willnotwill

Love the keys at the end.

Besides, if you wear a kilt, they'll assume you don't have anything under it anyway! This may be one time when a diaper gives MORE coverage than what is socially acceptable.

People are mixing up alcohol prohibitions with sugar. Unlike alcohol which starts being broken down into less harmful materials in the stomach and is absorbed rather slowly, carbs and sugar absorption is actually enhanced by saliva and stomach acids. Sugar gets better absorption from the top end. Even if there was different rates of absorption, even in the case of diabetics, there's not much issue with sugar that way. In fact, even with the case of diabetics it won't make much of a difference. I can tell you the number of times I've smeared maple syrup on my diabetic sons mouth when he went low (or used D50 injections when a paramedic). In fact, whacking someone with sugar is so benign D50 boluses (along with NARCAN and Oxygen) are part of a magic trio often used when you had no clue what was really wrong with someone.

In the old days they were white. I think perhaps some of the line is, but the breathables are certainly blue now.

Depend briefs were always institutional green before they switched back to white. There were some other "institutional" brands that were kind of pale blue. Even now I think the cheap Wings brand and even much of the Attends line is baby blue.

Actually, for my body type, the Dry247 is one of the better fitting diapers (go figure, everybody is different). It's probably one of my most used ones. I prefer the all white (I remember when they were color coded by size... used to have some lavender oens) over the Abena "racing stripe" design.

I like both seasons. I do wear little more than the diaper during the summer which is nice, but when bundled up for outdoor activities (blowing the snow or skiing, or whatever), it's real handy to have a big diaper underneath.

Nope... it was a slight tweak from the line in My Cousin Vinnie.

Imagine you’re a deer. You’re prancing along, you get thirsty, you spot a little brook, you put your little deer lips down to the cool clear water… BAM! A fucking bullet rips off part of your head! Your brains are laying on the ground in little bloody pieces! Now I ask ya. Would you give a fuck what kind of diaper the son of a bitch who shot you was wearing?

Yeah, all is good today (and http rewrites to https). I suspect that you just got caught up in the transition.

I use Dr. Boudreaux's Butt Paste (the regular yellow tube, not the natural green one). The greasiness of Desitan gets to me as much as the odor.

I think the gist is that he has to wear diapers to get the girls to leave him alone because he's too sexy (google translates it as "delicious"). Here's another ad from the same campaign The big print reads "If you stay a little too sexy." The rest of the text just talks about how great the gym is and you should come join. Explained here: https://cargocollective.com/peterstrange/following/all/peterstrange/FITNESSDK Here is the translation from that video: "My name is James. After I started working out at FitnessDK, I became a bit too sexy. I would lie if I said I didn't enjoy the stolen glances, the craving and hunger in their eyes, but in the end, it was just too annoying to be checked out constantly. The diaper helps me get some time for myself when I need it the most.

Yep, I've placed a few orders for a bunch of random ones I wanted to try. They've got the best selection and the most reasonable prices for doing things like that. Easy to order and it came quickly.

CRY BABY I sat in my room pondering the mess into which my life had evolved. I tried to figure out just where it went awry. It was a long time ago I was sure. I tried to think back to when things seemed normal. I tried to recall the first indication that things had gone sour. “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.” That was it. I remember that threat as a small child. At first, it was just a threat. And it didn’t do much good to stop my crying. I have to admit; I cried a lot. I don’t know the reasons why. However, any injury or injustice started a feeling welling inside me I couldn’t usually suppress, and then I’d start bawling. My father would make that threat most. But my mother did as well. Finally in exasperation one day she yanked down my pants and did spank me. It didn’t help. It just made me cry harder. From that day further they were quicker on the draw when I started crying. I tried to hide it from them, but then I’d switch from whatever had started that crying spell to the upcoming spanking and that would make me cry as well. I thought I was making progress, but I did cry enough at school to be teased as “Cry Baby Randy.” I still cringe when I think of those taunts as well. They hurt nearly as much as the spankings. Things were in sort of a status quo for years. I’d cry from time to time and more often than not get spanked. Finally, in fourth grade, I remember my teacher, Mrs. Jones, sending home a letter to my parents expressing her concerns. “You’re crying too much at school,” my father told me. “How often do you think you do that?” I bluffed. “May every other week?” “Your teacher tells us it is several times a week. What are we going to do about that?” I had no answer, and I suspected the question was rhetorical, anyway. I found out a few days later. It was dismissal time, and I had cried earlier in the day. The teacher came to me with a small envelope and pinned it to my shirt. It was like I was a preschooler. When I got home, my mother saw the note and read it. She immediately stepped forward and yanked down my pants. I was crying before I was even fully across her knee for the spanking. That evening I heard my parents talking between themselves. “Spanking him doesn’t seem to be the answer,” was one snipped I heard. I was hoping they’d abandon the spankings. I didn’t see the point. A few days later I found out the new “answer.” I don’t recall what led up to the incident, but I remember starting to cry and my father snatching me up. “I’ll get his clothes off. You get the stuff,” he said. At first, I thought I was getting a spanking, but my father fully removed my pants and then pulled off my shirt and then just waited. Then my mom came in. I was pushed over onto my bed, and mom slid something under me. It only took seconds. When she stood back, I realized I was wearing a diaper. I started crying anew. “If you’re going to cry like a baby, we’re going to treat you like a baby,” I heard my father say. They left the room, and I just sat there and wept. Later I heard her call that dinner was ready. I tried to compose myself before I went down. I got to the kitchen, and my sister sat there smirking at me. She’d have loved to tease me, but she knew that if she got caught, she’d get consequences. My mom set plates in front of my father and my sister. She then came and wrapped a bib around me. While the plates in front of the others had hamburgers and fries on them, mine had some sort of mush. My mom took a spoon and scooped some up and pushed it towards my mouth. “Open wide,” mom said. I kept my mouth closed at first, and mom pushed the spoon at my lips. I got some of the mush on my face. Finally, I opened up and allowed the stuff in. Yech. Spoon after spoon was fed to me. I heard giggling from my sister. After dinner, we moved into the living room and started watching TV. When the commercial came, I stood up and started to leave the room. “Where do you think you’re going?” I heard my father ask. “To the bathroom,” I replied. “No, you’re not.” “I have to go.” He just pointed at me. Then I realized he was pointing at the diaper. I was expected to use the diaper. I started to cry, and after a few seconds, I started to pee. Great, I was a baby. Here I was crying and wetting a diaper. After the show was over my mom took me back to my room and changed the diaper. “You see how silly you are behaving. Do you want to spend your life as a baby?” Again, I suspected this was rhetorical and just stayed quiet. I slept that night in the diaper. I woke up and had to pee, so I wet again and cried myself back to sleep. In the morning, mom came in and asked if I was ready to be a big boy today. I told her I was and she took the diaper off and told me to get showered and dressed. And so, this new routine started. If I cried at home, I was taken to be diapered and would spend a day or more as a baby. If I cried at school, I’d get one of those dreaded notes pinned to me at the end of the day, and I’d be diapered when I got home. Mom added more things to the mix. Almost immediately, a pacifier would be shoved in my mouth if I started to cry. Mom also made me some babyish clothes to wear over the diaper if I had to leave the house. When I was in baby mode, mom would even carry a diaper bag, or have me carry it. She’d change me if I needed it. I would protest the injustice of it all but the sad truth was, it seemed to be working. I was able to fight back the urge to break into tears when I realized what it would get me. I have no idea why the humiliation worked better than the physical pain. Still, from time to time, it did happen. I remember one time we were out shopping and I couldn’t stop the tears in time and saw mom reach into her purse and pull out a pacifier and pop it in my mouth. It was a reminder that I’d be a baby again when we got home. The pacifier also replaced the pinned notes at school. I started to cry, and the teacher opened her desk and extracted the pacifier and walked over and pushed it into my mouth much to the giggles and guffaws of the rest of the class. I’d walk home with it in place, and mom would greet me with diapers when I arrived. At this point, I was rarely crying at home, but I was still coming home from time to time with a paci in my mouth. Then my life hit a major turning point. I remember being teased by some of the other boys in the class one day and it started the crying cycle in me. The teacher came in and stuffed the pacifier in my mouth and then said “Principal’s Office.” Tears streaming down my face, I left the room. When the secretary saw me coming with the plug in my mouth, she just directed me into the office. Mrs. McMahon, the school principal, was always a kind lady. I didn’t know what she was going to do. She just shook her head. “I’m sorry it has come to this,” she said. “Please take your clothes off.” I didn’t comprehend what was happening until I saw her go to the cabinet behind her desk and withdraw a bag. A diaper bag the same style as the one my mom used when we were out. She placed it on her desk and unzipped it and removed a diaper. I started to cry anew while I undressed. The principal laid me on the sofa in her office and placed the diaper on me. She picked up my clothes and neatly folded them. “I’ll hold on to these. You can pick them up from the secretary on your way home.” It took a second for this to sink in “I can’t go to class like this,” I said waving my hands over me standing in just a diaper. “Of course not,” she said. She reached into the bag and pulled something out. She threaded it over my head and then pulled it down and snapped it between my legs. It was a onesie like a baby would wear. She reached into the bag again. I was hoping for pants or shorts or something but what she took out was a pair of slippers. Baby booties. She pushed me down on the sofa and put them on my feet. “Your mother wanted you to wear just the diaper, but we settled on this as being the most appropriate.” I then realized I was going back to class as a baby. I started crying again. Mrs. McMahon retrieved the pacifier from the edge of her desk and put it back into my mouth and then marched me back to class. There were more laughs when I entered the classroom. I shrunk back into my seat and tried to become small for the rest of the day. When the final bell rang, I stood and headed for the door. I had to get out of this place. “Oh… my… gosh…” I heard some girl say slowly. “He’s wearing a diaper, too.” There was laughter. I heard the “Cry Baby Randy” taunts. I pushed my way home and ran up to my room. Oddly, when I got to my room, I didn’t cry. I got mad. After a while, I calmed down, but I thought about it. I went to the mirror and looked at myself. I started getting that feeling inside me but rather than cry I diverted it into anger. Maybe this was working, rather than feeling hurt myself, I was angry at everybody else, my parents, the teacher, the principal. This perhaps wasn’t healthy either, but I could keep it inside. That pretty much was the end of my crying. By the time the next school year came around, I’d not been in diapers for some time. I was cured. My parents probably were pretty smug about their “answer” to my problems. And that was the way it was. I got angry and even when I couldn’t suppress my rage, yelling at the person causing my issue was somehow more socially acceptable than breaking down in tears. My life became somewhat normal. Normal, that was until my Junior year in high school. I had been out sick for several days with a stomach bug. Nasty thing, puking, and diarrhea. Wasn’t able to hold much down for days but I was feeling better and went back to school. I had a science report that had been due while I was out and I turned it in at the beginning of class the first day back. That Friday morning in homeroom the teacher started passing out envelopes to some of the students. She dropped one on my desk. I opened it up. “Interim Progress Report,” it said. We students had called them “Failure Notices.” It was an indication that you were going to fail a class. I was a good student and had never received one. I’d hardly gotten a C in a class, let alone fail. It had to be a mistake. The class in question was Science, one of my best subjects. This had to be a mistake. I got to class early and asked Mr. Walter about it. “This was a mistake, right?” “No mistake. You hadn’t turned in the research paper, and that’s half of this quarter’s grade.” “I did turn it in.” “You hadn’t at the time I had to submit the progress reports.” “I was out puking my guts out.” I could feel the rage building inside of me. “It’s just a warning. It doesn’t mean anything since you did submit the paper.” The rage was still building. I understood what he was saying, but I still took the failure notice as an insult. I was one of his best students, and he couldn’t trust that I had written the paper. We argued. He told me to stop shouting, or he’d send me to the principal. That broke the dam. I started to cry. He leaned over and quietly suggested I go see my guidance counselor. I decided to take that advice. I made my way to the guidance office and asked the secretary if I could see Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Thompson was always friendly to me. We’d talked about where I’d be going to college a number of times. I was sent in to see her immediately. Initially, she smiled, happy to see me. Then she saw my face and got concerned. “We’ll talk about this. But, let’s get you changed first.” Changed? I thought. I had no idea what she was talking about until she reached into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and retrieved the diaper bag. I was shocked. I’d not seen that thing in six years or more. It was coming back to haunt me now. I started to tear up again. Mrs. Thompson reached into the bag and pulled out the pacifier and handed it to me. “Put this in for now while you get undressed.” I undressed in silence as she pulled the diaper out of the bag. It was suitably large so that it would fit me now. An adult size I guessed. Had my mom been restocking this bag as I grew over the years? I shivered standing there naked in front of the guidance counselor. She came forward and fitted the diaper on me. “My mother is seventy-five years old,” she said. “She wears these, too.” I don’t know if that was supposed to make me feel better or just explain how she was so adept at putting them on. She went back to the bag and returned with something else. It was a scaled up onesie that she held up so I could put my head and arms through the holes. She snapped it under my crotch. I was pretty sure that her mother didn’t wear one of these. She returned to the bag one last time and passed me the booties. I slid them on, and she directed me to the office chair. “So what happened?” she said. I spat out the pacifier and recounted the story. We talked about my history of crying. I explained the various “answers” my parents had provided and how I had turned my urge to cry into anger. I looked at the clock. This was spinning out nicely through the final period. If I played my cards right, I could spend the rest of the day here and not have to return to class dressed up as a sixteen-year-old toddler. Finally, Mrs. Thompson said she would have to talk to my mother. She said that if I wanted I could wait as long as I wanted in the conference room adjacent to her office. I thanked her and moved to the next room. I watched the clock and right before dismissal Mrs. Thompson returned to the room and handed me the diaper bag. “Your clothes are inside. Your mother wants you not to change before you go home, but you can wait here until you are ready.” I thanked her again. I knew my mother would want me to be humiliated by walking home like this. I was thankful Mrs. Thompson would let me wait. I’d wait until the school emptied before leaving. About twenty minutes after dismissal I figured I’d be safe. I made my way out of the conference room. The outer office was empty. I opened the door and looked out in the hall. Nobody was in the immediate vicinity. I made my way down to the main lobby and just before I got to the doors I came across two girls. One of them saw me and her eyes grew large, but she didn’t say anything. Her friend noticed the reaction and turned to look at me and burst into hysterical laughter and started moving away quickly. I turned red and started to make my way past the remaining girl. “Why?” I heard her say. I didn’t want to discuss this. I started to push past her. I just wanted to make the door. “Wait,” I heard her call. I paused, and she ran in front of me and looked into my eyes. I was crying again. I didn’t know what she wanted. Was she going to tease or laugh at me? We stared at each other. Me as the big baby and her, well, she was cute. Frankly, if I wanted to ask her out, I’d have figured she was out of my league. She was very pretty. Straight blond hair and those giant blue eyes staring at me. She was neatly dressed, not just the t-shirt and jeans many girls wore to this school. What happened next I would have never expected. She stepped forward and threw her arms around me and pulled me into a tight hug. She patted me on the back and said: “There, there.” We stood that way a second and she moved her hand down to my rear and felt the diaper. I pulled back a bit, and she just stared at me with the confused eyes. I tried to pull away, but she just pulled me back into the hug. There was a bench behind me, and she pushed me gently back on to it. After I was seated, she kneeled straddling me and pulled my to her, so my head rested on her breasts. I’d never been that intimate with a girl. They were firmer than I had imagined. He patted my back and said, “Tell me about it.” I spat out the pacifier, still in my mouth and drew a breath through my mouth and explained. All through this, she held me close, stroking my hair or rubbing my back. It felt good. Once I’d given her the full story, she stood up and said, “Let me help you get home.” She took my hand, and we walked home holding hands, very close. It was almost like having her next to me made my predicament invisible. I felt safe. We didn’t talk over the few blocks to my house. We stood at the sidewalk. “This is it,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.” “Crystal,” she said. It was a fitting name for a gem of a girl like that. I smiled. “Randy,” I said. She then leaned forward me and hugged me again. “You’ll get through this. Just think of me,” she said. She pulled back a bit and smiled at me. She leaned in again and kissed me. Kissed me on the lips. It was like being struck by lightning. “See ya,” she said and headed down the sidewalk. I smiled and then went inside. Mom was waiting with that judgmental look. “Well, you just couldn’t stay mature,” she said. “Well, you couldn’t have enough faith in me not to keep the school stocked with diapers.” I was back to being angry. “Watch your tone with me, boy,” she countered. “We’ll see how a weekend in diapers works for you.” I just stomped off to my room. The whole weekend shot. Ugh. I thought about Crystal. I remember her eyes in those seconds right before she kissed me. I smiled. I could get through this. I wet the diaper. I knew the bathroom wasn’t an option. The full-scale treatment returned. Baby food for dinner and the bottle. I downed the bottle dreaming of Crystal all the time. The next morning I knew I had to poop. In the old days, I could usually hold it until mom declared that I was going to be a “big boy” for the day. I knew I couldn’t make it through the weekend like this. I gave a push and felt the old sensation. Relief at first and then the mess of the mass mushrooming on my gut. My mom called up that breakfast was ready. I went down and asked for a diaper change. She said she’d do it after I ate. Great. I sat down and felt the mass of excrement gush around my rear. I waited as my mother shoveled some gruel into me. She took off the bib and wiped my face with it and handed me the bottle and told me to go drink it while she cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Great, more time in the poopy diaper. I went and sat on the sofa and started to suck. The doorbell rang. I wasn’t inclined to answer it dressed only in a diaper. My mom went and got it. I couldn’t see who it was, but then Crystal walked into the room. “You have a visitor,” mom announced. Crystal was wearing a very smart dress, silver, and flowers. Crystal looked at me with the big eyes again. I guess she didn’t expect to see me in just a diaper. Mom went back to the kitchen. “I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she said. Taking a seat next to me on the sofa. “I’m managing. Barely,” I said. She looked at the bottle in my hand. I held it up. “The rest of my breakfast.” “Let me help you,” she said. She guided me down do my head was on her lap. She took the bottle from my hands and held it to my lips. I started to suck on the nipple, all while looking up at her. With her free hand, she started stroking my hair. This was very peaceful. I was unhappy when I sucked the last of the milk from the bottle. My mom re-entered the room and saw this. “Isn’t this a cute scene,” she said. I think she meant it as an insult, but Crystal refused to view it that way. She just smiled. “His diaper needs changing,” she said. “Do you want to do it?” my mother asked. “Yes.” I led her back to my room and pulled out the changing supplies. She pushed me gently on the bed and made sure the changing pad was centered beneath me. She carefully untaped the diaper and used part of it to remove most of the mess. She carefully rolled it up and set it aside. She took the wipes and started cleaning up my rear. She started to hum a song. She took her time and did a good job. She then took another wipe and started to clean my penis. It nearly instantly became erect, and she smiled. She gave it a little twang and giggled. She then took the clean diaper and carefully and snugly did it up. She held up the used diaper. “There’s a diaper genie in the closet.” I winced. The thing had been lurking in the back of the closet for years. But mom had dug it out yesterday when she changed me. It was front and center. Crystal disposed of the dirty stuff. “I’m going to wash my hands.” She headed to the bathroom and returned a short time later. “Is that all you’re wearing today?” I pointed out a set of clothes that my mother laid out on the bed. A t-shirt with a bear on it and a pair of short overalls. Crystal helped me into it and then smiled at the result. “There, you’re all ready for the day.” She leaned forward and kissed me. She tugged at my hand and as I stood she patted my bottom. “All nice and clean.”

Your point is not well made when you have to resort to profanity to make it. You're also incorrect in most states these days. Indecent exposure in most states requires either direct exposure of the genitals (or buttocks or breast) or an actual or simulated sexual act. Walking around in diapers or your underwear won't rise to that charge. You may get a disorderly conduct citation in some places, which is sort of a catch-all when cops can't find anything else to charge you with. Even nudity in many states requires some additional component (an act to affront or whatever). Of course, if you do such things, you risk the consequences. Your picture may indeed end up on a site like People of Walmart and once it's out there, nothing ever really disappears from the internet.