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torn

I love this. You know I have elf ears too☺️🤭

Round and round we go.... who wins we don't know!

I use the potty for #2, 99% of the time, but other than that, my diaper is usually where I do everything else. I have made exceptions when finding myself in dress clothes, for example, over a slim diaper, and I want to try to stretch out when I will have to change, to a more convenient time or place, in which case I might pull down the front of my diaper and pee in the potty here and there. I also did this when I was on vacation in Europe with the family - I was trying to cut down on the number of diapers I was using, because I had to buy them locally, and the less time I had to spend shopping for diapers, the happier my wife was going to be. So, I would typically wear one overnight, and one all day, and I'd pee in the potty where I could, and use my diaper when I was backed into a corner by circumstances. 

This is one of those rare occasions where I was smote by the glitch monster, and the monster was actually doing me a favour. I’d written about ten paragraphs about how my last 24 hours have gone, when the current site loading issues took them to the land of wind and ghosts. I was preparing to bang my head against the wall repeatedly, when I realized that the story was unfinished, and I needed to finish it in the real world, before I chronicled it in the Diaperverse. The story began, as many do, with the consumption of an excess of ethanol-infused beverages. I met up with a good buddy of mine that I hadn’t seen since before the holidays, to have some belated holiday beers together. This friend, whom I will call Scott (not his real name), lives in another town, an inconveniently long Uber from where I live, so when he comes to my place, he usually stays over, and when I go to his place, I usually do the same, in service to avoiding becoming a DUI conviction statistic, or worse. I wore a BeDry out to his place, one I’d put on right before I left for the ~45 minute drive, arriving there as the sun was hanging low in the sky. An early start, relatively speaking, for such a marathon, but we were both still in vacation mode. Scott has known me a very long time, and is a great friend, but he doesn’t know about my infantile underwear preferences, and I was fine with that – there was no reason to invite him into my strange club. I don’t know much about his underpants preferences, either. We drank beer into the wee hours (pun there…), and then, after a goblet of Scotch, I stumbled up to his guest bathroom, changed my diaper, and put my mouth guard and pacifier in. I don’t remember doing any of this, mind you, but the evidence that would be examined later, confirmed it. I fell asleep like a lump of depleted uranium dropped into the Mariana Trench, and presumably snored blissfully away… until noon the next day, an uncharacteristically late hour, even after such a night. My friend had gone to bed, and slipped into his own coma, but his dog had roused him at about 10:30, wanting food and relief – the kind of relief that I did not require, because I had strapped myself into an XL Active Air, which I find to be generally be a reliable overnight product, and the XL’s fit large on me – the cloth-backed products apparently don’t subscribe to the sizing rubric that Rearz applies to the plastic products, which for me, have to be XL-sized to be comfortable. I can wear a size Large Active Air, but I like that the XL rises a good way up my belly and my back, for sleeping purposes. Scott began wondering if I was still at his house, so he checked his outdoor camera, and sure enough, my car was there. Then, he began wondering if I had died, or if I was just incapacitated by the thorough poisoning I had inflicted on myself several hours earlier. So, he came up to the guest room, to see what the situation was, and if he needed a coroner. The room I was sleeping in often runs hot, and they have crank windows, which I do not like to open when it is -9 outside, both because I’d be wasting my buddy’s heat, but also because they sometimes freeze open under such conditions, which is a pain in the ass. So, I slept under one light blanket, and, as is often the case for me when I’m overheated while I sleep, at some point, I’d kicked the blankets off of my legs, and had them pulled up and bunched up around my head and torso. I probably didn’t hear the first time Scott knocked on my door, or it may have started the awakening process, but my brain at that point was like an old diesel engine on a cold day – it would need a minute to fire up. Scott knocked again, and this time I did hear it, as well as the sound of the door clicking open, and I missed a beat in replying to him, because I had to extract my pacifier, and in that beat, he pushed the door partially open. That’s when I realized  that there was a good possibility that, with the disorganized blankets I was entangled in, he might end up looking at all, or some, of my diapered bum. So, I rolled onto my side, and hooked the blankets with my foot, dragging them partially over my legs, but I wasn’t absolutely sure that he hadn’t seen something, although the room was dimly lit by the sun coming through closed horizontal blinds, so maybe he’d missed the show. I croaked that I was okay, and getting up, and he said, “Cool man, I’ll go make coffee…”, and pulled the door closed behind him. That’s when I had my second alarming epiphany: that the front of my t-shirt was wet. F*CK. How wet was the bed?!? I slipped off the mattress, and felt around the area where I had been laying. There was a damp spot about the size of a dinner tray – not insubstantial. The bed had a protective cover on it, under the sheet – I knew this, because his kids, like my younger daughter, had been bedwetters, and had worn Goodnites for years, and this bedroom had once been his younger son’s, before he moved to a larger one, when his dad built an office downstairs, and relocated his work environs to there. I thanked God for that small mercy, but there was still the very real problem of wet bedding to deal with. My sleep and alcohol-addled brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and I couldn’t figure out what the hell to do, so I grabbed the bath towel he had helpfully laid our for me, and I swabbed ineffectually at the damp spot, and then I made it worse, by pouring water onto it, and sopping that up, thinking that I was perhaps reducing the pungency of the violation, if not its size. But now I had also violated a bath towel. I took it into the washroom with me, changed my diaper, and then washed it in the sink, with hand soap, before wringing it out to the point of giving myself a blister, and then hanging it over the tub, hoping it would pass for an unusually wet towel that had been innocently used after an evidently torrential shower.  I placed the lightest, most breathable of blankets over the damp spot on the bed, left the rest folded at the foot, as though by decorating choice, and not grim necessity, and then I turned out the lights, and headed downstairs. Scott, if he had seen my diaper, didn’t say anything about it, or act any differently, but I was acting differently, because I didn’t know what to do with my half-baked “solution” for the problem I had created in his bed, when I didn’t perform my usual parlor trick of rolling onto my back, to pee in my diaper, something which I nearly always accomplish, even though I rarely remember it, which is why I can usually get away with sleeping in a disposable, sans plastic pants or other secondary containment provisions. But not last night. I drank my coffee quickly, thanked him and said my goodbye, and then fretted the whole way home, until I got in front of my computer, where I started asking myself questions, as well as asking them of all of you, in a post describing my predicament. I had just about talked myself into a plan where I would not acknowledge the incident, and instead would fervently hope that the bedroom went unused before my next opportunity to stay over; he had stated when I arrived that I’d probably find it in the same state I’d left it in, because most of his friends live more proximal to him, or don’t drink as much as I do, so either way, they tended not to stay over as consistently as I did Then, I’d go back in a couple of weeks, go up to the room to drop off my overnight bag, and “Oh my gosh, would you look at that? The damned cat and/or dog must have climbed up and violated the sanctity of the guest bed! No matter! I will throw them in the laundry forthwith! No need to help – my hands are already dirty, just point me to where you keep the detergent.” This was where I hit post, and the site promptly threw up, gobbling up my missive, and refusing to load again, despite several feverish attempts. I sat back from my screen, said some bad words, and contemplated my half-baked rouse. It could have worked. Except that if he needed the use of the room, or decided to refresh the sheets, he, and/or one of his family members, would then have to deal with linens that I had peed in, and ineffectually attempted to spot-clean, making me a very poor houseguest, and a bit of an ass, frankly.  I didn’t feel comfortable about my decision to flee without spilling my guts, after spilling my bladder. So, I picked up the phone, called him, and invented a reason to go back – I’d be out running errands, anyway, and I wanted a couple of the larger empty beer bottles we’d consumed, to refill with my beer, for gifts. He was out, but would be home in an hour. Excellent.   I swallowed hard, jumped in my car, and drove back to the scene of the crime. He was home when I got there, and was standing at the ready with the beer bottles, so I asked him if I could come in and talk. He said of course, and offered me another beer, or coffee. I opened with my feeling that I owed him an apology, and then after that, I proceeded down basically the same track as I had with my good friend who lives in a fascistic HOA in the Southern US, when I had to tell him that I’d be wearing diapers when I stayed with him, because he was going to be inspecting all the garbage that the house produced, to avoid fines that he was getting for his kids and contractors putting things in the wrong waste streams. I would either have to bury my diapers in his backyard, after dark, drop them around the neighbourhood like a phantom, or just tell him he’d be seeing them in his trash bins. I chose the last option. As with that instance, a few years ago, Scott took my confession and explanation in stride. He thought it was funny. He mentioned that his wife sometimes leaked when sneezing or laughing, ever since they’d had kids. He was a bedwetter himself, as a kid, and his kids had only recently graduated from that distinction, so he totally understood, and he absolutely forgave me for ducking and running initially – he could see how hard it must have been to make the trip back, and to confess. He let me go strip the bed, and put the linens in the laundry, and then we sat and chewed the fat for half an hour. He asked me if I was wearing pull-ups, or actual diapers, and I said that diapers were way better, and far more adjustable, and that the one I’d had on the night before had likely leaked because I was in a bad position, but that it didn’t happen very often. I even pulled up the side of my sweater, and showed him the side of my diaper (Inspire+), and then he cracked a joke about how they should make them printed in manly themes. I drove home, thoroughly relieved that I had made the decision to go back, and to own my mishap. I would have been on pins and needles the entire week, waiting for the other shoe to drop, when he either asked me what had happened, or worse, just didn’t ask, perhaps leaving it to become a silent turd in the punch of our friendship. So, I have expanded the circle of trust a little wider, it would seem. Now, I have to figure out if I tell my wife about my adventure, and that Scott, and presumably his wife, now “know”, or if I just leave it be.