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Sissy Room
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By Crinklz Kat · Posted
Not fast enough! Still 2 bags worth to "piss away"! 😄 -
Quite the contrast from this, to discussing the merits of Brazil's banking system, currency fluctuations and interest rates. That is why I love Sally growing. Still a teen content in her vulnerability, yet very much her father's heiress. And big sister to boot. -
I bet you thought I was bluffing. Nope - another chapter. And another one tomorrow, hopefully a little sooner. Chapter 7 Three pairs of shorts lay rejected across the bedspread, and Lana was holding up a fourth against Jacob's hips, studying the mirror behind him with her head tilted like an artist appraising a canvas that refused to cooperate. "Hmm. No. The waistband's the problem, baby." She tossed the khakis onto the pile. The room still smelled faintly of the morning's change—talcum and the plasticky sweetness of fresh padding—and beneath that, the lavender detergent she'd been washing his clothes in all week, like the house itself had conspired to erase any trace of the man he'd been. Jacob stood in the middle of the floor in nothing but a t-shirt and the double pharmacy-brand diapers she'd taped him into before Amanda's unexpected visit, the padding forcing his thighs apart in a stance he couldn't correct no matter how he shifted his weight. "Arms up." She peeled the shirt off him, and he heard it—the *fwip-fwup* of plastic as she knelt and ran two fingers along a tape, checking the seal with a nurse's efficiency. Her fingertips pressed the front panel. "Still dry. Good boy." The praise landed worse than mockery. She retaped one corner snugger, patted the seat twice—*pap-pap*—and rose with a pair of baggy black athletic shorts hooked on one finger. "These. They swim on you." They did. The nylon engulfed the bulk, hanging loose enough that nothing showed when he stood straight and still, which was exactly the problem, because standing straight and still was the one thing he couldn't do in public for two hours. She pulled the shirt back over his head, tugged the hem down past his waistband, and turned him toward the dresser mirror. A stranger looked back—flushed cheeks, hair still mussed from not showering this morning, shoulders hunched like he was trying to occupy less space in the world. *Look at you,* Lana thought, catching his eye in the reflection rather than behind her. *My little one, dressed for his first day out.* "Bend over and touch your toes." "Lana—" "Mommy," she corrected, mild as milk. He bent. The shorts tightened across his backside; he heard her hum thoughtfully, the sound of a woman checking a hem. "Nothing shows. *Amanda could never kno-ow,*" she sang, stretching the last word into three syllables as he straightened. She turned him back around by the shoulders and smoothed the collar of his shirt with both palms, slow and deliberate, and when she spoke her voice dropped into the register she used for rules. "You stay beside me. If you need to go potty, you tell Mommy quietly." Her thumb traced his jaw. "And Mommy decides." --- Amanda drove with her sunglasses pushed up into copper-streaked curls, one hand on the wheel and the other gesturing through a story about her sister-in-law's terrier, vanilla perfume riding the vents every time the AC kicked. "Squeeze in next to the car seat, honey!" she'd chirped at the curb, and now Jacob sat wedged against Tommy's empty carrier, the hard plastic edge of it pressed into his hip and, through the shorts, into the padding beneath. Every pothole ground the two together—*fwip*—a sound so loud to him that he couldn't understand how the whole street didn't turn to look. The cabin was small. That was the problem. Powder had nowhere to go. It layered under Amanda's vanilla, sweet and identifying, and Jacob watched her nose twitch at a stoplight, watched her eyes flick to the rearview and find Lana's. *There it is again,* Amanda thought, her wonder about the faint powdery sent interrupted by Lana asking about Tommy’s potty training "Tommy got five stickers on his potty chart this week. *Five.* I nearly cried into the sticker sheet knowing the journey is almost complete." "Oh, you and those silly pull-up blues," Lana said, serene, turning around from the front seat and patting her hand on Jacob's knee in a way that would read as affection from any windshield in the world. “Even when they grow up, you still have to take care of them, even washing their dirty underwear and days-worn stinky clothes.” “Aww, I know I’ll always be his Mommy,” Amanda assured herself, “but I’ll miss watching him run around in his diapers” Jacob blushed being mocked for his laziness yet again and stared out the window at the strip malls sliding past and did not trust his voice to exist. --- The parking lot shimmered—June sun off asphalt, heat coming up through his sneakers—and the mall doors exhaled refrigerated air that smelled of pretzel salt and the sweet frying-oil ghost of a Cinnabon two corridors over. Weekend crowd noise swallowed everything. Footsteps, music bleeding from storefronts, a toddler shrieking joyfully somewhere near the escalators. The ever-present crinkle in his walk vanished into it completely, and the breath that left him was the first real one since the driveway, feeling at least a bit of tension relief. Then, from directly behind them: "Jacob, you walking okay, hunnie?" His spine went rigid. Amanda had dropped back a pace; he could feel her studying his gait—knees slightly wide, steps short, hips doing their unavoidable roll. Lana didn't even turn her head. "Looks like he's wearing his old shoes. I guess I should have checked before we left." "Ha! He’s such a big kid sometimes, eh?" Amanda laughed, and moved up beside them again, satisfied, and Jacob's face ignited so fast he felt it in his ears. --- The first store swallowed them in new-clothes smell—fabric finish and hanger plastic—and Jacob became furniture immediately, two of Amanda's selections draped over one forearm while the women browsed. Amanda kept hurling normalcy at him like life vests. "Red or blue, Jacob?" she demanded, holding sundresses against her chest, and he croaked "blue," and she declared him *a man of taste* and moved on, and he stood there double-diapered under two layers of clothing, nodding on command. Lana reappeared with a lemonade nearly the size of a traffic cone, thirty-two ounces sweating condensation onto his palm. She pressed it into his hands, and then—smoothly, in full view of a checkout display of discounted scarves—patted his bottom twice. "Hydration, sweetheart. It's hot out." He understood instantly. Drink it and it becomes the thing that’ll be absorbed between his legs. Don't drink it and she'd simply find another lever. The straw scraped. The lemonade was too sweet. He drank it anyway, because Amanda was watching and humming along to the store playlist, and because some exhausted arithmetic in him had concluded that compliance cost less than refusal. --- A half-hour later, the pressure arrived like a tide that had made up its mind. Amanda was looking at bras while he and Lana were between two racks of blouses. He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear. "I need the restroom," he whispered. "Please. Really." She didn't stop browsing. Her voice came back soft enough to hide beneath the store music, each word placed like a coin on a counter. "You have your potty on, baby. Use it when you need to." The protest climbed out of him—"I'm not—please don't make me—"—and died mid-sentence, because Amanda rounded the rack with six dresses over her arm and a story already loading in her throat, and Jacob rearranged his face into nothing at all. --- They were in line. Fourth from the register. The kiosk fan pushed warm air down the queue; someone ahead of them had a strong floral body spray that mixed horribly with the pretzel smell drifting in from the corridor. Jacob locked his knees, then unlocked them, then locked them again. The lemonade had become a hand tightening around his bladder, and he held it through Amanda's monologue about a coworker's divorce, held it while the woman at the front disputed a coupon, held it until holding it stopped being a decision and became a memory. It left him in a hot rush—*hssss*—flooding the front panel and spreading, spreading, the padding blooming warm and heavy and then heavier, wicking back between his thighs and up the seat until the whole architecture of the diaper swelled snug against him. He stood perfectly still through all of it. The world did not stop. Amanda did not stop talking. The register beeped. Nobody turned. But Lana—Lana had read his stance the way she'd read everything about him for days. The frozen knees. The blush crawling up his neck. Her hand settled against his lower back, a pressure like a period at the end of a sentence, and she leaned down and mouthed it, silent under Amanda's chatter two feet away: "All done?" He nodded. Once. His eyes were wet and furious, and hers were delighted. "He's shy about crowds," Lana told Amanda, patting his back. --- They passed the family restroom at the corridor bend, Jacob a half-step in front of Amanda, and the door swung open at exactly the wrong moment—a tired mother steering a stroller out, and with her, a puff of bleach wipes and ripe, unmistakable wet-diaper smell. Amanda sniffed. "Oof. That’s a *really* wet diaper." Jacob flinched so hard his shoulder hit a sale sign. For one white second he was certain she'd turned on him, that the outing had collapsed, that the waddle or the smell or some mercy of physics had finally given him up. Then the stroller wheels squeaked past, and the smell receded with them, and he understood. Amanda caught the flinch. Her eyes lingered on him a half-second too long. *Why did he jump like that?* She filed it away next to the powder mystery and said nothing, because Amanda kept her odd little observations the way she kept coupons—stacked quietly, waiting for a use. --- "Sandalwood? No—" Amanda stopped mid-stride outside the department store and inhaled like a bloodhound at a gate. "Lana. The powder smell. It's following us. It was in my car, it was at your house, it's *here.*" Lana didn't blink. "There's a baby store in this wing." "Huh." Amanda's suspicion dissolved into acceptance so easily that Jacob's soul briefly left his body and hovered somewhere near the skylights, looking down at a boy in swollen double diapers standing between two oblivious women, holding a giant empty lemonade cup. --- The boutique announced itself in pastel—mint-and-cream signage, a wall of layette sets, and powder everywhere, ambient and industrial, the smell of a hundred changes that hadn't happened yet. It was the first place all afternoon Jacob's own scent disappeared completely, smothered by camouflage, and the irony stood on his chest. "Oh!" Lana steered them in with a hand on his shoulder. "I need a shower gift for my coworker." What happened next was yet another embarrassing moment that left him silent and stiff as a board. A onesie—soft yellow, footed, a smiling giraffe across the chest—pressed into his arms to hold. A three-pack of pacifiers added on top. Lana held up two bibs. "Bears or ducks, sweetheart?" "You're torturing the teenager," Amanda laughed, watching him stand there glowing red with an armful of infancy. "Jacob, blink twice if you need rescue." *Something is off with him today,* Amanda thought, and couldn't name it, and let it go. "At least he's making himself useful," Lana said, and paid, and folded the pale-paper shopping bag—pastel stork logo, tissue rustling—into Jacob's hand, where it stayed for the entire walk back through the mall, swinging softly against his thigh at every waddling step. The drive home was uneventful. Amanda talked and was glad they were on time for her to drop us off and go pick up Tommy from daycare. The wet padding cooled against him. He was in his own world and counted streetlights. --- Amanda's SUV idled at the curb in between their houses as Lana and Jacob climbed out into the slanting late-afternoon light, and there they were—three big boxes and one small one stacked against the door, white packaging sweating in the heat, LITTLECOMFORT printed down each side in letters that seemed, from any distance, completely legible and completely enormous. Amanda leaned across the passenger seat, curls spilling over the window. "What'd you order, honey?" "Storage bins!" Lana called back, sunny as a weather report, and Amanda waved and pulled away, and the second her taillights rounded the corner, the temperature of the afternoon changed. The door shut behind them. Jacob felt sure that Amanda couldn’t have seen the logos on the boxes and made the trips one box at a time—the big ones first, arms straining, waddling, the swollen diaper dragging at his hips with every step down the short hall; then the small one, light as a feather. Four deliveries, stacked in the foyer. His own supplies. Every step of the way. Lana came up behind him while he stood breathing over the pile, and her nail traced the packing tape of the first box, slow, from one edge to the seam, and he could hear it catch and release, catch and release. "Well, baby, you barely survived the day." Her voice had gone soft in the way he'd learned to fear. "Shall we get you into something more… *appropriate?*" Her nail slid under the tape, and the first box sighed open
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