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Pre-internet (early 1980s) as a teenager, there was zero platforms for collective, anonymised communications so mostly we just all grew up imagining that we were alone. We figured it out on our own: how to make nappies using old towels, pins and plastic supermarket shopping bags seems to be an almost-universal experience. I had to leave the country to find out that my nappy thing was a “thing”. As a young adult, I found myself living and working in London where there were magazines: kind of. I wrote an account of the moment I found out that there were others. It’s published on my Fetlife profile at https://fetlife.com/users/445082/posts/1210796 I guess I could cross-post it back here if people are interested. Also on Fetlife, look up user "Diaperedkent" (with whom I've had the honour of meeting). Unfortunately, time got the better of Kent and he's no longer with us but his profile remains and has some excellent history of the "scene" in North America. I got access to the internet in the late 1980s via my employer’s affiliation with a university. This was back in the day before acceptable use policies and cyber-security. Nobody paid much (any) attention at what you did with your connection. I could telnet through to another university that carried a decent “Usenet” feed (a kind of text based bulletin board) and found alt.sex.fetish.diapers I'd be interested in even earlier ABDL. Presumably, ABDL has been around as long as have diapers to going back 100 years, they have to have been there. I've read articles that claim that the late Duke of Windsor (the abdicated King Edward VIII) was a practicing AB with Wallace Simpson.

This week saw something new: I woke up to find myself in a messy nappy. To be fair, I’d played with fire and therefore shouldn’t be surprised at having gotten burned. I’ve written before about the apparent curious muscular conflation between the #1 and #2 departments in my downstairs zone. With more than 5 years of “free range bladder” that my permanent use of nappies has afforded, any attempt to control it now exposes urinary frequency and urgency. I can stay dry for a while but it sucks. The thing is, despite actively intending to maintain bowel control, I’ve noticed a degree of contagion between reduced urinary continence and the #2 department around the corner. Whilst I still (mercifully) have usable bowel control under normal circumstances, I must now listen more carefully to nature’s calling lest the outside chance of spending moderately-unhappy-time hosing myself off in a shower eventuates. In the event of any gastro-intestinal disturbance however, control is now much more wobbly. Urgency can (and has) proceeded to full blown episodes of faecal incontinence. You’ve been warned… Last Thursday night was the sole night left available to me to indulge in one of my simple pleasures: a firmly folded and pinned terry night nappy under securely-fitted plastic pants. I find this simple technology to be so much more robust and comfortable than even the best paper, pulp and plastic disposable affairs. Endless open-house and real estate inspections had all but deleted my capacity to manage cloth nappies. This was a “one night only” gig and I was determined to enjoy it. Comfortably padded and pinned, having dealt with dinner it was shortly before bedtime when I realised that quite unusually, my tummy was a little bit growly and there’d been some minor cramps. It didn’t seem that serious. I went to bed anyway. Suddenly it was 1am and I’d woken to further intestinal churning going on along with more ominous gurgles and further cramps. At this point, any other person on any other day would simply (albeit with some degree of exasperation), arise from slumber, head to a bathroom and deal with the matter. Dressed as I was, it wasn’t quite that simple. I was somewhat “locked in”. My terry nappies were pinned firmly upon me, tucked beneath closely-fitting plastic pants which were in turn beneath compression shorts and pyjamas. Furthermore, I could clearly feel that my nappy was somewhat wet at the front. Cloth is like that. They tell you when and where you’ve peed in them. Removing all this gear to use a toilet would involve a massive amount of disrobing followed by finding somewhere to lay down in order to re-pin myself into damp towelling which is of itself, fairly difficult. I find it quite difficult to drive pins through wet terry towelling and in any case, it’s not an experience I yearned for. All of this effort would require lights and most likely, intense scrutiny from a disapproving beloved whom I would inevitably waken. I decided I could wait. It wasn’t THAT bad… I managed to cautiously release a couple of farts which did somewhat take the edge off things. It was quite hard to fall back asleep. I really wasn’t comfortable. Eventually, sometime after 2am I fell back into a fitful doze filled with bizarre dreams of random strangeness. Then it was 4am. My guts immediately reminded me that there was an unresolved matter in the basement. There was no doubt I really did need to deal with a requirement for #2 but I still imagined (hoped) that it could wait a couple of hours until morning. The need was strong but it seemed to me, fractionally less so than before. My nappy actually felt quite good: pleasingly warm and wet at the front but also somehow “extra-padded” at the rear with some slippery, slightly sticky fullness at the seat that made itself apparent when I shifted in bed. What? Cautious dabbing at my bum (from the biologically-safe outside of my plastic pants) confirmed that there appeared to be some kind of small mass inside my nappy directly under my bum and it didn’t take the reasoning power of Stephen Hawkings to work out what it was. At some point during my fitful doze, my bowels had decided to take matters into their own hands and cleared out some space. I had filled my pants. At least a bit. This isn’t something I would have chosen to do with my beloved laying beside me. There are simpler and easier ways of getting into trouble. I fancied I could recall some confusing dream fragments where I’d possibly “relaxed” a little down there after permitting what I thought was a fart but it was very hard to say for sure. There were also vague sleep-befuddled memories of what might have been a reflexive “push” or two but it was hard to know and it was real, I’ve no idea what I was thinking. Strangely, I could not smell anything very obvious. There was a slight earthy odour if I looked for it under the covers but it seems that the snugly-pinned nappy and many layers of sealing pants above it were limiting air exchange. So long as I stayed still, I may yet get away with this latest social faux pas. For a while at least. It was hard to sleep now. In my Dostoevsky-like “Crime and Punishment” anguish, I was convinced that any moment my beloved would stir, leap from the bed to accuse me of my misdeed and denounce me to the community at large before organising a posse of enraged villagers with pitchforks. I was deep in the poo: metaphorically and physically. I lay there worrying until 6am rolled around. It was Friday. For my beloved, Friday is a work day but for myself, it is a day off. Accordingly she sighed loudly, and got out of bed leaving me there. As far as I could tell, her grumpy demeanour was simply her normal Friday mood. I didn’t seem to be any trouble yet. I was acutely aware that my nappy was at best, unusually antisocial. I lay as still as possible and kept the covers up around my neck hoping to form some kind of hermetic seal. At around 7:30, she came briefly back into the room and bade me farewell before leaving for her office. Again, she’d apparently detected nothing. Relations were civil and normal. By 7:45am, I heard the rumble of her car start in the garage below. I’d gotten away with it. Of course I was tired. It had been a terrible night’s sleep. I also needed badly to finish what was clearly a major poop episode. It occurred to me that this was now a kind of “Might as well be NOT hung for a sheep as a lamb” scenario. The rubicon of a ghastly nappy change and clean-up had already been crossed. Terry towelling had been soiled. I clearly needed badly to finish the job. I couldn’t sleep in my discomfort. I was, quite uniquely, dressed perfectly for crapping myself. I decided to let nature take its course right there in bed and rest for maybe another 30 minutes and deal with things later. My #2 department needed no further encouragement. Within seconds, I experienced what I believe is called “reflexive bowel pushes”. Autopilot had been engaged and now the whole process was running outside of my control. A series of muffled explosions occurred deep within the confines of my nappy and I felt and heard what seemed an almost seismic nappy filling event taking place. The magnitude of the relief I felt defeated the misgivings about how hideous the inside my nappy by now have been. It felt just fine to wear. I’ve found a full nappy to be actually quite a comfortable place to be in a mud-between-your-toes kind of way. It’s the clean-up that’s appalling, along with knowing that you will be deeply repellent to anybody within 3 meters of you. On the outside at least, I remained clean and dry. I was also exhausted for sleep and for the first time in 8 hours, truly physically comfortable. I fell asleep in that nappy more or less immediately to dream vividly and deploy about futile attempts at socially distancing and maintaining my shameful secret. I woke up an hour and a half later. Reluctantly I hauled myself out of bed to deal with Satan’s peanut butter sandwich. The clean-up was indeed a barnyard experience and yes, I gave myself nappy rash at some point overnight. It feels like my arse went sun-bathing for too long and forgot about the rest of me.

Thanks for some home science! My own experiments have concurred with your overall finding that absorbency claims are drifting further and further away from any kind of reality. Having said that, your finding of diaper failure at only 13% of the claim is a new low! My own measures had suggested that expecting 30% of ISO was about as good as it got although this yield would fall further with the higher-capacity "super nappies". Regrettably, my career with a multinational vendor showed me that all-too-often, the marketing elves will just keep on pushing the BS boundary with ever-more fanciful claims, over-ruling engineering until some kind of consumer law somewhere in an important market kicks in and it ends up in lawyers. If they could just build a simple 3000ml nappy that actually was reliably and repeatedly 3000ml in real world conditions, that would be completely awesome: just one nappy per day and you're done!

I'd wondered about those covid RAT because I can remember my eldest daughter testing negative before extravagantly infecting nearly all of our family with it (somehow I dodged that bullet yet again). A second RAT a few days in showed positive immediately. It seems that there's science behind this and testing the moment symptoms arise may not be that useful: https://www.colorado.edu/today/2024/06/24/think-you-might-have-covid-wait-2-days-test Of course the irony here is that you don't know for sure that you have the 'vid until you've become wildly infectious so I do wonder at the point of it now 🤣 My beloved picked up "something" that @Little Sherri's complaint sounded a lot like a few weeks ago. Being the germ nazi, I bade her RAT at the first sign of snot (bad head cold with massive fatigue and fever). It too showed negative. I suspect had she tested again a couple of days into the party it would have been a different result but since it was hard enough to get her to agree to the first RAT, we'll never know. I dodged that bullet as well. I'm actually wondering if I'm one of the few who are genetically somewhat-resistant to it. That's a science thing too apparently. Get well soon @Little Sherri On a direct on-topic note, ANY specific preparation for bed-wetting mitigates the risk of it in my experience. It's some bizarre sub-conscious trick. My "precautions" cancel out in my case because they are "every night" precautions and are thus normal to me. I think a cloth Omutsu and plastic pants over a substantive Rearz disposable would be too Teletubby-shaped even for me: I can definitely recommend the terry-lined waterproof pants from 'kins but make them an every night thing...

Whilst what passes for winter at my latitude would be dismissed with comic derision by anybody from Europe or the more north bits of North America, 37C on a “winter’s” day is a bit on the silly side. That’s what it was on our first “open day”. An “open day” in real estate parlance is where dozens of strangers traipse through your house whilst you’re not there whilst criticising your domestic choices and failing to make purchase offers. This ritual also provides your estate agent with important ammunition to deploy against the attractive sales price estimate he gave you to win your listing with him in the first place. The heat was fierce. The swimming pool was filling with traumatised leaves from trees-I-don’t-own from next door’s garden faster than I could scoop them out as a roaring northerly wind (and in the Southern hemisphere, a “northerly” wind is the “toasty” wind) delivered crispy-dried-foliage in biblical quantities. To deal with the ever present risk of reaching atomic fusion temperatures on the upper story, we were compounding the global warming issues that most likely delivered us this climatic absurdity by running no less than 5 split system AC. 15 minutes before the allotted hour, I fled to hide off the property. In keeping with the low maintenance nappy regime adopted for house sale, I was in a not-quite-as-BetterDry instead of my customary weekend cloth nappy. Later that evening, it was still 33C. Sporting a BeDry under puffy white terry lined plastic pants instead of my usual weekend terries, I surveyed my long winter pyjama pants at bedtime. Just no. I was wearing enough insulation already. I clambered into bed just in my nappy and t-shirt. The next day was as hot again. At evening time, standing with deliciously cool thighs below my nappy-clad midriff, I noticed that my beloved had thoughtfully folded my pyjama pants neatly and placed them in a prominent position in our walk in robe. It was still 30C. There is something deliciously decadent about slipping between the sheets clad only in t-shirt, nappy and plastic pants. The plastic pants are slippery against the sheets and the cool plastic outer is a contrast to the warm flesh of my thighs. In addition to the refreshing cool, there is the frisson of excitement at the highly exposed nature of my unconventional underwear choices. By morning (which is still cool, what with being winter and everything), my plastic pants are warm. On Monday, yet another over 30C “winter’s” day. This time at bedtime, I found my pyjama pants had been strategically laid on my pillow, like a kind of semaphore flag that said “I don’t want to look at your nappies so please put these on”. My beloved snored gently on the pillow beside then. I took the hint. The cool change arrived on Tuesday anyway and South-East Queensland’s pathetic caricature of winter returned for one last blast. House sale “peak misery” continues…

They just CAN'T be trusted, cows I tell you. At least you've prevailed (not a nappy pun). Now you have the opportunity of hammering home your victory over the bovine with a series of steak dinners. Slightly shocked to hear of your adventure but it's good you're on the mend now. I think a few of us have thought about finding ourselves in a similar predicament. I've become very wary about ladders...

Yes, that... Probably three nights should be sufficient to demonstrate trend rather than co-incidence (and I'm moderately confident that a trend will make itself known). Then maybe she'll buy you some decent ones 🤣

I was catheterised for a couple of days in ICU after major surgery about a decade ago. The constant (and completely pointless) bladder spasms were maddening. It seemed that every time I managed to fall asleep (which is hard in an ICU), a bladder spasm would wake me up. I honestly can't remember if I was leaking around it or not. I suspect nurses took care of it without me realising. I had a lot of drugs on board. I was quite pleased to see it gone. I haven't had the pleasure of the TURP but I've friends who have: their experience was that things were a bit drippy for a few days (pull-ups were required) but it cleared up fairly quickly. Apparently permanent incontinence IS possible from TURP but it's quite rare.

Has anybody ever stood in a knee-deep in a cold fish pond at 730am on Sunday morning wearing only their pyjamas and a thick, wet nappy and greeted their neighbours? I have. There are many spices we can add to our lives in order to elevate us from mere biological existence toward the sublime. We could climb mountains, explore darkest Africa or, if it were surrealism we were seeking (along the immolation of all aspects of personal credibility) perhaps we could just put on a rubber chicken suit and dance through our local shopping mall singing “Oh Fortuna” (Carl Orff if you feel inclined to Google). But I chose something else. The house was in its final stages of sale preparation. The photographer was booked the following morning whereupon he would wield his lens as a poet might a pen to craft beautiful lies wrought in reflected light as ink. My zen-like formal pond, a dark and peaceful pool lay shaded beneath verdant overhanging tropical foliage rich with the promise of frogs and mosquitoes. My gorgeous water fountain at its very centre lay silent. Silent? Crap! It’s supposed to be the decorative peak of my tranquil tropical oasis. It’s supposed to be the feng-shui “cherry on the top”. It’s supposed to elicit autonomous meridian responses with its calming trickle noise. It’s supposed to be photographed the very next morning. It’s supposed to be working. It’s been the case before that the pump has managed, despite a grill over the input designed to prevent such problems, to ingest a leaf or a twig that can stall the motor. It’s also just outside the glass sliding doors at our dining room, no more than three steps away. So close… Still clad in pyjamas, the pants of which were stretched over my bulky and by now well-used night nappy, the coffee had just started percolating and so a few minutes were free. I had time to sneak out and give it a quick poke. It would be one less task for later in the day. In my years I’ve learned that many things can be either outright repaired or at least made to work better by hitting them with a stick and my pond pump was no exception. The problem was that this pond is nearly 5 meters by 5 meters. The stick was long, but the over-reach required is far and the pond was wet but unlike my night nappy, definitely not warm. Balancing courageously out as far as I could, I succeeded in doing nothing more than knocking the pump off the stone plinth it was sitting on whereupon it immediately sank into darker depths. Now not only was it not working, it was doing its justly famous impersonation of the “Titanic” at the bottom of the pond. I hate it when therapy multiplies problems. Further attempts to retrieve it from the murky depths with my stick naturally failed. Things may only be snagged with sticks when they are things that you do not WANT to snag. An immutable rule of the universe is that snagging is an omnipresent inconvenience and it is forbidden by fate that it should work in your favour. I sighed. Now I had TWO problems to fix: no fountain and a sunken pump. This is the crucible in which disasters are forged. At some point, the escalating complexity of the situation at hand demands focus that causes our awareness of the circumstantial risk of our situation to take a back seat. The pond was only about 40cm deep. I decided I could roll up the legs of my pyjama pants past my knees, step in to the pond, tread warily across to the centre and retrieve the pump. It would be wet cold and fishy but I could keep my pyjamas and at least the outside of my nappy dry. In the context of my expanded problem, this seemed, well, reasonable. No thought was given to the optics of my situation. Aware that reflecting upon my strategy could only lead to its failure, I immediately waded out slowly and carefully, water rising to to my upper shins, waiting for my legs to go numb whilst curious fish nibbled at me. At least my crotch was warm: insulated by wet folds of night nappy. It was a remarkable contrast: cold and wet at the end, warm and wet toward the middle. Bending over and groping around in cold, wet, weed-infested darkness, I found the pump by feel and dragged it back toward the surface trying hard not to slip over on the treacherously-algae-covered smooth pebbles that layered the bottom. At this point, TWO things happened. The pump, having been inverted, disturbed and raised closer to the surface, promptly cleared itself, started and immediately started to spray cold, fish-flavoured water at me. A cheerful voice from my next door neighbour’s house a few meters away called out “Morning! How ya doing?” “Oh Hi” I replied, “Just dealing with a jammed pond pump”. “Good luck with that!” There is no fence between our properties. There is however a thick wall of sub-tropical foliage that somewhat filters the view between our respective properties. He knew I was there though and I knew I was attired in a fairly thick wet night nappy and plastic pants with an unflatteringly tight pair of pyjama pants stretched over them. It wasn’t instantly obvious that I was “outed” but it was far from an ideal scenario. Fortunately, in addition to being obscured by a thick grove of cane palms, my neighbour appeared preoccupied in loading his car with kid-related paraphernalia, about to go out. With as much dignity and haste (not much lest I compound my challenges by simply falling in) as I could muster, I retreated from the pond (with it’s by now fully operational fountain) and dripping with fish poop, waddled indoors. Oh well, we’ll be moving anyway soon enough…

I think in my headspace, rather than “binge” and “purge”, I came to realise that my mental states were “satiated” and “un-satiated”. It got to the point where the comfort of satiation (being in nappies) was becoming contaminated with the prescience that I would at some point have to take them off and go back to an un-satiated state. Eventually, I just stopped taking them off. So to answer your question, yes. There was a distinct increase in diaper urges with advancing age that eventually culminated in going into them permanently. I’ve been full time in nappies for about 5.5 years now. I wouldn’t describe myself as incontinent but there is a degree of nappy-dependence now as my body has gotten very used to never holding. Oh yeah, and there’s the occasional bedwetting: that’s a thing too now…

"Spanx" style women's shape-wear pants. They flatten the bulges. They are also available in black, look like underwear and are comfortable. I wear Rearz Inspire+ Mega during the day and get away with it.

I hear you. In late 2022, my telco provider (“Optus”, aka “Sloptus”) exposed my name, address, phone number, driver license, passport and possibly the name of my pet cat to the dark web (yes, that's how much identity you need to hand over to have a cell phone in the great Nanny-State of Australia). This is quite sufficient for a full identity theft in my jurisdiction. I use the term “exposed” rather than “were hacked” because of the almost comically epic negligence that enabled this (hint: don’t put customer production data on your dev stack and if you do, don’t expose an unauthenticated API to that dev stack to the internet). Should we blame the cat that takes the uncovered meat from the table? I had to make three visits to the local driver licensing authority to have my driver license number changed and now I have to regularly monitor my credit score and deal with endless spear-phishing attacks by (fortunately dubiously-skilled) hackers who have my name along with my email and phone. Sloptus “compensation” to me? A bunch of “free” data allowance (all of which had to be consumed by some months ago) which is of deeply mysterious value to me since I’m on an “unlimited” data plan anyway. I didn’t even bother to “register” for that insulting non-compensation. Presumably they would have lost that data too. I’ve registered with a bunch of ambulance-chasing law firms and like gladiator, I will have my (implausibly small slice of) vengeance, in this life or the next…

Congratulations on a whole year. That's quite a milestone and in my book, qualifies you for the "hard core" diaper demographic. I do doubt the general applicability of the information imparted in that guide. I have to accept that the kind of rapid decline it describes MAY arise in others with different physiology but most of the longitudinal accounts I've read and consider accurate say otherwise. Thinking back to my own experience and the experience of others that I trust, I think the first "symptom" that arose was occasional bedwetting: pretty rare at first. It can be a little hard to spot when you're routinely using your diapers in bed anyway but eventually I caught it happening. Any signs of that phenomenon consolidating for you?

It seems that my honeymoon with the new Rearz BeDry might be over and I’ve had multiple episodes of waking to find the terry lining of the lined plastic pants I habitually wear over disposable nappies in bed to be a bit wet. The culprit appears to be peeing in them whilst laying on my side. The escape vector for pee seems to be out the top towards the front of the mattress-facing side of my crotch. It’s not been 100% clear if I’ve been awake or asleep when the pee fairy visits me in this way. I do have some hazy recollections of stirring and letting go without any kind of precautionary rolling-over because I thought somehow “it will be alright” and it seemed like SUCH a lot of effort to move. THAT kind of luxury can only be bought by heavy terry nappies, plastic pants and pins. In any case, trying to dry out absorbent waterproof pants that have yellow pee-patches on them by hanging them in cupboards could prove problematic in the event of an unexpected property inspection. The house will go “live” on the market mid next week. This, in conjunction with the aforementioned, regular bouts of semi-automatic day wetting whereby I pee my pants because it just seems impossibly hard not to, has me wondering if there is some new level of dependency starting to manifest here. Or not. It’s REALLY hard to tell exactly what’s going on down there lately… It might just be fatigue. Sleep has been a problem for a while now. Massive pre-bed melatonin bombs (proper USA-sourced doses procured over the ‘net, not the local nanny-state rubbish that requires a deep and meaningful conversation with a pharmacist and contains less active ingredient than a class of warm milk) will force me to fall asleep quickly but not remain there. Too many days are starting at 3AM.

Quelle horreur! I'm not sure that plastic pants alone would have saved you here. Whilst they’re great at stopping pee from transferring from exposed wet padding to dry clothing or bedding, pee that’s sloshing about having escaped a disposable nappy into the void between the disposables waterproof lining and a pair of waterproof pants has nowhere to go but out the leggings and waist elastics. Eventually it will go there. I use these: https://babykins.com/collections/adult-terry-lined-plastic-pants/products/kins-lined-6-mil-double-terry-vinyl-pant-20300dltv\ They’re not visually that discreet but I only wear them IN bed and they’re probably more discreet than trying to wash bedding at 2am. . I recommend black pyjama pants (loose fitting). Mine have seen action in hotel beds before – usually after vast amounts of corporate-provided alcohol. Trying to dry them out for re-use is its own challenge but it’s still a smaller one than a wet bed.