in my face,
I knock it to one side before each bite,
Making the process even longer.
Time to do a shop, after work.
Strutting up and down the isles,
Sore feet in heels.
Oh look at that skirt, I have to buy.
My bank will love me.
I collapse at home, sore back, big bust. Bra strap aches. Ears sore from my wig pushing my glasses down.
I smile from sighing happily at last.
They're women's problems,
He doesn't know,
how much more effort life is though the pink fogs lense.
It's worth it I'm Trish you see.
Great mind think alike honey.
Trisha,
Your poem really captures the experience - agony and ecstasy - of cross dressing. Thank you so much. I remember very clearly after my first day out dressed feeling exactly as you describe but oh my wasn't it worth it.
HildaRuth 💋💋
Thank you honey.
