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AARDVARK, PLATYPUS, AND TWINKLETOES: ATTORNEYS AT LAW, SCENE 32: WELCOME ABOARD, BRENDA LEE 1 2 3 4 17
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By Crinklz Kat · Posted
I like my plushies big! The more to cuddle with! -
See, it was a great day. 4 really heavy wettings. (And just 2 very small leaks) Stay padded my friends, MixerOp -
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I wrote an essay about this very thing nearly 15 years ago. It's not on DD (well, it is NOW) so I cut and paste it. The "online" community came later with alt.sex.fetish.diapers on usenet. It's long-ish but you can just scroll past it 🤣 Life on Mars I was living and working in London. I was in my early 20s and a long way from home in a big city. It was the late 1980s: Gordon Gekko had just told us that greed was good, Margaret Thatcher told us that there was no such thing as society and my DL tendencies were roaring along with my testosterone levels. Not that I knew that I was a ‘DL’, just that I had a kinky thing for nappies. I knew that was pretty weird. I was probably the only one: kind of a Robinson Crusoe in variant sexual practice My imagination, always far beyond even my accommodating partner’s willingness to participate, had to be satiated with the old towels we would wear pinned carefully (and wet even more carefully) under Boots waterproof pants on dull Saturday afternoons. Internet hadn’t started yet but there were BBS appearing around linked by FidoNet, hinting at future, anonymous, collective discussion. I wondered about the existence of other nappy fetishists like I wondered about life on Mars – with little realistic expectation of ever finding out. There were hints around. Bizarrely (on so many levels), ‘Exchange and Mart’, a wildly-popular, classified ad paper had, in addition to an excellent directory of used cars and furniture, a thriving adult section. Many of the ads found there suggested at a wide variety of off-beat sexual practices – details for the products or services relating to which could be had by writing to a post office box address somewhere – usually in Essex. Clearly Essex must be more interesting than I had first thought. Amongst these were small, plain-font ads offering nappies and waterproof pants. Their proximity to ads offering whips, leather and chain restraints suggested their purpose was not strictly therapeutic but who could be sure. It was at best circumstantial evidence. Another hint was a strange pub-conversation with colleagues after work: alcohol having loosened lips, we were discussing an absent colleague, Mike. Mike was a somewhat greasy, young-as-i-was, cockney who was only worth in-absentia pub discussion was with regard to his widely publicised stories about his older brothers’ money-making ventures producing amateur, but highly illegal ‘extreme bondage’ videos. At least he alleged that it was his brother. One of the newer junior sales reps was with us: Tracey, a young, makeup-caked bottle blond whose sexual habits were as loose as her permed curls were tight. She freely admitted that there wasn’t much or many she hadn’t tried. Vast quantities of cheap chardonnay had dissolved what little inhibition she had and she shrieked with laughter and delight as the older, male sales reps regaled her with increasingly exaggerated recounts of Mike’s cinematic scenarios. Under discussion was Mike’s brother’s latest contribution to the silver screen. A simple plot, it involved female star to be tied up in a lower bunk bed to absolute immobility and left there for 24 hours. As might be necessary, she would be forced to drink her male partner’s pee which would be delivered fresh from his own repose on the upper bunk via a convenient hose arrangement between his penis and her mouth. Of her own toilet privileges, she had none. “How about it Tracey?” asked one of the male reps. “Are you up for that?” “EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!!” shrieked Tracey in an ear-splitting falsetto screech that stopped conversations all around the pub. As the second or two’s shocked silence was progressively replaced by guffaws and then the resumption of two dozen conversations around the room, Tracey blushed. “Sorry” she said, then, as if to explain “I’m just not into nappies”. The group roared with laughter and the conversation quickly moved on but I was left behind it wondering: Firstly, why her understandably negative reaction wasn’t focussed on the most confrontational aspect of the scene, the one that would doubtless grab the headline: spending 24 hours quaffing her partners whizz through a hose, and secondly that nobody had mentioned the victim wearing a nappy (although it was a low budget film and mattresses are expensive). Tracey herself had leapt to that assumption and claimed that she was NOT “into” nappies using exactly the kind of terminology that suggested other deviants WERE into them: A kind of evidence by omission. The matter was finally put to rest courtesy of a particularly seedy adult book shop in NW1. This establishment had begun to feature regularly in ‘Exchange and Mart’ offering magazines about ‘adult babies’ – a term I’d not heard before but one obvious enough to suggest its’ meaning. As it happened, it was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the office where I worked. I could even choose to buy my lunch from one of the fly-blown little sandwich shops nearby so that I would have a perfectly legitimate excuse to pass it. And so I did: for weeks. I didn’t just walk in. I was young, quite naïve and utterly inexperienced in the world of sex shops. Instead, I’d walk past it on my way to buy some lunch, hoping to get some glimpse of the world within but the windows gave away nothing other than a painted ‘adult books’ sign in front of a grimy, infuriatingly opaque net curtain. The door was invariably closed and its glass similarly blocked by another dubiously grey net curtain. The thought of simply opening the door and popping inside for a look filled me with horror and so I went straight on past and, having bought my lunch, past for a second look on my return journey. Eventually, I got lucky. London had been in the grip of an August heat-wave. The tar was sticky on roads, railway lines were buckling, shops had even taken chocolate off the shelves as they could not keep it from melting. Uncharacteristically unrelenting heat permeated the very bricks of buildings causing them to radiate heat, defeating even the relative cool of evenings. It was oppressively hot. Few smaller buildings had air conditioning given London’s usual cool and damp climate. After the days of sweltering heat, most shops had taken to propping open doors, windows, whatever they could manage to snatch whatever degree of breeze might pass. On such a day, as I approached the adult book shop my heart leapt as I saw the door was indeed for the first time open, like so many others. As I reached the doorway I slowed my pace to an amble and gave as good a long look inside as I could manage as I passed without seeming to pause. The sun was bright and it was hard to peer into the relative gloom. The shop was a tiny, bare room. There were no posters, decoration of any kind of promotional material – just cracked plaster walls. Behind a small counter, a middle aged man in a dirty t-shirt was sitting on a stool staring listlessly back at me and in a frisson of embarrassment I broke the eye contact I’d inadvertently made to scan the wall next to him – a cheap Ikea bookshelf was there – it contained a pathetic number of magazines side by side, flat against the rear so that their covers faced the viewer but by this time, I’d already passed the door and so further investigation would have to wait for the return journey. Five minutes later, greasy burger in hand I knew exactly where to look and so could gaze for perhaps two seconds or more, directly at the magazines on the shelf as I passed the doorway again back to the office. All the magazines facing the room on display were the same, but that didn’t matter. The cover was just a title on a full colour, full page glossy photo featuring a porn star that was frankly, a little disappointing but that didn’t matter. A twenty-something male like myself but overweight with a complexion like a dead fish, his paunch and tattoos were as ludicrous as his weedy moustache was given the rest of his outfit as he lay back on the bed. He was no oil painting. Clearly he was the star on that front page because nobody better looking would agree to it but that didn’t matter either. What DID matter was what he was wearing: a large, kite-folded terry nappy safety-pinned on under his semi-opaque plastic pants, a truly ludicrous baby’s bonnet and nothing else. The nappy was huge and his legs were spread slightly to better display his unconventional choice in underwear to the pair of implausibly dressed, nubile nurse-nannies cooing over him with impossibly-cheesy porno-grins. My two seconds viewing lasted 100 years whilst my brain silently exploded at the shock of irrefutable proof that nappy fetishists did exist. Eventually, days later, I plucked up the courage to go into the shop. The magazine in question was called “The Nappy Line” and cost me a burp-inducing 25 pounds. It was truly awful.
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