I Used to be a Dancer

I used to be a dancer. Did you know that? I got it from my father. He loved to be on stage, too. Never got him anywhere, and I guess at the end of the day, I was as big a fool as he was.

Show business... ha! Even when I hear that music today, that “da da na na, da daaa,” Oh, I wanna scream! It just drives me crazy. But he used to sing, and he used to dance. He loved all that. Loved to be on stage. Him and his friend Terry used to get into all the vaudeville shows. What’s that? Oh, you know, over there in Union City, Jersey City, Hoboken… all over. They’d pay you nothing. Peanuts, maybe a few drinks or a couple dollars if you were lucky, and you go jump around on stage, make a fool of yourself. Him and Terry used to do it all the time. Terry ended up going to War II, but this was 1913. Cost people ten cents to see the show. Ten cents! Fifteen if you wanted to get up close. He quit all that when he met my mother. She wasn’t putting up with none of it. No way. She said, “If you’re gonna marry me, you have to go get a real job.” And he did. He gave that all up when he got married.

Well, sort of. He never lost his love of the stage. The next job he got was as an ice shaver, selling ice in the streets and in the bars. And of course, once he got into the bars, he couldn’t resist doing a little song or a dance or something. “Hey, we’re having a drink here, why don’t you sing us a song or something?” And he did. He loved it. Huh? Yeah, he did have a good voice, yes. He got up there and sang, you know, maybe for a beer or something. Pretty soon, he got this little magic show going in the bars, too, and that’s when he got me in on the act. I was still young. What’s that? Oh, I don’t know, maybe 12, 13 years old. I memorized all these little phrases he had, and he’d go up to someone and say, “Did you know my daughter is a fortune teller?” And then they’d go to a telephone and call me at home. “Hey Peggy!” he’d say. Oh, and my mother hated this. She couldn’t stand it! But he’d say, “Peg, what color is this young lady’s shirt that I’m touching now.” And I’d go look up the little code of phrases he taught me, and I’d say, “Uh, uh, yellow!” And they’d love it! “Hurray, hurray!” Clapping like mad. I loved it, too, and all I was doing was looking up the phrases. That’s how we used to do it. But oh! It drove my mother crazy. She used to hate it, hate it, hate it.

Before you knew it, I got the same bug. My father, pff... he got stuck in the bars. But me? I loved to get up there on stage and sing and dance, and the people start clapping… it was like nothing else. Nothing in the world like it. But you got to really love it to do that, you know? You got to love it. Every single time I’d see there was a casting call for something, they needed an actress or a singer or whathaveyou. Boom! I was there, first in line. I was in there in a flash. And I’d get up there and sing and dance… oh god, I was crazy for it.

And just to show you how ignorant we were back then: Me and my sister Louise heard that some famous director or star or something from Hollywood was going to be in town one time. So we thought, “Oh, this is it! This is gonna be our big break!” And so we just opened the window of our little apartment on 7th Street and started singing. Opened the windows to West New York and just went at it. “La, la la, la laaa!” Singing our little hearts out like idiots, hoping maybe this guy would be passing by and, “oh, oh, where is that beautiful music coming from? What, what am I hearing?” Meanwhile my mother’s banging on the door going, “Will you two please shut up in there?!” Ha, ha, ha…

Every single casting call I saw, I was the first one there. I got a couple roles here and there, nothing big though. I’d come on stage and bring the lead actors a cup of water, then walk off. Ha. The biggest role I got was in the Passion Play at St. Andrew’s. I played Herod’s Lady of the Veils. I had to do a little dance… Nothing obscene, mind you! No, no.

The little success I had in show business (and it was a very, very small amount) I can tell you this—I made it all happen for myself. I made it happen by myself, with no help from anyone. I did it alone and I made it work, no matter what anyone else tells you.

You kids--you have a very enriched life, do you know that? You’re lucky you had a chance to go to college and get bachelor degrees and masters’ degrees and doctorates and all that. When I was growing up, I didn’t get that much of a formal education. Not much of an education at all. I never had a chance to go to college. Too busy raising a gang of rowdy kids... But I wouldn’t trade it for the world, you hear me? Not for the world. Because you all ended up so wonderful and successful and smart and beautiful. Every single one of ya. Ah, ya too much…

summer polaroids _5, originally uploaded by jivasom.

I just put some polaroids from bangkok up on my flickr site. check em out!

Due to the discussion about weird fetishes at Marc and Becca's place last weekend, I feel it only appropriate to re-print this little ditty I wrote a few months ago. Apologies to those who've seen it already.

Diaperhood

My name is Reginald J. Williams. You can call me Reggie. Or Reg. Just not Reggie Baby. At least not until I get to know you a little better.

I divide my life into three distinct stages: infancy, when my parents lovingly wrapped me in diapers; childhood, when for some bizarre reason I was weaned from nappies and forced to conform with the tyranny of briefs; and adulthood, when I became an independent, self directed grown-up, finally free to do as I please. Only recently did I gain the perspective to look back at my life and see the reason why my young adulthood was marred by such deep seeded unhappiness. I was a monster by all accounts and I admit it. A surly and compulsive drunk, I was no joy to be with. I had no way of truly demonstrating who I really was because I was unable to fully express my inner desires and joys. That’s all changed now, though, and I couldn’t be happier.

I work in a corporate clothing company called Petersons that supplies uniforms for hotels in the Bangkok area as well as several resorts in Thailand. About six months ago, I was invited along with my wife to a dinner with some colleagues celebrating the closing of a big deal with the Evason Six Senses—a very exclusive resort chain with branches throughout the region. The morning of the dinner, my wife got a call from our usual babysitter saying she wouldn’t be able to look after the kids. We called my wife’s sister as well as her mother but neither could fill in. It looked like we were out of luck, until I suddenly remembered that one of the girls from my office, Fon, had mentioned that her sister had some kids and that she just loved to play and spend time with them. I knew Fon was a darling girl—just the sweetest person you could imagine—so I asked if there was any chance she might be able to come by and look after our kids for while. To my delight, she agreed.

Fon was 23 and had graduated from ABAC several years before. She worked at the desk at the Dusit Thani Hotel for two years before she decided that aspect of the hospitality industry was not for her, and came looking for a job at Petersons. She was not pretty, but cute and innocent in that way Thai girls can be, with small features and stringy black hair. She was always laughing and jovial at the office and everyone liked her…well, everyone except our Chief Financial Officer, Somkiat, but I think he just realized he was gay after being married for three years, so he had a lot on his mind at the time.

That evening, Fon arrived at our house around 7pm. We introduced her to Sam and Des, our two little ones, and they seemed to get along immediately. Without incident, we said our goodbyes and left her there, saying we’d be home by 10pm.

My wife and I met with my colleagues at the Four Seasons, and I got quite intoxicated over dinner. As usual, I ended up offending my colleague’s wife, making lewd suggestions that she used to sleep with one of her former bosses— which I know for a fact that she did, the slut, but whatever, that’s not the point right now. The point is, on the way home, my wife drove. She was not speaking to me because she was angry that I had ruined another dinner with my uncontrollable drinking. Honestly, though, I couldn’t help it. At that time, I was an extremely unhappy person. I didn’t even realize the reason for my unhappiness—although now, of course, it’s quite clear. I was unfulfilled—emotionally, sexually, excretionally…you name it. Imagine if you had to live never being able to even have the satisfaction of a good bowel movement. That’s how I was living. I never got to really go.

The good thing is, I realize that now and I’m admitting it to the world. Hear me say it—I was unfulfilled, and it’s not my fault. My parents raised me in a certain way, indoctrinated me with a certain set of principles, taught me to believe this and that, as they thought was right. But they were wrong. They didn’t know, and by all accounts I really shouldn’t be blaming them for doing what they thought was best for me, but I realize the truth now. It’s OK though. I’m cool with it. I just wanted to complete that with you.

As we arrived home, I petitioned my wife to stop the car at the curb, so I could step out to vomit, which I did, promptly. This infuriated my wife even more, so she just drove into the garage, closed the door and turned off the lights.

I laid down on my front lawn and stared up into the sky, the stars just beginning to shine through the ages of space where they began. Why am I so unhappy? I thought to myself in the cold sobriety that followed the puke session. What is my effing problem?

I went inside to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The door was closed, and I unthinkingly just opened the door without knocking. To my surprise and delight, Fon was standing there above the toilet wearing what looked like children’s diapers. I couldn’t help but notice they had elastic leg bands and pink and yellow teddy bear illustrations on them. Thinking back, they were probably Medium Absorbency Mommie Pokos. She looked like a little child in them, but she was not. I was shocked into silence, and it wasn’t until she reached down to pull up her jeans (with no rush, I may add, almost as though she was planning on being walked in on) that I started to apologize for barging in on her. I was greatly embarrassed, but I must also admit—enormously excited by seeing an adult wearing diapers.

The feelings I had years before when we had our first child, Sam, came rushing back to me. I was very forthcoming with my wife at that time in volunteering for diaper duty. I rationalized it as a husband’s responsibility—she had carried our child for eight months, it was now my turn to take care of it.

But it was more than that. I really enjoyed the act: not the messy bits, but the act of putting the diapers on her—the process of powdering the bottom, slipping the nappies on, then wrapping her up nice and snug. We kept Sam in diapers for almost eight years, at my suggestion, and it was only when the family doctor suggested we potty train her that I immediately told my wife we should have another child.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was gaining joy not from the act of changing diapers, but from the intimate fantasies I would entertain while doing it—fantasies that always involved the thought of someone putting diapers on me, powering my bottom delicately, wrapping me up nice and snuggly. I still wasn’t prepared mentally to admit this, but it’s the truth. I also fantasized about making them messy, but that was usually later in the evening.

I offered to drive Fon home that day, but she insisted on taking a taxi. I said the least I could do was walk her out to the main road and she obliged. On our way out, I heard that familiar swish sound she made, a sound I had heard frequently in the office but discounted as some kind of female undergarment she wore at “that time of the month.” Now I realized the truth, and I must admit, it made me smile.

Once we were out of earshot of the house, I thought it was only right to apologize again for my rudeness.

“I really am sorry about walking in on you,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said and smiled.

“So...I hope you don’t think this is too direct, but I…well, I couldn’t help but notice, you have unusual underpants on.”

She was quiet and I feared I had gone too far.

“Do you like them?” she said. My heart leapt.

“Well, I would be lying if I said they didn’t make me feel… a certain way.”

Her eyes looked into mine like two amethyst crystals searching for light in the darkness.

“Yes, I thought you might. Maybe we could talk about it some time…” she said.

A taxi approached, she waved it down and said goodbye. I went back into the house, my head spinning from the realization that I had found another adult who enjoyed wearing diapers. It seemed to me like the world had just turned on its head.

I didn’t want to face my wife, so I went into our pantry and started rummaging around the drawers and cabinets until I came upon what I had been looking for—a few of my sons’ leftover diapers. I tenderly opened the package I had stashed away here for the past few years. I took the first piece my hand touched, and I pressed it to my face, as if I were greeting a long lost lover. I breathed in deeply, embracing the scent of baby freshness. Suddenly I heard the door behind me open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” my wife said.

“Uhh, nothing,” I said pulling the diaper off my head. “Fon had mentioned she wanted a few of these for her sister’s kids…I just wanted to check to see if these were still fresh.”

“Still fresh?” my wife said, “Reggie, I don’t think diapers go bad.”

“Oh yes, they do,” I replied. “They most certainly do. But not these. These are still good, I think, though their absorbency probably couldn’t handle a really heavy load.”

“Oh God,” she said with a face like a dried prune. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

She left me and went to bed. I put the remaining nappies back in their hiding place in the pantry and soon followed her.

✈✝ ✆

The next day I went to the supermarket and browsed through the adult diaper section, admiring the range of product choices on offer. It was a real cornucopia of options. I bought the cloth variety; as I thought it would be more economical to hand wash them myself.

When I got home I was delighted to find my wife was at a soccer game with the kids, so I had the place to myself. I went into the bedroom. The sun was streaming through the windows in translucent golden rays. I took out my purchase and placed the package on the bed. With sweet temperance, I took the first pair out and strapped them on. Heavens, they felt good! Nice and tight in the crotch area, like someone was giving my package a firm hug. I was really excited by the whole thing. I was going to put my pants back on, but didn’t get that far. As I stuck my right leg into the pants, I caught a look at myself in the mirror and realized what a critical turning point this was in my life. This was it, a regression to my true and natural state, a triumphant return to diaperhood from which I could never again have to leave. So I decided to just enjoy it.

I was watching America’s Most Wanted in the living room about an hour later when my wife came home with the kids. She saw me sitting on the upholstered couch with nothing on but a cloth diaper, eating a family sized package of Lay’s Potato Chips, and immediately told the kids to go to their rooms. They looked at me, but didn’t seem to see anything wrong. I think they appreciated me getting back to being myself—I can see that now. They knew I was just being me, so they didn’t say anything like, “Hey dad, why are you wearing a diaper?” or something stupid like that. They saw me, and they understood right away. Sometimes, kids just know.

My wife was another matter, though. From then on, she was always giving me shit about wearing diapers around the house or under my suit going to work. She just didn’t understand the liberty they afford. I love it. I can shit or piss in them, and do whatever else I want in them, too. I clean them all by hand afterwards, so I can just make a mess whenever and not worry about damaging the environment. I don’t really do it that often—once or twice a day, maybe. But it’s not really about that. It’s more about the security I feel wearing adult diapers. And it just feels right. I don’t know if you can really understand that, but you’re just going to have to believe me on this one. I’m returning to nature. I’m finally being myself.

About five months after that, my wife left me and gained custody of the kids, too, so I had to say goodbye to all that. Sucks, sort of, but whatever. Fon and I became close friends and we met some really cool people in town, too. We have baby parties and stuff, and it’s a cool scene, you know? It’s just chill. I even stopped drinking. I am who I am, and that’s all I can ever be. How can you blame me for that? I’m just me, Reggie Baby, the Diaper Man. You’ll know me by the swish.

This weekend I went to Fire Island with Becca, Marc, Aliza and Monica. Man, i haven't seen a beach that beautiful on the East Coast in a long time. It's so quiet, tranquil, and chill. No fat Jersey/LI trash with kids running around, making noise and just being annoying in general. There was a nude beach right next to where we were sitting, which was actually really amusing, but other than that, it was really relaxed.

On Sunday, I went walking around lower Manhattan, kind of re-acquainting myself with the area since leaving almost 3 years ago. The Lower East Side, Union Square, and the West Village haven't changed much really. A couple shops and restaurants have moved out, others have replaced them, but other than that, it's pretty much the same. I did notice a whole lot more street punks than before, looking as cracked out and nasty as ever. I think much more perceptible, on a personal level, is that I'VE changed quite a bit. Not sure how to pin-point it really, but I have this creeping feeling like I'm an outsider or something. I don't know. Maybe it's a momentary thing. Maybe it's one of those passing "Sunday feelings," like you used to get when you were a kid on Sunday afternoons, knowing you had to go to school the next day. Like trying to enjoy that last meal before execution...

Last week I went to Los Angeles on my way back from Bangkok. Kind of like a one week pit stop. It was pretty cool. I stayed with Keith and his crazy little dog Suzy, who tried to eat my Spirulina pills! Anyway, it was great to see him again and also to enjoy the laid back West Coast lifestyle for a week.

Aside from just chilling and partying in LA, we also made an excursion to the Sierra Nevadas. We hiked around the Mamoth Lakes area, which is just southeast of Yosemite National Park. It's a beautiful little area. Some of the lakes are not so nice, but others are as clear and clean and the New England ones I am more familar with. Here's some photos from my week out there. More photos on my flickr page!

Released in 1962, spooky spook house thriller Carnival of Souls spent precious little time in the theaters, but gained popularity on late night television. Watching the re-released DVD from 1989, it’s easy to see how this film has become a cult classic.

The film starts with the central character, Mary Henry, a church organist from Lawrence, Kansas, crawling out of the Kansas River, the sole survivor of a car wreck involving two of her friends. She has no memory of how she survived, and in the post-event freak out, decides to move away to a church in Salt Lake City, Utah. Along her drive to Utah, a ghoulish apparition known only as “The Man” (played by director/producer Herk Harvey) begins visiting her, who’s frightening appearances become more and more frequent until she starts questioning her own sanity. While slow in parts, the film is certainly entertaining for the majority of the way through.

Why has this low budget, black and white horror film lasted the past 40+ years? Three obvious attractions stand out. First, it works on the most obvious levels. Though the film may be old, it’s fun to watch and definitely still freaky where it should be. And when the film isn’t scary, it’s funny. Though probably unintentional when being created, the hokey nature of the characters (for the most part clichés with bits of gooey cheese dripping down the sides) make the film an entertaining watch. The leery neighbor who is trying to score a date with the main character is a laugh the whole way through. Second, Carnival of Souls looks great. The cinematography is wonderful, with rich, crystal clear black and white images and deep focus. Technically, the film is a joy to watch. Lastly, the music is awesome. Having the main character be a pipe organist is a great device for splashing spooky music all over the soundtrack (she even listens to it in the car).

All in all, a cool watch for those who dig the freakiness.