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.